Deep Cover

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Deep Cover Page 32

by Brian Garfield


  “Between China and Russia?”

  “Yes. Of course they’ve had these flaps before. Bluff and double-bluff—brinkmanship, Chinese style. They push until they meet too much resistance and then they squat down and wait for things to cool off before they start pushing again. Process of attrition—but the Russians have been getting fed up with it. You would too.”

  “But what’s that got to do with Belsky?”

  “God knows,” Spode muttered. Knuckles rapped at the door and Forrester grimaced and stepped into the alcove out of sight until he heard Spode tip the waiter and close the door. Spode set the tray on the coffee table.

  Forrester took the dome off the plate and sat down to eat. “I’m sick of hide and seek, Top, it’s not my style.”

  “I know. But I’d like to find out what’s really going on before we start taking any chances.”

  “We’re not going to find out anything sitting here.”

  “It’s not your job—you’ve got other fish to fry. Let the professionals handle Belsky.”

  “They don’t seem to be getting anywhere, do they.”

  “And just how far do you think you could get? What did you have in mind, strapping on a six-shooter and spreading the word around town you’ll be waiting for him on Stone Avenue at high noon?”

  “Jaime’s right, you know.” Ronnie’s voice drew Forrester’s head around sharply. She stood in the bedroom doorway in last night’s skirt and blouse, slightly rumpled; she had washed the sleep off her face but she wore no makeup. She was stunning.

  Forrester stood up with his napkin in his hand. “Feeling any better?”

  “I’m fine—I don’t know why I went to pieces. I’m miserable because I kept you up with all that silliness. Forgive me?”

  “As long as you’re sure you’re all right.”

  “Well, tired and a little jittery—and very ashamed of myself.” Her smile was reticent.

  He indicated the plate. “I’ve hardly started. Why don’t you eat this while it’s warm—I’ll have some more sent up.”

  “I don’t think I’d better do that yet. Please go ahead and finish.” She waved him to his seat and went back into the bedroom. She left the door open and he saw her sit down at the dressing table to comb her hair. “Jaime, have you talked to Les Suffield?” There was something a bit taut behind the casual question and Forrester watched her with full attention.

  “A little while ago,” Spode said. “Why?”

  “Oh—nothing.”

  But Forrester saw her shoulders stir, almost as if with relief. He pushed the plate away; abruptly he felt no hunger at all.

  She had been like that last night too, even while she was alone with him: distant, polite. Like a relative on a visit. She had tried to explain last night: It’s all happened too fast, hasn’t it, Alan? Don’t we need a little more time to get our feelings about each other sorted out? I had my life neatly compartmentalized until just the other day and now overnight everything’s changed—I need a chance to get my breath but I can’t right now. You’ve sprung this horrible Russian murderer business on me and I know it’s unreasonable, I know it’s not your fault, but I just can’t.… She had cried out and shut herself into the bathroom.

  She seemed to feel their eyes on her; she said by way of explanation, “I just thought Les might know something that would help.”

  She had always tended to lean on Les Suffield. It was Suffield who had first brought her into his organization. Forrester had always found it slightly odd; Ronnie in her way hated the devious mechanisms of politics and yet she seemed to have extraordinarily high regard for Suffield, who epitomized the back-room philosophy she deplored. It was possible she had had an affair with him but somehow Forrester found it hard to credit, for reasons he couldn’t articulate.

  He reached for the coffee and squeezed his eyes shut; he was tired, his mind was wandering. Spode had picked up a newspaper and it rustled like submachine-gun fire. Forrester said irritably, “It must be something to do with the missile factories; nothing else seems to explain Belsky’s being here. If only Ross Trumble were alive to explain—”

  The edge of the same fast-traveling thought struck them all and Forrester saw Spode sit bolt upright. Ronnie came into the sitting room again with her fingers at her throat and Spode said with vast self-disgust, “Oh Christ. The damned letter.”

