These guys were waiting for someone. That much was obvious. Who? The Minotaur?
They had been in the basement for almost an hour when the stocky man spoke to the driver. “Upstairs now, I think. Be sure to unplug the garage-door opener.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver went.
“Are you the Minotaur?” Toad asked.
The stocky man threw back his head and laughed. “That is good. Very good. You are a real comedian.”
“He’s not the Minotaur,” Jake said.
“Ah, Captain. What makes you say that?”
Jake didn’t answer.
“A captain in the U.S. Navy knows the identity of the Minotaur. Or at least knows who he is not. Interesting. Instructive. I’ll bet you are a fount of interesting information, Captain. No doubt we’ll have time later this evening to elicit some of it.”
He walked toward Jake with his back toward Toad. Jake tried to keep his eyes on the gunman, yet still he saw Toad bend down and grasp the table leg. It came off the floor. Even as it did the gunman whirled with his pistol at arm’s length, leveled in both hands, pointed straight at Toad’s face. “What makes you think,” he asked easily, “that I need you alive?”
Toad let the table leg go back down to the floor. “Oh,” he said lightly, trying to smile and not succeeding, “I thought you liked my witty repartee.”
“I do like you. With a mouth like yours you should be in Hollywood in the movies, not pushing paper at the Pentagon.” The gunman lowered the gun and took the seat on the couch that the driver had vacated, a place where he could watch both men with a minimum of effort. “Now I think we will sit silently, not saying a word. Like mice.”
“You’re a cocksucker,” Toad said.
The gunman looked at him and pursed his lips slightly.
“A genuine cocksucker. A cheap dick-sucking spook with a gun, a man who thinks everybody should faint dead away when he pulls out his weapon. Is that what they do when you whip out your dick? Is that—”
The gunman was very quick. He was moving and chopping with the pistol all in one motion.
Toad Tarkington was just as quick. He came off the chair and kicked mightily with his right leg. It caught the man in the knee and he lost his balance. Toad was erect now, the table hanging from his cuffs, his leg swinging again. This kick hit the gunman in the arm. The pistol went flying.
Jake leaped from the chair, dragging it. The lamp fell over. He dragged the heavy chair toward the pistol on the floor. Toad was still kicking.
He was almost to the gun when he heard the shot and saw a chunk fly from the carpet just in front of him.
He froze. The driver came down the stairs with the gun leveled. “Get back.” He gestured threateningly at Toad, who seemed to shrink as his muscles relaxed. Tarkington exhaled convulsively, then turned slightly to find the chair he had been sitting on. At that moment the driver hit him a vicious blow in the back of the head with the gun and he fell heavily, overturning the table.
The second man helped the stocky man to the couch. He was still holding his stomach. He had blood on the corner of his mouth. Apparently one of Toad’s kicks had taken him in the face.
“Upstairs. Get back upstairs. Get me my gun first.”
The second man obeyed, then went back up the stairs.
“Sit in the chair, Captain, right where you are. Sit! One move, just one, and I’ll kill you and the lieutenant. Understand?”
Jake made the smallest of head nods. He sat.
Time passed. Minute by minute. The gunman on the couch massaged his arm and leg. Toad had really connected. Twice the man wiped the sweat from his face with his shirttail.
Toad stirred once. The table was on end beside him. He lay amid the magazines and newspapers that had gone flying when he jerked the table off the floor. Toad seemed to be breathing easily.
Jake heard the shuffling on the floor above him, and faintly the sound of a door closing. In seconds he heard someone walking above, then steps on the stair. He turned his head. Legs descending.
Luis Camacho walked into the room with the driver behind him, his gun in Camacho’s back. “Hi, Harlan. Didn’t know if I was going to see you again.”
Camacho walked over to the couch and seated himself next to Albright. “Jesus, what have you idiots done to my basement?”
Albright gestured at Tarkington, who was stirring again. “That fucker thought he was a hero.”
“Looks like that table has a busted leg. My wife isn’t going to be happy.”
