America (43 page)

“You got a key to his apartment?”

“Why, hell no, I ain't got no key. He said you people'd let me in.”

“You're not on the tradesman list.” The guard gestured toward the clipboard.

“Umm, you got a place I could spit?”

With a look of disgust, the guard nodded toward a trash can at the end of his desk. Carmellini relieved himself and returned.

“Much obliged.”

“Talk about a filthy habit!” That was the woman.

“Yeah. So how'm I gonna get this carpet in there?”

“I can't let you in unless you're on the tradesman list,” the male guard said.

“Just curious, but without phones, how is he gonna tell you to put me on that list? Not being smart or nothin', I hear that this guy is some big weenie in government. He supposed to just tell the president to sit tight while he makes a personal trip down here to talk to you about the carpet in his pad?” After delivering himself of this speech, Carmellini took two steps to the trash can to spit again.

He worked his chew into position while he waved the invoice. “Here's his signature on this. Men who buy forty-five hundred dollars' worth of carpeting don't usually like to lay it themselves. But if you don't let me in, he's gonna. We'll offload it right here in the lobby and you can let him have it the next time he wanders by.”

“Tell you what,” said the male guard, who did take a cursory look at DeGarmo's forged signature. “We'll let you in downstairs. Miss McCarthy will take you up to the apartment and wait while you do your thing.”

“Much obliged,” said Tommy Carmellini, and gave them both a big tobacco grin. Out on the sidewalk he spit a stream of brown juice over his shoulder, then climbed into the driver's seat of the van.

“We're in,” he said to Jake and Toad. “Just let me do the talking.”

As they rolled around the building, Carmellini said, “We lucked out. Got a female who thinks tobacco chewing is a filthy habit. After she unlocks the place, I'll fart and spit a bit and she'll find something else to do somewhere else.”

And that was the way it worked out. The men put on cotton gloves, then unloaded a roll of carpet from the back of the van and hoisted it onto their shoulders. Miss McCarthy led them to the freight elevator.

The apartment was stifling. “Must be eighty degrees in here,” Carmellini complained.

The guard lady took it personally. “We crank and crank on that air-conditioner in the basement and the cool air just never gets up this far. We need some real muscle men to do the cranking.”

“I'll bet,” Carmellini replied, then spit into a Styrofoam coffee cup that he had brought up from the van.

The men were moving furniture in DeGarmo's bedroom when Miss McCarthy told Carmellini, “Be sure and stop by the desk on your way out.”

“This is gonna take awhile. Gotta do it right, I always say. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right. That's why people buy their carpet from us.”

They waited for a count of ten after she closed the door behind her, then Jake said, “Very well done.”

Carmellini spit his chew into his hand and nodded. He dashed for a bathroom to wash out his mouth.

They began searching, carefully, meticulously, not trashing the place but searching it as thoroughly as possible.

“What do you hope to find, Admiral?” Toad had asked that morning on their way over in the carpet van.

“Anything at all that shouldn't be there. Occasionally people leading secret lives keep little tidbits or artifacts of that secret life tucked away. Or so I've heard.”

“I certainly do,” Carmellini said, nodding a vigorous assent. “You oughta see my collection.”

“We're looking for something,” Jake continued, “anything that we can use to unravel Avery DeGarmo's secret life.”

“How do you know he has a secret life?”

“I don't.”

“Probably got a wife and kids in L.A. that he hasn't told a soul about,” Toad told Carmellini and winked.

They found that DeGarmo, a lifelong bachelor, had a collection of paper matches bearing the logos of restaurants in which he had eaten. Hotels he had visited. Businesses. Golf courses. All kinds of matches. Drawers full, boxes full.

He kept a loaded nine-millimeter pistol in the drawer beside his bed, he used toothpaste with baking powder, soft toothbrushes, and disposable razors. He had a prescription for an anticholesterol medication, ten pills still in the bottle. He threw socks away one at a time, so he had a nice collection of singles. He wore Jockey shorts and tailored wool suits.

