When the boarding announcement came, the seats near the gate emptied as everyone surged toward the stewardess guarding the entrance to the jetway. Toad took his time and held back. Two people sandwiched themselves between him and Moravia as they ambled toward the door; a guy in a business suit with shoulder-length hair and a woman in her fifties with bad knees. Yet somehow when Toad turned in his boarding pass he ended up right behind Moravia going down the jetway. There was another line waiting to get through the airplane’s door. He queued behind her. The people behind him pressed forward. His nose was almost in her hair. She was wearing a delicate, heavenly scent. He inhaled it clear to his toenails.
They inched down the crowded aisle toward their seats. The air was stifling; too may people. Toad felt the walls closing in on him. There was a woman already in the aisle seat in their row, and when Toad finished stuffing his attaché case and hat into the overhead bin, he found Moravia was already in her seat. The woman on the aisle ignored him. Toad muttered his excuses and edged in front of their knees. Rita looked up from the operation of removing her hat and for the first time since he had known her gave him a warm smile. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” Toad said as he settled in beside her, acutely aware of her physical presence. Too aware. He adjusted the air nozzle in the overhead and turned hers on too. “Is this okay?”
“Thank you. That helps a lot.” She smiled again, beautiful white teeth framed by lips that…Toad looked at his novel a while, couldn’t get interested, then scanned the airline magazine from the seat pocket. Her skirt had inched up, revealing her knees. He obliquely examined her hands. Nails painted and trimmed, fingers long and slim. God! He caught her glancing at him and they both grinned nervously and looked away. He turned the overhead air vent full on and glued his face to the window.
They were somewhere over Montana and Toad was deep into Vonnegut’s vision of humans evolving into seals in the millennia to come when Rita spoke again. “Toad,” she said softly.
“Yeah.” She was looking straight into his eyes.
“Why can’t you and I be friends?”
He was thunderstruck. “Uh…aren’t we?”
“You know what I mean.”
Toad Tarkington glanced around desperately. No one was apparently paying any attention. Those eyes were looking straight at him. Just what does she mean? There are friends and there are friends. He had been floating along footloose and free and—whap! —suddenly here he was, smack in the middle of one of those delicious ambiguities that women work so hard to snare men in. For the first time he noticed that her right eye was brown and her left was hazel, a brownish green. Why not just tell her the truth? One good reason, of course, is that truth rarely works with women. Ah…the hell with it! Pay the money and see all the cards.
He leaned into the aura of her. “Because I like you too much to ever just be your friend, Rita Moravia. You are a beautiful woman and—” He reached up and smoothed the makeup in the caked buildup near her right ear. Then he lightly kissed her cheek. “That’s why.”
Those eyes were inches from his. “I thought you didn’t like me.”
“I like you too damn much.”
Her hands closed around his. “Do you really mean that?”
He mumbled something inane.
Her lips glided into his. Her tongue was warm and slippery and the breath from her nostrils hot upon his cheek. Her hair brushed softly against his forehead. When she broke away he was breathing heavily. She had a trace of moisture on her upper lip. Out of the corner of his eye Toad saw the woman in the aisle seat scowling at them. “Rita…”
She glanced over her left shoulder, then back at Toad. She straightened in her seat while holding tightly to his hand with her right. She gave the woman beside her a frozen smile. She gripped his hand fiercely.
“Will you excuse us?” she said, and stood, still holding his hand as she moved past the knees that guarded the aisle, dragging Toad along in her wake.
She marched aft, past the kitchen and the stews loading the lunch cart, and got behind a girl in jeans waiting for the rest rooms. She turned and flashed Toad a nervous smile, then stood nonchalantly, still gripping his hand with hers. He squeezed and got a quick grin over her shoulder.
They made room for a woman who came out of one lavatory and then stood between the little doors shoulder to shoulder. A boy of eleven or twelve joined them. He examined their uniforms like they were dummies in a store window. Rita studiously ignored the inspection, but Toad gave him a friendly wink. Meanwhile the stews maneuvered the luncheon cart into the aisle.
When the other lavatory door opened and the occupant was clear, Rita stepped in and pulled Toad along. “Better get your mom to help you too,” Toad told the wide-eyed boy. As he got the door closed Rita slammed the lock over and wrapped herself around him.
When they finally broke for air, she whispered, “I really thought you didn’t like me.”
“Fool.”
“I wanted you to like me so much, but you were so distant, as if you didn’t care at all.” Her arms were locked behind his back, crushing them together. With his hands against the side of her head, he eased her head back. Her lipstick was smeared. He kissed her again, slowly and deeply.
Matilda Jackson peered through the peephole in the door. A man. “Luis Camacho, Mrs. Jackson. We met yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
Oh yes. One of the FBI agents. She unfastened the chain lock and shot the dead bolt. When she opened the door, he said in a low voice, barely audible, “Special Agent Camacho, Mrs. Jackson. May I come in?”
“Please.” She looked across the street at the crack house. No one in sight, though Lord knows, the lookout was probably watching out the window. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of him. She shut the door quickly.