The driver stood near the bottom of the stairs where he could watch everyone. He kept the pistol leveled at Camacho.
“Well, Captain,” Camacho said. “You’ve had an eventful afternoon.”
“Yeah,” Jake replied. “Who are these guys?”
“Well, the man beside me goes by the name of Harlan Albright His real name is Peter Aleksandrovich Chistyakov. And this gentleman with the pistol at the bottom of the stairs—though I have never before had the pleasure—is, I think, Major Arkady Yakov of the Soviet Army.”
“Okay,” Albright said, “thanks for the introductions.” He rose from the couch and turned Toad’s table upright, then pulled a chair around and sat on it, facing Camacho.
“You know why I’m here. I thought since I was going to drop by, I might as well help myself to some Athena information on the way. It was very interesting. But it is you I want.”
“How droll. I wanted to talk to you too. You should have called.”
“You’re going to give me some answers, Luis. Now. If you don’t, I’m going to kill the lieutenant. Then the captain. Then you. I want answers.”
“What will you do with them if you get them?”
Albright’s eyes widened. He took three steps across to the telephone at the end of the couch, picked it up and held it to his ear. He jiggled the button on the cradle, then replaced the instrument. “Upstairs, Yakov. Check the front and back.”
The major took the stairs two at a time.
In about a minute he was back. He spoke to Albright in a foreign language, one that sounded to Jake like Russian.
“This is a setup.”
Camacho shrugged. “My people saw you drive in. I thought you might be by to see me sooner or later. Didn’t know who you brought with you, though. Sorry, Captain.”
Jake nodded.
Camacho stood and shook out his trousers. “Tell you what, Harlan. Let’s you and I go downtown. We can talk there. No sense keeping these fellows any longer.”
Albright took his pistol from his pocket. “Sit.”
When Camacho obeyed, Albright followed suit, back at the table. He rubbed his eyes. “So.” He spoke a sentence in Russian.
Camacho waved a hand irritably. “You know I can’t handle that language anymore. English or nothing.”
“You’ve been stringing me right along, haven’t you, Luis?”
Camacho’s shoulders moved a quarter inch up, then subsided.
“That name you gave me. That was bullshit, wasn’t it?”
“No. That was the name.”
“Why?”
“You have something we want. At least, we think you have it. You’re going to give it to me, Harlan. Hard or easy, you’re going to give it to me.”
“Tell me what you want and maybe I’ll give it to you now.”
Camacho threw back his head and laughed. “You want to defect?”
Albright’s eyebrows went up. “Maybe.”
“Then shoot the major.”
“Just like that?”
“Then we’ll talk. That would be the easy way. The hard way will be more strenuous, but equally productive, I think.”
Albright glanced at the major, who was looking straight at Camacho. Still, Jake saw the major’s eyes flick sideways to catch Albright’s glance.
“You can’t get out of here, Harlan,” Camacho said, and stretched lazily. “The place is completely surrounded, with helicopters and light planes overhead. Why don’t you two give me the gu
ns and we’ll go upstairs and wave at Dreyfus. Then you and I can go downtown to the office. I’m sure the two of us can work something out.”
“I may not know the fact you want, Luis.”
“I think you do.”
“You’ve gone to an extraordinary lot of trouble for nothing if I don’t know it.”
“Life’s like that.”
“Maybe I could just give it to you here and now. If I know it.”
Camacho sat silently looking at Albright. “Three names,” he said at last.
Albright laughed, a long, loud guffaw. “All of this—for that?”
“Yes.”
“My hat is off to you. I salute you. Never did I suspect. Not even once.” Albright shook his head and chuckled silently as he examined his pistol.
Camacho sat motionless, watching Albright.
“You do know,” the FBI agent said finally, when all the laughing had stopped.
“You found the bomb?”
“Yes.”
“It was a warning. I needed that name.”
“I know. Hard or easy. Your choice.”
“You mean it?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll take you and Captain Grafton as hostages,” Albright said, rising from the chair. He glanced toward Yakov and jerked his head at Jake. As Yakov stepped in that direction Albright shot him.
