by Ken Follett
He crossed a river and found himself in a charming suburb of narrow streets lined with trees. He passed a building with a sign that read Georgetown Mind Hospital, and he guessed the neighbourhood was called Georgetown. He turned into a tree-lined street of modest houses. This was promising. People here would not have full-time household help, so there was a good chance of finding a place empty.
The street turned a corner and immediately dead-ended in a cemetery. Luke parked the stolen Ford facing the way he had come, in case he had to make a fast getaway.
He needed some simple tools, a chisel or screwdriver and a hammer. There was probably a small tool kit in the trunk--but the trunk was locked. He could pick the lock if he could find a piece of wire. Otherwise, he would have to drive to a hardware store and buy or steal what he required.
He reached into the back and picked up the stolen bag. Rummaging through the clothes, he found a folder containing papers. He extracted a paperclip and closed the case.
It took him about thirty seconds to open the trunk. As he had hoped, there were a few tools in a tin box next to the jack. He chose the largest screwdriver. There was no hammer, but there was a heavy adjustable wrench that would serve. He put them in the pocket of his ragged raincoat and slammed the lid of the trunk.
He took the stolen bag from inside the car, closed the door, and walked around the corner. He knew he was conspicuous, a ragged bum walking in a nice neighbourhood with an expensive suitcase. If the local busybody called the cops, and the cops had nothing much to do this morning, he could be in trouble in minutes. On the other hand, if all went well, he might be washed and shaved and dressed like a respectable citizen in half an hour's time.
He drew level with the first house in the street. He crossed a small front yard and knocked at the door.
>>><<<
Rosemary Sims saw a nice blue-and-white car drive slowly past her house, and she wondered whose it was. The Brownings might have bought a new car, they had plenty of money. Or Mr. Cyrus, who was a bachelor and did not have to stint himself. Otherwise, she reasoned, it must belong to a stranger.
She had good eyesight still, and she could watch most of the street from her comfy chair by the second-floor window, especially in winter when the trees were bare of leaves. So she saw the tall stranger when he came walking around the corner. And "strange" was the word. He wore no hat, his raincoat was torn, and his shoes were tied up with string to stop them from falling apart. Yet he carried a new-looking bag.
He went to Mrs. Britsky's door and knocked. She was a widow, living alone, but she was no fool--she would make short work of the stranger, Mrs. Sims knew. Sure enough, Mrs. Britsky looked out the window and waved him away with a peremptory gesture.
He went next door and knocked at Mrs. Loew's. She opened up. She was a tall, black-haired woman, who was too proud, in Mrs. Sims's opinion. She spoke a few words with the caller, then slammed the door.
He went to the next house, apparently intending to work his way along the street. Young Jeannie Evans came to the door with baby Rita in her arms. She fished in the pocket of her apron and gave him something, probably a few coins. So he was a beggar.
Old Mr. Clark came to the door in his bathrobe and carpet slippers. The stranger got nothing out of him.
The owner of the next house, Mr. Bonetti, was at work, and his wife, Angelina, seven months pregnant, had left five minutes ago, carrying a string bag, obviously heading for the store. The stranger would get no answer there.
>>><<<
By now, Luke had had time to study the doors, which were all the same. They had Yale locks, the kind with a tongue on the door side and a metal socket in the jamb. The lock was operated by a key from outside and by a knob inside.
Each door had a small window of obscure glass at head height. The easiest way in would be to break the glass and reach inside to turn the knob. But a broken window would be visible from the street. So he decided to use the screwdriver.
He glanced up and down the street. He had been unlucky, having to knock on five doors to find an empty house. By now he might have attracted attention, but he could see no one. Anyway, he had no choice. He had to take the risk.
>>><<<
Mrs. Sims turned away from the window and lifted the handset of the phone beside her seat. Slowly and carefully, she dialed the number of the local police station, which she knew by heart.
>>><<<
Luke had to do this fast.
