Put a Lid on It

by Donald E. Westlake

  Benjamin said, “And we'd run out of other beads to give those people.”

  “Okay,” Meehan said, “so POTUS said, give 'em the SLAR, and they did. Then what?”

  “Unfortunately,” Benjamin said, “what they got showed them a little more than we wanted to show them.”

  “Unavoidable,” Jeffords said.

  “That, too,” Benjamin agreed. “We simply couldn't show them what they needed to see to get at that little lake unless we showed them some other details as well.”

  “Hidden recon posts,” Jeffords said. “Ours, and other people's.”

  “Refugee camps.”

  “Training bases.”

  Meehan said, “So what happened?”

  “Bloodshed,” Jeffords said.

  Benjamin said, “Well, that's what happens in that part of the world anyway, but unfortunately—”

  “Unavoidably,” Jeffords said.

  “That, too,” Benjamin said. “But there we are, you see. The thing has POTUS's fingerprints all over it.”

  Meehan said, “So what?”

  Benjamin wasn't comfortable about this part; he was squirming a bit, down at his end of the tunnel. “Well, you know,” he said, “without meaning to, without let's say thinking it through, in the heat of the moment—”

  “Pressure of the office,” Jeffords said.

  “That, too,” Benjamin agreed. “The point is, POTUS went a bit over the line.”

  Meehan said, “What line?”

  Benjamin said, “Well, unk-um, uh, into what I'm afraid we'd have to call a felony.”

  He really didn't want to get to the point. Meehan said, “What felony?”

  “Well, espionage.”

  “What?”

  Jeffords said, “The legal definition of espionage is the turning over of secret government information to unauthorized foreign governments or their representatives.”

  “The oil was authorized,” Benjamin said. “The rest wasn't, and couldn't be, because of the damage that would inevitably follow, and that in fact did follow.”

  Meehan said, “I never heard of such a thing.”

  “Oh, it's happened before,” Benjamin said. “Presidents do tend to forget that, even for presidents, there are lines that shouldn't be crossed.”

  “Nixon, for instance,” Jeffords said.

  “Very good point,” Benjamin said. “Very similar situation. Richard Nixon, when president, gave the Shah of Iran top-secret military intelligence from our AWACS planes. Foreigner, not cleared. Same thing. Our intelligence people back in Washington had a fit when they found out.”

  Meehan said, “What did Nixon say about it?”

  Jeffords said, “I don't think anybody ever had the nerve to mention it to him.”

  Meehan said, “Okay, so what makes this one different?”

  “The bloodshed,” Jeffords said, “including some of ours.”

  “Thank God it didn't rise to the level of treason,” Benjamin said, “since we weren't actually at war with those people at that moment.”

  “They were on the terrorist nation list,” Jeffords pointed out, and Benjamin sighed.

  Meehan said, “We're still not getting to this package I'm supposed to pick up.”

  “Very soon now,” Benjamin promised. “At the time all this happened, there were perhaps four people in the administration who knew about it. Unfortunately, and not unavoidably, one of the four happened to be a fellow with an overdeveloped conscience.”

  Jeffords said, “I believe his son was one of those taken out in the airfield raid.”

  Benjamin said, “Very well, that's mitigating. And probably what gave him the heart attack. Which, unfortunately—”

  “And avoidably,” Jeffords said, “if we'd only known.”

  “Well, unfortunately, in any case,” Benjamin said, “the heart attack was not immediately fatal.”

  “He talked,” Meehan said.

  “Deathbed confession,” Benjamin said. “Videotaped by his lawyer, with his wife and his priest present.”

  “All three of whom,” Jeffords added, “are sworn to silence by their relationship with him.”

  Benjamin said, “And he'd made photocopies of certain documents to back up his story.”

  “Which he turned over to the wife, before he departed this vale.”

  Meehan said, “And that's the package. How'd it wind up with Burnstone?”

  “The widow had it,” Benjamin said, “but I'm afraid she remarried eight months later.”