Yakov spun, firing at Albright. The bullet hit Albright square in the chest and his pistol sagged, exploding again pointed at the floor. At almost the same instant Toad Tarkington lashed out with his feet, and Albright went sideways as a foot was kicked out from under him. Yakov’s second shot hit his shoulder and he spun from the impact as he fell.
Yakov’s third shot came as he was falling. It was aimed at Camacho, who was still sitting on the couch. He hadn’t moved.
Camacho doubled over as Yakov hit the floor.
Jake toppled his chair going for Yakov’s pistol. He wrestled the gun from the major’s weak grasp and crouched beside the chair, on top of the Russian major as he watched Albright.
The whole sequence hadn’t taken five seconds.
Toad got to his feet. He was free of the table. He bent down shakily and retrieved the pistol that Albright had dropped. “This one’s still alive.”
“Quick,” Jake said. “Check Camacho.”
Jake held the gun on the major’s head as Toad stretched Camacho on the couch. “He’s hit lower down,” Toad said. “Dead center. Still alive, though.”
“Go upstairs. Get the agents.” Toad made for the stairs. “Put the gun in your pocket,” Jake called after him. “Don’t let them shoot you.”
Camacho sat up on one elbow.
“Is he dead?” he whispered hoarsely, looking at the major.
“No,” Jake said. “He’s hit in the right side, but he isn’t dead. He may make it.”
“Kill him.”
“Why?”
“He heard too much. Kill him!” Camacho coughed, a bubbly gurgle.
Jake moved toward Camacho, dragging the chair. Behind him Major Yakov began to crawl.
“Give me the gun,” Camacho said.
“No.”
“This isn’t a game, Grafton! Give me the gun!”
Jake tossed it.
The pistol landed on the couch. Camacho groped for it while Yakov struggled for the stairs.
Yakov jerked as the first shot hit him. He tried again to crawl. Taking his time, Camacho shot him four more times. A red stain spread across the back of Yakov’s shirt and he lay still.
Camacho dropped the pistol and sagged down onto the couch.
“Albright! Albright, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Give—me—the—names.” Camacho dragged himself along the couch so he could see the Russian’s face.
“I—” Albright’s lips were moving but no sound came out. Then he ceased to move at all.
Camacho’s head went down to rest on the couch.
“Who is the Minotaur?” Jake demanded. With a heave he got the chair over to the couch and shook Camacho. “Tell me! Who is the Minotaur?”
“You don’t want— No! It’s not what you—he’s not…”
Camacho went limp. Jake turned his head so he could see his face. His eyes were open, staring fixedly at nothing.
Jake sagged down beside the bloody couch. He heard the sound of running feet upstairs.
30
The sky was crystal-clear, a pleasant change from the late-summer haze. From this infinite sky a bright sun shone down on a day not hot and not yet cold, a perfect late-September Sunday. The trees along the roads where Jake Grafton drove had just begun to lose their green and don their autumn colors. Their leaves shimmered and glistened in the brilliant sun.
Most of the radio stations were broadcasting music, but it was public-service time on the others. He listened a few moments to two women discussing the nuances of breast-feeding, then twirled the selector knob. The next station had a preacher asking for donations for his radio ministry. Send the money to a P.O. box in Arkansas. He left the dial there. The fulminations filled the car and drifted out the open window. Samuel Dodgers would have liked this guy: hellfire for sinners, damnation for the tempters.
Toad Tarkington was leaning against the side of his car at the Denny’s restaurant when Jake pulled into the lot.
“Been waiting long?”
“Five minutes.” Toad walked around the front of Jake’s car and climbed in. In spite of the sun and seventy-five-degree temperature, he was wearing a windbreaker.
“How’s Rita?”
“Doing okay.”
Jake got the car in motion.
“Where’re we going?”
“I told you on the phone. To see the Minotaur.”
“Yessir. But where is that?”
“You’ll see.”
Toad lapsed into silence. He sat with his hands in his lap and stared straight ahead at the road. On the radio the preacher expounded on how Bible prophecy had predicted the popularity of rock music.
