Flashpoint (16 page)

    "He will walk."

    The frog-eyes considered me. Over Bayak's shoulder, between the corner of the room and the liquor storage closet, I could see a picture whose edges seemed charred. Above it a portion of the ceiling appeared freshly plastered and painted. Brocaded white-gold window draperies seemed newer than elsewhere in the room. The area had the look of a recent fire.

    "What is your attitude toward the police, Mr. Drake?" the high-pitched voice resumed. I gave him the ancient thumbs-down signal to signify rejection. "I would need to check that out, of course." The tone was thoughtful. "I'll be frank. The-ah-victim of the incident that brought you to Talia's assistance was an associate of mine. Merely a casual business contact whom I had known only for a short time, but his loss cripples an important plan of mine. He was a man of unusual talents, Mr. Drake, as you appear to be. Perhaps when the transfer of envelope and cash is completed, we might speak about a future arrangement?"

    "I don't care for your way of doing business." And I wanted nothing to do with a dope shipment.

    "You seem fully capable of protecting yourself against the exigencies of my impetuous nature." The fat man was smiling again. "A merger of our skills could well be of considerable mutual benefit. If we-"

    He broke off as Talia and Abdel reentered the room. Beneath a fresh Nehru jacket, I could see lumpy bulges where Abdel's arm and shoulder had been bandaged. The double shock would have put the average man on his back, but the giant didn't even seem slowed down.

    Bayak heaved himself awkwardly to his feet. He circled the sofa with short steps and went to the charred picture I'd noticed. "About-face, Mr. Drake," he said to me when he was standing in front of the picture. "Watch him, Abdel," he added when I complied.

    Abdel and I watched each other, but I also watched the polished base of a lamp halfway between us. In its burnished surface I could see Bayak take hold of the bottom edge of the picture, raise it head high, then lower it and raise it again. The face of a safe-dial appeared behind the picture, and I knew at once what the fat man was doing.

    The double-raising of the picture plainly indicated the cocking and then the deactivating of a booby trap. The charred picture and fresh paint and plaster showed that some unwary soul had raised the picture one time only and blown himself and that corner of the apartment into unsightly fragments.

    I watched the base of the lamp as Bayak opened the safe and removed several thick envelopes. He returned to the sofa and busied himself counting money. He held out a stack of bills toward me, then withdrew it after a glance at Abdel. "How far is it to the transfer point?"

    "Not far." He handed me the money. "How do you know I won't kill Abdel and take off with both cash and envelope?"

    "The envelope will mean nothing to you," he smiled. "And I'm trusting that your business instincts are more highly developed than that. Our next conversation could mean much more to you than ten thousand dollars."

    "One thing at a time. Coming, Talia?"

    "Talia remains here," Bayak said. He smiled again. "But look her up after the transfer. I recommend it. She will be grateful for the envelope's recovery. You may leave now. Abdel will accompany you."

    I thought about the ride down to the lobby in the close confines of the penthouse apartment elevator. Bayak read my mind. He addressed the giant in the foreign language, then spoke to me in English. "I told him that the envelope had priority. And that you would kill him if he tried to seize you on the elevator."

    "You told him right."

    "Then till we meet again, Mr. Drake. Soon, if you deliver on the envelope." The smile beneath the waxed mustache managed to be both promising and menacing.

    The ride down in the elevator was tense. I'd have unloaded the rest of the gun clip into Abdel if he made Move One toward me. It wasn't often I'd doubted the efficacy of a.38 at close range, but I had visions of Abdel's subhuman vitality withstanding the impact of bullets long enough for those huge hands to crush my windpipe.

    We reached the lobby without incident, however. I thrust the Smith & Wesson into a jacket pocket but let the giant see its outline before I motioned him off the elevator when its doors opened. A man was passing through the lobby, but he boarded the other elevator. "Do you have the key to the mailbox?" I asked Abdel when the other elevator's doors closed.

    He stared at me uncomprehendingly.

