If he had driven quietly and modestly out of Long-Stay, he might have got away. It was a parking lot; naturally cars came and went. But he slammed his foot to the floor, created a rage of noise, left a wake of blue smoke from burning rubber, fishtailed through the exit. He was Wiley Foxx. The troopers chased him.
He saw the flashing lights and heard the coyote wail behind him. Traffic was thin. They’d catch him. Any cop drove better than Wiley, he knew that. His right leg was shuddering, he had to grip his knee to keep his foot hard on the gas, but that took one hand off the wheel, and the wheel was wet, slippery, he needed both hands. Fuckin’ rain. Now the lights behind were brighter, the wail was louder, he had to get off this road, and he knew there was a chance soon on the right, an escape, a sharp exit into a side road, narrow, just a lane. Wiley knew if he waited and then fired the Buick hard right, the troopers would scream past him and he’d be gone, man, gone! He’d seen it done on TV, in Dragnet. The turn-off hurtled toward him. He hit the brakes and spun the wheel. What he wanted was a long sideways skid, as seen in Dragnet. What he got was a full-circle spin, and then some, which slammed the Buick broadside at a pine tree, one hundred and twenty-six years old, five-foot diameter, in perfect health. Car and driver embraced the base like a candy wrapper. In an instant, the average intelligence of the population nudged upward by an infinitesimal amount.
The Buick was identified; so was Wiley Foxx. The information traveled via the DA’s office in Washington to Jerome Fantoni. It deepened his depression. All his life, he had regarded serious crime as the solution to his problems; now he was bedeviled by trivial crime, almost facetious crime. A pest control operator killed one person close to him. Now an airport parking attendant was tied to the loss of another. Probably killed him. What made it worse, these nobodies, these nebbishes, they went and killed themselves before he could get to grips with them. How can you fight death?
*
“Wiley Foxx,” Prendergast said. “A pitiful jerk who gets a headache making change at Long-Stay Parking. What did I tell you?”
“You said crime is messy,” Fisk said.
“And Foxx has Jerome Fantoni’s Buick. Which disappeared when Cabrillo, if it was Cabrillo, dropped out of sight when Sammy ran out of blood on Broadway. What else did I tell you?”
“Criminals always bungle.”
“Because they’re bums. This Foxx was a bum. That’s why this whole thing has never made sense. Bums have no brains. Wise up, Fisk. You keep looking for a pattern of behavior. Tell me this: if you ever find a pattern, what will it be?”
“An accident. A mistake. An aberration. Because crime is messy.”
“You’re learning at last,” Prendergast said.
2
The TV crews cursed McCarthy for holding his Press Conference halfway up the steps of the Capitol Building at 4 p.m., the hottest, stickiest part of the day. To get a good shot of the senator meant building a temporary camera tower of scaffolding. The networks and the local stations competed for space with foreign TV crews. Riggers, sound engineers and cameramen sweated and swore, but the reporters relished the setting. It was pure McCarthy. Look at that bank of microphones: studded with idents from all over. Look at the background: noble, soaring pillars pointing to the stately Dome. Look at the crowd: a great mob of tourists, ready for a free show, something to boast about when they got back to Elk Lick, Dakota. Best of all, the newsmen were guaranteed hot headlines, because McCarthy always delivered. In spades. For that, any true newsman would sweat blood.
The crowd applauded McCarthy when he walked out of the Capitol. A team of six men took positions behind him. He began to speak at 4 p.m. on the button. Another reason why television loved him.