  “The marriage didn't last,” Jeffords said.

  “Well,” Benjamin said, “it was rather on the rebound.”

  Jeffords said, “It lasted long enough for lover boy to learn about the evidence and steal it when the marriage went sour.”

  Benjamin said, “And sell it to the Other Side.”

  Jeffords said, “He offered it to us first, goddamit.”

  Benjamin said, “But he offered it to people who didn't know a thing about it and assumed it was a fraud, and turned him down.”

  Jeffords said, “By the time the word got to the right people, it was too late. Lover boy had made his deal and moved to Virgin Gorda, British West Indies.”

  “We managed to find him there,” Benjamin said, with some satisfaction, “and persuade him to tell us who he sold it to, and then learn where it was being kept.”

  “Huh,” Meehan said. They were well out of the city now, sailing northward through greenery. “Whoever has that package,” Meehan said, “has the president's balls right in his hand.”

  Sharply, Jeffords said, “Don't you get any ideas, Francis.”

  “Not me,” Meehan said.

  42

  THEY DROPPED BENJAMIN at the railroad station at Katonah—“Luck, chaps,” was his final sally—and then continued on up interstate 684, Jeffords staying in back because it looked better that way, in a limo, Meehan giving him a quick rundown on the caper, so he'd know the players and the game. Jeffords listened, and then he fell asleep.

  It was pleasant driving this tunnel by himself, through the morning, most of the traffic still coming the other way, little to distract him even after he switched to the state highway, route 22, two lanes, running northward through the Harlem Valley. It gave him time to think about what they were going to do today and how they might do it, and the changes they were going to have to make because of the limo in the job being this particular limo, with links back to Jeffords.

  Meehan had noticed over the years that crooks in stories and movies always make all kinds of plans, contingencies, maps, timetables, charts, maybe even scale models of things. He'd also noticed over the years that he himself and the guys he knew never did any of that, wouldn't have the first idea how to go about it. You work up a general idea of what you want and how you think you might want to go about it, and then when you get there you improvise, based on the situation, which is never exactly, precisely what you thought the situation was going to be.

  That's the way it had always worked with him and the guys he'd met along the way, though he could see sometimes that those careful plans had a lot to be said for them. Like as though you were building a house, you'd certainly want that plan, but in fact they never were building a house. Robbing a house is a different kind of thing.

  Also, people who make plans in their lives and people who make robberies are two pretty distinct character types. People who make plans are likely to make plans that eliminate the necessity of having to make a robbery in the first place. So Meehan and company, not being planners, would just get a general idea, knock back a little bourbon right before the job to calm the nerves, and invent to suit once the job got under way.

  This time, for instance, he had to figure out something to do with this limo. The original idea had been for Bob Clarence to drive the limo to Burnstone, pick up the household, drive them an hour east across Massachusetts, say he needed gas, stop at a gas station, get out of the limo, walk around to the back of the gas station where his personal car had
already been stashed, get in it, and drive home, to meet up with the others tomorrow. Burnstone and party would sit in the limo until hell froze over, or until it occurred to them the chauffeur wasn't coming back, whichever came first.

  This was the idea that Bob Clarence had found a little mean to do to a frail old man, leave him stuck with nothing but servants in the boonies in the middle of Massachusetts, but it was also the idea Meehan had assured Clarence he would fall in with gladly once he'd had some full-frontal exposure to the Clendon Burnstone IV personality.

  However, this was the idea that wasn't any good any more, because, in going for the simplest answer to any problem, Meehan had leaped on the idea of getting a campaign limo from Jeffords. But, since that limo could be easily traced back to the campaign, and probably even to Jeffords, it could no longer be abandoned. So at this point, the idea had a little glitch in it, because there would come a moment when Bob Clarence was driving hither and yon around Massachusetts, but would want to sever his relationship with the Burnstone household, and what then?

  Meehan didn't think Clarence would want to just shoot them all, though by that time he might very well be ready to shoot IV. Still, he might have found himself with warm, or at least civil, feelings toward the staff. And in any case, getting bloodstains out of a limo was not an easy thing to do.

