Conspiracy

by Dana Black

  Alec drifted with Farber over to the bar, trying to decide how he felt about the offer the little man had proposed with such breezy confidence. Alec had never sold before, just given to friends like Rachel, on the understanding that there would be repayment somewhere along the line. And he had never been approached, had never even talked about cocaine with anyone outside the entertainment field. Farber was clearly a businessman, from conservative blue blazer and tattersall vest right down to thick-soled cordovan wingtips. Alec, who had worked in a haberdashery before his records began to sell, sized him as a thirty-eight portly.

  But the hostess had said Farber was an independent operator—an American shoe manufacturer, sports shoes of some kind, and a primary sponsor of the British team. Beyond that, Farber had asked for only a small amount and had offered to pay a thousand dollars—triple the New York street value. Alec, who had resigned himself to living off Rachel Quinn’s expense account for the next month in order to conserve what remained of this quarter’s slim royalty payments, knew he could find many interesting ways to make a thousand disappear.

  Farber handed him his drink, a stinger, his third tonight. “Well?” Farber asked. “Have you made up your mind that I can be trusted? I can, you know.” He spoke in a lowered voice, and Alec replied the same way, even though no one was within hearing range.

  “I just don’t understand why you’d come to me.”

  “Perfectly simple: you’re safe. I don’t want it getting around what I’m doing, and you don’t either. So you’ll keep it quiet. And you’re not watched the way a street dealer might be. Also, you’re a discerning person, accustomed to the best. I want first-rate stuff, and I know you wouldn’t have any other kind.”

  Alec took a large swallow of his drink. “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

  “Preparation,” said Farber, beaming with self-satisfaction. “I always take a great amount of time preparing for any business deal, so I know what I’m doing. I’ve thought it through, you can depend on that.”

  “Well, you must have thought wrong, that’s all I can tell you. I don’t use the stuff myself.”

  “Probably not,” Farber said, his smile undiminished, “but I still think I’m right. You see, I’m not saying that you have any or use any—I’m only saying that it stands to reason, you being very well traveled and in with all the people who know about this type thing, that you’d be able to get me some.”

  Alec thought of the half-kilo “egg” carefully wrapped inside the snap-open transformer coil of his electric guitar amplifier. The amount Farber had asked for would scarcely make a dent.

  “And I think you’ll agree,” Farber was saying, “that my offer is fairly generous. A thousand now, to cover expenses, and a thousand on delivery. Doesn’t that seem fair?”

  Two thousand. Alec thought of the memorable evenings that would be possible while Rachel was at the studio with her nightly taping schedule. “If you’re looking for really top-quality stuff, I would think three would be closer to the mark,” he said, and then mentally kicked himself for using the word “mark.” He added a bit hastily, “Overseas, I’m told, it’s more difficult to obtain. And the Spanish laws are very repressive.”

  Farber’s freckled pink hand slipped beneath his jacket lapel and emerged a few moments later, apparently empty. “I used to practice with a mail-order magic kit when I was a boy,” Farber said. “Comes in handy now and again.” The warm fingers pressed folded paper into Alec’s palm and squeezed lightly, a handshake of sorts. “They say never count your money in a crowd, but when you do, you’ll find fifteen hundred. Now tell me when and where.”

  Alec was about to reply when he noticed the host, a tall, graying Britisher, bearing down on them. “Company,” he said quickly. Our host. Name is Harry.”

  “I know him,” said Farber. After a hello and a handshake, Farber thought it was time to divert Harry’s attention from their current conversation. He nodded in the direction of one member of the British team, a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested gorilla of a man who stood in one of the front rows before the TV screen, holding a wad of bills and a stopwatch, taking bets on how long Italy would need to get off a shot at the goal.

  Farber said, “One of your players seems to be going into business.”

  Harry gave a grandfatherly, boys-will-be-boys chuckle. “That’s our Derek. Plays a fine defense.” He ordered whiskey and soda and added convivially, “And he’ll be wearing Far-lite shoes on Tuesday, when we go against the Tunisians down on the coast. That might do you a bit of good, Jackie boy.”