Jake Grafton settled into DeGarmo's chair behind his desk in the den. There were two computers, both with telephone wires leading to them. After the stink about the CIA deputy director who kept classified info on his home computer, one assumed DeGarmo wouldn't be so foolish. But really, when you stopped to think about it, computers were involved in this whole mess. One wouldn't know what was on them until he checked. Jake unplugged the monitors and keyboards, pulled all the wires from the main computers, and picked them up, one atop the other.

He went looking for Tarkington and Carmellini. They were snacking on crackers in the kitchen.

“Nothing, Admiral. Absolutely nothing.”

“Did you open the refrigerator?”

“No,” Carmellini said brightly. “We thought you should have the honor.”

Jake tugged at his gloves and took one last look around. “We'll do the fridge next time. Let's take the two computers and our carpet and make a clean getaway.”

*   *   *

Zelda Hudson watched her monitor. The computer graphic ordered by Vice-Admiral Navarre was being put together now by the National Geodesic Survey's main Earth-mapping computer. Areas of the Atlantic with one hundred feet or less of water, then another map depicting 150 feet or less.

Zelda was in a foul mood. Someone, somewhere had figured out the connection between
America
and the missing SuperAegis satellite.

Of course it was there all the time, in plain sight, but no one saw it. Until now. She looked at the authorization. Captain Killbuck, office of ACNO (submarines).

Carmellini. He was turning into a regular pain in the posterior. The FBI had run a fingerprint identification request through the Clarksburg fingerprint database. The name that popped up was Susan Boyer, deceased.

That request could have originated only with Carmellini, who was carrying around the dead woman's eye- and fingerprints. The request was authorized by Special Agent Krautkramer, the agent in charge investigating
America
's hijacking. Killbuck, Krautkramer—the tracks led to Rear Admiral Grafton.

*   *   *

When Jake arrived at his apartment in Rosslyn that evening, Callie had two steaks and two potatoes ready for the barbecue, which was getting quite a workout since the electric range was useless.

“Do you think
America
will fire any more missiles?” Callie asked as they brought each other up to date on their days.

“No, I don't,” Jake replied. “We've got every P-3 we own on the East Coast in the air, loaded with sonobuoys and torpedoes. If anyone shoots a missile we can have a P-3 on site in less than a half hour. We've cleared friendly submarines from the area, so from the moment the first sonobuoy hits the water, they'll be pinging actively. With one P-3 Kolnikov might have a chance. Even two. But not four. When they get
America
located, they'll put torpedoes in the water.”

Callie was not her usual self. “I can't get those men aboard
La Jolla
off my mind. Sometimes life just isn't fair.”

“Kolnikov's luck will run out,” Jake said forcefully, wanting it to be true. “So far he's anticipated every move. He knows what is possible and how long it takes to make things happen. Now that we're ready, I doubt if he'll chance it. Of course, he could prove me a poor prophet and have one on the way to Boston or Atlanta this very minute. If so, the odds are that he and his crew aren't going to be with us much longer. Which would be fine by me.”

“So how are they going to escape?” Callie asked. “They must have some plan. They aren't going to cruise around the world forever like Captain Nemo aboard the
Nautilus.
”

“That's what we're trying to figure out,” Jake said. “If you were Kolnikov, how would you do it?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Myron Matheny's telephone rang at two in the morning, waking him from a sound sleep. Several seconds passed before he recognized the voice.

“That matter we discussed last week—it's going to have to be handled immediately.”

Matheny waited several seconds before answering, trying to clear his thoughts. “You know I don't work that way,” he said.

“No choice. I never thought it would come to this, but the world is pressing in.”

“Wish I could help you.”

“This morning. If I go, you go.”

The Man broke the connection, leaving Matheny listening to a buzzing telephone.

He replaced the instrument on the receiver. Oh, boy! He sure as hell didn't need this.

“Who was it?” the woman asked.

“Him.” It wasn't really. The voice was a woman's, but Matheny didn't want his wife to know that.

“At this hour?”

“Go back to sleep.”