“The price of freedom,” the senator said. “Think of that for a moment. The price of freedom. What is it? How much are we willing to pay?” That was to give the sound engineers a chance to balance their levels. Now for business. “The price of freedom is eternal vigilance—well, you knew that. But vigilance is just a down payment, when there are people hellbent on taking away our freedom who are prepared to spend blood! That’s no figure of speech. When I say blood, I mean the very essence of life itself which we know the Communist dictators squander with ruthless indifference. Stalin …” McCarthy spoke very slowly, delivering the words as if they were playing-cards. “Stalin … murdered … several … hundred … thousand … colleagues.” Back to normal speed. “Not enemies. Colleagues, comrades, taken away, shot, never heard of again. Why? Who knows? Before that, Stalin had already murdered his Kulaks, his farmers, by the million. Some say eight million, some say ten million, maybe more. Why? Who knows? Red leaders don’t have to explain their massacres. Don’t have to explain anything! But one thing needs no explanation because it cries out so loudly that even the deaf, blind but unfortunately not mute liberal-loving Comm-Symps in this country cannot ignore this simple question. If that is how Stalin treated his own people, his countrymen, patriots who saved his skin against Hitler, then how do you think the Reds would treat us, the American people, if we let them dominate this fair land? Impossible, you say? Think back. Remember Japan. I served in the Pacific. I saw the blood our boys shed. The price of freedom. So it’s with a heavy heart that I find it my inescapable duty to report that the Communist infiltration of the United States has created a more insidious, a more deadly Fifth Column on American soil than ever before in our history …”
*
Wagner was at home, holding a book, not reading. He was thinking of his future. Manfred had been right: Arabel was a threat as long as he lived, a threat to Wagner’s career, which meant his life. He was an ex-brigadier of a defeated army and an ex-head of a disgraced Abwehr station. He knew how very lucky he had been to get into the CIA. If the Arabel scandal came out, he was a three-time loser. Finished. It was maddening to know that Arabel was not far away, in killing range so to speak, if only he could find him.
Wagner let the book drop. He switched on the television. Senator McCarthy was blaming everything on the Communists. Wagner watched, hating himself for wasting his time. But what else could he do with it?
A row of serious-looking, sober-suited men stood behind McCarthy, one step up. One of them smiled and nodded, endorsing the senator’s claim. Not Secret Service, then. Wagner blinked. He moved closer to the set, kneeled and stared. Arabel? Arabel, yes, beyond any doubt. The director cut to a wide shot. The Capitol steps.
Wagner grabbed his car keys and ran.
*
“Folks write to me,” McCarthy said. “All kinds of folks. That’s good, I want to hear what the good people of America think, even including what they think about me. I’m told that’s not the way it is with every US senator …” Laughter could be heard. McCarthy looked puzzled. “Oh, you noticed it too … Huh … Well, some folks ask, they say, ‘See here, senator, if you know so much about Communist dirty tricks, why don’t you arrest the scoundrels?’ Answer is: I wish I could. But I don’t have the power. I have the honor to chair the Senate Sub-Committee on Investigations. Yes, investigations. We turn over rocks and some pretty slimy things crawl out, but we can’t arrest them. Not our job. What I can do is alert the American people to the kinds of sabotage that Red agents trained in subversion would like to see succeed. Let me give you an example of how they might possibly seek chinks in our armor. For instance, I’ve learned that a new military radio which is being tested for the Pentagon has been reported as having an unbelievably good performance. I’m no expert. All I know is, if it’s unbelievable, I don’t believe it, and I wouldn’t want American soldiers to depend on it in battle. Wouldn’t do any harm if the Pentagon double-checked the loyalty of that team doing the testing, would it? And I was shocked to learn how vulnerable to sabotage the state of Idaho is. Soviet scientists have been experimenting, developing a new type of potato blight. Maybe it’s still in Russia, maybe it ain’t. Now, as you know, a lot of your tax dollars go into the Department of Agriculture. I just hope Agriculture’s on the ball. I hope
nobody’s draggin’ his feet, for whatever reason. I think you know what I mean. And if you want to know just how smart the Reds can be, imagine how much damage it would do to the economy of our richest state, California, if the folk out there got demoralized by repeated earthquake warnings that were faked. How? By falsifying the data obtained from studying the San Andreas Fault! Experts tell me that, with the wrong man in the right place, it could easily be done. If I were Governor of California … I need say no more. It’s kinda worrying, ain’t it? I’m just one man, but if my intelligence system can pick up these kinds of risks, I sure hope our law officers and the head honchos in this Administration are keepin’ their ears to the ground. I say this because I have—and I have it here—hard evidence, clear evidence, physical evidence, of a total failure, a devastating and a shameful failure at every level of your government, to detect the hand of the Kremlin at work in one of the places where you might least expect to find it…”
*
The Shamrock Bar was closed between four and five but Tommy the barman knew Kim Philby well enough by now to let him bring his bicycle in so it wouldn’t get stolen and watch the TV while he rested in the cool, sawdust-scented gloom.
