Recoil

“Your information was too late to protect Benson but it gave them time to hide the other three men. Now the field agents file weekly reports on these cases. One of those reports drew my attention. I happened to retrieve it in a batch of printouts that had to do with a computer audit. I saw the report and the significance of it was obvious. It states that you came forward privately to a government agent and told him the whole story. You’re pi

“You’re stark raving bananas.”

“Look at it this way. If that report should ever be shown to Frank Pastor or Ezio Martin, what do you suppose would happen to you?”

“Wait a minute. There’s no such report and you know it.”

“Not now there isn’t. I agree. I erased your name from the memory bank of the computer. I substituted the phrase ‘confidential informant’ wherever your name appeared in the printout of that report. Do you understand now?”

“I understand that you’re a——”

“I’ve still got two tapes of the original printout. One copy is in my possession. I don’t have it here with me but I can lay my hands on it. The second copy is in a sealed envelope in the custody of a disinterested party. He has instructions to mail the tape to Frank Pastor if anything should happen to me.”

“What kind of slimy game is this? What are you——”

“To put it simply, blackmail.”

“You bastard.”

“I’ve got evidence that can destroy you, Gillespie. If I put it in Pastor’s hands you’re a dead man. I’m willing to sell you the evidence. It’s a simple straightforward proposition.”

“It’s a fucking lie. I never informed on——”

“The computer says you did. Computers don’t lie. Now shall we discuss terms?”

“I’m not discussing anything.”

“That’s shortsighted.”

“The whole thing’s a fucking lie.”

“Why should the agency lie about it?”

Gillespie squinted shrewdly at him. “You’re one of them.”

“One of what?”

“Corcoran and Bradleigh. One of that outfit.”

“The Witness Security Program? No, I’m afraid not. Not my department at all.”

“Sure you are. They sent you up here with this load of shit. It was supposed to scare me into spilling my guts.”

“If you doubt the tape exists I’ll be happy to make a copy of it and send it to you.”

“If there’s a tape it’s a phony. It doesn’t prove a thing.”

“Let’s go over this again. First, if you didn’t inform, then how did the government know Merle and Fusco and Draper were in danger? Second, since the secretary implicated you months ago, why weren’t you arrested? Your freedom alone is persuasive evidence that the tape isn’t a fake.”

“It’s a fucking frame. I don’t know whose idea this was, but by God——”

“The tapes will cost you one hundred thousand dollars. In cash. Small unmarked untraceable currency. Random serial numbers. When the money’s in my hands I’ll deliver both copies of the tape to you. Otherwise I send one copy to Frank Pastor and one copy to Ezio Martin.”

Mathieson stood up. He moved quickly to the door.

Gillespie slowly rose from his chair. He stared at Mathieson with no expression at all on his sharp features. Mathieson turned brightly, pressing his foot against the switch, activating Bradleigh’s microphone. “I’ll be in touch in a day or two. Think it over and let me know how you want to proceed. It’s up to you. I have every confidence you’ll do the right thing.”

Gillespie didn’t say a word. Mathieson opened the door, went through it and pulled it shut behind him.

By the time he reached the elevator he was shaking badly and the sweat burst from his pores, but he had a savage sense of triumph.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Washington, D.C.: 4 October

1

GlLLESPIE STEWED FOR HALF AN HOUR. THE RECEPTIONIST a

“Bellamy Security, may I help you?”

“C. K. Gillespie. Let me talk to Ernie.”

“I’ll see if he’s in, Mr. Gillespie.”

“You do that. It’s important, honey.”

“Yes, sir. Hold on a minute please.”

In a moment she was back: “I have Mr. Guffin for you now.”

Ernie’s voice was coarse; you kept wishing he’d clear his throat. “Get off the line, Mary Lou.” Gillespie heard the click. “What can I do for you, counselor?”

“There was a man in my office about thirty-five minutes ago. Gave his name as Robert Zeck. Some kind of government computer technician—says he does audits on computerized files.”

“What do you want about him?”

“Robert Zeck’s a phony name. I want to find out who he is.”

“Anything to go on?”

“Blond hair. Blond moustache, no beard. Maybe five feet eleven but he’s stooped, he might be six one if he stood up straight. A hundred and ninety, two hundred pounds. Wears glasses with black frames and big rings on most of his fingers.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Gray suit, pinstripe. Not expensive. Off the peg. Desk type—junior-grade bureaucrat. He may be a fag, the way he talks.”

“Computer auditor. They’re a fairly rare breed, counselor. Shouldn’t take too long.”

“I’ve got his voice on tape if you want it.”

“First we’ll try the physical description. If we have to trot around with a cassette asking people do they recognize this voice, it could take forever.”

“Anyway I’d have to edit the tape before you used it.”

“Yeah. What’s your beef with him?”

“Just find him, all right?”

“Do my best, counselor.”

“Do it fast. Spend all the money you have to.”

“OK. You want daily reports?”

“Daily reports shit, Ernie, I want him turned up this afternoon.”

“Sure you do. I’ll call you when I get something. It may be today, it may be next week. You know how these things go.”

“Push it, Ernie.”

He cradled the phone and ran fingers back through his hair. “Shit.”

Then he reached for the intercom. “Send him in now.”

The rest of the morning was hell. His temper kept rising; he couldn’t concentrate on the work. At lunchtime he stayed in the office in case Ernie should call back. By two o’clock he was pacing the office. He went to the interphone: “That four o’clock appointment. Call him and cancel it if you can—make it Monday.”

“You’re going out?”

“No.” He switched it off.

He rewound the tape and played it back. It didn’t tell him anything new. He took the spool off and put a fresh one on the machine; he put the tape in his pocket. This thing could be dynamite.

At three he couldn’t stand it. He rang Bellamy’s. “Where the hell’s Ernie Guffin?”

“Why he’s in his office, Mr. Gillespie. I’ll co

“Counselor?”

“Ernie, where the hell are you? I give you a dead-simple job and I don’t hear a——”

“He’s not an auditor, counselor. We got that in two hours flat. He might be a computer technician, service type, programmer, anything. We’ve had to widen the thing and it’s likely to take a while. I’m sorry but that’s the way it is. All I can tell you, I’ll call you the minute we turn up anything.”

When he hung up he scowled at the telephone. Not an auditor. Who the hell was the guy, then?

He waited until six but there was no call. He got the red car out of the garage and headed home but he realized he hadn’t had lunch—his stomach was growling; he stopped in a Chinese place and ate a quick meal without tasting it.

When he drove up the avenue toward his apartment house he saw them sitting in a green hardtop right across the street from the entrance. He recognized the driver right away—the man had brought messages from Ezio Martin a few times.

They hadn’t seen him; he was sure of it. He turned off a block early and went back through side streets toward the center of the city. He was shaking.