  Ronnie said something, not a word, and Spode got to his feet so fast his knees knocked the chair back against the radiator. “Orozco’s man said it was addressed to you at the ranch.”

  “Then let’s get it,” Forrester said, on his way to the door.

  Ronnie said, “Wait—don’t go.”

  When he looked back she said quickly, “Suppose he’s waiting for you to show yourself? The Russian.”

  “I can’t spend the next week hidden away here—I’d start climbing the walls. And I have to know what’s in that letter.”

  “But it’s probably only a copy of the Phaeton specifications—the ones Jaime’s already photographed. You asked him for them and he told you he might send them to you. Isn’t that what you said?”

  Spode said, “Whatever’s in that letter it’s not the Phaeton specs. Trumble wrote it out longhand in the hotel lobby. It was a letter—a long one.”

  Ronnie had crossed the space between them; she reached for Forrester’s sleeve. “I just don’t want you to risk being hurt. Why can’t you stay here while Jaime and I drive down and get the letter?” She gave a sudden smile—tremble-lipped, pale.

  “I don’t understand you, Ronnie.”

  “Is it worth exposing yourself just for a letter that probably has nothing in it?”

  “Nothing in it? The man wrote it less than twenty-four hours before he died. We’ve got to assume it’s vitally important.”

  “But it may not even have arrived yet. It’s only Saturday morning—he didn’t mail it till Thursday afternoon, in Phoenix, and you know how slow rural deliveries are.…”

  Spode said, “What time does the mail come in down there?”

  “About one in the afternoon,” Forrester answered.

  “Then there’s a good chance it’ll show up today.”

  Ronnie was shaking her head. “I can’t explain it, Alan, I just have a terrible feeling. I’m frightened for you—I keep having visions of that awful man waiting for you with a gun.”

  Spode said, “I expect he’s got better things to do with his time than hang around out in the boondocks waiting to set up an ambush. We ought to be secure as soon as we get out of town. I can pull my car around back of the hotel in the alley here.”

  “But they might recognize your car.” She flicked her eyes back and forth, and Forrester frowned with incomprehension. When she realized it was no good trying to dissuade him she turned to Spode and implored, “At least let’s get help. Les Suffield has a pistol. Call him—ask him to come pick us up in his car. They won’t be looking for his car. And they wouldn’t attack four of us, would they?”

  Spode shrugged. But Forrester said, “It might be a good idea, Top. Not necessarily for protection but I think Les ought to be in on this.”

  “If you say so. I’ll call him.”

  The morning sky was misty with the promise of rain; a diaphanous halo surrounded the sun, and heavy clouds were building up over the Tucson Mountains west of town. The air itself seemed to have thickened and been stunned; even though the streets were filled with the usual noises of traffic there was a muted sense of great silence. Now and then in the distance thunder clattered like bowling alley pins.

  When they reached the freeway Suffield buzzed up the electric windows and switched on the air-conditioner to diminish the roar of wind and make conversation possible. In the front seat with Suffield, Top Spode did the talking, giving it to Suffield in summary doses.

  Suffield was dubious to the extent of glancing at Forrester in the mirror at one point and saying, “I cite Mark Twain—‘Reader, suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congres
s. But I repeat myself.’ End of citation. You’ve got a talent for finding absurd situations.”

  Forrester made no reply and Top proceeded with his précis. Forrester sat uneasy in the corner and felt isolated, detached in the sealed car as it hurtled through the morning on the straight highway that four-laned toward the mountains. Beer cans and half-buried bottles glinted along the desert roadside. Ronnie sat far over on her side of the back seat, her lips parted amd heavy in repose; she had covered her eyes with dark harlequin glasses. She was looking out her window, tense as if she were waiting for something. She seemed consumed by irrational fears; he had never seen her like that before. Perhaps she had been right: perhaps they had let it all come together too fast, perhaps they needed to back away and learn each other. He was beginning to realize the scope of his ignorance about her.

