When he held the door open for Sally, Camacho automatically glanced across the car at the little bulb he had inset in the driver’s door. It was dark.
He got into the car and started the engine and backed out onto the street.
“I want to run by the Richards house and pick up Gerald.” The boy had spent the night with a friend.
“Why? He can walk home this afternoon and he has a key to the house.”
“I’m taking you two to the airport. I want you to go visit your mother for a week or two.”
“But I’m not packed! The PTA has a benefit on Thurs—”
“I want you both out of town for a while. Don’t argue. I mean it.”
“What about our clothes?” his wife protested. “We can’t—”
“Oh yes you can! Buy some more clothes. You have your checkbook.”
“Luis, what is this all about?”
He pulled over to the side of the street and put the car in neutral. He turned in the seat to face his wife. “I’m working a case. The people we’re after know where I live. I’d just feel a whole lot better if you and Gerald weren’t home until I wrap this up. Now there’s no danger, but why take a chance?”
“You’re really serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Mother—how will I explain dropping in on her and Dad like this?”
“Tell them we had a fight and you want some time alone.”
“Mom won’t believe that! She knows you too well to—”
“You think of something. Tell them we’re redoing the downstairs and you’ve developed an allergy to paint. I don’t care. Just don’t tell the truth. Your mother’ll spill it to every one of her friends, and it’s a very small world.” He put the car in gear and rolled.
Sally chewed on her lip and twisted the strap of her purse. “I don’t like this, Luis.”
“I don’t either, but this is the way it has to be.”
Smoke Judy was sipping beer in a booth at his favorite bar when he saw Harlan Albright come in and ask for change for the parking meter. Judy waited several minutes, paid his tab and left.
Albright was behind the wheel of his car. Judy opened the passenger door and sat down. “Hi.”
“Want to take a little ride?”
“Sure. Why not?” Smoke took his sunglasses from the neck of his shirt, where they hung suspended by an earpiece, cleaned them on a shirttail, then put them on. He tossed his gym bag onto the backseat.
After several blocks, Albright glanced at Judy and asked, “How’s things at the office? Hear you guys had a crash.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Oh, people talk.”
Judy shrugged.
“Got anything on today?”
“Not really.”
“Want to go over on the Eastern Shore and get some dinner? I know a great little place that serves the best crab in Maryland.”
“They’ll serve us like this?” Both men were in jeans. Albright was wearing a pullover shirt that sported a Redskins logo.
“I think so.”
“Why not?”
Albright drove to the beltway and got on it headed east. Traffic was heavy, as usual. He took the exit toward Annapolis and engaged the cruise control. Judy turned on the radio and found a ball game. The Orioles, only the second inning.
Judy noticed that Albright kept checking the rearview mirrors, but he quit after a while and drove with his left elbow out the window. “Can’t stand air conditioning,” he muttered, and Judy nodded.
Luis Camacho sat in his backyard with a beer in his hand. He had carried out the portable TV that Sally normally watched in the kitchen, and rigged up the extension cord. He had the Orioles game on.
When he returned from the airport, Albright’s car was missing. He had called the office and got Dreyfus. “Where is he?”
“On the beltway heading east. Picked up a guy at a bar in Alexandria, but we don’t know who. Couldn’t get close enough.”
“Okay. Any idea where they’re going?”
“He made no phone calls before he left the house. Didn’t say anything. About thirty minutes after you left for the airport, he got in his car and drove off. He went over to Reston and stopped by the Gourmet Market.”
“Heard from Susan yet?” Susan was the wife of an FBI agent. She and her husband owned the market, and Camacho had enlisted their help. Susan was the skinniest woman Camacho had ever met, but to the best of his knowledge she was not suffering from anorexia.
“Yeah. Said he came in and bought some things, stood and chatted, said he was new in the neighborhood. Spent about fifteen minutes in the store. She says he never asked about Caplinger or anyone else, and she didn’t volunteer. She wants to know if you think he’ll be back.”
“Tell her probably not. I think Albright just wanted some tangible verification of my little tale.”
“Okay. I’ll call you back when he gets to wherever he’s going and let you know.”
“Dreyfus, I meant what I said yesterday. Under no circumstances, none, do I want him to burn the tail. Lose him if you have to, but don’t give him a chance to figure out we’re watching.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
Now Camacho sat in his backyard with the TV going. He nursed the beer and paid no attention to the game.
Everything that could be done had been done. Nothing had been rushed. The situation had been allowed to ripen naturally, and now all was in readiness. Including Dreyfus, he had sixty-five agents on this case. They were in the main telephone exchange in case Albright used a pay phone, Albright’s house was wired and continuously monitored, a fleet of unmarked cars was at this very minute preceding and following Albright as he drove the highways, two vans full of cameras and parabolic listening devices trailed the caravan, two helicopters were airborne, Dreyfus had a stack of signed John Doe warrants in the desk. What else? Oh yes, all the top lab technicians were on call.
