Cast a Yellow Shadow (16 page)

“They're rotten!” she said and I was surprised by the intensity in her voice. “They kill and they hurt and they don't leave you anything. Then they laugh about it. I've heard them laugh when someone was hurt. Their big, loud laughs.”

“Maybe they laugh because they're afraid,” Padillo said quietly. “I've seen frightened people laugh.”

“Are you apologizing for them?” she demanded.

“I don't apologize for anyone,” he said. “I have trouble enough finding excuses for myself.”

He picked up the phone and dialed a number. It seemed to take a long time for it to answer. “This is Padillo. You have an appointment at midnight on Seventh Street with your future employers. McCorkle will be there. I can't make it.” He listened for a while. “Just you and McCorkle. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

He replaced the phone and the waiter took it away and plugged it in at another table where some customer probably wanted to call Honolulu. If he did, we added twenty per cent. The food came and it looked good, but I wasn't hungry. Herr Horst went by and stopped to find out whether something was wrong and I assured him that it wasn't.

“You can miss a meal,” Padillo said. “In fact, you could miss two or three.”

“You think I've filled out a bit?”

“It gives you dignity. You're losing that lean, raffish look.”

“Care for some coffee?” I asked Sylvia.

“Please.”

“You try,” I told Padillo. “I want to see how well Horst has passed the word to the staff.”

Padillo looked up, nodded his head slightly, and a waiter was hovering at his elbow. It could have been Herr Horst's instructions about the new active partner, or it could have been Padillo. I had seen him command attention like that in restaurants where he dined for the first time. If it were a trick, it was one I wanted to learn.

He ordered the coffee and none of us wanted dessert.

“When your meeting with Boggs and Dymec is over,” Padillo said, “it might be a good idea to let Boggs leave first. Then stall Dymec for ten minutes or so. I don't want them to have the chance to do any negotiating on the side.”

“Don't you trust anyone?” Sylvia asked.

“I'm careful.”

“It must get lonely.”

“There's usually someone around with big cinnamon eyes who seems to think so—and wants to do something about it.”

“It could be a challenge, but one I could easily resist,” she said.

“Then I'll keep on being lonely for a while.”

Sylvia turned to me. “Your business associate doesn't go out of his way to be friendly, does he?”

“I'm surprised,” I said. “I've never seen that line fail before. It's been used often enough.”

“I'm out of practice,” Padillo said. He looked at his watch. “It's eleven o'clock Saturday night and I understand the town has an hour to go before the curfew of the Sabbath. How would you like to go pub-crawling?”

“With you?” she said.

“I'm as harmless as McCorkle.”

“I'm not dead, just married,” I reminded him.

“I think you're fine,” she said.

“We'll call it a comparison shopping tour to see if anyone has better grafitti than ours.” This time he smiled.

Sylvia turned to me. “Is it all right?”

“If he gets his glass of warm milk at one, he'll be fine,” I said.

Padillo rose and helped the girl with her chair. I took a key off my ring and handed it to her. “This is a spare to my apartment.”

“Call me when you get back,” Padillo said.

“I will.”

“Where should we go?” Padillo asked.

“Try M Street in Georgetown,” I said. “There's a whole string of bars there, or at least they were there last week. They have some very cute names—new ones every other day or so.”

I watched them leave, the slender young girl with the helmet of blonde hair and an up-from-under look that could melt a hangman's heart, and the partner, not that young nor nearly so, with the tanned, quiet, hard face and the effortless movement that's seldom seen in a human and always in a cat.

They were, as the town's frosty-eyed society writers would have it, a striking couple, and the customers forgot about their steaks long enough to look at them as they went by. They didn't seem to notice the two FBI men who followed along behind. I ordered more coffee and a brandy and after being served, I watched the customers for a while. There didn't seem to be any poor ones. Most were too round in the belly or too sparse on top. Their laughter was too loud and too long and too hard. But then I'd seldom heard happy laughter in a saloon, and I had been listening for a long time.

I didn't like my customers that night and I wasn't too wild about myself. I wondered what Fredl was doing and where she was and what she was thinking. I wondered where the customers would go when they stopped eating and drinking at midnight. I wondered if they had homes, or if they ever quit talking and chewing and swallowing because I never saw them unless their jaws were moving.

It was eleven-thirty by the time I decided to catch a cab and go down to Seventh Street and talk to a couple of men who wanted to kill a Prime Minister. It seemed as good a way as any to wind up Saturday night in the capital of the world.

By no means a new hand at intrigue, I had the cab driver let me out two blocks away from the dingy office. It was ten minutes to twelve and Seventh Street was almost dead except for a couple of drunks moving slowly and carefully down the opposite sidewalk. I let myself into the office, turned on the light, and pulled down the cracked green shade. The dust was still on the blotter. I sat behind the desk to wait. Boggs was the first to arrive. He looked around the office and didn't seem to like what he saw. I didn't feel up to an apology.

“You reached your man?” he asked.

“We reached him.”

“He's not here.”

“If he were here, he'd be three minutes early.”

He grunted something at that and brushed off one of the folding metal chairs and sat down. I propped my feet on the desk, smoked a cigarette, and carefully dropped the ashes on the floor.

“Your man knows what he's supposed to do?”

“He knows.”

“What should I tell him?”

“Tell him everything—the where and the when to begin with. He'll have to check it all out. If you have a how let him in on that, too. He has the who and the money is the why. You needn't go into your lecture on the humanitarian service he's performing. He wouldn't understand what you're talking about.”

“You have a low opinion of us, don't you, McCorkle? And it's not just because of your wife.”

“I think you're aces,” I said, and blew some smoke rings at the ceiling.

Dymec came in and gave us his grave nod. He took a seat. It was the same one he had sat in that morning.

