Recoil. Part 40

"So am I. But then I'm paying for the call so I suppose we'd better keep it short. I'm not exactly rolling in money these days."

"Walter, did Glenn Bradleigh give you any idea what this is about?"

"Very vague. Very vague. Enough to make it sound interesting. He said you were trying to pull something that might force the boys to leave us alone. He didn't say any more than that but he said it often enough that I got curious. That's why I'm here."

"I think we've rigged up a foolproof trap," Mathieson said. "It'll take your help to spring it."

"Well now wait a minute, just what does that include?"

"About one day of your time. That's all. I'll want you to fly to a place-not New York, it'll be Pennsylvania. Fly there, I'll meet you. We'll need you for about three hours. Then we'll take you back to the airport. I have no interest in knowing where you're coming from or where you go from there."

"Very mysterious. I don't like mysteries much."

"I can't tell you exactly what it involves until you agree to come in with us."

"Who's 'us'?"

"I have some a.s.sociates working with me. No names, Walter."

"They know my name, don't they?"

"Walter Benson is the only name they know. I have no idea what name you're using now and neither do they. This has nothing to do with Bradleigh's office. It's a private matter between the four of us and the people who've been trying to find us. There won't be any publicity."

"Well Bradleigh did say this was something you'd cooked up yourself. He said he wasn't taking any responsibility, just relaying a message."

"That was the truth."

"This three hours you want out of my life. What's the risk?"

"No more risk than you'd stand by traveling anywhere."

"The way things are, that's pretty risky by itself."

"Bradleigh has agreed to provide a private plane. He'll fly you in and out. There won't be any airline reservations on the record."

"It sounds pretty cute but I'm leery. You can understand that. Can't you tell me anything at all about what I'll be expected to do?"

"Mainly wait around while we focus a movie camera," Mathieson said. "I need you on a few feet of film that we're going to show to the other side. Now if you've made any changes in your appearance, I'd like you to be ready to change back to your old self as much as you can-we'll want them to recognize you as the old Walter Benson. I don't know what you look like now so I can't suggest what it may require. Hair dye, a wig, a shave, whatever."

"I'm ten years older and twenty pounds heavier. I can't exactly strip that away overnight."

"Just so you feel they'll recognize you."

"What do we do in this home movie? Thumb our noses at the camera?"

"Something like that."

"If I didn't know you I'd think this was some kind of very bad practical joke."

"Believe me it isn't."

"No, you aren't the type. But you haven't convinced me it's in my interests to go along with it."

"It's got a d.a.m.n good chance of getting them off our backs permanently, Walter. And if it doesn't work you haven't lost anything. I'm paying all expenses."

He could hear Benson breathing into the phone through his mouth. The man was very nervous. "When would this be?"

"Next Sunday. Nine days from now. Nine November. You come in the morning, you go out the same afternoon. I don't know how far away you are but you should be able to do the whole trip the same day, or break it up if you prefer. That's between you and Bradleigh-he's handling the travel arrangements. All I'm concerned with is that you show up at the Scranton-Wilkes-Barre airport at twelve noon on Sunday the ninth."

"Wait a minute, I'm writing it down. Scranton-Wilkes-Barre, nine November Sunday, twelve noon. You'll be there in person?"

"That's right. You'll recognize me."

"What about Draper and John Fusco, you talked to them?"

"Not yet. They're due to call this afternoon."

"Be like old home week," Benson said without audible enthusiasm. "Look, level with me, you really think this has a chance?"

"A d.a.m.n good chance. When you get there I'll tell you."

"How soon will we know whether it's worked or not?"

"Six weeks maybe." Mathieson gripped the handle of the booth's door. He closed his eyes. "How about it-you think you'll make it, Walter?"

"I've been running my a.s.s off, I got shot in the back, I'm still hiding like some hermit out here. Why the h.e.l.l not. I'll be there."

When he hung up and left the booth Mathieson was smiling. The other two would be easier: He'd be able to tell them Benson had already agreed to it. That would carry weight with them.

4.