Passing through Middleburg Toad said, “I think we ought to kill him.”
Jake held out his right hand, palm up. Toad just looked at it.
“Let me have it.”
“What?”
“Your gun. The one you have under that jacket.”
Toad reached under the left side of his jacket and extracted a pistol from his beltline, which he laid in the captain’s hand. It was a navy-issue nine-millimeter automatic, well oiled but worn. Jake pushed the button and the clip fell out in his hand. This he pocketed. Holding the gun with his right hand, he worked the slide with his left. A shiny cartridge flipped out and went over his shoulder into the backseat. The gun he slipped under the driver’s seat.
“Who is he?”
“You’ll see.”
“Why are we going if we aren’t going to kill him?”
“You’ve been watching too many Clint Eastwood movies. And you ask too many questions.”
“So why did you call me?”
“I didn’t want to go alone. I wanted a witness. The witness had to be someone who is basically incorruptible, someone beyond his reach.”
“I’m not beyond anyone’s reach.”
“Oh, I think you are, Tarkington. Not physical reach. I’m talking about moral reach. None of his weapons will get to you.”
“You make me sound retarded. How do you know this guy we’re going to see is the Minotaur?”
“I wrote him three letters. Notes. Then this morning I called him and said I was dropping by to chat.”
“Just friendly as fucking shit.” Toad thought about it. Jake waited for him to ask how Jake learned the Minotaur’s identity, but the lieutenant had other things on his mind. “If it weren’t for this turd, Camacho would have arrested Judy months ago and Rita wouldn’t have got whacked up. Camacho would still be alive.” He reached for the radio and snapped it off. “Goddamnit, Captain, this man is guilty.”
“You don’t know any
thing, Toad. You don’t know who, you don’t know why. Since Rita did get hurt, since that little mess in Camacho’s basement, I thought you had a right to know. That’s why I called you. So you’re going to find out this afternoon.”
“Do you know?”
“Why, you mean?”
Toad nodded.
Jake thought about it. “I’ve made some guesses. But they’re only that. Guesses are three for a quarter. Facts I don’t have. Camacho, though, he knew.”
“And he’s dead.”
“Yes.” Jake turned the radio back on.
“Are we going to turn him in, call the cops?”
“You ask too many questions.”
In a moment Toad said, “Why do you listen to this crap?” He gestured toward the radio.
“It’s refreshing to hear a man who knows precisely where he stands. Even if I don’t share his perch.”
The leaves of the trees alongside the road had the deep green hues of late summer. Cattle and horses grazing, an occasional female rider on a groomed horse in the manicured meadows, glimpses of huge two- or three-story mansions set back well away from the public road at the end of long drives; this countryside was fat. The contrast between this rich and verdant world of moneyed indolence and the baked, potholed streets of Washington jarred Jake Grafton. He could feel his confidence in his assessment of the situation ebbing away as the car took them farther and farther from the Pentagon and the navy.
Five miles north of Middleburg he began to watch the left side of the road. He found the tree and mailbox he had heard about. The box merely had a number, no name. He turned into the hard-packed gravel drive and drove along it. Huge old trees lined the north side of the road, a row that ended in a small grove around a large brick house almost covered with ivy.
Jake Grafton parked right in front.
“Ring the bell,” he muttered at Toad, who gave several tugs on a pull. The sound of chimes or something was just audible through the door.
Tarkington’s eyes darted around.
The door opened.
“Did you get lost?” Royce Caplinger asked, and stood aside to let the two men enter.
“Little longer drive than I figured, Mr. Secretary.”
Toad gaped.
“Close your mouth, son. People’ll think you’re a politician,” Caplinger muttered and led the way down the hall. They passed through a dining room furnished with massive antique tables and chairs and accented with pewter tankards and plates, and on through a kitchen with brick walls and a huge fireplace with an iron kettle hanging in it. A refrigerator, sink, and conventional stove sat against the far wall, on the other side of a work island.
The Minotaur Page 48