"Hard to say," said Fulton, glancing at his watch. "I got a bulletin from the van telling us to wait for a reinforcement. Somebody's flying into Denver, apparently, if the weather'll permit it. Besides, Commissioner, you thought you'd dis-appeared this morning. Care to think again?"
As Everett shook his head, a little fellow in a parka came in with a friendly nod to them both, then dropped a clipboard at Fulton's elbow before returning to the van.
Fulton, shifting the cigar no-hands, scanned the pages at length. "It was a hit, all right," he said finally as if to himself. "A Mr. Flynn owned that four-door BMW in a Boston suburb. Flynn's a naturalized citizen from Belfast, and he's already made a statement. Anxious to cooperate; even more anxious about his son. Would you recognize a facsimile photo when it comes in?"
"Not likely," Everett admitted. "I feel rotten about those two guys in the car."
"Because they didn't get a shot at you?"
"Sounds crazy when you put it that way. There was no doubt about that charlie with the shotgun, though. Was there?"
"None. Just got factual verification of your story; a print tally from him on the weapon. Yours too, of course." Fulton pursed his lips obscenely around the unlit cigar, running a forefinger along the lined paper. "Who's Sean McTaggart?"
"Never heard of him. Or Flynn, that I recall."
"Eoin Flaherty?"
Pause. Headshake. "Nope. Wait; the guy with the automatic pistol? I think he called me `flirty'; maybe `Flaherty'. But why is some Boston Irishman I never heard of financing a hit on me? Doesn't make sense."
"Flynn claims he'd just met the two Irishers, mutual friends back in the old country and so on. Loaned 'em the car with his teen-aged son to drive it, out of a sense of loyalty. Claims he had no idea what they intended to do here beyond sightseeing:"
"Should we believe in that?"
"Sure; that and the Easter bunny." Fulton lifted a page to read another. "We have Flynn's prints too, and they're also on the magazine we took from the Vzor."
"Come again?"
"Vzor seven point six-five millimetre," Fulton said with satisfaction. "A Czech automatic with magazine, takes a silencer. Little thirty caliber slugs, more or less; it sprays 'em out the barrel like shit through a tin horn. The shotgun barrel was shortened very recently by an expert. And Flynn is a machinist. I'm betting we find metal from that shotgun barrel around his shop somewhere."
Everett put his hands over his face, sighed into his palms. "Why would American citizens be helping these people?"
"Lee Oswald was American. Charlie Manson, too," Fulton said. "But there's more to this attempt than your garden-variety political lunatic, Commissioner."
"How do you know? No, tell me later, Fulton. I've got a case of nerves that won't quit. What if I just drive out a ways, find a motel, and come hack later if you need me? I'd call here and tell you where I am."
The FBI agent inspected the tattered wet end of his cigar, discarded it, and drew another from his vest pocket before answering. "Go out back here and yell your head off for a minute. Cry, if it'll help. I would, and no apologies," he said, smiling candidly into Everett's face. "But someone you know has made you my responsibility until I'm relieved, since I'm senior in the office. Shouldn't be long."
Everett squinted, then smiled back. "Dave Engels," he said flatly.
A shrug. "A minute ago you were curious about something that I can tell you. Yesterday we got some information from a gent we can deport at any time. Jersey City fella; as long as he gets in touch now and then, he doesn't have to chase goats up hillsides in Sicily, or whatever the hell they do there.
"There are a hell of a lot of thorny types in the FLQ-that's the Front de Liberation du Quebec-who funnel arms to the Irish Provi-sionals. Some of the stuff is American, and some like the little Vzor comes from Eastern Europe through Libya and Syria to Canada. Long way around, but some countries are very sloppy about checking imports. Those are the same ones where the Customs people live on tips, like wait-ers.
"So the FLQ is well-placed to be middleman for terrorists. And that's where you came in; or rather, didn't come in."
"You've lost me," said Everett. "Can I borrow a cigar?"
"Long as you don't light it," Fulton grinned, fishing out another stogie. "They stink. Well, early this week the FLQ offered three hit contracts, a matched set, to-ah--certain undesirable elements, all with names ending in vowels, in the Big Apple area. That territory includes Philly and Jersey City. Ordinarily I suppose the contracts would've been fulfilled and we'd have three more unsolved snuffs on our hands, proba-bly from twenty-two pistols they're using these days and don't ask me why.
"But when the local banditti learned the names of the marks-people they were to hit-they turned the FLQ down flat." Fulton cocked his head; one side of his mouth twitched. "I like that; even the Mafia has scruples. You'll be in-terested in the marks," Fulton continued, hold-ing up three fingers. "A script writer named Althouse," he turned down his ring finger; "an artsy-fartsy swish named D'Este, and-" he turned down his forefinger, leaving the middle finger thrusting up in emulation of a familiar TV logo.
"And Charlie George," Everett supplied.
"You got it. Our informant says it was of Charlie who queered the whole job. It was suddenly obvious that this was a political thing, and believe it or not Charlie G. is a favorite of the Mafia boys. Who knows, they may own a piece of him."
"Nobody owns much of Charlie," Everett replied, wondering how accurate he was. "But I'm beginning to get your drift."
