Recoil. Part 35

"That's right, Glenn. And in return I want a favor."

"We'll see."

"I expect you to say, 'Name it.'"

"Come off it," Bradleigh said. "I don't sign blank checks like that."

A group of riders went by, cantering. Mathieson said, "Did you talk to Benson and the other two?"

"I talked to them."

"And?"

"They want to know more about what you want to talk to them about."

"All they need to do is call me and find out."

"For them to go to a phone is a big risk."

"Talk them into it."

"That the favor you're asking?"

"Part of it. You can tell them to call me, Glenn. Don't ask. Tell them." He took the slip of paper out of his pocket and wedged it under a corner of the tape recorder to keep the wind from picking it up. "That's three phone numbers. They're all pay phones in New York. Beside each phone number I've written a date and a time. One for Benson, one for Fusco and one for Draper."

Bradleigh pulled the paper out and read it and put it in his pocket. "I'll see."

"You'll tell them to make those calls, Glenn."

"They don't have to take orders from me, you know that."

"You can be persuasive."

"I'll try. The way you're going about this, I'm not sure I even owe you that much. You're not even giving me a sc.r.a.p to go on."

Mathieson said, "What I'm doing is counterattacking. That ought to be obvious enough."

"You can't get them all."

"I don't have to. All I have to do is neutralize Frank Pastor. If I force him into a position where he's got to leave me alone, then he's got to pa.s.s the word down to his troops and his friends to keep their hands off me."

"I don't see how you hope to accomplish that by picking off small fry like Gillespie and Ramiro."

"That's just to put him off balance, make him nervous. I need him nervous."

"You're out of your mind. You know that, of course."

"I'm not under your protection anymore. If I'm wiped out it won't be on your conscience."

"I wish I saw it that way." Bradleigh sighed with exasperation.

"I'm doing a favor for Benson and Fusco and Draper. I want to let them in on this. It won't put them in any more danger than they're already in. Pastor hasn't found me-he won't find them either. And if it works it gets all four of us off the hook. And our families."

Bradleigh said, "What if I refuse to cooperate with you?"

"I can pull a few things."

"Feeling your oats, aren't you. But Pastor's a lot tougher to crack than penny-ante types like Gillespie and Ramiro."

"I know that, Glenn. I had to start somewhere. Call it practice."

"What is it you want, then?"

"One or two of them may want to come to New York after I've talked to them. Maybe all three of them."

"Benson, Fus--"

"Right. I want them protected."

"You mean you want me to keep them away from New York?"

"Just the contrary. I want them in New York if they're willing to come. I want their help."

"Of all the incredible b.a.l.l.s--"

"I'm not going to force them to do anything. But if they want to come, I want them protected every step of the way. Even if it means you have to send Caruso and Cuernavan and ten other people out there to escort them. Even if it means you have to charter a private executive jet."

Bradleigh exploded. "It's out of the question, of course. We can't give support to any c.o.c.keyed private schemes. I told you you were out of your mind. This proves it. To even ask for--"

"Well, it's more than just a casual request, Glenn."

Bradleigh sighed again. "It figured there'd be teeth in it."

"I'd rather keep it on the level of favors between friends."

"Would you."

"I don't want to put a gun to your head."

Bradleigh said, "I guess you don't have to spell it out. All it would take would be a word from you in the FBI director's ear. That after I blew you twice to Pastor you went out on your own and handed us C. K. Gillespie on a platter. I'd be out on my a.s.s. I'd probably deserve it, too."

"Then don't force me to threaten you with it. Come on, Glenn, I don't want to be the instrument of your disgrace and you don't want it either. I'm not going to the FBI or anybody else."

"If that's a promise then your threat just sprang a leak."

"It's not a threat. It's a favor. I'm asking one in return."

"Jesus, you're a devious son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"The only thing I'm putting pressure on is your conscience."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Then you'll arrange it all."

Bradleigh didn't reply, But his quick angry nod was as good as a promise.

Mathieson stood up. "Tell them to call me."

"Sure, sure." Bradleigh didn't look at him. He reached out for the ca.s.sette recorder and shoved it inside his coat. Then he rammed his hands into his pockets. "I always hate the fall. Makes me know winter's coming on."

"Can spring be far behind?"

"Jesus. Get out of here with your f.u.c.king plat.i.tudes." He still didn't look up. After a moment Mathieson stepped forward, made a fist, nudged his shoulder with it and then walked away up the hill. Homer picked him up beyond Bradleigh's view and they walked on through the park to the car.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

New York City: 23 October

1.

