Deep Cover

Spode said, “I expect he’s got better things to do with his time than hang around out in the boondocks waiting to set up an ambush. We ought to be secure as soon as we get out of town. I can pull my car around back of the hotel in the alley here.”

“But they might recognize your car.” She flicked her eyes back and forth, and Forrester frowned with incomprehension. When she realized it was no good trying to dissuade him she turned to Spode and implored, “At least let’s get help. Les Suffield has a pistol. Call him—ask him to come pick us up in his car. They won’t be looking for his car. And they wouldn’t attack four of us, would they?”

Spode shrugged. But Forrester said, “It might be a good idea, Top. Not necessarily for protection but I think Les ought to be in on this.”

“If you say so. I’ll call him.”

The morning sky was misty with the promise of rain; a diaphanous halo surrounded the sun, and heavy clouds were building up over the Tucson Mountains west of town. The air itself seemed to have thickened and been stu

When they reached the freeway Suffield buzzed up the electric windows and switched on the air-conditioner to diminish the roar of wind and make conversation possible. In the front seat with Suffield, Top Spode did the talking, giving it to Suffield in summary doses.

Suffield was dubious to the extent of glancing at Forrester in the mirror at one point and saying, “I cite Mark Twain—‘Reader, suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself.’ End of citation. You’ve got a talent for finding absurd situations.”

Forrester made no reply and Top proceeded with his précis. Forrester sat uneasy in the corner and felt isolated, detached in the sealed car as it hurtled through the morning on the straight highway that four-laned toward the mountains. Beer cans and half-buried bottles glinted along the desert roadside. Ro

Suffield stopped by the gate and Jaime Spode got out. They all watched him open the mailbox. Catching Les Suffield’s profile, Forrester saw the jaw hinge bunch up and something struggle fiercely behind Suffield’s eyes. But the voice was very controlled. “It appears the postman dallieth.”

Spode slid into the car. “Not due yet anyhow—let’s go up to the house and wait.”

The banality of the exchange made it all seem unreal. Ro

“Oh nonsense,” Ro

Les Suffield was at the front window looking out and Spode said, “You can’t see the mailbox from up here.”

“I know. I was looking at those clouds. We’re going to get some rain—any chance of the road getting washed out?”

Forrester walked to the window to have a look. The unrolling clouds had heavy black bellies and the shadow streaks of grey rain slanted toward the peaks along a wide front beyond the western perimeter of the valley. Tall lances of cloud shot forward from the crest. “Sometimes the arroyos fill up with flash floods—you may get eight feet of water in some of the dips in the road but it always dries up after a few hours, half a day at the most. You learn to accommodate yourself to those things down here.”

“But if we don’t beat that out of here we’ll probably be stuck here overnight, won’t we?”

“It’s possible,” Forrester said indifferently. “There’s plenty here to feed us. Don’t worry about it, Les.”

Suffield shrugged his thick shoulders and turned, reaching around to adjust the hip-pocket gun under the tail of his jacket. “It’s quite a story, Jaime. If I didn’t know the source I’d take it for a fairy tale.”

“I wish it was.”

“How much do the Government agents know about this?”

Spode made a gesture. “Not much more than we know.”

“There’s got to be an explanation for it.”

Forrester went back to the couch. “Maybe we’ll find out when Ross Trumble’s letter arrives. I think the coffee’s boiling.”

Ro

Ro

Suffield came in, agitated, preceded by his voice: “I just tried the phone. It’s dead.”

Forrester flapped his big hand toward the window. “The line goes across to the Santa Cruz—it’s already raining over there and the wire may be down.”

“I don’t like that.”

Spode said, spuriously mild, “Les may be right. It could be somebody cut the wire.” He carried his coffee to the window and took up a post there.

Suffield said, “Who else is around here?”

Forrester was still scowling at Spode; he turned to answer Suffield’s question: “The crew will be out—with a storm coming in, they’ll be bunching the herds.”

“Haven’t you got a house man?”

“Just the housekeeper, Mrs. Gutiérrez. She’s my manager’s wife—when I arrive with guests she always fades out of sight and waits at home until she’s called.”

“She live around here?”

“The white dobe down below. We passed it on the way. You’ve been here before, Les, what’s the matter?”

“Just that we’re pretty isolated here, aren’t we? It could be an awkward time for friend Belsky to drop in.”

“I hardly think it’s likely.”

Spode said, “I wouldn’t exactly—” and then he stiffened at the window. “Dust out above the road. Your mailman drive a jeep down here?”

“Yes.” Forrester put his cup down before he stood up.

Suffield said, “I’ll go down and get it.” His voice was taut with anxiety and he walked toward the door with very quick strides.

Forrester was closer to the door; he got there first and said mildly, “Then let’s both go,” and went past into the foyer.

Suffield’s voice, behind him, gripped him as if by the elbow and swung him around. “Hold it a minute, then.”

When Forrester turned he saw the revolver in Suffield’s fist.

“We’ll all go,” Suffield said.

Ro

“Shut up.”

Forrester snapped, “What the devil is this?” And Spode’s voice overlapped his: “For Christ’s sake, Les, what’s the flap?”