"Well, even your corrupt, stodgy old small-minded FBI can add the fourth name that belongs there."
"Mine."
"Only it wasn't. Why not? Then we got the call from the Colorado Highway Patrol about lunch-time, and somebody was awake in Washington, and now we think we know why not. The FLQ knew there was already a group setting you up. They must've taken that contract from another bunch, and had the money, and why waste dough they could use to buy more plastique? You were already spoken for."
Everett stared out the window, squinting as headlights swept the roadhouse in the evening murk. "What does the FLQ do now? What do I do? I mean, do they just give up, or is there an underworld all-points bulletin out for the four of us?"
Fulton almost laughed. "Nicely put. We don't know who the FLQ finally set it up with, but there must've been somebody. Which brings me to some very unpleasant news. But first, I think what you should do is take a new ID. That's unofficial, man-to-man, Mr. Everett. But I think you should let us tell the media you did a long yoo-hoo-hoo over the cliff in the BMW. Flaherty won't tell on you; we can put him on more ice than Admiral Byrd."
Headlights swung toward them as a Pontiac Firebird slithered into the parking lot. Everett slapped the table. "That'll be Dave Engels."
"I doubt it," said Fulton, studying his cigar, "unless he's had a recent sex change."
The dark hair that emerged from the Firebird was unfamiliar, but the shoulder bag and the stride could not be forgotten. Everett began to smile as Gina Vercours hurried through the snow.
Her greeting was offhand, unhurried, anodyne for Everett's twanging nerves. Fulton stood up, a thumb tucked under the ornate buckle beneath his vest. "Good thing I remembered about the weather," she said, stamping her feet as she tossed her wrap over a booth. "It was eighty-seven degrees in Phoenix today. And don't tell me what that is in celsius, Maury," she grinned.
"Gina; still old-fashioned," he said, taking her hand in his.
"And you still don't believe me," she coun-tered, then turned to the other man. "Are you agent Fulton?"
Fulton nodded as she said, "I'm Gina Ver-cours, which Maury will verify, and in lieu of a pass phrase they said to give you this." She of-fered him the tiny tape machine, which he took after lowering his hand from his midriff. "Better than working with Wally Conklin," she added; "I don't have to rent cars, and at the air terminal they hand you a synopsis on tape with a very sex-y voice."
"Can I hear her?" Everett
asked.
"Her? Him, fella." She tossed him a mock-suspicious frown. "So what's the drill, gentlemen?"
"Bury him somewhere," Fulton aimed his cigar at Everett, then clamped down on it again.
"What if I hadn't been me," Gina asked inno-cently.
"I'd have been disappointed." Fulton tapped his buckle. "Gas projector. You'd be in barf city," he explained. He took his coat and snap-brim hat, adjusting them with care. "And let us know where you bury him, Ms. Vercours, which means stay near a telephone. We may pick up more information for you. They gave you a phone scrambler?"
She nodded, patting the shoulder bag. As Ful-ton was leaving, Everett recalled their unfinished business, "One more thing, Fulton, if you don't mind. How do you know the Cana-dians found somebody to take their contracts after the Mafia refused?"
Fulton stopped, glanced toward Gina, then took Everett by the arm. Outside, his breath frosty, Fulton said, "Somebody bagged Dahl D'Este about one ayem this morning in San Francisco."
Everett sagged against the railing. "How?"
"That's what I didn't want to say in front of the lady. D'Este seemed to think he could lose himself among all the other homosexuals in the Gay city-Bay City, that is. He must've been cruising the gay strip near the downtown hotels where they make a lot of pickups off the streets. Pathet-ic little guys carrying overnight kits, feet hardly touching the pavement, waiting for a score like any other hooker; makes you sad to see it, Mr. Everett," he muttered, smug and sententious.
He picked up his cadence. "Well, we don't know how the contact was made but somebody got into D'Este's Cadillac with him. After shoo-ing the others off the street, maybe, I don't know how. We're checking. Anyway: A little later the Caddie piled into a building on O'Farrell Street. Must've been moving at a crawl. They found D'Este behind the wheel and an overnight kit on the floor.
"And it smelled like he'd been having an orgy with almond extract. Somebody had snuffed him with a dildo. You know, those rubber dicks they fill with who-knows-what? This one was full of hydrocyanic acid, prussic acid, same thing. He'd taken a full shot of it in the face, and they found the dildo in his mouth. Enough cyanide to snuff an elephant, I kid you not. No prints, just rubber goods."
Everett hugged himself and shivered. "Jesus. Oh, Jesus, what a way to go."
"Show me a nice way; I might take it," Fulton grumbled. He started down the steps. "But pass the word, Mr. Everett: beware of almond dil-does."
Everett, his thoughts racing forward, called out: "Fulton!"
The agent stopped at the van, unconsciously coming to attention. "Sir."
"Have you told Althouse and Charlie George about this?"
"Was Edgar Hoover a fed? Of course, Mr. Everett, we're not amateurs. At least Mr. George knows. Nobody's raised the Althouse guy yet but they'll get to him."
"Or somebody will."
"Is that a fact," Fulton said drily, and slammed the door.