IT WAS A HIGH-PRICED PRIVATE SCHOOL THAT OCCUPIED three interconnected brownstones on Eighty-ninth Street between Fifth and Madison avenues. The neighborhood suggested old wealth. Trim blonde matrons in Diors and Givenchys went heel-clipping along under their umbrellas. In better weather you'd see nurses wheeling infants in perambulators to and from Central Park. The only black face was that of the occasional supermarket delivery boy on his box-fronted tricycle.

Mathieson and Roger Gilfillan sat in the car. They were parked at a hydrant in front of a narrow stone house with discreet small bronze plaques on its wrought-iron gate advertising the presence of two MDs who were probably psychoa.n.a.lysts. That conclusion had been reached after the first half day on the stakeout when it became apparent that only two patients arrived in each hour.

None of them took any notice of the Plymouth with its two occupants parked at the same fire hydrant day after day.

Every few hours a police car would cruise past but they were never asked to move on. Had the car been unoccupied it probably would have been towed away.

Each morning the gray Mercedes arrived and discharged its two pa.s.sengers. They would join the throng trooping into the school. Each afternoon promptly at half past three the Mercedes drew up and the two pa.s.sengers came from the school and got in. Now it was 2:45 P.M. and raining.

The older girl was Sandra-fourteen, a bit on the plump side, ample of bosom: athletic and attractive but she would be matronly in ten years' time. She had a round face, almost cherubic, surrounded by a frizzy explosion of dark hair. Her sister Nora, twelve years old, was slender, p.u.b.escent, tall for her age. She wore her dark hair long and straight and it framed a piquant triangular face with extraordinarily large eyes.

There were always two men in the Mercedes that delivered and collected them.

The driver was a chauffeur who went by the name of Lloyd Belmont.

The bodyguard was Gregory Cestone, a large hard man whose face reminded Mathieson of a lunar landscape. It was a disquietingly immobile face that had been badly burned.

Belmont and Cestone in the Mercedes were due to appear in forty-five minutes. Roger shot his cuff over his watch. "Reckon I'll go over to Madison and use the little boy's room while there's time. You want to go first?"

"No, I'm all right. Pick up a pack of Life Savers or something, will you? I feel peckish."

Roger walked away in the rain and disappeared around the corner.

It was stuffy in the car and Mathieson rolled the window down. A fine spray of rain drifted against his face. It came across the park off the Hudson estuary and carried the tang of sea salt.

If we cart only bring this off. He had set Monday as the target date because if Gregory Cestone didn't lead them to a connection by Friday evening it would still leave them the weekend to find another source. Right now Vasquez and Homer would be shadowing Cestone; they would drop the baton here at half past three; Mathieson and Roger would pick it up.

But the Mercedes was early.

In the side mirror he saw it come into the street from Madison. It drew up slightly behind him, stopping in front of the school; its horn tooted three times. In the intersection Mathieson saw Vasquez's brown Cadillac slide slowly by-it couldn't turn into the street because it would have had to squeeze past the double-parked Mercedes and that would have given Cestone and Belmont a close look at Vasquez.

Mathieson reached out as if to adjust the side mirror. It was the signal to Vasquez that he was picking up the relay. There was nothing else he could do. From that distance Vasquez would have no way of seeing there weren't two men in the Plymouth but it couldn't be helped.

He saw no sign of Roger on the sidewalk.

The two girls came down the steps. Cestone held the rear door open for them. Sandra carried an umbrella; she folded it as they got into the car. Cestone got back into the car and Belmont moved the Mercedes away.

It came past at a crawl and when it was dead abreast Cestone abruptly looked point-blank into Mathieson's face.

Mathieson felt the stab of panic. He bluffed: looked at his watch, looked in the rearview mirror, made a face as if awaiting a date who hadn't shown up on time. He was sure it wasn't convincing.

The Mercedes rolled on. Inside it Cestone twisted his face close to the rain-mottled window, staring back at Mathieson.

It dwindled toward the far corner. Mathieson turned the key and started the engine. He began to back up. Then he saw Roger running forward along the curb. Roger dived into the car grinning.

Up ahead the Mercedes was at the end of the block waiting for the signal to change.

Mathieson could no longer see Cestone's rigid face. Was he looking back past the girls through the rear window? The rain made it impossible to tell. Had he seen Roger get into the car or had he turned to face front by then?

"Maybe we blew it," Mathieson said.

"h.e.l.l, old horse, take the chance. Reckon we got nothing to lose."

When the signal changed the Mercedes made the left into Fifth Avenue and Mathieson let it go out of sight before he pulled away from the hydrant; the tires squealed and he turned left through the light just as it changed.

At the far end of the block the staggered signal went green and the cars began to surge away but he was only half a block behind the Mercedes.

"This could backfire."

Roger said, "Supposin' we just see what happens."

"If there's any talking I'll do it. You hide behind your beard and keep your mouth shut."

"Yes sir, General sir."