Metzger's Dog (7 page)

“The LAPD is a pretty good force,” said Hadley. “There’s a chance they’ll catch up with these people in an hour or two longer. A foreigner can hide at night, but he really sticks out in the daylight.”

Kearns shook his head in disgust. “If they were going to catch them, they’d have done it by now. It might even be better if they didn’t. A squad car with two cops armed with revolvers against what—an antitank gun? Rocket launchers? No.” He turned to Pines. “I’d like a meeting with the Director this morning. What I’m going to say is that I’m pulling back about half my people—everyone whose cover is even remotely susceptible in Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua.”

“But that’s an immense pain in the ass,” Pines protested. “There’s no reason to imagine they’ll be in any danger. We don’t know if these people have anything at all, let alone something that compromises anyone in particular.”

Kearns spoke patiently. “That’s exactly the problem. Obviously, we have to find out who they are, what they have. While we’re doing that, I don’t see an alternative to arranging some vacations, business trips, prolonged illnesses, and maybe speeding up some transfers.”

Goldschmidt nodded. “A wise course. The worst-case reaction seems the only reasonable one. The approach is too mannered to ignore. They knew enough to find Donahue’s office, which means they are capable of receiving and acting on fairly sophisticated intelligence information. They provided a cover by stealing cocaine, which keeps the police and the press occupied. And yet they blow up an empty parking booth with a military weapon. It’s all rather too precise, isn’t it?”

Pines spluttered, shaking his head. “You’re saying they’re picking their adversary, aren’t you? That’s crazy.”

“They knew the police would be satisfied that it was a banal drug theft, something we can’t very well get involved in unless we reveal what it is we believe has been stolen, which they know we won’t do. They employed, apparently for effect, the most rudimentary terrorist tactics in the center of our second largest metropolitan area. In fact, they seem to have been sending us a message.”

Hadley groaned, but Goldschmidt ignored him. “The fact that we’re sitting here at this hour worrying about it is proof that the message has been received. And now they know that we must do what they intend: We can’t have the Donahue reports turning up as evidence in a spectacular drug trial in Los Angeles. They know we will do what is necessary to keep that from happening.”

Porterfield looked around the table and saw that everyone but Goldschmidt seemed to be deep in thought. Hadley’s lips were moving silently, as though he were adding up long columns of figures in his head. Then his eyes seemed to focus again. “Okay. Assume it’s a major league group. I guess then Kearns is right that we have to lower our profile in the regions we know are mentioned in these damned papers. That much we can do now.”

Pines said, “All right. I’m sure the Director will agree to that, but the priority has got to be finding out exactly what these people have.” He turned to Porterfield. “You’re our link with Donahue, aren’t you?”

Porterfield shook his head, frowning. “I’ve never had any contact with him. Morrison was supposed to steer him to me, but so far—”

“But you’re listed right here,” Pines said. He pointed to a line on a sheet of paper in front of him, alarmed. “My God, Ben, this is no time to turn coy. Am I supposed to put that ass Morrison in charge of something like this?”

“He seems to have been for the past twenty years.”

“You’ll damned well take charge of this,” said Pines. “You’re the only one who can possibly do it, and I don’t see what else you can do. The Director said it had to be you.”

“So I’m in charge? Of what?”

“Of the whole operation. Whatever has to be done to cut our losses on this,” said Pines, surprised. The others nodded.

Porterfield glanced at his watch and then stared at Pines, his eyes suddenly very cold and distant. “Then go call my office and tell them I’ll be in at noon, and arrange to have me see the tapes of the L.A. news and get copies of the police reports.”

Pines stood up and left the room, his ears turning bright red, his neck stiffening. He walked quickly, his shoes echoing on the tile floor in the empty hallway. He knew he hadn’t heard anyone laugh. They wouldn’t. They weren’t the sort of people who might. He wasn’t afraid of Porterfield. That was absurd, he was sure of it. What he was feeling was something else: anger, he decided, and distaste. He’d heard the stories, read the files. The man was little more than a common thug, a borderline psychotic. There was no reason to feel anything about him at all. He was an anachronism, a leftover from the days when things were cruder, the days when…Pines was beginning to feel calmer. He was the Deputy Director, after all. It was his duty to get this operation moving, and he was doing it. He wasn’t taking orders from Porterfield, he was giving him orders, even if they were really the Director’s orders. Pines felt better as he turned into the communications wing, with its computers, cryptographic decoders, and satellite monitors providing a barely audible whisper of electronic sound. This was the real world, his world. It seemed almost humorous that he should be setting up an operation for a man whose file said he’d been known to guerrilla bands in Guatemala as the Angel of Death. Pines had been—what? Nine years old then.