  And beyond all that, bloodshed was not a part of Meehan's MO, nor the people he hung out with, though the occasional tap with a sap might be called upon, or a bit of tying up. So what it came down to, the job had started, and he still had parts of it to figure out. Not the first time this had happened, but it always tended to make him nervous, which was why the bourbon, but which he didn't intend to dip into until he'd met up with the others and was no longer driving this tunnel.

  Nine-thirty was the time for the meet in the fairgrounds parking lot south of Sheffield, and nine-forty was when Meehan steered off route 7, seeing the tall-sided black delivery truck tucked unobtrusively over by the weed-overgrown chain-link fence. There were no fairs on display on this Wednesday in mid-October, so they had the weedy parking area to themselves.

  Bernie and Bob climbed down from the truck as the limo jounced toward them, nosing across the potholed gravel like an anteater looking for lunch, the agitation bouncing Jeffords up out of sleep, to stare open-eyed around at this barren landscape and say, “What? What?”

  “End of the line,” Meehan told him. “All transfer.”

  By the time they stopped next to the truck, Jeffords had reacquainted himself with the world and his position in it. He blinked out at Bob and Bernie, finally realized that Bob wasn't going to open the door for him even though Bob was in his chauffeur suit—a very nice tailored navy blue, with matching billed cap—so he opened the door himself and staggered out to cold midmorning sunshine, where he stood stretching and creaking and groaning while Meehan conferred with the other two.

  Who immediately wanted to know who the hitchhiker was. “Part of the other element in the job,” Meehan explained. “The political element.”

  Bob pulled his chauffeur bill lower. “Then why's he here?”

  “I'll let him tell you.” Turning to Jeffords, who was beginning to take an interest in his surroundings, calling him “Pat” for the first time in his life, Meehan said, “Pat, we're all first-name here, that's Bob and Bernie, this is Pat.”

  Everybody said hello, warily, and Meehan said, “Tell them the particular screwups that brought you here.”

  “Unfortunately,” Jeffords told them, “and avoidably, I might add, we had some security leaks at the CC, for which I must say I have to accept partial—”

  Bob, backing toward the limo, trying to scan the entire horizon at once, said, “You bringing cops here, man?”

  Jeffords gave him a blank stare. “What?”

  “No, Bob,” Meehan said. “Nothing like that. Let him tell you. Pat, make it a little shorter, okay?”

  “In sum,” Jeffords said, “there are some foreign nationals who have learned of the existence of these documents, the ones Francis means to collect today, with your quite welcome assis—”

  “Shorter,” Meehan said.

  Jeffords cleared his throat, hunched his shoulders, and said, “These foreign nationals know there's some sort of damaging information about our president, they don't know what it is, but they want it, to blackmail him, they tried to torture the information out of me, Francis rescued me, for which I thank you—”

  “So we can't leave him behind,” Meehan explained to the others, “or they'll grab him again. But so far they don't know much, so they'll keep looking around New York and Washington, and meanwhile we do it and we're outa here.”

  Bernie said, “But they're not gonna show up and horn in.”

  “Definitely not.”

  Bob said, “But we're baby-sitting.”

  “Yeah,” Meehan said.

  “I'll stay completely out of things,” Jeffords promised.

  “You're damn right you will,” they told him, and then Meehan said to the others, “But we still do have one thing to work out.”

  Bernie looked alert. “What?”

  “Originally,” Meehan said, “Bob was gonna abandon the limo with that crowd in it.”

  “Unless I liked the old man,” Bob said.

  “No fear of that,” Meehan said. “But we can't do that any more anyway, because this is a regular limo from the president's campaign committee that Pat's loaning us that we gotta give back. It was just easier that way. So we can't leave it somewhere with Burnstone inside it.”

  “Hell,” Bob said, “we gotta steal us another limo.”

  Bernie said, “A little late for that.”

  Meehan said, “I've been trying to think, how do we separate Burnstone from the limo without making him suspicious?”

