Recoil

“You should have waited. Our job’s become much harder now. We may not reach him at all.”

“We’ll reach him. What’s really on your mind?”

Vasquez had the bureau drawer open. He was slapping stacks of folded clothing into the suitcase. Abruptly he stopped, turned and faced Mathieson. The anger was still flashing in his eyes.

Mathieson prompted him: “Well?”

“You employed the services of my firm. You gave us an assignment, albeit unique, that I have done my best to carry out, and now you seem to wish to persist in getting in the way of it.”

“Don’t be silly. I only—”

“You very nearly blew it. You may in fact have blown it. And yet you insist on keeping me in the dark about the most vital part of your scheme.”

“And you resent that. Is that what this is about?”

“It raises the question who’s in command here.”

“I am. We settled that a long time ago.”

“Not quite,” Vasquez said. “You’re my client, not my commander. When you employ the services of a firm such as mine, it’s understood that tactical decisions and methodology are my perquisites. I’m the professional here.”

“Do you want to withdraw?”

“I want to know what’s in your mind, as a first step. I want to know why you wanted to trace Gregory Cestone to his heroin co

Mathieson opened the second drawer and transferred the underwear into the suitcase. He went into the bathroom, gathered his toiletries, dumped the armload into the suitcase, bagged his dirty shoes in plastic and put them on top. It was an untidy job and he had to sit on the suitcase to close it. He brought out the second bag and opened it—it was half filled with packets of Ramiro’s money, the hand grenade from Ramiro’s car, the kit of tools and the makeup kit that he’d used. He stripped off his suit and crumpled it into the suitcase and shut it. He went back to the closet and got into his remaining suit and his clean shoes.

Finally he set both bags by the door and turned to face Vasquez. The detective stood between the bureau and the window, one shoulder propped against the wall, tapping a pencil against his teeth like a professor waiting impatiently for a student to respond with the right answer to a complicated classroom question.

Mathieson said, “Has it occurred to you that I may have kept you in the dark for your own protection?”

“Against what?”

“Against the possibility of your being charged with complicity in a serious legal offense.”

“I’ve already conspired with you in the commission of several criminal acts.”

“Those aren’t likely to be reported—and even if they were they’re relatively trivial. You’d never go to trial for any part you’ve played up to now. Maybe the worst you could face would be a charge of conspiracy to commit extortion, but there’d never be enough hard evidence to put you in serious trouble.”

“And now you’re contemplating something more dangerous.”

“If it goes wrong,” Mathieson said, “I could be had up for a capital felony charge. I don’t want you dragged into that.”

“What capital felony? Murder?”

“No. We’ve already discussed that.”

“Kidnapping?”

He hesitated. “Yes. If it goes wrong.”

Vasquez shook his head—an expression of disbelief. “You amaze me. You draw the line at a simple killing, yet you don’t turn a hair at the prospect of kidnapping, which can be the vilest of human sins.”

“I will not kill. It’s that simple.”

“You’re absurd, Mr. Merle. Absurd.”

“That’s your opinion. Are you willing to proceed, knowing we may get involved in that kind of risk?”

“Certainly. If I know the nature of the scheme and if in my judgment it has an appropriate chance to succeed. Unlike you, Mr. Merle, I don’t draw artificial lines. I’ve never quite understood people who did. I’ve known dope dealers who drew the line at rape. I’ve known killers who drew the line at dealing drugs. I’ve never understood any of them. Once one crosses the line of morality any further distinctions are arbitrary and capricious.”

“You’re a fundamentalist.”

“A meaningless label. I distinguish between good and evil. I think I do so far more realistically than you do.”

“A moralist who’s cheerfully willing to indulge in extortion, fraud, illegal entry, kidnapping and God knows what other offenses.”

“Offenses against what, Mr. Merle? Against evil men. I justify my existence by jousting with evil. But I’ve never defrauded an i

“Robin Hood, are you?”

“I’m Diego Vasquez, Mr. Merle. Perhaps I make my own legend but I certainly don’t model myself on others’.”

“You’re extraordinary, you know that?”

“Are you going to tell me what your scheme is so that I may evaluate it?”

“I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I. All right. You may as well sit down.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

New York City: 24 October

1

THE BUILDING WAS EMPTYING OUT. WHEN THE LAST STRAGGLERS had disappeared Ezio locked the door of the office and returned through the anteroom to his desk. He picked up the phone and punched ten digits.

“Ordway Enterprises.”

“Ezio Martin. Mr. Ordway in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ezio. That you?”

“Me. Turn on your scrambler,” Ezio said.

“Just a minute …”

Ezio opened the drawer and switched on his scrambler. “OK, you hear me?”

“Good enough.” Ordway’s voice was distorted now.

“That order I placed yesterday morning. You got anything yet?”

“Working on it, Ezio. It takes a little time, it’s a complicated order.”

“I’m waiting for Mr. Pastor in my office now, that’s why I called. Thought I’d give him the latest.”

“We ought to have a crew for you in maybe forty-eight hours.”

“Clean?”

“Squeaky clean. That’s what you asked for.”

“Mr. Pastor’s going to appreciate that.”

Ordway said, “I don’t suppose you want to tell me anything at all, do you?”

“Out of bounds right now. You’ll make a nice profit on it, though. Mind telling me who you’re sending us?”

“Well we haven’t got them yet, Ezio. But two of the men we’re trying to get, they’re a couple of soldiers. I mean real army soldiers, they were out in Vietnam. Officers, Green Berets. No police records at all. Squeaky clean.”

“But their fingerprints would be on file.”

“Hell, anybody’s fingerprints are on file, Ezio. So they wear gloves, whatever it is. These guys are into demolitions, communications, you name it.”

“We’re not expecting to invade a Vietcong village,” Ezio said. “I’m not sure it’s a bright idea. The operation we’ve got in mind, it needs to be real quiet. This doesn’t want demolitions types, it wants second-story types.”

“These are good men, Ezio. They ran some shit into the country for us from Nam. They did it efficient and quiet. These are not loud guys.”

“I told you I wanted three men.”

“The third guy, I was thinking maybe Tony Se

“No. Definitely out.”

“Why?”

“Because we’ve used him before. I told you, nobody we’ve ever used before. Se

“Then I’ll cancel him, get you somebody else. No sweat, Ezio.”

“You don’t mention our names to whoever it is, you understand that. They’re not going to know who they’re working for. You’ll call me back when they’re ready to take off.”

“Today’s Friday. I’ll probably send them out Sunday on a plane. Where do I reach you?”

“It’ll have to be here, the office, because I’ve got the scrambler here. I’ll come in around noon, that’s nine in the morning your time, you call me here then.”

“Fine. So long, Ezio.”

Ten minutes later Frank arrived. He tossed his coat and hat on the couch and shot his cuffs. “So?”