10
                  
Doctor Henry Metzger walked easily along the narrow balcony railing, staring with uncritical interest at the commotion in the shop below. Doctor Henry Metzger’s large, unblinking yellow eyes encompassed the scene, alert but revealing nothing more than an intention to watch. Much of it was familiar—Chinese Gordon and the others moving around and making noise, and the return of the big smooth surface of the van, a little different now. This time behind the van there was a new thing, big and smooth too. As Doctor Henry Metzger studied it, the pupils of his eyes narrowed suddenly to thin black crescents and his tail whipped back and forth.

Chinese Gordon sat down abruptly on the cement pavement, leaning against the base of the drill press. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Kepler edged nearer to the wall, slightly to Chinese Gordon’s right side. Chinese Gordon, he remembered, was right-handed. “There wasn’t much choice, Chinese. You would have done the same thing. He wouldn’t leave without it.”

Immelmann stood beside the van, smiling. “I know after you think about it you’ll see I was right. He’s a great animal.”

Chinese Gordon looked up at him and spoke very slowly. “Magnificent. I’m surprised he hasn’t broken out of that trailer yet, a fine animal like that. It must be an off day for him, with all the travel and excitement. Have you thought about what you’re going to do when he does?”

Immelmann stared at the ground, looking annoyed. “You’re a hard man, Chinese. I just spent the night being chased around town by every cop in southern California because the king of the bean bandits gave you his secondhand newspaper instead of wrapping garbage in it, and now you decide it’s time to be an asshole. All I ask for is the kind of favor you’d do for your fifteenth cousin twice removed.”

Kepler spoke from somewhere to his right and slightly behind him, and Chinese Gordon wondered how he’d gotten way over there. “Fact is, Chinese, we’ve got the damned thing. I don’t know what we can do but see if Immelmann’s right. If we have to whack it out I’d rather do it here than in public.”

Chinese Gordon nodded. “I’ve got four steaks up in the refrigerator.”

“Thanks, Chinese,” said Immelmann, and bounded up the stairs toward Chinese Gordon’s living quarters.

“What do you think, Chinese?” said Kepler. “We could lace one of the steaks with rat poison just in case the first three don’t cheer him up.”

“Immelmann?”

“No, for Christ’s sake. The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“I don’t keep poison around. Doctor Henry Metzger handles that kind of thing. Sometimes he brings me the heads and feet as a present. He seems to think it’s funny. It’s enough to make you faint—little tiny pink hands…”

“That’s okay,” said Kepler, screwing the silencer onto the barrel of his pistol. “It’s better to go quick anyway. I’d just hate to miss and have bullets bouncing around in here.”

Chinese Gordon was about to answer, but Immelmann was coming down the stairs waving the steaks.

“Okay,” Kepler said. “Here’s what it looks like to me. We rig the door with a rope. We all go up the steps, give the rope a tug and let him out. Then we give him a steak or two and see if we can work out a deal with him.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Immelmann. “That’s probably the way he’s been fed before.”

“What’s to keep him from going up the stairs and taking your leg off?” said Chinese Gordon.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Immelmann. “A dog can’t climb a ladder.”

“Oh no,” Chinese Gordon said.

“Don’t be so damned lazy.” Immelmann examined the wooden steps. “We could take off this bottom section whole and put it back afterward. A couple of new four-by-fours and it’ll be stronger than it is now.”

Kepler and Immelmann, working with crowbars, pried out the spikes and moved the bottom section of the steps aside. Then Kepler wedged a short section of a two-by-four between the handles of the trailer door, tied Chinese Gordon’s clothesline to it, and they all climbed the ladder to the balcony. Chinese Gordon sat in silence in his kitchen while the others worked, consulting loudly about the best way of tying the knots, when to pull, what to do next.

When the two stopped talking, Chinese Gordon knew it was time. He walked to the balcony and peered over the edge as Immelmann tugged the clothesline and the two-by-four clattered to the floor.

The trailer door swung open and the huge black dog leaped out, already running. His teeth were bared and his eyes wild as he dashed about the shop. He never barked. The only sound was the deep “huff-huff-huff” of his panting in anticipation of the horror he longed to perpetrate.

When Kepler saw him he seemed even worse than the night before. In the dark he’d hoped his imagination had added something to the size and maybe even more to the ferocity of the beast. He said, “You’re sure dogs can’t climb ladders? That is, no dog can climb a ladder?”

The dog looked up at the three men and bared his teeth still more, uttering a long, low growl.

Immelmann tossed a steak down to him. It made a wet, flapping sound as it hit the pavement beside the animal’s feet, but the dog didn’t look at it. Instead the dog made a leap for the end of the steps that Immelmann and Kepler had left intact. His forepaws almost touched the last step. He gave a low rumble of frustration and tried again. This time Kepler heard a toenail scrape on wood and felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. “What do you think? Shall we fire a warning shot across his bow?”