He inserted the screwdriver's blade between the door and the jamb at the level of the lock. Then he struck the handle of the screwdriver with the heavy end of the adjustable wrench, trying to force the blade into the socket of the lock.
The first blow failed to move the screwdriver, which was jammed up against the steel of the lock. He wiggled the screwdriver, trying to find a way in. He used the hammer again, harder this time. Still the screwdriver would not slip into the socket. He felt perspiration break out on his forehead, despite the cold weather.
He told himself to stay calm. He had done this before. When? He had no idea. It did not matter. The technique worked, he was sure of that.
He wiggled the screwdriver again. This time, it felt as if a corner of the blade had caught in a notch. He hammered again, as hard as he could. The screwdriver sank in an inch.
He pulled sideways on the handle, levering the tongue of the lock back out of the socket. To his profound relief, the door opened inward.
The damage to the frame was too slight to be seen from the street.
He stepped quickly inside and closed the door behind him.
>>><<<
When Rosemary Sims finished dialing the number, she looked out the window again, but the stranger had vanished.
That was quick.
The police answered. Feeling confused, she hung up the phone without speaking.
Why had he suddenly stopped knocking on doors? Where had he gone? Who was he?
She smiled. She had something to occupy her thoughts all day.
>>><<<
It was the home of a young couple. The place was furnished with a mixture of wedding presents and junk-shop purchases. They had a new couch and a big TV set in the living room, but they were still using orange crates for storage in the kitchen. An unopened letter on the hall radiator was addressed to Mr. G. Bonetti.
There was no evidence of children. Most probably, Mr. and Mrs. Bonetti both had jobs and would be out all day. But he could not count on it.
He went quickly upstairs. There were three bedrooms, only one of which was furnished. He threw the bag on the neatly made bed. Inside it he found a carefully folded blue chalk-stripe suit, a white shirt, and a conservative striped tie. There were dark socks, clean underwear, and a pair of polished black wingtips that looked only about half a size too big.
He stripped off his filthy clothes and kicked them into a corner. It gave him a spooky feeling, to be naked in the home of strangers. He thought of skipping the shower, but he smelled bad, even to himself.
He crossed the tiny landing to the bathroom. It felt great to stand under the hot water and soap himself all over. When he got out, he stood still and listened carefully. The house was silent.
He dried himself with one of Mrs. Bonetti's pink bath towels--another wedding present, he guessed--and put on undershorts, pants, socks, and shoes from the stolen bag. Being at least half dressed would speed his getaway if something went wrong while he was shaving.
Mr. Bonetti used an electric shaver, but Luke preferred a blade. In the suitcase he found a safety razor and a shaving brush. He lathered his face and shaved quickly.
Mr. Bonetti did not have any cologne, but maybe there was some in the bag. After stinking like a pig all morning, Luke liked the idea of smelling sweet. He found a neat leather toiletries case and unzipped it. There was no cologne inside--but there was a hundred dollars in twenties, neatly folded: emergency money. He pocketed the cash, resolving to pay the man back one day.
After all, the guy was not a
collaborator.
And what the heck did that mean?
Another mystery. He put on the shirt, tie, and jacket. They fitted well: he had been careful to choose a victim his own size and build. The clothes were of good quality. The luggage tag gave an address on Central Park South, New York. Luke guessed the owner was a corporate big shot who had come to Washington for a couple of days of meetings.
There was a full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. He had not looked at his reflection since early this morning, in the men's room at Union Station, when he had been so shocked to see a filthy hobo staring back at him.
He stepped to the mirror, bracing himself.
He saw a tall, fit-looking man in his middle thirties, with black hair and blue eyes; a normal person, looking harassed. A weary sense of relief swept over him.
Take a guy like that, he thought. What would you say he does for a living?
His hands were soft, and now that they were clean they did not look like those of a manual worker. He had a smooth indoor face, one that had not spent much time out in bad weather. His hair was well cut. The guy in the mirror looked comfortable in the clothes of a corporate executive.
