Foxcatcher
Page 33
McCall was making his final arrangements, preparing to return to Washington a hero. He was the founder and sole proprietor of one of the great intelligence coups of the decade. The arms world talked of nothing but the assassinations, the Iranians had been thwarted, and McCall had a fortune in Wainwright’s money. The only payout had been in black casino chips to Jamil, and McCall waited for the man’s return to Paris to make the final payment. It was the single piece of unfinished business.
There was one other slight expense: the few dollars for the blue UCLA knapsack he had given the girl’s family in Cairo to carry the bomb from the Royal Nile Hotel to Rock’s hotel. McCall regretted the death of the girl, who had unwittingly carried the bomb to Rock. But that was her family’s idea. Arab justice.
This time McCall took no chances. Rather than meet Jamil in another public brasserie, he picked him up at the airport.
“Well,” he said to Jamil. “It was one of your masterpieces?”
“My two greatest masterpieces,” Jamil said. “Major Mudd was a masterpiece in its own right but I feel my job on Slane is unsurpassable. I was almost all the way to Miami before they realized that Slane was dead. I laughed all the way back here.” He took a newspaper out of his hand case. “You did see the London papers?”
McCall glanced at the headline. “Poor Mudd. A very unhappy man, Jamil.”
Jamil pulled his trench coat around his thin body. “I think I shall spend the winter somewhere warm.” He glanced at McCall. “With a friend.” He chuckled. “A warm friend.”
They drove back to Paris in the car McCall had rented. In the long slow sunset, Jamil chatted, telling McCall in detail how the operation went.
They entered the city from the west. “Where are we going?” Jamil asked.
“Payday,” McCall said. “I have your fee for the Mudd job. And I have reconsidered your fee for Slane and decided that you were right. Slane was worth a quarter of a million.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I have another job coming up and I want you absolutely comfortable with me. Are you available?”
“But of course.”
McCall drove to the bus terminal near Les Invalides and parked. “Perhaps we may dine together somewhere—a little victory celebration.”
“Delighted,” Jamil said.
“It’s all cash, small bills in an attaché case, as you requested,” McCall said. “No more black poker chips.”
They both chuckled.
“Don’t forget to count it,” McCall said. He handed Jamil the key to 2 baggage locker.
Jamil shook the little key in his fist. “I’ll be right back.”
Jamil entered the bus terminal, found the bank of lockers, and searched out the number on the key. He opened the locker, found the attaché case, laid it flat, popped the latches, and lifted the lid. The case exploded in his face, killing him instantly.
“It’s called deniability,” McCall said to himself as he drove away. Inside the bus terminal a woman was screaming over and over.
The last leg. Homeward bound. McCall packed his bags and checked his papers—passport and airline tickets. There would be no broken hockey stick for him.
The phone rang. McCall turned and looked at it. His phone was not supposed to ring. He was expecting no information, no visitors, no contact from anyone. And without warning McCall felt dread in his stomach. It was the announcement of Nemesis’ arrival in the final Greek scene—in the form of a shepherd with a piece of information, a messenger with an item of devastating evidence, the final tampering with man’s fate by the gods. He told himself not to answer the phone.
It rang again. An insistent, unpleasant, shrill ring. Commanding: Answer me immediately.
McCall looked at the door. He could leave the room with his bags and go to the airport with the phone ringing behind him, never to know who was calling.
It rang a third time. McCall picked it up.
“Bobby? It’s me. Borden.”
“I’m just leaving for the airport.”
“I’ll meet you at Dulles.”
“What’s up?” McCall demanded.
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Skip the buildup, Borden. What is it?”
“Those Iranian parts got through,” Borden said. “The whole order.”
About the Author
William H. Hallahan (1925–2018) was an American novelist of popular literature. He worked as a journalist before embarking on writing in 1970, covering a variety of popular genres: detective fiction, fantasy, thrillers, and spy novels. His 1977 spy novel, Catch Me: Kill Me, won the Edgar Award. Hallahan also published essays on the US military and history.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1986 by the Estate of William H. Hallahan
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5905-3
This edition published in 2019 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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WILLIAM H. HALLAHAN
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