“It’ll only piss him off,” said Immelmann. “We don’t want to make him think we’re scared of him or he won’t respect us.”

“You’d have to be a moron not to be scared of that thing,” said Kepler. “For Christ’s sake, it doesn’t even look like a dog.”

“It’ll eat in a minute, and then we’ll try to talk to it,” Immelmann said.

Doctor Henry Metzger had watched the black dog and the men long enough. He spent some time cleaning his fur, then decided to investigate the broad, smooth surface of the unfamiliar trailer. He jumped off the balcony and landed with a light thud on the roof of the van.

Chinese Gordon, Kepler, Immelmann, and the dog all jerked their heads toward the van in unison. “No,” said Chinese Gordon. Doctor Henry Metzger looked at him without interest, then crouched and leaped to the roof of the trailer.

The dog walked slowly toward the trailer, his forelegs stiff, his eyes on the cat. “I guess this has gone on long enough,” Kepler said, flicking the safety on his pistol.

It was Chinese Gordon who said, “Wait.”

Doctor Henry Metzger crouched at the edge of the trailer roof and peered down at the dog, motionless. The dog slowly lifted his head and sat down, his tongue like a long slice of ham hanging out. In a movement like lightning, the cat was on the ground. The dog fell backward and ran around behind the van, but Doctor Henry Metzger shot under the van, and both disappeared from view. Kepler was poised with his arm steadied on the railing, the pistol aimed at a spot a foot beyond the van’s grille, waiting, but neither animal reappeared.

There was no sound. At last, Doctor Henry Metzger walked slowly into view and sat down to lick his paws. Then he noticed the steak a few feet away and trotted over to examine it. In a few seconds he was trying with little success to nibble off bits of it.

The dog walked around the rear of the van and approached Doctor Henry Metzger. When the dog was still six feet away he lay down on the pavement and rolled over on his back. The three men stood in shocked immobility as Doctor Henry Metzger sauntered over to the great black beast and then walked back with it to the steak. The dog clapped its big jaws onto the slab of beef, tearing and grinding it happily.

When Doctor Henry Metzger decided it was time to tour the inside of the horse trailer, the big dog dropped the steak and followed. While Doctor Henry Metzger prowled about the trailer, the dog sat outside, waiting. When Doctor Henry Metzger was satisfied that he knew what there was to know about the trailer, he and the dog returned to finish the steak.

Immelmann climbed down the ladder cautiously, the second steak clamped under his arm. As his foot hit the floor the dog poised for a spring, his teeth bared. Doctor Henry Metzger walked up to Immelmann and rubbed his body against Immelmann’s leg, purring, and the dog sat down. Then, unaccountably, as though from some dim memory, the great black dog rose on its haunches, its big jaws open, and begged.

11
                  
Margaret’s long brown hair lay in swirls and arabesques around her head on the pillow. It was a sight that made Chinese Gordon’s eyes water in joy, admiration, awe. He even detected a slight impulse toward gratitude but decided that probably wasn’t normal and concentrated on the marvelous, smooth white shape, the sheer beauty of her. It struck him as miraculous. He was chosen, for the moment, at least, to be in possession of the most beautiful thing on earth.

He leaned down and kissed her eyelids, softly. The lashes fluttered slightly and then the clear green eyes opened and stared at him. “Chinese, have you—uh—done something?”

“Nothing that compares with this. You could be a movie star, or at least a model or something.”

“I know. I could have been a contender. Cut it out and tell me what you’ve been doing.”

Chinese Gordon lay down beside her, teasing himself with the feel of her warmth, her skin. “Nothing much. You met Doctor Henry Metzger’s dog. If it is a dog.”

“He’s sweet. Every cat should have a two-hundred-pound dog. But what else? Chinese, you have the work habits of a snake. You swallow an animal whole and then hibernate for months. At the moment I don’t see any of your playmates, and all of a sudden you’re getting that self-satisfied look again.”

Chinese Gordon stared at the ceiling. “Mr. Gordon’s smugness remains a mystery. Mr. Gordon could not be reached for comment.”

“Just tell me this much: Are you in danger? I mean, this time have you and your merry men signed up to go to some country that smells like cow dung and teach little brown people how to murder each other, or did you just swindle somebody?”

“Neither. I plan to stay here, marry you, keep you pregnant all the time, get fat, the whole thing.”

Margaret sat up, and Chinese Gordon knew he couldn’t keep from staring at her breasts, so he didn’t try. She reached to the dresser for her cigarettes, lit one, and turned away. Chinese Gordon kissed the back of her neck, but she went on. “Okay, smartass. I’ve got it figured out. I read the papers before I came here. I knew something was coming, but I had hoped it might be something legal, or at least minor. I do that, you know—read the papers before I see you. Did you know there were over sixteen hundred bank robberies in southern California last year? I think I read all sixteen hundred, just to see if—”

“Bank robberies? What the hell are you—”

“That’s what I figured you’d do when you finally got bored enough.”

