Recoil

Ezio opened the blinds. The light made him squint. He stood by the window waiting for Frank to speak. Outside it was snowing.

But it was the telephone that broke the silence.

Merle, he thought. He crossed the room, glancing at Frank; Frank didn’t even look up. Ezio picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“It’s Belmont, Mr. Martin. I need to talk to you.”

“Where are you?”

“Down at your office. Something’s come up.”

“To do with Mrs. Pastor?”

“No. Something else. That other matter, down around Washington.”

“Can it wait?”

“It could but I don’t think it ought to. It’s pretty bad news.”

“I’ll get to a pay phone and call you back. Wait there.” He hung up.

Frank lifted his face slowly.

“I’ve got to go out for a few minutes.”

Frank nodded.

3

When he returned with snow on his coat Frank was still in the chair; he appeared not to have moved at all. But he looked up alertly. “Well?”

“Bad news from Washington. Very bad. They had to abort the raid on those files.”

“Why?”

“Because there aren’t any files any more.”

Frank gave him a sour look. He didn’t flare up; he only sighed. “Par.”

“What?”

“Par for the course,” Frank said. “Everything else goes rotten, I should’ve known this would fall apart too. What happened to the files?”

“They put them in code and fed the code into a computer bank. Only three or four people alive have the code. Corcoran, Bradleigh, one or two others high up in the department. Nobody can retrieve the information without the key code. So there’s no way we can get at them any more.”

Frank nodded. “They probably put that in motion as soon as they found out we’d been getting files from the Janowicz woman.”

“They must have. It’d take them quite a while to program the whole thing into computers, let alone code it.”

“You’ll have to pay those men off and send them home.”

“I know,” Ezio said. “I wish I had some good news for you for a change.”

Frank’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. “What’s left, Ezio? Just what the fucking hell is left?”

4

When the phone rang again Ezio picked it up expecting nothing.

Without preamble the voice said, “Put Frank Pastor on.”

Ezio held the receiver out toward Frank. “Him.”

Frank took it. “Yeah, I know who it is. Talk.” Then he looked up at Ezio and mouthed the word paper and snapped his fingers. Ezio handed him the notebook and pencil from the desk. Frank wrote something down. “All right. Ten minutes,” he said and hung up the phone. He tore the paper off the pad and rammed it into his pocket, getting to his feet. “Wants to call me back at a pay phone.”

“Smart. He figures this one’s tapped.”

“Let’s go. Might as well find out how much it’s going to cost me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

New York-New Jersey: 16 November

1

MATHIESON CHECKED HIS WATCH.

Time. He put the dime in and dialed.

Pastor was there on the first ring. “All right. Talk to me, you bastard.”

“Instructions. Are you listening?”

“You’re dead, Merle.”

“No. If I die A

“I’m listening.”

“I want you to meet me. Alone. No wires, no bugs and no guns.”

“When?”

“One hour.”

“Where?”

“The southbound service area on the Palisades Parkway in Englewood Cliffs.”

“I can’t go to New Jersey.”

“You’ll have to.”

“And go back inside for five years on violation of parole?”

“That’s your problem. You’ll have to go up the parkway from the George Washington Bridge and make a U-turn at the Palisade Avenue exit and come back along the southbound lane to the service area. One hour from now—one o’clock. Alone. No outriders, no passengers, no microphones, no tape recorders and no guns. Play it my way or you’ll never see A

2

He drove back across the bridge into Fort Lee and parked in the motel lot. Vasquez evidently had been watching from the window—he came outside immediately. Mathieson said, “Picked your spot?”

“Phone booth right across the street.”

Mathieson looked that way. It was on the apron of an Exxon station. “Too close. He may spot you.”

“It doesn’t matter. His wife has seen my face a hundred times. My only real protection is your protection.” Vasquez drew a slip of paper from his pocket. “This is the number of that telephone across the street. Just in case. And here’s something else.” He pulled a bulky paper bag out of his coat pocket. “Keep it wrapped up until you’re safely hidden inside the car.”

“What is it?”

“George Ramiro’s three fifty-seven Magnum.”

“I don’t want it.”

“I know you don’t; but will you humor me?”

He tossed the bag into the car. “All right. But I think Pastor will play it straight.”

“You can’t predict what these creatures may do. It’s best to take every precaution. It’s fifteen minutes to one, Mr. Merle. You’d better be on your way.”

3

It was an oppressive gray day. The bare trees were limp, heavy with wet snow. Wind stirred at the upper branches and white pillows fell with plopping crunches. He stepped across the curb and went through the trees—a little copse of them that masked the town streets from the parkway.

He walked through the trees until he had a good view of the service area—the station a bit to his right, the gasoline-pump islands dead ahead, cars entering the area from his left. By his watch it was 12:53.

Waiting laid a frost on his nerves; it mingled with the dreary chill in the damp air. The snow had quit falling but there was the threat of more. Cars on the service area apron had ground the stuff into filthy slush. He waited just within the trees, motionless in the shadows.

It was a white Continental streaked with filth from its drive. It pulled past the pumps and parked against the corner of the repair station. Frank Pastor, his nose tucked inside the upturned collar of his coat, stepped out of the car and stood there trying to spot Mathieson. The small round face was just the same—neat, almost distinguished, hardly a hoodlum’s countenance. Perhaps it was the air of unruffled self-confidence that had made him a leader; or perhaps leadership had created the air. In either case he was inevitably a man arrogant with power and that was a quality which could be used against him.

A sudden attack of nerves: He imagined someone was coming after him, ru

He stepped out into the bitter wind, holding the heavy .357 Magnum in his coat pocket.

Then Pastor turned and the expression in his eyes electrified the skin of Mathieson’s spine. Pastor’s cold animal stare triggered all Mathieson’s warning systems but he kept walking.

“You cocksucking motherfucker.” Pastor spat the words out as if they were insects that had flown into his mouth. But he removed his hands from his pockets, empty and ungloved. A vein rose and throbbed above his eyebrow, embossed by rage. “It’s your game. What’s the next move?”

“You come with me.”

Without waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and strode away, following his own tracks back through the woods. He could hear Pastor behind him, treading heavily in the wet.

“Get in.” He took the wheel of the Pinto and when Pastor got in beside him he threw it in reverse and backed into another parked car and left a little red glass in the road when he pulled away from the curb.

Pastor did not ask questions; he did not speak at all. He stared straight ahead, his mouth pressed tight as if to contain the threat of an outburst.

Mathieson parked the car in the slot in front of the motel room door. He unlocked it and went in ahead of Pastor. His enemy entered the room boldly behind him, wearing an expression of contempt as if to indicate that he didn’t care whether it was a trap.