    "Key," I repeated, and gestured at the bronze lineup of mailboxes along one wall.

    The giant removed a small, flat key from somewhere under the Nehru jacket and showed it to me tentatively.

    "That looks like it," I said. "Open it up." I moved between him and the front entrance in case he had any kamikaze ideas about recovering the money as well as the envelope.

    He opened the mailbox, took out the envelope, studied it intently for an instant, then nodded his huge head slowly.

    "See you later, muscles," I told him, and went out into the night.

    

    

    I expected to be followed when I left Bayak's apartment building, and I wasn't disappointed.

    A tail picked me up in the middle of the first block. I walked him sedately through the lobbies of two small, east-side hotels before I speeded up and lost him in the lobby of a third. It had been so easy that I cooled it while I made sure they hadn't given me a tail to lose while they kept another one on me. Nothing else showed on the horizon, though.

    So although I was sure I was clean, I took all the usual precautions while approaching Erikson's office. I waited in the brightly lighted lobby for five minutes before I boarded the elevator. No one had entered the front entrance behind me.

    The office door was opened at my knock by McLaren. He nodded and stepped back to let me enter. The ubiquitous tape recorder was on McLaren's desk with a set of headphones plugged in. McLaren was transcribing tapes again. I nodded at the recorder. "Any good listening lately?"

    "Same old stuff," he shrugged. Then he brightened. "Although there was a real wild one on a reel the other day. I don't know how the hell it ever get on there. You'd never believe it."

    I didn't tell him how easily I'd believe it.

    Erikson wasn't there, so I gave McLaren a quick rundown on what had taken place. He made notes. The only things I omitted were Chryssie's role and what had happened to the man I'd lured back to her place. "Erikson will want to hear this from you himself," McLaren said when I finished. "I'll call him, and while he's on his way in, I'll check this Bayak character out and see what we have on him."

    "Fine," I said. "Meantime I'll flake out on the sofa inside."

    I went into the inner office, took off my jacket and shoes, stretched out on the sofa, listened for a moment to the murmur of McLaren's voice on the telephone, and then didn't hear anything.

    A hand shaking my shoulder woke me. Erikson's rough-hewn features appeared mistily above me as I tried to focus my eyes. I felt more tired than before I'd sacked out. "What time is it?" I asked.

    "Three-fifteen A.M.," McLaren answered. I hadn't seen him standing behind Erikson.

    "We've found out a few things, Earl," Erikson said in his usual no-nonsense style. "Iskir Bayak isn't an importer of Oriental rugs. He's the number-three man in the Turkish UN delegation. It could mean smuggling via diplomatic pouch, the hardest kind to do anything about."

    I digested it for a moment. "But that hardly ties in with a truck hijacking, or does it?"

    "According to the contents of the envelope Bayak has now recovered, we have a truck hijacking about to take place in which these people are involved," Erikson pointed out. "What about this note of McLaren's that the Turk tried to proposition you about joining his operation?"

    "He did. At least half-heartedly. He mentioned checking out my supposed anti-police attitude."

    "What does that mean to you?"

    "His propositioning me? That he lost his wagon boss, Hawk."

    "I mean more than that," Erikson emphasized. "It means his timetable might be so tight that he would approach a stranger like you even though he had no real line on you."

    "Except that he saw me work out on Abdel."

    "We still don't know where the hijacking is supposed to take place," McLaren put in. "Now if Drake were to take up this Bayak's offer to join his gang-"

    "Forget it," I said.

    "The UN aspect of the situation complicates anything we might want to do unofficially," Erikson added. "That might be traced to us, that is. You're an independent, and you're already halfway inside the door."

    "Forget it, you two. I've seen these types. You haven't. I wasn't brought up in a convent, but they're something else. My insurance company wouldn't care for it."

    "It would be easy to arrange," Erikson said as though I hadn't spoken. "We could dump you in jail on a minor charge, complete with fictitious gangster personality. Then you could call the Turkish girl and ask her to have Bayak bail you out of a temporary difficulty. It would validate your supposed underworld credentials in the most practical manner possible, and at the same time make you obligated to Bayak so that he wouldn't think it too farfetched for you to accept his recruitment offer. He might even make it a condition for effecting your release."