Now he produced his credentials. “I have a few follow-up questions and—”
“Let’s talk in the kitchen.” She led the way. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“That would be nice.”
The kitchen was warmer than the living room, and well lit. This was her favorite room in the house. Charlie had enjoyed sitting here watching her cook, the smell of baking things heavy in the air.
Camacho sat at the table and waited until she had poured coffee for both of them and sat down across from him. “Perhaps we can go over the whole thing again, if you don’t mind?”
“Oh, not at all.” She explained again about the crack house, about Mandy and Mrs. Blue and the dudes who delivered the crack and picked up the money. He led her into the events of last Friday night, the photos and the man who left the cigarette pack in the iron post two doors up the street.
“So you never saw anyone reach into that post?”
“No. I didn’t. God, I didn’t even think about that. If I had thought that somebody was going to come along any second and look for that thing I probably wouldn’t have gone out there and gotten it. No. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I just wasn’t thinking.”
“We’re pleased that you did. It’s concerned citizens like you that enable law enforcement to function. When the time comes, and it’s months—even years—away, would you be willing to testify?”
“Well…” Those dopers, if they knew who she was…
“We’ll need your testimony to get the photos introduced as evidence.”
“I’ll…” She swallowed hard. She would be risking her life. “I’ll think about—Can’t you do it without me? You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“We’ll try, Mrs. Jackson. We won’t ask unless we really need you.” He sipped his coffee. “How long has the crack house been there?”
“Three, maybe four months. I called the police—”
“Have you been watching the place since it opened?”
“Yes. On and off. You know how it is. I just look over there occasionally. Try and keep an eye on what’s going on.”
“Have you seen the black men there before?”
“Oh yes.” She tho
ught about it. “At least a dozen times, I guess. I think they come almost every day to collect the money and such, but a lot of times I miss them. They don’t come at the same time every day. And sometimes I think they skip a day.”
“Have they seen you watching?”
“I don’t think so. My God, I hope not.” She sat back and smoothed her hair. “I’ve tried to stay out of sight…I’ve seen them so often…”
“How about the man who put the cigarette pack in the hollow fence post? Have you seen him before?”
She thought about it. “I—I don’t think so. But really, I just can’t remember.”
“Have you ever seen anyone retrieve anything from the post?”
“Well, I—I just can’t remember. Maybe I saw somebody and didn’t pay much attention. Is it important?”
“At this point I don’t know.”
“Would he be white?”
“Probably.”
She thought about it. There were so many people, up and down the street, all day long, week in, week out. Yet not that many were white. “I’ll have to try and remember.”
“Okay.” He scooted his chair back and stood. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me. Is there anything else you think we should know?”
“Oh, I guess not. But when are you all going to get that crack house closed down?”
“We’ll talk to the District police. I hope it’s soon.”
She accompanied him to the door and carefully locked it behind him. If only they would shut those people down. Get them out of the neighborhood.
“I got lipstick all over you,” Rita Moravia said, and used a wet paper towel to wipe Toad’s face. This lavatory was certainly not designed for two adults. He perched on the commode with the top down and she sat on his lap, humming softly as she worked on his face and he swabbed hers.
He carefully wiped away all the mascara and makeup. “You shouldn’t use this stuff,” he said. “You don’t need it.”
“Why did you get drunk last Friday?”
“I wanted you and couldn’t have you.” He lifted his shoulders and lowered them. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
She laid her forehead against his and ran her fingers through his hair.
Someone pounded on the door.
“Maybe we should get back to our seats,” he suggested.
“I suppose,” she murmured, but she didn’t move.
More knocking. “Hey, in there!”
Toad helped her to her feet and straightened her uniform. He ran his hands across her buttocks and hips as he stood. She kissed him again to the accompaniment of the pounding on the door.
She stepped out first, her head up, still holding his hand. Three stews stood in the kitchen area staring at them. Rita Moravia smiled. “We’re newlyweds,” she announced simply, and stepped past.
The women applauded wildly and the passengers joined in.
They parked the cars in the lot outside of Rita’s apartment complex and Toad carried her bags in. He had followed her home from Dulles. They kissed in the elevator and they kissed in front of the door. A giggling, happy Rita used her key.
When the door swung open a young woman on the couch in front of the television shrieked. She had her hair in curlers and was wearing only bra and panties. Toad got an eyeful of skin as she scurried for the bedroom.
“Don’t mind Harriet,” Rita said. “I do the same for her on alternate Saturdays when she brings her boyfriend by.”
Toad grinned and nodded. He stood in the center of the living room and glanced about while Rita lugged her bags toward the bedroom. “Need any help?”
“No, I’ll manage. Make yourself comfortable.” In a moment she called from the bedroom, “There’s probably Coke in the fridge.”
Toad sagged comfortably into the couch the roommate had recently vacated. Aha, a remote control for the TV. He flipped around the dial until he found a basketball game and settled his feet upon the settee. Knowing women as he did, he knew he had a while to wait.
“Who’s the hunk?” Harriet demanded of Rita in the bedroom.
“A friend.”
“What about Ogden? He’s called twice this week wanting to know when you’d be home. I told him you’d call him this evening.” Ogden was an attorney at a large Washington law firm whom Rita had been dating.