He was not a cop, definitely.
There was no hat or coat in the bag. Luke knew he would be conspicuous without either, on a cold January day. He wondered if he might find them in the house. It was worth taking a few extra seconds to look.
He opened the closet. There was not much inside. Mrs. Bonetti had three dresses. Her husband had a sport coat for weekends and a black suit he probably wore to church. There was no topcoat--Mr. Bonetti must be wearing one, and he could not afford two--but there was a light raincoat. Luke took it off the hanger. It would be better than nothing. He put it on. It was a size small but wearable.
There was no hat in the closet, but there was a tweed cap that Bonetti probably wore with the sport coat on Saturdays. Luke tried it on. It was too small. He would have to buy a hat with some of the money from the toiletries bag. But the cap would serve for an hour or so--
He heard a noise downstairs. He froze, listening.
A young woman's voice said, "What happened to my front door?"
Another voice, similar, replied, "Looks like someone tried to break in!"
Luke cursed under his breath. He had stayed too long.
"Jeepers--I think you're right!"
"Maybe you should call the cops."
Mrs. Bonetti had not gone to work, after all. Probably she had gone shopping. She had met a friend at the store and invited her home for coffee.
"I don't know . . . looks like the thieves didn't get in."
"How do you know? Better check if anything's been stolen."
Luke realized he had to get out of there fast.
"What's to steal? The family jewels?"
"What about the TV?"
Luke opened the bedroom window and looked out onto the front yard. There was no convenient tree or drainpipe down which he could climb.
"Nothing's been moved," he heard Mrs. Bonetti say. "I don't believe they got in."
"What about upstairs?"
Moving silently, Luke crossed the landing to the bathroom. At the back of the house there was nothing but a leg-breaking drop to a paved patio.
"I'm going to look."
"Aren't you scared?"
There was a nervous giggle. "Yes. But what else can we do? We'll look pretty silly if we call the cops and there's no one here."
Luke heard footsteps on the stairs. He stood behind the bathroom door.
The footsteps mounted the staircase, crossed the landing, and entered the bedroom. Mrs. Bonetti gave a little scream.
Her friend's voice said, "Whose bag is that?"
"I've never seen it before!"
Luke slipped silently out of the bathroom. He could see the open bedroom door but not the women. He tiptoed down the stairs, grateful for the carpet.
"What kind of burglar brings luggage?"
"I'm calling the cops right now. This is spooky."
Luke opened the front door and stepped outside.
He smiled. He had done it.
He closed the door quietly and walked quickly away.
>>><<<
Mrs. Sims frowned, mystified. The man leaving the Bonetti house had on Mr. Bonetti's black raincoat and the gray tweed cap he wore to watch the Redskins, but he was larger than Mr. Bonetti, and the clothes did not quite fit.
She watched him walk down the street and turn the corner. He would have to come back: it was a dead end. A minute later the blue-and-white car she had noticed earlier came around the corner, going too fast. She realized then that the man who had left the house was the beggar she had been watching. He must have broken in and stolen Mr. Bonetti's clothes!
As the car passed her window, she read the license plate and memorized the number.
1.30 P.M.
The Sergeant motors have undergone 300 static tests, 50 flight tests, and 290 ignition-system firings without a failure.
Anthony sat in the conference room, fuming with impatience and frustration.
Luke was still running around Washington. No one knew what he might be up to. But Anthony was stuck here, listening to a State Department timeserver drone on about the need to combat rebels massing in the mountains of Cuba. Anthony knew all about Fidel Castro and Che Guevara. They had fewer than a thousand men under their command. Of course they could be wiped out--but there was no point. If Castro were killed, someone else would take his place.
What Anthony wanted to do was get out on the street and look for Luke.
He and his staff had put in calls to most of the police stations in the District of Columbia. They had asked the precincts to call in details of any incidents involving drunks or bums, any mention of a perpetrator who talked like a college professor, and anything at all out of the ordinary. The cops were happy to cooperate with the CIA: they liked the thought that they might be involved with international espionage.