  Farber, whose European distribution accounted for only three percent of his total sales, was not impressed. He had cultivated the British team only as a fall-back, guessing that the British would be the team most American soccer fans would follow if the U.S. team failed. The real money was in equipping the American team, because Far-lite sports shoes lived and died on their U.S. sales. Unfortunately, Farber had been able to convince only one of the U.S. players, the goalie, that an American player ought to be wearing an American-made shoe. The others on the team were all kids who thought Europeans like Adi Dassler were the only ones who could make shoes fit for champions.

  He grinned at Harry. “I hope he’s not wearing a pair of my cleats in here.”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t do that. Last year, yes, but not now. Our Derek’s become vastly more civilized since his wedding last month. His wife’s the sort who can teach him a few things. That’s Mrs. Bates over by the buffet, with those other chaps.”

  Alec, who had been looking for an opportunity, stole a glance at the bills in his hand. And smiled. Fifteen hundred it was.

  “Incidentally, Alec,” Harry was saying, “she’s asked to meet you. Says she was one of your greatest fans when she was growing up. Name’s Helen. Why don’t you come over with me and I’ll introduce you?”

  Alec looked up. The sight of Helen Bates, even from across the room, made him catch his breath. A tall brunette, dark eyes wide and fearless, she wore a black evening dress of soft fabric that clung to her waist and hips and left her shapely breasts nearly bare. And she looked bored. The two men with her at the buffet seemed to know it as they nibbled their crackers and paté and talked with nervous smiles.

  Alec wondered how a woman of her magnetism would have gotten mixed up with the kind of boor that Derek Bates obviously was. Possibly for the screwing, he thought, and felt a surge of warmth cross his forehead and temples. She had asked to meet him!

  Feeling as though some of Farber’s money would be well spent on such a woman, Alec drained his glass. “You go ahead, and I’ll join you,” he said. “I just want a few more words with Jack here, and a refill.”

  He turned to Farber after the other man had gone. “Why don’t you get one of your own people to find your stuff for you?”

  “Because I don’t want any of my own people to know. I’m sure you can appreciate the need for privacy in this kind of business.”

  Farber was still smiling, but Alec thought he detected a hint of impatience. He liked that, liked holding this rich little man’s money and keeping him waiting, not giving him even a promise.

  The barman handed Alec his drink. “Well, then,” Alec said, taking a healthy swallow, “one thing that puzzles me is why someone like you would want it. You don’t look the sort.”

  Farber’s liquid blue eyes blinked once or twice. “It’s not for me. It’s for a friend. Now do I have your commitment or don’t I?”

  It annoyed Alec that Farber would just come up to him and assume he would do what Farber wanted. “It may cost you more,” he said. “If I find out it costs more, I’ll have to charge you.”

  “If it’s quality goods, I’m willing to pay what it’s worth over here. I’ll come prepared to go a bit higher. When can we meet?”

  Alec figured him for at least another five hundred. “How soon does your friend need it?”

  “Tuesday afternoon. At the latest.”

  He finished his drink, taking his time. “
Why don’t you have lunch with me at the Palace on Tuesday? Make it twelve-fifteen.”

  A few minutes later, Alec stood at one corner of the buffet, occupied with Helen Bates and what remained of his fifth stinger. As they talked, he looked directly at her breasts for a long moment to see if she would blush, and felt a wave of excitement when she didn’t.

  “What I want to know,” he said, using the approach he reserved for the bold ones, “is what you want to do now that you’ve met me. Some women want an autograph on an album cover.”

  Her voice was a rich contralto. “Some women want more, I’d imagine.”

  “Which kind are you?”

  “The kind who wants more. I want the key to your hotel room.”

  He looked back at her breasts again, and then into her eyes. “Just the key?”

  Her fingertips touched his wrist, lightly. “Bring your key to my hotel room. After tomorrow, when Derek’s away in Elche for the games. We’ll have a week until the team comes back.”

