Recoil

“I’ve been losing too much sleep.”

“Not on my account, I hope.”

“Yes, on your account. Now what’s all the mystery?”

“Are you carrying a wire?”

“Just a recorder.”

“Mind if I see it?”

“Suppose I do?” Bradleigh kept his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t want to be taped, Gle

“It doesn’t look like anybody’s ever taped you. Christ and I thought I knew you, once upon a time.” But he went inside his lapels and pulled out a flat little recorder and held it up in plain sight while he switched it off. He put it down on the bench between them.

“I hope that’s the only one you’re carrying.”

“No, I’ve got eighteen others distributed about my person. You want to tell me why I’m here?”

“George Ramiro’s gone, did you know that?”

“Gone?”

“Left the country last week.”

“Where?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s on the run. He’ll never be back.”

Bradleigh studied him as if he were something on the marquee placard of a freak show. “Your doing, I take it? First Gillespie, now Ramiro.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve got a reason for telling me this.”

Mathieson glanced idly up through the woods. He couldn’t see Homer anywhere but he knew Homer was there.

He said, “The point should be obvious enough. I’ve taken two of them out of the game and put one of them in the government’s hands eager to give up every scrap of information he’s got.”

“You’re saying you’ve proved you’re capable of doing things we’ve failed to do.”

“That’s right, Gle

“We’ll see.”

“I expect you to say, ‘Name it.’”

“Come off it,” Bradleigh said. “I don’t sign blank checks like that.”

A group of riders went by, cantering. Mathieson said, “Did you talk to Benson and the other two?”

“I talked to them.”

“And?”

“They want to know more about what you want to talk to them about.”

“All they need to do is call me and find out.”

“For them to go to a phone is a big risk.”

“Talk them into it.”

“That the favor you’re asking?”

“Part of it. You can tell them to call me, Gle

Bradleigh pulled the paper out and read it and put it in his pocket. “I’ll see.”

“You’ll tell them to make those calls, Gle

“They don’t have to take orders from me, you know that.”

“You can be persuasive.”

“I’ll try. The way you’re going about this, I’m not sure I even owe you that much. You’re not even giving me a scrap to go on.”

Mathieson said, “What I’m doing is counterattacking. That ought to be obvious enough.”

“You can’t get them all.”

“I don’t have to. All I have to do is neutralize Frank Pastor. If I force him into a position where he’s got to leave me alone, then he’s got to pass the word down to his troops and his friends to keep their hands off me.”

“I don’t see how you hope to accomplish that by picking off small fry like Gillespie and Ramiro.”

“That’s just to put him off balance, make him nervous. I need him nervous.”

“You’re out of your mind. You know that, of course.”

“I’m not under your protection anymore. If I’m wiped out it won’t be on your conscience.”

“I wish I saw it that way.” Bradleigh sighed with exasperation.

“I’m doing a favor for Benson and Fusco and Draper. I want to let them in on this. It won’t put them in any more danger than they’re already in. Pastor hasn’t found me—he won’t find them either. And if it works it gets all four of us off the hook. And our families.”

Bradleigh said, “What if I refuse to cooperate with you?”

“I can pull a few things.”

“Feeling your oats, aren’t you. But Pastor’s a lot tougher to crack than pe

“I know that, Gle

“What is it you want, then?”

“One or two of them may want to come to New York after I’ve talked to them. Maybe all three of them.”

“Benson, Fus——”

“Right. I want them protected.”

“You mean you want me to keep them away from New York?”

“Just the contrary. I want them in New York if they’re willing to come. I want their help.”

“Of all the incredible balls——”

“I’m not going to force them to do anything. But if they want to come, I want them protected every step of the way. Even if it means you have to send Caruso and Cuernavan and ten other people out there to escort them. Even if it means you have to charter a private executive jet.”

Bradleigh exploded. “It’s out of the question, of course. We can’t give support to any cockeyed private schemes. I told you you were out of your mind. This proves it. To even ask for——”

“Well, it’s more than just a casual request, Gle

Bradleigh sighed again. “It figured there’d be teeth in it.”

“I’d rather keep it on the level of favors between friends.”

“Would you.”

“I don’t want to put a gun to your head.”

Bradleigh said, “I guess you don’t have to spell it out. All it would take would be a word from you in the FBI director’s ear. That after I blew you twice to Pastor you went out on your own and handed us C. K. Gillespie on a platter. I’d be out on my ass. I’d probably deserve it, too.”

“Then don’t force me to threaten you with it. Come on, Gle

“If that’s a promise then your threat just sprang a leak.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s a favor. I’m asking one in return.”

“Jesus, you’re a devious son of a bitch.”

“The only thing I’m putting pressure on is your conscience.”

“You bastard.”

“Then you’ll arrange it all.”

Bradleigh didn’t reply, But his quick angry nod was as good as a promise.

Mathieson stood up. “Tell them to call me.”

“Sure, sure.” Bradleigh didn’t look at him. He reached out for the cassette recorder and shoved it inside his coat. Then he rammed his hands into his pockets. “I always hate the fall. Makes me know winter’s coming on.”

“Can spring be far behind?”

“Jesus. Get out of here with your fucking platitudes.” He still didn’t look up. After a moment Mathieson stepped forward, made a fist, nudged his shoulder with it and then walked away up the hill. Homer picked him up beyond Bradleigh’s view and they walked on through the park to the car.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

New York City: 23 October

1

IT WAS A HIGH-PRICED PRIVATE SCHOOL THAT OCCUPIED three interco

Mathieson and Roger Gilfillan sat in the car. They were parked at a hydrant in front of a narrow stone house with discreet small bronze plaques on its wrought-iron gate advertising the presence of two MDs who were probably psychoanalysts. That conclusion had been reached after the first half day on the stakeout when it became apparent that only two patients arrived in each hour.

None of them took any notice of the Plymouth with its two occupants parked at the same fire hydrant day after day.

Every few hours a police car would cruise past but they were never asked to move on. Had the car been unoccupied it probably would have been towed away.