Fumbling in the darkness, he put on a robe and went to the kitchen of the old farmhouse to make himself a pot of coffee.

Way deep down, Myron Matheny had always known that this day would come, that the life he had built for himself might come to a smashing halt. It would, he always thought, be his fault, the client's fault, or some freak twist in the cosmos, some fluke of fate. Random chance or someone's screwup, those were the forces that made the wheels of the universe go around.

When he graduated from high school he had joined the marines, where he had become a specialist on area-network surveillance systems. The CIA recruited him after his four-year hitch was over. The CIA sounded more interesting than Motorola, so he signed on.

About ten years ago in South America, he had been betrayed by a man seeking an entry into the profitable drug business. He escaped before the druggies could kill him, then found the man who sold him out and made him permanently disappear.

You weren't supposed to do that kind of thing in the CIA. There were laws against it, regulations and all that. Still, every now and then, when lives or important national interests were on the line, a quiet disappearance could solve a lot of problems.

Murder became his specialty. Myron Matheny thought of himself as a personnel removal specialist.

Killing someone is ridiculously easy, of course. Getting away with it is much more difficult given the fact that murder is a serious crime in every nation on the planet. The best and safest way to foil the police was to make the victim disappear. If the police couldn't prove a crime had been committed, they never got to the next step, determining a perpetrator. Intense planning and preparation were required to pull off a disappearance, and sometimes, due to the lifestyle of the victim, it was just not possible. Second choice was to make it appear that the victim died of natural causes—also difficult, with preplanning and preparation required. Again, the police must prove a crime had been committed before they got to the next problem, the identity of the criminal. The last option was to kill the victim in such a way that the identity of the killer could not be determined—with only one layer of defense, this option was extremely high risk. A single mistake here could cost you life in the pen, or even, in some jurisdictions, death.

Now comes the call—The Man wants this guy removed immediately. This morning.

So much for planning. So much for minimizing the risk.

Ha!

The thought occurred to Myron Matheny that he should find The Man and remove him! That ‘if I go, you go' crap was really unacceptable.

As he looked out the windows at the forests and pastures lit by the dim moonlight, Myron Matheny realized that he wasn't ready to give up his life. He didn't want it to end. He liked living here, liked working part-time at the local tackle shop, liked tying flies and fishing all summer. The best part, though, was the woman.

Oh, man! After all these years, just when he finally figured out what it's all about …

Still, The Man wouldn't call if the threat were not real.

She came padding down the hall barefoot, wearing her old blue bathrobe. She read the bad news in his face.

With a cup of coffee in hand, she said, “Why don't you and I leave now? You've got those passports in the safety-deposit box. Let's clean it out when the bank opens and go.”

“Leave all this?”

“We wouldn't be leaving anything we couldn't do without or replace.”

“There's nowhere to hide. Not in this day and age.”

“Myron. Think this through.”

“I don't want to run,” he said. “I'm too old.”

*   *   *

He dressed carefully in nondescript clothes, old tan slacks, lace-up leather shoes, a long-sleeve shirt, and a windbreaker to hide the pistol in the shoulder holster. He dusted his hands with talcum powder, then pulled on latex gloves. Only then did he carefully wipe the pistol and the shells and load it. Silencer, knife, he wiped them carefully. He did the wooden handles of the garrote too.

He should take a rifle, just in case. He went to the basement, unlocked the safe in an old potato cellar under the stairs, and stood looking.

He had three Remingtons standing there, all in .220 Swift, without a doubt the finest small-caliber round ever invented. Years ago he had learned that the rifle he could shoot best was the one that recoiled the least. The cartridge's only drawback was the semirimmed case, which was not a problem in a bolt action. He had built the rifles himself, installed composite stocks and custom triggers, hand-loaded the ammo with the new 55-grain Nosier bullets with plastic, frangible tips. All three were serious weapons—and untraceable. His favorite had a little scratch on the right side of the barrel … he automatically reached for it, wiped it down, picked up ten cartridges and pocketed them.