  “What happens if I don’t bring my key?”

  “We’ll both be disappointed.”

  12

  When it was nine-thirty at night in Madrid, it was one-thirty in the afternoon in Utah, Mountain Daylight Time. Eugene Groves was now one hundred fifty-two miles away from the Dugway Proving Ground, where he had obtained the Cobor grenades. He sat in his jeep watching a truck-stop restaurant along Interstate 70, east of Green River.

  The sun, almost directly overhead, was burning the back of his neck above the collar of his uniform shirt. Worse, he felt exposed. He had tried putting up the canvas top of the jeep when he first came onto the Interstate a hundred twenty miles back, and had nearly been blown off the highway when the rusted clamp at the top of the windshield snapped open, letting the air billow under the fabric and fling the jeep back like a toy sailboat. Scared the hell out of him, and made him even more conspicuous. He had to pull over, slam the top back into the well, and check to make certain the grenades had not been disturbed before he pushed on.

  The jeep was another detail he had missed. He had tried to check them all, but he had failed in the most important, that of choosing the people he worked with. Now the whole operation was coming apart on him just like the top of the damned jeep. If only he hadn’t panicked, he thought. For the first time he began to worry that this job might be too big for him. He tried to dismiss the fear. The Patrón had forced him to do the job, so the Patrón must have believed. In Groves’s business, you could tell when someone had lost the touch.

  But the question still haunted him. Four years ago, would he have been so unsettled by those unplanned killings? Four years ago, would he have fled away from the road, abandoning his carefully positioned car? He thought of the change of clothing, the ID, the cash he’d brought along to pay off the other two—all waiting in that inconspicuous little station wagon. Stupid, he whispered under his breath. Really stupid.

  And now he was out on the highway in an open jeep.

  He had started watching the truck stops an hour earlier, but had no luck. He allowed himself only fifteen minutes at each one, not leaving the jeep at any time, because he wasn’t about to risk going inside and then finding the highway patrol waiting for him around the jeep when he came out again. He just sat there watching the restaurant entrance, as though he were waiting for a traveling companion to come back out from the men’s room or the coffee counter.

  In a way, of course, he was waiting for someone. But he could not stay long, because he could not afford to call attention to himself. So when fifteen minutes passed and he had not seen what he was looking for, he would start up the jeep again and move on east.

  As he waited, he grew progressively more nervous. Every minute he spent here in the jeep, the chances of his capture increased. Unquestionably he would have to make his move in the next hour; one hundred fifty miles back, there were four dead bodies. They would be discovered—if not by the soon-to-arrive inspection team, which he and LeBow had impersonated in order to get through to the guard station, then to get past the afternoon guard shift. Or, if there had been unanswered radio traffic and an investigation had already been made, the army might even now know what they had lost. An all-out search would be inevitable. They would start by trying to locate the jeep that had made the only tire tracks leading away from the dead men.

  To calm himself, Groves tried to focus on the things that had gone right with the operation so far. He had the grenades, his main objective. He had the keys to his equipment in New Orleans. And now the worst was over because he no longer had to depend on other people. LeBow, who had panicked and shot the guard at the watch station, was gone. Scofield, who had failed to get control of the other guard, was gone too. Both men should have been fading from Graves’s memory, because they had bungled. The others, the two legitimate guards, were of more concern. Their deaths would intensify the search for him. At least the fat one had used good enough marksmanship to cripple LeBow without damaging the grenades.