  Suffield stopped by the gate and Jaime Spode got out. They all watched him open the mailbox. Catching Les Suffield’s profile, Forrester saw the jaw hinge bunch up and something struggle fiercely behind Suffield’s eyes. But the voice was very controlled. “It appears the postman dallieth.”

  Spode slid into the car. “Not due yet anyhow—let’s go up to the house and wait.”

  The banality of the exchange made it all seem unreal. Ronnie bit a thumbnail. Forrester was vexatiously alert to the tension in the car. He felt responsible for it but he did not understand it because they all seemed disproportionately apprehensive. When they reached the house Ronnie went up to the door with her marvelous flowing walk—nothing would change that—but once inside she began to flutter, opening blinds and putting coffee on to boil and plumping up cushions, never alighting, never looking directly at Forrester. Finally it was too much for him: “Will all of you just sit down for one minute? You’re all acting as if I’ve committed some unforgivable faux pas and you’re making a belabored point of ignoring it.”

  “Oh nonsense,” Ronnie said crossly. “But you’ve made me so nervous I’m waiting for spies to come crawling out of the woodwork with great gleaming knives between their teeth.”

  Les Suffield was at the front window looking out and Spode said, “You can’t see the mailbox from up here.”

  “I know. I was looking at those clouds. We’re going to get some rain—any chance of the road getting washed out?”

  Forrester walked to the window to have a look. The unrolling clouds had heavy black bellies and the shadow streaks of grey rain slanted toward the peaks along a wide front beyond the western perimeter of the valley. Tall lances of cloud shot forward from the crest. “Sometimes the arroyos fill up with flash floods—you may get eight feet of water in some of the dips in the road but it always dries up after a few hours, half a day at the most. You learn to accommodate yourself to those things down here.”

  “But if we don’t beat that out of here we’ll probably be stuck here overnight, won’t we?”

  “It’s possible,” Forrester said indifferently. “There’s plenty here to feed us. Don’t worry about it, Les.”

  Suffield shrugged his thick shoulders and turned, reaching around to adjust the hip-pocket gun under the tail of his jacket. “It’s quite a story, Jaime. If I didn’t know the source I’d take it for a fairy tale.”

  “I wish it was.”

  “How much do the Government agents know about this?”

  Spode made a gesture. “Not much more than we know.”

  “There’s got to be an explanation for it.”

  Forrester went back to the couch. “Maybe we’ll find out when Ross Trumble’s letter arrives. I think the coffee’s boiling.”

  Ronnie bounced out of her chair and Suffield turned. “I’ll help with that.” He trailed her out toward the kitchen and the low run of their voices came back into the room but Forrester couldn’t make out the words. It went on for some time until Spode said, “They seem to have gone into a huddle out there. I guess we did spring it on them kind of sudden.”

  Ronnie came in with a tray and distributed cups; the coffee made a good strong smell. “I’ll throw something together for lunch in a little while.” When she handed his coffee to Forrester the cup and saucer rattled in her hand.

  Suffield came in, agitated, preceded by his voice: “I just tried the phone. It’s dead.”

  Forrester flapped his big hand toward the window. “The line goes across to the Santa Cruz—it’s already raining over there and the wire may be down.”

  “I don’t like that.”

  Spode said, spuriously mild, “Les may be right. It could be somebody cut the wire.” He carried his coffee to the window and took up a post there.

  Suffield said, “Who else is around here?”

  Forrester was still scowling at Spode; he turned to answer Suffield’s question: “The crew will be out—with a storm coming in, they’ll be bunching the herds.”

  “Haven’t you got a house man?”

  “Just the housekeeper, Mrs. Gutiérrez. She’s my manager’s wife—when I arrive with guests she always fades out of sight and waits at home until she’s called.”

  “She live around here?”

  “The white dobe down below. We passed it on the way. You’ve been here before, Les, what’s the matter?”

  “Just that we’re pretty isolated here, aren’t we? It could be an awkward time for friend Belsky to drop in.”