Two minutes later, Gina and Everett were ar-guing. "Anybody could bully us off the road in that crackerbox of yours," she spat.
"If they could catch us in this ice, which they couldn't without a Porsche turbo and front-wheel drive," he returned.
"And besides, how many more crazy Irishmen know you drive that Mini."
"Good God, Vercours, who's the boss here?"
She dropped her shoulders and her voice. "You are, of course. I'll get my things out of the Firebird."
"You will like hell," Everett grunted. "I have the better car, but you have the better argument." He grinned. "Anyhow, the Mini's heater isn't worth a damn. The 'bird it is, ma'am."
They were laughing before his weekend gear was repacked in the Firebird. He drove back down the highway toward Golden, explaining that they needed more food. As they neared the town, she was glancing backward. "When you stop, pull out of sight and face the highway," she suggested.
He pulled in near a market, turning the car end-for-end in a rum-runner's switch on the icy ground. They waited. After several minutes a big tandem rig came steaming past, chains singing on the pavement. Then nothing. "I'll go in," she said; "I know what kind of junk food I like. And you can keep warm with this," she added, laying a compact automatic on the seat.
She was back very soon with a single brown sack, celery poking from its top. Everett eased the Firebird onto the highway, soon passed the roadhouse and his forlorn Mini without a glance. Near Empire they slowed at a neat row of cabins with overhead telephone lines stretching away to the office.
Quickly, then: "None of this two-adjoining rooms crap, Maury. We're together. That's my job."
He nodded and punched the car's nose through crusty snow into the drive. The owner was pleased to rent his best and most secluded cabin to Mr. and Mrs. Marks.
"Soda pop and cigarettes here, Mr. Marks," he said, "but I'll be locking up shortly."
"We'd appreciate it if you'd patch the phone in so I can make calls directly."
"Can't do that." He found that he could indeed, with a fifty-dollar nonrefundable deposit.
"One more thing," Gina said. "We were supposed to meet some folks tomorrow who love to surprise us-and I detest surprises. If anyone asks for us-" A moment's thought "-tell them we're an old couple. And as soon as they leave, please give us a ring."
A collusive smirk spread across the leathery features. "I got it," he said archly, not getting it at all.
Inside the chill cabin, Everett turned up the heat and found a bonus in the dry wood piled beside the fireplace. Gina, blowing on her hands, checked the windows before taking a portable door lock from her bag. She emplaced the heavy steel assembly at breastbone height, wedged into the facing by a heavy setscrew. Then she made a call, using her scrambler over the mouthpiece, which reduced her conversation to gibberish for any monitoring device. Maury Everett imagined himself as a push-pin relocated on some FBI map, and knew he had no real alternative.
As the tiny blaze began to lick upward into the kindling, Maury turned to study the place. Well-furnished, plenty of blankets, electric range and a decent shower. Behind the cabins, he knew, lay an unbroken white expanse leading into the soaring trees beyond. Too bad he had only one set of snowshoes for his morning trek, but- "What on earth are you doing, Gina?"
"Setting our detectors," she said absently, ad-justing a dial on the device she had taken from her bag. "I can sleep with this little rig, and I don't want to be roused by every passing field mouse."
"That's new Oracle hardware," he laughed, and stood up to see. He explained his history with the firm that marketed her detectors, oddly warmed to find that the little wireless motion sensors were as useful as his sales people had claimed they would be. With one inside the Firebird, a second dropped into the snow outside the bathroom window, and another placed adhesively under the eaves away from steady winds, they would be forewarned of approach by anything larger than a rabbit. Gina emplaced the sensors while Everett rummaged in their groceries. When she returned he had spread the stuff on the table. He saw her turn quickly to sit on the bed, her head down.
"Problems?"
"I don't know," she said groggily, her breath-ing deep and rapid. "It's not time for my period. I just feel like a wet rag." She looked up, hearing him chuckle. "I'm glad it meets with your approval" she growled.
"The altitude," he said gently; and turned his chair to sit facing her. "Hey, lady, you're two kilometers high, here. Takes a few days before you can scurry around, jock or no jock, without getting spots before your eyes."
He placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, felt her stiffen, patted her once, withdrew the hand. "Prescription is simple: just keep breathin'," he said, and moved back to the table. "Prognosis is simpler still: you'll be hungry as a hoot-owl in another five minutes."
Presently, as he sliced a second hunk of the petrified salami to go with his corn chips, he heard bedsprings creak. A moment later she was sitting across from him, the brunette wig dis-carded, her hair gleaming beryllium bronze in the firelight. "Don't mind me," she said,
her buoyancy gradually returning. "When I'm not fully fit I feel vulnerable. And when I feel vulnerable, I am not the easiest person to approach. You know?" Her frown was questioning, seri-ous.
He nodded. "Like being fresh out of videotape when the bridge collapses," he offered.
"At least," she smiled, then sniffed. "What's this stuff?"
He watched her finger the soft disc of cheese he had taken from its airtight tin. "Camembert; Give it an hour to soften, and it makes the worst beer in Colorado taste like dark Lowenbrau."
Dean Ing - Soft Targets Page 14