Rita opened her suitcase on the bed and began to empty it. She separated her dirty clothes from the clean ones, working quickly. “I’ll call Ogden tomorrow.”
Harriet eased the bedroom door open and peeked at Toad sprawled on the couch. “He’s a live one, all right,” she said after she had eased the door shut again. “Navy?”
“Yep.”
Harriet sat cross-legged on her bed. “Are you sure about this, Rita? Ogden’s a pretty great guy. He’s athletic, rich parents, good future, madly in—”
“He wasn’t the one. I’m sure.”
Harriet pounced. “And this guy? Is he the one?”
“Maybe.” Rita removed the pins that held her hair against the back of her head and shook it out. “He might be. He almost got away.” She grinned and attacked her hair with a brush. “Reeled him in on the plane this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
“And I’m going over to his apartment to spend the night.”
Harriet flopped back on her bed and pointed her legs at the ceiling, toes extended. “Well, no one can say you’re just jumping right into bed with him. My God, you’ve stifled your hormones and female appetites for an entire afternoon…it’s positively Victorian. This will set the sexual revolution back a hundred years if it gets out.” She lowered her legs and propped her head on one arm. “Why not let it cool off a quarter of a degree, Rita? A week…”
Rita Moravia shook her head.
“You’ve got it bad, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Luis,” his wife called from the top of the stairs. “Harlan is here.”
“Send him down.”
Mrs. Camacho smiled at her next-door neighbor and said, “He’s in the basement watching a basketball game. As usual.”
“I thought he might be,” Harlan said, smiled and descended the staircase.
“Hey, Harlan. Great game. Boston College and West Virginia. BC’s ahead by a bucket.”
“Do you men want a beer?” Mrs. Camacho calling down from the kitchen.
“Thanks anyway, honey.” They heard her close the door at the top of the stairs.
Harlan Albright sank into a chair near Camacho. He extracted a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lit one. “Catching any spies?”
“Got Matilda Jackson’s photos back from the lab yesterday afternoon. She’s got one of Vasily Pochinkov, the assistant agricultural whosis at the embassy. So we’ve burned him. I’m trying to get surveillance approved. And sure enough, Mrs. Jackson had Franklin’s drop message. The computer guys should decide it’s the Pentagon by tomorrow.”
“Better tell me all of it.” Albright stared at the television as Camacho went through the initial interview with Mrs. Jackson and her attorney, the lab report, the interview with Mrs. Jackson today at her house. When Camacho was finished, Albright lit another cigarette. “Is there a crack house across the street?”
“Apparently. One of my men was going to check the D.C. police mug books. We’ll have names and rap sheets by tomorrow, probably.”
“But there’s no way to tie this in with the crack gang?”
“You know there isn’t.”
“Did Mrs. Jackson ever see Franklin?”
Luis Camacho rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. She may have and doesn’t remember. She said she’d think about it.”
“What do you think?”
“How many times has he been to that drop?”
“Five.”
He considered. “I think she’s probably seen him,” he said at last. “Whether she could pick him out of a lineup or mug book, I don’t know.”
“Where will you be if your bo
ss asks you why you haven’t tried that, once the Pentagon angle is nailed down?”
“I’ll look like an incompetent. I’ll have to bring her in to go over the photo books to cover myself.”
“When?”
“Maybe next week. Maybe the week after. They’ll want to evaluate. At first they’re going to be interested in Pochinkov. For a day or two. Then they’ll get interested in Mrs. Jackson again.”
“Pochinkov is a dead end.”
“They’ll come to that conclusion. Bigelow, my boss, has no background in counterespionage, but he’s a smart man. He’ll drool over Pochinkov for a day or two, toy with the idea of trapping and turning him, then eventually decide that we can’t spare the manpower to watch him day and night forever. Of course, the National Security Council could decide to try to catch him servicing a drop just so we can kick him out of the country, but you probably have a better feel for that than I.”
A wry grin twisted Albright’s lips. The implication was that Albright knew whether or not the Soviets were going to pick up an American diplomat in Moscow anytime soon, knowledge that Camacho well knew Albright would never have. So even here, in the safety and comfort of his own den, Camacho was stroking the ego of his control. He did it unconsciously, without even thinking. No wonder Luis Camacho had done so well in the FBI.
“How come you guys had a drop in that neighborhood anyway?”
“It was on the approved list.” Albright shrugged. The paper pushers in Moscow had no appreciation of the dynamics of an American neighborhood, how fast it could evolve or erode. The approval of drop sites was one method Soviet intelligence bureaucrats used to justify their salaries, but Albright wasn’t going to explain that to Camacho. He had learned early in his career that a wise man never complains about things he can’t change, especially to an agent he needed to keep loyal and motivated.
Still, Luis Camacho wasn’t like other agents. Albright had been running him now for over ten years, but it was only in the last few years, when the source the Americans called the Minotaur had surfaced and within months Camacho had had the serendipitous good fortune to be assigned to head the Washington, D.C., FBI counterespionage department, that Camacho had become a Soviet treasure.
The Minotaur Page 17