  “I hardly think it’s likely.”

  Spode said, “I wouldn’t exactly—” and then he stiffened at the window. “Dust out above the road. Your mailman drive a jeep down here?”

  “Yes.” Forrester put his cup down before he stood up.

  Suffield said, “I’ll go down and get it.” His voice was taut with anxiety and he walked toward the door with very quick strides.

  Forrester was closer to the door; he got there first and said mildly, “Then let’s both go,” and went past into the foyer.

  Suffield’s voice, behind him, gripped him as if by the elbow and swung him around. “Hold it a minute, then.”

  When Forrester turned he saw the revolver in Suffield’s fist.

  “We’ll all go,” Suffield said.

  Ronnie sat bolt upright. “No, Les.”

  “Shut up.”

  Forrester snapped, “What the devil is this?” And Spode’s voice overlapped his: “For Christ’s sake, Les, what’s the flap?”

  “Everybody outside to the car. You drive, Jaime, and Alan sits in the front seat with you. Now move, everybody.”

  “Will you all please just shut up. Jaime, pull over by the mailbox and don’t move a God damned muscle. Ronnie, you collect the mail, that’s a good girl.”

  Spode eased the car in by the side of the road and they waited for Ronnie; but after she had opened the door and swung her legs out she stopped and said, “Les, for heaven’s sake—”

  “Move. Eyes front, you two.”

  A few raindrops spattered the hood of the car and Forrester felt sweat in his armpits, along his chest, in his palms.

  “I told you to sit still. I mean it, I’ll kill both of you if you push me.”

  Spode said in exasperated bewilderment, “Jesus H. Christ.”

  The car swayed with Ronnie’s weight and the back door chunked shut. Suffield said, “Never mind the rest of the junk. Is it in there?”

  “This must be it,” she said.

  “Give it to me. Jaime, drive us back up to the house.”

  The gun was steady in the fist and Suffield leaned his back against the big door to close it. “Everybody sit down. Ronnie, you’d better open this and read it; I don’t want to take my eyes off these two.”

  Forrester said, “This has gone far enough. Put that gun—”

  “Will you all just quit yapping for a minute? I need to think,”

  “You don’t need to think with that gun in your hand. What’s come over you?”

  Suffield’s thumb curled over the hammer of the revolver. “I told you to sit down.”

  Filled with disbelief Forrester backed up till his knees struck the chair. He settl
ed onto its edge. “All right, Les, I’m sitting down. Just take it easy now. What do you want of us?”

  “Don’t humor me, I’m not sick in the head.”

  “Just take it easy then—there’s no need to fill the air with bullets. Just tell us what it is you want.”

  Spode folded his arms and squinted; he was by the front window. “And make it good, Les, because I can spot you the gun and thirty pounds and still take you apart—make it real good, hear?”

  Suffield’s red-brick lips peeled back from his teeth. “Don’t you think I can handle a gun? Don’t get notions, Jaime, just sit down on that windowsill and keep quiet.”

  Forrester’s head was lifted; he was listening to the run of Suffield’s voice, trying to detect the note of madness that surely had to be there; but Suffield was not out of control and there was nothing in his attitude to confirm what had to be the case: that something in him had snapped.

  Suffield said, “What about it, Ronnie?”

  It was so heavy it had taken four first-class stamps on the envelope. “The handwriting’s like a child’s.”

  “He was overwrought. What’s in it?”

  “Everything,” she said. “Everything he knew. Dangerfield, Craig, the whole thing.”

  “I suspected as much. He must have been planning it for years. Planning to blow it all sky high if and when the man ever showed up from over there.”

  “It’s strange,” Ronnie said. “He didn’t even know what it was for. He had no idea. He had to be in Phoenix with Alan and Senator Guest that morning.”

  “I know about that. He sent Craig to tape the meeting but Craig fell through and Trumble was right back at square one. He never did find out.”

 

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