The next day, according to his instructions, he had had only one appointment before the critical evening’s mission. Late in the morning, he had driven out to Coconut Grove and in a realtor’s bungalow had had a brief and satisfactory meeting with Mrs Remos, an elderly mulatto who had ex-1 y-A
pected him. ‘You are fortunate, Mr Miller, indeed fortunate,’ Mrs Remos had said. ‘We recently lost the dependable plastic surgeon we have always used, but just two days ago we found a replacement. He is Dr Garcia, most competent, and because of his temporary situation he can be counted as safe. He was smuggled in recently from Cuba, and until we get his papers he is an illegal alien. We must proceed with caution. You will be free tonight? Ah, after ten o’clock. Very well. Dr Garcia will be waiting for you in your hotel room at ten fifteen. We would rather he not ask for you at the desk. We would prefer to have him in your room, waiting. You have your door key? Ah, good, let me have it. Your hotel will have an extra one for you in your mailbox, I’m sure. Dr Garcia will examine you, inform you what can be done, and arrange the time and place for the surgery. Ten fifteen, then? It is agreed.’
Radenbaugh had used up some of the afternoon sightseeing and shopping, and then returned to his hotel room to wait for evening. When night had fallen, he had taken his heavy suitcase downstairs, gone outside, and proceeded by taxi across the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach and the Municipal Pier. By eight o’clock he had found his contact, handed the suitcase to the phlegmatic Cuban proprietor of the motorboat, and then boarded it himself.
Now, as planned, he was en route. It was less than half a mile to Fisher’s Island for the final payoff and the climax of his deal.
Once more, he tugged the hand-drawn map out of his coat pocket and committed it to memory.
Fisher’s Island was an abandoned 213-acre piece of land, totally unoccupied, bearing thickets of wild Australian pine trees, a rotting ghost of a mansion on a private estate once owned by the founder of Miami, and two oil-storage tanks.
Tonight, Radenbaugh reflected, it would be populated by at least two persons, Radenbaugh himself and someone unknown.
The motorboat was slowing and sputtering to a stop.
Radenbaugh leaned forward and saw the pilot signaling to him. Nervously he gripped the suitcase and. bendine low.
made his way out of the cabin and stepped up onto the wooden dock. The pilot called out to him, and then he remembered, and reached back to accept the powerful flashlight.
Setting foot on the island, he began to ascend the trail. The landmarks he had memorized were clear. The only difficulties were the darkness, despite his flashlight, and the burden of the suitcase with three-quarters of a million dollars in cash inside.
After a while - he had lost all track of time - he made out the first of the oil-storage tanks, caught the area of the drop in the beam of his flashlight, and started toward it.
He was a dozen yards from the tank, wheezing as he hiked in the stillness, when he heard a rustle. He halted. He heard a voice.
‘You are Mr Miller?’
The voice was high-pitched and with a definite Spanish accent.
‘I am.’
‘Put out the flashlight.’
Quickly he snapped off the flashlight.
The accented voice came out of the darkness again. It was near. ‘What is your word?’
He’d almost forgotten. He remembered. ‘Linda,’ he called out. ‘Linda,’ he repeated.
There was a grunt. ‘Leave right where you are what you have. Go back the way you came, go back to the boat.’
He lowered his suitcase to the ground beside him. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I am going.’
He turned away quickly, and tried to make haste as he sought the road. In the dark, without the flashlight on, he was confused, and he stubbed his toe and fell. Rising, he went more slowly.
After a few minutes, he stopped to catch his breath. Then he caught something else. The drift of voices, two voices, chattering cheerfully behind a clump of trees.
He had not thought of the money much since recovering it from the edge of the mangrove swamp. Now, almost for the first time as a free man, he allowed himself to think about it. He wondered why Tynan wanted so great a sum,
without strings. Maybe personal financial troubles. He wondered why it had been entrusted to what sounded like two persons, at least one of whom was of Spanish origin. He wondered who they were. Possibly FBI agents. He was tempted to have a look. Donald Radenbaugh would not have given in to such temptation. Herbert Miller would and did.
Instead of returning to the road, he cut diagonally through a scattering of pine trees. He moved carefully, so that he would not stumble and fall again, and in five minutes he saw alight.
He crept closer, slipping from behind one tree to the next, until he was no more than thirty feet away. He stopped and watched, and listened, holding his breath.
There were two of them, all right.
One, plainly illuminated by his partner’s lantern, was kneeling beside the open suitcase, either counting or examining the money. His partner, standing over him holding the lantern, was indistinct.
The taller man with the lantern asked, ‘It is all there?’ He spoke an unaccented English.
The one kneeling, busy, said, ‘It is here.’
The man with the lantern said, ‘Ah, you will be very rich - the rich Senor Ramon Escobar.’
‘Holy Jesus, will you shut up, Fernandez?’ barked the one who was kneeling, and then he looked up fully into the direct light of the lantern and sputtered something in Spanish. Radenbaugh could see him now: short, curly jet black hair, long sideburns, ugly face with deeply sunken cheeks and a livid scar along his jawbone.