The State Department man finished his talk, and a round-table discussion began. Anthony knew that the only way to prevent someone like Castro from taking over was for the U.S. to support a moderate reformist government. Fortunately for the communists, there was no danger of that.
The door opened and Pete Maxell slipped in. He gave a nod of apology to the chairman at the head of the table, George Cooperman, then sat next to Anthony and passed him a folder containing a batch of police reports.
There was something unusual at just about every station house. A beautiful woman arrested for picking pockets at the Jefferson Memorial turned out to be a man; some beatniks had tried to open a cage and free an eagle at the zoo; a Wesley Heights man had attempted to suffocate his wife with a pizza with extra cheese; a delivery truck belonging to a religious publisher had shed its load in Petworth, and traffic on Georgia Avenue was being held up by an avalanche of Bibles.
It was possible that Luke had left Washington, but Anthony thought it unlikely. Luke had no money for train or bus fares. He could steal it, of course, but why would he bother? He had nowhere to go. His mother lived in New York and he had a sister in Baltimore, but he did not know that. He had no reason to travel.
While Anthony speed-read the reports, he listened with half an ear to his boss, Carl Hobart, talking about the U.S. ambassador to Cuba, Earl Smith, who had worked tirelessly to undermine church leaders and others who wanted to reform Cuba by peaceful means. Anthony sometimes wondered if Smith was in fact a Kremlin agent, but more likely he was just stupid.
One of the police reports caught his eye, and he showed it to Pete. "Is this right?" he whispered incredulously.
Pete nodded. "A bum attacked and beat up a patrolman on A Street and Seventh."
"A bum beat up a cop?"
"And it's not far from the neighborhood where we lost Luke."
"This might be him!" Anthony said excitedly. Carl Hobart, who was speaking, shot him a look of annoyance. Anthony lowered his voice to a whisper again. "But why w
ould he attack a patrolman? Did he steal anything--the cop's weapon, for example?"
"No, but he beat him up pretty good. The officer was treated in hospital for a broken forefinger on his right hand."
A tremor ran through Anthony like an electric shock. "That's him!" he said loudly.
Carl Hobart said, "For Christ's sake!"
George Cooperman said good-humoredly, "Anthony--either shut the fuck up, or go outside and talk, why don't you?"
Anthony stood up. "Sorry, George. Back in a flash." He stepped out of the room, and Pete followed. "That's him," Anthony repeated as the door shut. "It was his trademark, in the war. He used to do it to the Gestapo--break their trigger fingers."
Pete looked puzzled. "How do you know that?"
Anthony realized he had made a blunder. Pete believed that Luke was a diplomat having a nervous breakdown. Anthony had not told Pete that he knew Luke personally. Now he cursed himself for carelessness. "I didn't tell you everything," he said, forcing a casual tone. "I worked with him in OSS."
Pete frowned. "And he became a diplomat after the war." He gave Anthony a shrewd look. "He's not just having trouble with his wife, is he."
"No. I'm pretty sure it's more serious."
Pete accepted that. "Sounds like a cold-blooded bastard, to break a guy's finger, just like that."
"Cold-blooded?" Anthony had never thought of Luke that way, though he did have a ruthless streak. "I guess he was, when the chips were down." He had covered up his mistake, he thought with relief. But he still had to find Luke. "What time did this fight occur?"
"Nine-thirty."
"Hell. More than four hours ago. He could be anywhere in the city by now."
"What'll we do?"
"Send a couple of men down to A Street to show the photo of Luke around, see if you can get any clues where he might have been headed. Talk to the cop too."
"Okay."
"And if you get anything, don't hesitate to bust in on this stupid fucking meeting."
"Gotcha."
Anthony went back inside. George Cooperman, Anthony's wartime buddy, was speaking impatiently. "We should send in a bunch of Special Forces tough guys, clean up Castro's ragtag army in about a day and a half."