“It’s himself, at it again,” Tommy said. “God knows what part of Ireland his people are from, but he has the gift of the gab.”
Almost at once, Kim saw Luis Cabrillo, above and behind McCarthy’s right shoulder, and couldn’t believe his luck. He squinted and blinked. Yes, definitely. Outside the Capitol. “Forgot something,” he said. Grabbed his bike. Ran out.
The English, Tommy thought. Running, in this heat. Never stop to think. That’s how they lost India. One day they’ll lose Ulster too, God willing.
*
“You all know how Red subversion works,” McCarthy said. “It’s an evil formula, polished and perfected by evil men. It’s how they seized power in Russia, in China, in a dozen nations that once were free and now are slave. Communism targets the vital organs of a nation! It infects them with its evil virus, a poison that spreads and grows unseen until it is no longer the parasite, it becomes the host, the master! What are the vital organs of America but those centers of power and influence where I have exposed treachery, callous and persistent treachery, year after year: the State Department, the Atom Bomb, the Universities, the Army, Hollywood. Yet there is one other center of power. Some say—and it give me no pleasure, but the truth must not be denied—some say it is the biggest business operation in America. I speak of the Mafia, organized crime, which has been infiltrated and controlled and manipulated by the Kremlin. And when the Mob takes orders from Moscow, what hope is there for decency and honor in the USA?”
Stunned, shocked silence.
“I want you to look at this. It is a Communist Party Membership Card.” McCarthy opened it, held it where the cameras could zoom in. Fifty flashbulbs popped. “The man whose face you see is Jerome Fantoni, head of one of the biggest New York crime families. For decades, Fantoni and his henchmen have conspired with Stalin to sell America down the river. Henchmen like Mafia leaders Fitz Delaney and Bender Costello, whose Party Cards I also show. These crooks are double traitors. First they betray justice, then they betray patriotism. They will deny it. Of course they will deny it! But here is hard evidence that the tentacles of the KGB are deep in the Mafia, and that must mean they are deep in America …”
Uproar. Reporters swarmed around McCarthy. Questions, questions, questions. Thirty minutes later he was still talking, naming names—Stefano Magaddino in Buffalo, Carlos Marcello in New Orleans, John Scalisi in Cleveland, Frankie DeSimone in LA—and hinting at rackets that were linked to the Kremlin, extortion, protection, tax-skimming, judge-bribing, union-corrupting. Luis Cabrillo was at his shoulder, quietly pleased with the sound of words that he had suggested.
Wagner was in the crowd. So was Philby. When the party was over, Luis walked away and got a taxi home. Wagner followed in another taxi. Philby, pedaling so hard that he got chest-pains, followed by bike. It was rush-hour; traffic was sluggish. They both reached Connecticut Avenue in time to see Luis leave the cab and enter the apartment building. For a brief moment, Philby thought of abandoning the bike and chasing after him, to get his apartment number. But Philby was dripping sweat, he was gasping for breath, and stars were wandering across his eyeballs. He quit while he was winning. He went back to the hotel.
Wagner took the taxi back to his car, and drove home. He had a shower, sat on the bed, and thought the problem through, as a good infantry commander should.
*
“No.” Prendergast clicked his fingers and Fisk killed the TV.
“No, no, no. That doesn’t hang right. It’s cockeyed.”
“The senator sounded very confident,” Fisk said.
“Think, man. Where’s your training? The Mob doesn’t do politics. It would be like baseball on ice. Fundamentally wrong.”
“We saw Fantoni’s Party card.”
“And you saw the shit-eating grin on Cabrillo’s face. I tell you, something is seriously wrong here. Why would the Kremlin infiltrate the Mafia?”
“Money,” Fisk said. “Power. Influence.”
“But they kill each other!” Prendergast shouted. “The Profacis shoot the Bonannos, the Gambinos shoot the Costellos! Where in God’s name is the Party discipline? You can’t hear the Internationale for the sound of gunfire!”