As the person addressed as Escobar once more devoted himself to the contents of the suitcase, the two men continued conversing, but now only in Spanish.
Watching them further was pointless, and Radenbaugh backed away and gingerly started toward the road. His curiosity had not been satisfied. He could not believe this pair, Escobar and Fernandez, were FBI agents. Who were they, then? What did they have to do with Director Tynan?
When he found the road, and resumed walking to the landing, he ceased to speculate about what he had seen. He was more occupied with himself, and his own future.
The passage back to Miami seemed faster and was infinitely more relaxed.
Ashore on the mainland again, and unencumbered, he knew that he was free and on his own completely, at last.
And then he knew that he was not.
There remained one final piece of unfinished business. This morning he had made arrangements - courtesy of Vernon T. Tynan, via the realtor named Mrs Remos - to meet in his hotel room with an illegal alien and plastic surgeon named Dr Garcia.
Going to a taxi stand, Radenbaugh remembered the appointment was for ten fifteen. He also remembered that he had not eaten for hours, and he was now ravenously hungry and in a celebratory mood. The choice was between returning to his depressing hotel room, still starved, to wait for Dr Garcia and finding a place to satisfy his hunger, which would make him a little late for his appointment. He did not want to miss Dr Garcia. The plastic surgery was vital, and Radenbaugh was eager to know what the surgeon could do with the shape of his eyes as well as the bags under them. He also wanted to know how long he’d have to wait to have the job done, and how long it would take for his scars to heal. Still, he was sure Dr Garcia would not mind his being a little late, would wait, having a key to his room and being able to make himself comfortable there. Yes, Dr Garcia would wait. He wasn’t in a position to get jobs like this every day.
By the time he reached the taxi stand, Radenbaugh’s mind was made up.
He got into the back of the lead cab. ‘There’s a restaurant on Collins Avenue, a mile or so past the Fontainbleau Hotel - I don’t know the name, but I’ll point it out to you,’ he told the driver.
He calculated that he could have a leisurely dinner with a carafe of wine and still be no more than a half
hour late for his meeting with Dr Garcia. The important thing was that this evening he had fulfilled his part of the deal, and Tynan had fulfilled his, and their business was over. It was a time to celebrate. An hour and fifteen minutes later, a full meal under bis
belt, Radenbaugh felt better and was ready to meet with Dr Garcia and collaborate in the final transformation of Radenbaugh to Miller. Aware that he would be three-quarters of an hour late, Radenbaugh hastened to catch another taxi, directed it to the Bayamo Hotel, crossed the Biscayne Bay bridge, and was soon back in Miami proper.
As his cab swung into West Flagler Street and headed toward the Bayamo Hotel, he saw a crowd up ahead -people in the streets, a fire truck backing away, two police squad cars. The commotion was in the vicinity of his hotel.
‘You can let me out here on the corner,’ he told the cabbie.
He made his way rapidly up the block toward a scene of frenzied activity. When he arrived at the fringes of the crowd, he saw that all the attention was centered on the Bayamo Hotel. Helmeted firemen were dragging their hoses out of the lobby. Smoke was still curling out of shattered third-floor windows. Radenbaugh realized with a start that his own room was on the third floor.
He turned to the spectator nearest him, a bearded young man wearing a University of Miami sweat shirt.
‘Hey, what’s happened here?’ Radenbaugh asked.
‘There was an explosion and fire on the third floor about an hour ago. Destroyed four or five rooms. I think I heard them say someone was killed and a couple of people were injured.’
Radenbaugh searched ahead and saw three or four men and women - one with a microphone, obviously reporters -interviewing a fireman, probably the fire chief. Hurriedly, Radenbaugh elbowed and shoved his way through the mass of people, muttering that he was press, until he reached the front line of spectators. He was directly behind the spokesman for the fire department.
He strained to hear what was being said.
‘You say one fatality ?’ a reporter was asking.
‘Yes - as far as we know, only one so far. The occupant of the room where the blast occurred. He must have been killed instantly. The room was gutted by fire and he was incinerated. His name - let me see - yes, here, we found some shreds of paper - presumably his name was - he was a Mr Herbert Miller. No further identification.’
Radenbaugh had to cover his mouth to prevent his gasp from being audible.
Another reporter asked, ‘Have you determined the cause of the explosion? Was it a gas leak or a bomb?’
‘Can’t say yet. Too early to tell. We’ll have more for you by tomorrow.’
Trembling, Radenbaugh turned away and pushed back through the crowd to the sidewalk.
Dazed, he tried to think about what had happened. Rarely did a man live to be a witness to one, let alone two, of his obituaries.
Tynan had killed Radenbaugh to resurrect him as Miller. Once Tynan had his three-quarters of a million, he had set out to kill Miller. In fact, officially now, he had killed him.
The dirty, dirty double-crossing swine.
But there was nothing he could do about it, now or ever, Radenbaugh knew. He was extinct, a nobody, a non-person. Then he realized there was real safety in this, as long as he was never recognized again, as Radenbaugh or Miller.