  “Hell,” Bob said, “I've got my car stashed just perfect, where I was gonna leave them. Now, I gotta get my car back, too.”

  Bernie said, “There's always these damn things at the last minute. Hold on, let me get my bottle.”

  While Bernie was getting his bottle from the cab of the truck, Jeffords hesitantly said, “If I could put an oar in? Francis?”

  Meehan lowered a brow at him. “You want to say something?”

  “Well, just a question, to start.” Jeffords turned to Bob: “This car you have stashed, may I ask what it is?”

  “Jag,” Bob told him.

  “A Jaguar? The little one, or the sedan?”

  “It's a brand-new,” Bob told him, with some asperity, “Jaguar Xj8, the V8 model, four-door, five-seater, white onyx.”

  “Oh, very nice,” Jeffords said, while Meehan and Bernie both looked at Bob with new respect. “You see,” Jeffords went on, “here's the little idea I had.”

  “No little ideas,” Meehan told him.

  Bob said, “No, wait, let's not be prejudiced just because he isn't one of us. Hear him out.”

  “And then be prejudiced,” Bernie suggested. He had his bottle now, and was grinning slightly.

  Meehan shook his head at Jeffords. “This better be good.”

  “Well, I don't know if it is or not,” Jeffords said, “but there is a phone in the limo, I know that much.”

  Bob said, “There's a phone in every limo.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jeffords said. “And I have my cellphone. Now, if you can get me to where your car is—”

  Bob was beginning to look prejudiced. “You want to drive my car?”

  “I've never had an accident in my life,” Jeffords assured him. “But here's my idea. At a given point, you, in the limo, have a breakdown. You say, ‘Oh, dear, I'd better phone ahead to where you're supposed to speak,’ and you phone me. I'll give you my…” hushed voice “…cellphone number, which I never give to anyone, and which I pray you not to give to anyone else—”

  “Get on with it, Pat,” Meehan said.

  “All right, fine. You, Bob, phone me, I come to where you are in your Jaguar, I say I was sent by the organizati
on where this fellow Burnstone is supposed to speak, I'll take them the rest of the way. They pile in—”

  Bob said, “Why don't I take over the Jaguar?”

  “No no,” Jeffords said, “the chauffeur stays with the limo.”

  “He's right about that much,” Meehan said.

  “Thank you,” Jeffords said. “So now I take these people to some high school or town hall or something, I say, ‘Oh, everybody's inside, it's because we're late, it's already started, you all hurry in while I park the car.’ They get out of the car, I drive back here.”

  Bob said, “Why don't I do that in the limo, drop them off somewhere, leave?”

  “Because the chauffeur gets out of the limo,” Jeffords told him, “to open all the doors. There isn't time to get away before they discover the town hall's empty. I'm a busy man, other appointments, I sit impatiently at the wheel as they get out, then zip away like a bunny rabbit.”

  “Careful with my car,” Bob said, and Bernie said, “Like a bunny rabbit?”

  “In any event,” Jeffords said, “that's my contribution.”

  They all looked at one another. Bob said to Meehan, “Wha-daya think?”

  “I think,” Meehan said, “if it wasn't for Pat, it could work.”

  “Well, you know,” Bob said, “I can't drive the limo and the Jag, so we need another driver.”

  Somewhere in the ten thousand rules, it said something about not accepting contributions from amateurs, but somewhere else in there it said you adapt to circumstances. Therefore, “Maybe so,” Meehan finally said.

  “I can be very realistic in the part,” Jeffords promised him, “because in fact I have played that part several hundred times in my career, delivering the VIP to the place where the speech is to be made. I could do it in my sleep. Particularly with that Jaguar, I won't raise a single question in their minds.”

  Meehan said to Bob, “It's your Jag.”

  Bob said, “No, it's the goddam limo you showed up in, with strings attached.”

  Bernie took a swig from his bottle. “I think it's great,” he said. “Also, it means this bird isn't just a witness, he's one of us.”