“That’s insulting, Margaret. The only people who rob banks are addicts and psychotics.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve figured it out. Just tell me, should I be expecting the police to burst in here any minute, or what? If so, I’d like to get dressed.”

“No.”

“What are you going to do with the cocaine?”

Chinese Gordon picked up his silver Rolex watch and squinted at it. “Pretty soon I’ll get a call with an offer for it. The offer will be lousy, but that’s no problem. You might say I’ve got Los Angeles by the nose.”

Margaret puffed on the cigarette and slowly blew smoke toward the ceiling. “I once read an article that said antisocial behavior peaked at age seventeen. I wonder what you were like at seventeen.”

“Let’s see…I guess I was in the army. That was the year after the Tonkin Gulf thing, and the big deal was ‘interdiction.’ That’s what they called it. They’d fly a few little groups of us in helicopters to spots on the Ho Chi Minh Trail they called ‘chokepoints’ and then pick us up before it got dark. Since nothing ever moved on the trail before sunset, it wasn’t too bad. I wasn’t yet the world’s greatest lover—I don’t think I actually got the championship officially until I was a little older and more sensitive.”

The telephone rang, and Chinese Gordon slowly got out of bed, still talking. “Youth and enthusiasm count for something, of course, but if I remember correctly, it was only when I was twenty-five or so that the United Nations Sex-master General sent a bipartisan commission to—.” He picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Congratulations, Mr. Gordon.” The voice was Jorge Grijalvas’s.

Chinese Gordon said, “Well, thank you, but I’m not really interested in buying anything over the telephone. You people always say I’ve won something and then I have to buy a bunch of aluminum siding or go to hear a sales pitch in a hotel dining room. Good-bye.” He hung up and kept talking but stood beside the telephone. “—to study what the British delegate, Lady Bunsworthy, called my ‘prowess.’” He ducked the pillow, which thudded against the wall, picked up the telephone, and walked out into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

The telephone rang again and he said, “Yes?”

“This is Jorge Grijalvas, Mr. Gordon.”

“Oh, hi,” said Chinese Gordon. “What can I do for you?”

“Let’s not waste time. You have it, and I’m making an offer. Two hundred thousand cash.”

“Sorry. You’ve got the wrong number.”

Grijalvas hesitated. “Isn’t this seven-six-nine—”

Chinese Gordon interrupted. “No, the other number.”

Grijalvas chuckled. “I can take it, but this is simpler.”

“You’re welcome to try,” said Chinese Gordon. “Fair’s fair, after all. That’s how I got it. You’ve got twenty-four hours to make me a decent offer. After that it’ll be gone.”

“Don’t make me laugh. Who else can pay even that?”

“According to the last poll I took, there were only three people in Beverly Hills who wouldn’t. Two of them have asthma, and the other has an artificial nose—a terrible war accident, you know. Bitten off by a prostitute in Marseilles.”

“What do you want for it?”

“The police assessed it at a million. That’d be enough.”

“Surely you know that the papers exaggerate these things. And what do I get out of it at that price?”

“Something to mix with your powdered sugar and baking soda for the suckers.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Always nice to hear from you.” Chinese Gordon hung up and went back into the bedroom. “Where was I? Oh, yes. The United Nations. The whole issue was put best by Colonel Anna Liebchen of the East German Luftpizzle when she said—moaned, actually—”

“Where did you get this, Chinese?” Margaret was lying on her stomach on the bed, staring at something in front of her.

“No, what she said was—”

“Shut up. This is crazy.”

Chinese Gordon walked to the bed. He could see now that she had the box open, and sheets of paper were scattered on the pillow. “You shouldn’t snoop, you know.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I haven’t had time to do any reading in the past couple days. First there was Immelmann and his evolutionary freak of a dog, then I had our financial future to think about.”

“Where did it come from?”

“I liberated it while I was taking a plunge in the pharmaceutical industry the other night at the university. It’s probably not worth anything, but while I was there two guys were making some kind of deal on a security system, so I thought I’d check it out. That was the only thing that had a lock on it, so here it is. Most likely it’s a statistical study of the incidence of venereal disease in sixteenth-century nuns.”

“The hell it is. You got this at the university? In some professor’s office? Jesus!”

“Well, one of them had to be a professor. He was too pompous to be anything else. The other one looked like a salesman. What’s the big deal? Does it look like it’s worth something?”

Margaret rolled over to face him, still clutching several pages. “Tell me, Chinese, does ‘psywar’ mean what it sounds like?”