He would require a plastic surgeon after all - poor Dr Garcia - and he would require one as soon as possible. For that, he needed a place to hide, and he needed someone in whom he could place his trust. There was no one - and then he remembered there was someone.
He started away, to find another taxi, one that would take him to Miami International Airport.
*
The next morning, Chris Collins, at his desk in the Department of Justice in Washington, D.C., eagerly took the call from the Deputy Attorney General.
‘Well, Ed, what did you find out?’
‘Yes, post-office box 153 in the Philadelphia William Penn Annex post office was and still is rented to a Miss Susan Radenbaugh.’
‘Her address? Did the postal people have one?’
‘You’re in luck. It’s 419 South Jessup Street Hey, Chris, what’s this all about?’
‘I’ll let you know when I find out Thanks Ed ’
Collins hung up, jotted the street address on his pad. Briefly, he contemplated the address. Well, he thought, maybe Lewisburg hadn’t been a total waste. He had missed his big chance because Radenbaugh had died three days too soon. But there was one thin strand left that might lead to the R Document. The next of kin. Susan Radenbaugh, the bereaved daughter. She had been close to her father. She had remained in contact with him. If he had known about The R Document, she might have heard of it too.
A very long shot, but the only shot, Collins reflected.
He got up, traversed the large office, and put his head into his secretary’s alcove office.
‘Marion, how’s my schedule for the rest of the day?’
‘Booked pretty solid for a Saturday.’
‘Anything we can cancel or postpone?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Collins.’
‘What about tomorrow?’
‘We-ll, let me see… . You’re sort of light in the morning’
‘Good. Change any appointments I have. And get right on the phone and book me on the earliest Metroliner to Philadelphia in the morning. It’s important. At least, I hope it is.’
It was a small, nondescript wood-frame house behind a larger residence on South Jessup Street in Philadelphia. It had probably been a guesthouse once, but was now a rental, perfect for a single person who wanted privacy.
Before leaving Washington, D.C., Chris Collins had learned what he could about Susan Radenbaugh. There was little to know. She was Donald Radenbaugh’s only child. She was twenty-six years old. She had graduated from the University of Pittsburgh. She was employed by the Philadelphia Inquirer as a feature writer.
When Collins personally had telephoned the newspaper to make an appointment with her, he had been informed that she was home ill. Collins could understand this. She had lost her remaining parent. She would need a little time to pull herself together. Collins had not bothered to call her at home. He was certain she would be there.
Once he had arrived in Philadelphia, he had directed the chauffeur of his rented car to take him straight to the address on South Jessup Street. He had left his car, driver, and bodyguard a half block from his destination and returned to the address on foot.
Now, from the sidewalk, he looked up the driveway toward the porch of the rear house, and finally he started toward it. He tried to think how he would approach Susan Radenbaueh. Actually there was nothing to plan. Either
her father had told her something about The R Document or he had not. It was his last faint hope. After Susan, dead end.
He covered the small plot of backyard, reached the front door of the rear house, and rang the bell.
He waited. No answer.
He rang the bell again without getting any response, and had just about decided that she had gone to the store or was off to her doctor when the door opened partially. A young woman peered out at him from the crack of doorway. She was attractive, with blond hair down to her shoulders and a scrubbed face that seemed unnaturally pale and set.
‘Miss Susan Radenbaugh?’ he asked.
She gave him a tentative, worried nod.
‘I called your newspaper this morning to make an appointment. The city desk said you were home ill. I came in from Washington to see you.’
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘I want to talk to you briefly about your father. I’m sorry that-‘
‘I can’t see anyone now,’ she said abruptly. She was plainly distraught.
‘Let me explain -‘
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Christopher Collins. I’m the United States Attorney General. I -‘
‘Christopher Collins?’ She recognized the name. ‘What are you -‘
‘I must talk to you. Colonel N
oah Baxter was a close friend of mine, and -‘
‘You knew Noah Baxter?’
‘Yes. Please let me in. I’ll just be a few minutes.’
She hesitated, and then pulled back the door. ‘All right. But only for a few minutes.’
He went past her into the cramped, tasteful living room, heavily decorated with colorful cushions. There was a door to the left that probably led to a bedroom, and an archway to the right revealed a small dining table and an entrance to the kitchen.
‘You can sit down,’ she said.
He sat down on the edge of the nearest object, an ottoman.
She did not sit. She stood across from him, nervously brushing her hair back.
‘I’m very sorry about your father,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything I can do -‘
‘It’s all right. Are you actually the Attorney General?’
‘Yes.’
‘The FBI didn’t send you?’
He smiled. ‘I send them. They don’t send me. No, I’m here of my own accord. On a personal matter.’
‘You said you were a friend of Colonel Baxter’s?’
‘I was. I believe your father was also.’
‘They were very close.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Collins. ‘Because your father and Colonel Baxter were friends. The night Colonel Baxter died, he left a message for me in what turned out to be his dying words. It was about a matter I’ve been pursuing ever since. I couldn’t get the information from Colonel Baxter, but it occurred to me that your father might have heard something about it from the Colonel. I know the Colonel often confided in your father.’
(1976) The R Document Page 18