“Messy,” Fisk murmured.
3
The colonists licked the British; wrote a Constitution and elected a President; and made their capital in a place where the air is soggy as a hot dish-rag for three months of summer. The British sent a peacekeeping mission in 1814 and, as a gesture of goodwill, burned most of Washington. The colonists came right back and rebuilt it, which displayed that gung-ho can-do pioneer spirit, but it couldn’t change the climate. Even after the sun goes down, Washington in summer still cooks at a steady simmer.
Luis wore a pair of basketball shorts, and he swaggered about, bare-chested, with a gin-and-tonic in a pint tankard, while they all watched highlights of McCarthy’s Press conference, switching channels from ABC to CBS to NBC and any other station they could find.
“Is that true, about the San Andreas Fault?” Stevie asked. She was wearing a man’s shirt, loosely buttoned.
“It doesn’t have to be true,” Luis said. “As long as it’s not proven untrue.”
“Yeah, but … I seen pictures. I mean, San Andreas Fault exists. It’s this big long crack, keeps gettin’ wider.”
“On the subject,” Julie said, “keep your legs together, sweetheart, or go put some panties on.”
“Too damn hot… You got a fine brown frame, Luis.”
“Look!” he said, pointing. “There I am again. Damn, I look good in profile.”
“McCarthy, he ain’t married, am I right?” Stevie asked.
“He’s a lush,” Julie said. “Don’t ever marry a lush.”
“That’s me again,” Luis said. “Not such a good shot.”
“I bet Jerome’s looking at these same pictures right now,” Julie said, “You being on TV was not a smart idea.”
“Jerome’s going to be looking at a subpoena tomorrow.”
“How much sex do you guys have in a week?” Stevie asked. “Average week?”
“Go take a shower,” Julie said.
“God, it’s hot,” Luis said. He strolled onto the balcony. It would be dusk in an hour. There was a bucket of shrimp in the fridge and much white wine. “We should eat out here,” he said.
4
Kim Philby went to the Shamrock, had two Irish whiskeys with beer chasers and made himself eat a hamburger. It would do no good if his hands were shaking from hunger as well as nerves. Also, eating killed some time.
He was not nervous about killing Cabrillo. He was nervous about missing him with the first shot, maybe just winging him, having to reload and fire again. By then Cabrillo might be running, or crawling, trying to hide. A poor target. Two or three shots must attract atten
tion. It would get awfully messy.
In the old days, Moscow would have found a technician to handle this sort of problem. Philby was too valuable to risk, then. No longer. Now Moscow expected him to clear up his own mess.
He went back to his room and looked at his bed. An hour’s sleep would settle his nerves. No. He knew that if he fell asleep, the night would be lost. He washed his face, scrubbed it dry, combed his hair, and stared at the reflection. It blinked back at him. Don’t think, he ordered. Do it now. Go.
He went downstairs and fetched his bike. Bullets were in his pockets. Rifle was in the old canvas bag. He hung it on the handlebars. Nobody was likely to stop a middle-aged white man who was riding a bike with an old Al Fruit Farms bag hanging on it.
The block where Cabrillo lived was all apartment buildings. Philby stopped near the front door where he had seen Cabrillo enter, and immediately he knew he couldn’t go inside. Even supposing he was lucky enough to find Cabrillo, Philby knew he couldn’t shoot him at close range and walk away. Or, worse still, run away. Not possible.
Small things tumbled out of the darkness and rattled softly on the sidewalk. They crunched under his foot. He picked one up. Peanut shell.
More followed. There was laughter high above.
He crossed the avenue and got a better look at Cabrillo’s building. Each apartment had a balcony. Lights were burning in most apartments. Anyone on a balcony was silhouetted at worst, illuminated at best. Philby began to feel a strange emotion. It was hope.
*
Wagner waited until the dusk was a deep purple, and he drove into Washington. He parked on Connecticut Avenue and wrapped the rifle in his jacket. He was an infantryman; it took him only a few seconds to appraise the terrain and decide that the best way to kill Arabel was from the roof of an apartment building on the opposite side of the avenue: good view, clear shot, no witnesses.
Red Rag Blues Page 25