    "Who's writing your scripts these days, Karl? No jail for me."

    "It makes sense," McLaren argued.

    "From your point of view, maybe. Not from mine. I'm not about to become the cheese in your trap. Get one of your own men."

    "We haven't time to work someone in from the outside," Erikson said patiently. "You're already inside, or almost."

    "That's right," McLaren chimed in. "And we'd back you up all the way."

    "From a thousand yards in the rear. What help would you be when the bullets really start flying?"

    But they wouldn't let it alone.

    We went round and round for a good half hour. Both men pressed me insistently to take on the job. "Why are you two so interested in intercepting a dope shipment?" I asked when I couldn't think of anything else to ask. "Why not let the narcotics boys take over?"

    "I've got a hunch it isn't drugs," Erikson replied.

    "What else could it be?"

    "How many things can a trailer truck carry? It could be anything."

    And we went at it again.

    I kept saying no, but not as emphatically. For one thing, I kept thinking of the envelopes of money I'd seen Bayak remove from his safe. "Suppose I said yes and we knocked the guy off on whatever job he's planning?" I said finally. "What's in it for me?"

    Erikson and McLaren looked at each other. "The government is hardly in a position to pay-" Erikson began.

    "Not the government," I cut him off. I explained about the cash in the Turk's safe. "He's got a bunch of it there. For the sake of argument, suppose we land this fish. Could I get Hazel's seventy-five thousand out of his safe?"

    There was a moment's silence.

    "I could say yes," Erikson said finally, "but it might not mean anything. This man has one thing going for him that I can't touch. As a UN member, he has diplomatic immunity. He has only to invoke it to any official, even as lowly as a police officer on the street, and we can't lay a finger on him even though we've caught him in the act of hijacking the truck."

    "Let me worry about the diplomatic immunity," I suggested. "I want that seventy-five thousand back."

    "I'll go for it," Erikson said.

    "Then put it in writing. I found out when I was with you in Cuba that you straight arrows take the shortsighted attitude that all recovered cash in an operation is government money."

    Erikson sat down at his desk and began to write. "Minus the ten thousand Bayak just paid you for the envelope we gave you to return to him," he said, looking up at me.

    "Man, you drive a hard bargain," I complained. "Where the hell do you think you got that envelope in the first place?"

    It didn't faze him a bit. I read over his shoulder as he resumed writing. "This-ah-promissory note isn't worth a thing if we don't short-circuit Bayak," he said as he signed his name. "And not then either, if we can't get into the safe."

    "Don't worry about getting into the safe." I looked at McLaren. "If I ever ask you on the phone to bring a tool kit, I'll mean the one you had here earlier tonight."

    Erikson was rereading what he had written. "What are you going to do with this?"

    "Mail it. To Hazel."

    He raised an eyebrow. "To Hazel?"

    "Correct. You might stand me off afterward, but you'll pay hell trying to stand her off."

    Erikson found an envelope in his desk and gave it to me. McLaren handed me a stamp. "You can drop it in the mail chute down the hall before we get going," McLaren suggested.

    "I'll find my own mailbox, thanks. You boys can pull entirely too many strings. And where is it that we're going?"

    "To find you a nice comfortable jail."

    We all left the office together after McLaren put in a busy half hour on the telephone, packaging a deal. It included a detention cell for me plus a phony yellow sheet with a background that added up to exactly what the Turk should be looking for in me: mobster, heist artist, and suspected killer.

    So I found myself listening to a sound I'd sworn thirteen years before never to listen to again, the clanging shut of a steel door behind me. I'd been in prison once in the interim, but more dead than alive after the automobile gas-tank explosion which necessitated rebuilding my face. And once I had the new face, I hadn't lingered in the prison hospital. There were still a few people around who would never forget the manner of my going.