  But was there anything else that hadn’t gone wrong? Groves tried to take the bad luck as an omen that things would now begin to fall into place for him. He would need good luck to make his delivery before his deadline. If he was delayed somehow—he did not want to think of the consequences. He closed his eyes, shook his head, as though by movement he could drive the offending fears away.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw what he had been looking for. Climbing out from behind the wheel of a blue Chevy sedan was a sandy-haired salesman type in a short-sleeved white shirt and loosened tie; the jacket to his blue suit, on a hanger in the back, looked like part of the upholstery. The car had Colorado plates, which might mean that he was headed home, but that disadvantage was definitely outweighed by the other factors. Groves watched carefully as the man rolled up his window, locked his door, and walked briskly toward the restaurant entrance, undoubtedly seeking a quick lunch. When the man had disappeared from view inside the restaurant, Groves got out of his jeep and strolled after him. As he approached the man’s car, Groves slowed, dug in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, and then into his pants pocket for his lighter. As his hand and the lighter came out, so did some loose change. He crouched at the rear of the blue Chevy and reached underneath as if to retrieve the coins. When he straightened up, two small ampules of glass had been tucked under the right rear tire, one in front of the tire and one behind, hidden from all but the closest inspection. Groves stood beside the Chevy and lit his cigarette. A quick inspection of the car’s interior told him that the owner was in the employ of a major pharmaceutical company, and that there was no radio or CB equipment under the dashboard.

  Then he strolled on into the restaurant. He headed for the men’s room first, prepared for the unlikely event that the sandy-haired man had only made this stop to relieve himself.

  The man was at the urinal; the rest of the room was unoccupied. Groves stepped up beside him, two paces away, unzipped, and let fly, wishing that his tension would flow onto the white porcelain as readily. His quarry took his time with what he was doing. Groves, not wishing to appear conspicuous, went to the washstand, splashed cold water on his face, and made a show of combing his own sandy hair. Yellow dust from the open-topped jeep fell into the white washbasin, small particles dissolving into mud. The salesman, now beside him at the adjoining sink, was also washing up, soaping his hands thoroughly. Probably, Groves thought, the man had to be a model of cleanliness in his line of work.

  Happily for Groves, the salesman walked to the take-out counter instead of to a table, which would have meant a longer time in the restaurant. Groves followed from the gift shop where he had been browsing. As the man was paying the cashier, Groves selected one of the Saran-wrapped sandwiches, meat loaf with yellowing pickle slices visible, and a carton of milk. The salesman evidently intended to eat while driving, for he was already on his way to the exit door, carrying his overfilled white paper bag with both hands.

  Groves took a table by the window and started to unwrap his
sandwich, looking out to the parking lot and the blue Chevy. It was unlikely, yet possible, that the man intended to eat in his car while still parked, and if that happened, Groves would remain in the restaurant. He did not want to be out there in his open jeep, chewing meatloaf and grinning about what a coincidence it was that both of them had sandy hair and liked eating outdoors.

  13

  When Sharon came into the control truck, they were still taping the Argentina-Italy game. At the back, to the left of the door she used, were Jim and Cliff, the two sound men, watching their meters and dials, faces intent under their headphones. At the center were the slo-mo replay apparatus and the master tape: four screens, four decks, and four men, Wesley, Boyd, Frank, and Earvin, on swivel chairs, ringed back to back in a cubicle no bigger than Sharon’s desktop. Wesley and Earvin saw Sharon and nodded a greeting; the other two were facing away and didn’t notice her.

  The familiar voice of Dan Richards came from the ceiling loudspeaker system, “. . . a lesson in ball control from the Argentinians . . . Zico . . . over to Medina . . .”

  She walked forward in the truck, moving sideways in the submarine-sized corridor, to the control room and the director’s console. Fourteen of the eighteen monitor screens were switched on. Seven were taking the feed from Spanish cameras at the Barcelona stadium; two, at the bottom of the console, carried the signal from the UBC exclusive field-level units that Larry Noble had fought so hard to get. Three others showed the output from the slo-mo units, which had been wired to pick up signals from any of the nine cameras, depending on which three were covering the best section. The thirteenth screen, the largest, at the center of the console, was the “on air” monitor, carrying whichever signal Wayne Taggart chose to “put up” on the “board” at any given moment. The fourteenth monitor, slightly smaller than the on-air screen beside it, carried graphics typed electronically by two men in the Chyron unit, which was housed in a smaller truck parked a few feet away.