He sipped his beer and tried to think of something else that should be done, some contingency that he had not foreseen. He could think of nothing. Well, that wasn’t really true. This whole operation could fizzle, any operation could, but it wouldn’t be because he hadn’t prepared as well as possible. His worst handicap was the requirement to stay loose on Albright, to remain completely hidden. Well, that was the only way it could be, so no use worrying.
But he was worried. When he could sit still no longer, he got the lawn rake from the garage and set to work on the grass clippings as the ball-park announcer chanted the summer myth yet again and the afternoon heat continued to build.
Smoke Judy was impressed. The building wasn’t much, but the prices on the menu were reasonable and the seafood heaped on the plates of the early diners looked scrumptious and smelled the same. Didn’t they call this decor “rustic”? Unfinished boards on the interior walls, with fishing nets and crab pots hanging from the ceiling. Subdued lighting. “The food’s great,” Albright assured him. “Deviled crab is the house specialty.”
They had ordered their dinner and were sipping the foam off frosty glasses of beer when Albright said, “Got a little proposition for you, if you’re interested.”
Judy wiped off his foam mustache with a finger. “Depends.”
“Did you ever hear the term ‘kilderkin’?”
Smoke set the beer mug down and straightened in his chair. He looked around at the other guests with interest. Two or three looked like they could be the right age and level of fitness. His eyes swung back to Albright. “Let’s go to the john.”
He rose and led the way.
It was a one-seater with a urinal and a sink. Not the cleanest rest room he was ever in, but better than most. And it was empty. Judy turned and set his feet, the right slightly behind the left. He got his weight up on the balls of his feet and bent his knees slightly. “Hands on the door, feet back and spread. The position, man.”
Albright stood with his hands on his hips a moment, then did as he was told.
&
nbsp; “I’m not wearing a wire.”
“Uh-huh.” He felt Albright all over, including his crotch. He inspected his belt and his shoes and his pen. He examined his sunglasses. He looked at the patch on his jeans. Then he removed Albright’s wallet and moved back against the sink. “You can turn around now.”
Albright watched him go through it. He looked at the driver’s license carefully, the library card, the automobile registration and insurance cards, the receipts from the food store and the laundry, the credit cards. He counted the cash. It was in hundreds, twenty of them. “Gonna play poker tonight?”
“I like to pay in cash.”
“Why the credit cards then?”
“You never know.”
Judy passed the wallet back. “You want to talk to me, then you walk out there and cancel our dinner orders and pay the tab. Leave a tip. We’ll go to a place I pick. You drive, but I don’t want you to say one word in the car. Not a word. Got it?”
“Okay.”
In the car Judy pointed in the direction he wanted Albright to go. Meanwhile he watched the other cars. They weren’t being followed. He had Albright make a series of random turns, then take the road leading east. Fifteen miles later they came to a big road-house at a crossroads. Judy gestured and Albright drove into the lot and killed the engine.
They went to a booth in the back and Judy seated himself so that he could watch the door.
“You were saying?”
“Kilderkin.”
“What about it?”
“Kilderkin is the access word for a file in the computer at the Pentagon. It’s a file held in the office where you work. The Athena file. I can supply you with the code words to get to it. I want you to copy the Athena file onto a floppy disk and give it to me.”
“All of it? All the documents?”
“Yes. It might take more than one disk.”
“Might. What do I get out of it?”
“A hundred grand.”
Commander Smoke Judy stared at him a while, then looked around the room thoughtfully. In a moment the waiter came over. They asked for beers and menus.
“What do you know about that file?” Judy asked.
“I’m not going to tell you. Let’s just say I want it.”
“Why?”
“All you need to know is I want it a hundred thousand dollars’ worth.”
“You don’t want it bad enough.”
“How badly do I have to want it?”
“If you ever decide you want it for a quarter million reasons, you come talk to me. Half up front and half on delivery. Cash. Used twenties.”
“No. That’s not— No!”
Judy picked up his menu. “I think I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger. What about you?”
“Maybe a plain hamburger.”
Judy nodded and waited patiently for the waiter.
When they had finished their greaseburgers and were drinking a cup of coffee, Albright said, “If I pay you fifty tonight, fifty on Monday, when could you have the disks?”
“When will you have the rest of the money?”
“A week from Monday.”
“Then that’s when you get the disks.”
At seven o’clock Luis Camacho called his in-laws. Sally answered.
“Hey. You made it.”
“Oh, Luis. It’s going to be a nice visit. The folks are a little baffled, but they’re delighted to have us.”
“Great. It’ll go okay.”
“What did you do this afternoon? What did you have for dinner?”
They discussed the condition of the larder for three or four minutes, then Camacho wished her good night.
An hour and a half later the phone rang. “He’s headed home,” Dreyfus reported.
“Who was with him?”
“Don’t know. We got an infrared photo as they crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. The photographer isn’t very optimistic. They came on into the metro area and stopped at a storage place in Bladensburg for a bit. Then the subject dropped the passenger at a Metro station and he was gone by the time we could get a man into the station. Subject is heading your way now. He’ll be there in about five minutes.”
“Get someone over to Smoke Judy’s place. See if they can spot him coming home. And get a list of the license numbers of the cars parked around that bar where the subject picked up his passenger. Run them through the computer.”