“All right,” I said, swinging my feet off the desk. “I'm the interlocutor. This is Jon and this is Wendell. I don't think we need any more names than that. Jon knows what he's supposed to do. You can give him the details.”

“Shall we talk about money first?” Dymec asked.

“You talk about money with Padillo,” I said.

Dymec nodded. “Very well.”

“I have a map here of Washington,” Boggs said. “Are you familiar with the city?” He spread the map on the desk.

“With the northwest section and Capitol Hill,” Dymec said.

“Good. On Tuesday we are to be given an official tour. We start at the State Department, go up to the Washington Monument, then to the Jefferson Memorial, then to the Capitol, down Independence past the Rayburn Building, and we turn left on Seventh Street—this street, isn't it? but farther up—and down to Constitution Avenue. We continue up Constitution Avenue and follow it to Seventeenth where we turn north toward Pennsylvania Avenue. At Eighteenth and Pennsylvania—just across the street from the USIA—we turn up north on Eighteenth and proceed to Connecticut Avenue and Dupont Circle.” He paused and looked at Dymec.

“We must never make that turn up Eighteenth.”

Dymec nodded. “It's to take place here then,” and he jabbed a forefinger at the block between Seventeenth and Eighteenth on Pennsylvania.”

“Yes.”

“What time of day will it be?”

“The tour starts at two from the State Department. We should be here between two-forty-five and three.”

“How many cars will there be in the tour?”

“Four.”

“Your man will be in an open car?”

“We have specified that.”

“If it rains?”

“We have the long-range forecast. It says that it won't.”

“If it does?” Dymec asked again.

Boggs shrugged. “It's off.”

“How much security will there be?”

“The minimum.”

“How much is that? Do you know?”

“There will be four motorcycle riders. Two in front; two in the rear.”

“Have there been any threats on his life? Anything that would cause them to add security personnel?”

“None that they have revealed to us. Your countrymen, McCorkle, are seemingly indifferent to what happens in Africa.”

“Most of them don't care about what happens here, as long as it happens in the next block.”

“This building on the northeast corner of Eighteenth and Pennsylvania. It's the Roger Smith Hotel,” Dymec said.

“Right.”

“Why choose it?”

“Because of the roof garden. It's deserted this time of year. You won't need to reserve a room.”

“I'll have to take a look at it.”

“Of course.”

“Where will your man be seated?” Dymec asked.

“There will be three in the back. He will be in the center.”

“Who will be driving?”

“My colleague.”

“He will go slowly?”

“He'll probably go around the block if you miss the first time,” I said.

Boggs didn't find that amusing; neither did Dymec. He was all business.

Boggs had another question: “What kind of weapon do you plan to use?”

“I haven't decided.”

“My Prime Minister has expressed a preference.”

“What is it?”

“He prefers not to be shot with a gun of English manufacture.”

SIXTEEN

When Boggs was at the door he turned to me and said: “I'll be in touch with you tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“You'll continue with the planning?”

“Yes.”

“There must be no mistakes.”

“We can't control the weather.”

He nodded slightly. “True. But if you're a religious man, you should pray. If not, you should hope very hard.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

He looked at Dymec and the Pole stared back at him with his expressionless slate-colored eyes.

“We may not meet again.”

Dymec just nodded; he said nothing.

“Your reputation is encouraging. I advise you to do nothing to diminish it.”

“I know my job,” Dymec said. “If the other arrangements are properly made, my performance will be satisfactory.”

Boggs looked as if he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind, and opened the door. “Good night,” he said and left.

I waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps on the stairs.

“What kind of rifle do you want?” I asked.

Dymec shrugged. “Since I won't be using it, anything will do.”

“Suppose you were going to use it, what would you want?”

“A Winchester Model 70, the target rifle with a 4X scope and two rounds of .30-06.”

“You need two rounds?”

“No. I only need one. But there's always the chance of a misfire.”

“We'll try to find it, but you may have to settle for something less sporting.”

Dymec yawned and stretched. He seemed bored by the whole thing. “How far will this farce be carried?”

“As far as necessary.”

“Have you learned where they're holding your wife?”

“No.”

“It would seem to me that your entire scheme depends on that. If you don't find her, you may wish me to carry out the actual assignment. I'll be glad to, of course, but it will cost you a little more.”

“We hope to avoid that.”

He yawned again. He was either bored or it was far past his bedtime. “Of course. But if you do change your mind, I'll cooperate—for a slight additional fee.”

“To satisfy an idle curiosity, just what do you consider a slight additional fee?”

“In the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars.”

“That's a high-class neighborhood.”

“There would be no shares to the other two, either.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” I told him. “When do you plan to look the hotel over?”

“Tomorrow. Early tomorrow morning I think would be best. It should be quiet then.”

“We'll meet with Padillo tomorrow.”

“He knows how to reach me.”

He stood up and moved towards the door. “Your friend from Africa seemed a bit edgy.”

“I suppose he doesn't do this every day.”

“Probably not.” He yawned once more, but this time he remembered to cover it with his hand. “Well, good night.”

“Good night,” I said. “Pleasant dreams.”

Dymec left and I listened to his footsteps clatter down the stairs. I got up and walked over to the window and peeked out around the edge of the shade. A dark blue or black car was parked across the street and down some seventy-five feet. It turned on its lights as Dymec came out of the building. He looked up at the window, then hurried across the street and got into the car. It started up and sped by the window. I didn't get the license number. There was really no need. Boggs was the driver. I assumed Dymec was no longer yawning.

I crossed over to the desk and dialed Padillo's number. There was no answer. I turned off the lights, made sure the door was locked, and walked down the stairs. I looked for a cab, but there was none. A man shuffled out of the shadows and touched me on the arm.