“Okay, boss. Anything else?”
“When will the photo be ready?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“And I put a stakeout on the storage lot. Thought we might get a warrant tomorrow and search it.”
“The subject will be making some phone calls tonight or tomorrow. Be ready.”
“You really think he’s going to move?”
“He’s got to. He’s got to go for checkmate or concede.”
“Keep your gun handy.”
On Sunday morning Luis Camacho was painting the yard furniture when Harlan Albright hailed him across the back fence. He came through the gate and settled himself on one of the chairs waiting for its spring coat.
“I have another brush in the garage if you want to help.”
Albright grinned and sipped his coffee. “Who said Tom Sawyer is dead? Sorry. I gotta go run some errands this morning.” He looked at the house. “Where’s Sally?”
“Went to visit her mother.” Camacho was working on a table leg and didn’t look up.
“Oh.”
“Women,” Luis muttered.
“Yeah. Gonna stay a week or two?”
“Dunno.”
“Like that, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“And the boy?”
“He went too. It’s been years since he spent time with his grandparents. He didn’t want to go, of course.”
Albright watched Camacho work on the table. The paint ran down the brush onto his fingers, which he wiped on the grass. “May rain this afternoon, you know,” Albright said.
“Just my luck.”
“What would you say to packing it in and going home?”
Camacho put the paintbrush in the can and stood up. He looked carefully at Albright, trying to read his expression.
“You mean Russia?”
“Yeah. You been here what? Twenty-eight or -nine years?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Yeah. Are you ready to go home?”
“I can’t even speak the language anymore. When I hear it I have to concentrate real hard to get the drift, and then I can’t think of the proper response. I been dreaming in English for over twenty-five years. Want some more coffee?”
“Okay.”
Luis took his cup and went inside. He returned in a moment with Albright’s coffee and a cup for himself. They both sampled the brew, then sat in silence. Birds were squawking vigorously in the tree behind them. Camacho took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. How could he leave? He liked this place and these people.
Albright broke the silence. “You really think Caplinger is the Minotaur?”
Luis considered. “He could be,” he said at last. “It fits. He has the necessary access, he was on the official guest list of that party three years ago when the first letter was stuck in the ambassador’s coat. He’s an egomaniac, likes the power trip. It’s possible.”
“But why?”
Camacho shrugged. “List all the possibilities and look at them. Pick the one you like.”
“I’ve done that. And you know what? I got the sneaking suspicion that the real reason wasn’t on my list.”
“Why does a happily married man start buying tricks on a street corner? Why does a man in his fifties steal a few hundred from the petty-cash drawer?”
“That was the shortest reason on the list. Nut case. But I don’t think so.”
“Happens all the time.” Camacho drained his cup, set it out of the way and got back to the painting.
“Royce Allen Caplinger,” Albright said, pronouncing the name s
lowly. “Sixty-three years old. Estimated net worth, $132 million. Son of a druggist. Grew up in St. Paul. Married twice. Second wife died of a heart attack six years ago. Hasn’t remarried, though he’s screwing his secretary who’s worked for him for fifteen years. He’s been doing that about once a month for ten years. She’s forty-two, never married, modestly attractive, had a hysterectomy eight years ago. Caplinger collects American Indian art, pays too much, sometimes gets good stuff, sometimes bad. Buys what he likes and to hell with the experts. Has a copy of every book ever written about MacArthur and the best MacArthur memorabilia collection in existence. Time said he has every piece of old junk Mrs. MacArthur ever threw out. What else? Oh yeah. He has two grown children, two dogs, and drives a fifteen-year-old Jaguar. Owns an estate in Virginia near Middleburg. Gives his entire government salary to charity.”
“Was involved in a panty raid when he was in college and was suspended for a semester,” Camacho said without taking his eyes from his work.
“That too. The rattling bones from his youth.” Albright tossed the dregs of his coffee into the grass and laid the cup on his lap. “So, Dr. Freud, has Caplinger gone over the edge? Is he copulating with Mother Russia?”
Albright rose and, dangling the cup from a finger, ambled through the gate. Thirty minutes later Camacho heard his car start out front and drive away.
Albright drove to a Wal-Mart store near Laurel. After browsing for ten minutes, he used the pay phone in the entryway. No one answered at the number he tried. He waited exactly one minute and tried again. The third time someone picked up the phone.
Albright talked for almost a minute. The other party never spoke. Then Albright hung up and went back into the store, where he wandered the aisles and handled merchandise for another half hour.
When he left the store he drove aimlessly for an hour. At Burtonsville he stopped for gas and bought a can of soda pop, a Dr Pepper. He drank the contents as he drove north on Route 29 and used a rag in the car to carefully wipe the fingerprints from the can.
Approaching the outskirts of Columbia, he took the off-ramp for Route 32, made an illegal left turn at the top and a sweeping right down onto Route 29 headed south as he scanned the mirrors. No one followed. No choppers or light planes in sight. At Route 216 he turned right from the through lane at the very last instant, just as the stoplight turned green.
The Minotaur Page 40