Fusco was no trouble: Fusco had always been a fighter. It was Draper who gave him a few bad minutes but finally he brought Draper around with the promise of security.

He had arranged to take the three calls in lobby booths in the three luxury hotels cl.u.s.tered around Fifth Avenue and Central Park South-the Plaza, the Pierre and the Sherry-Netherland-and afterward he walked to the St. Regis to make his fourth call; there was no reason to walk the extra blocks-there were ample public telephones-but it suited his sense of compositional balance. He realized that Vasquez was right: He was making talismans out of everything, the way a child was careful never to step on a crack in the sidewalk.

The call from the St. Regis was to Bradleigh's office. Bradleigh wasn't there. He was expected Monday.

Mathieson tried Bradleigh's home phone. He got an answering machine. Mathieson identified himself, said he would call back Sat.u.r.day evening at six.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

New JerseyNew York: 16 November

1.

HE DROVE TO THE LAKE HOUSE AND LET HIMSELF IN. VASQUEZ and Homer were in New York for the day doing surveillance on Pastor and his family. Mathieson found Roger in the house fiddling with lamps, taking experimental footage with the Arriflex. The living room had a cathedral ceiling and high gla.s.s doors across the length of one wall: They gave a view of most of the lake.

Roger was bundled in sweater and jacket. "My feet are colder'n a witch's t.i.ttie."

"Try a bucket of hot water."

"You talk like my grandma. You get Bradleigh all right?"

"It's all set. Any trouble with the camera?"

"No. Go set in that chair, let me take a bead on you and run a few frames, we'll see how the lighting works out."

Mathieson sat down with the Times and let Roger photograph him from various angles, moving the tripod clumsily around the room and zooming the lens in and out. Mathieson said, "You've got both black-and-white and color, right?"

"Right. High-speed color, the new stuff. Otherwise we'd need klieg lights all over the place."

"These two kinds of film, they're compatible? I mean they can be spliced together?"

"Sure. Same sprockets, same sound-on-film tracks. We use the same splicer on everything. It'd go easier with a Movieola but it would've cost a fortune and I couldn't find one to rent. We'll make out with what we've got."

"You've got a week to practice. Get it right."

"Old horse, time I get through with this even old Jack Ford would be proud of me."

"Or rolling over in his grave." Mathieson put the newspaper down. "It's time we wrote the script for the first piece of film."

"You write the script, old horse, I'll direct it."

"We'll both write it. It's got to be right."

"Go ahead. I'll take a peek over your shoulder now and then."

"We've got four days," Mathieson said. "Thursday, as they say in the vernacular, the s.n.a.t.c.h goes down."

"Why Thursday in particular?"

"Because it's her birthday."

2.

She let her mind drift; under the dryer she neither read nor spoke. Alexandre returned after forty-five minutes and lifted the cone off her head and removed the curlers and began to brush her hair out. "Glorious," he intoned with professional cheer. "Madam is a vision."

She inspected herself critically in the mirrors. "It's nice, Alexandre. A really fine job."

"Thank you. I'm thrilled that madam is pleased."

He helped her into her full-length suede coat. She gave him a smile that seemed to brighten his day; he went to the door and held it for her.

It was another of those crystal fall days and she blinked when the brightness. .h.i.t her eyes; she found the sungla.s.ses in her handbag and put them on.

The limousine was not at the curb; there were no parking s.p.a.ces. She looked at her watch: 11:40. She'd told Belmont to pick her up at a quarter to twelve. She looked down the length of Madison and didn't see it anywhere; probably he was waiting double-parked in a side street-Belmont was always punctual, it was what he was paid for. She window-shopped antiques and paintings for a few minutes, not really looking at them. She was still thinking about the child. Frank Junior. She still heard Frank's laughter last night: Let's hope the kid has your looks and your brains. She caught her own smile in the window's reflection-and behind it she saw the long Mercedes draw up.

She crossed the curb toward it; Belmont was just getting out, starting to come around the car to open the door for her; people straggled by along the sidewalk, topcoated against the chill; two men were coming toward her, deep in animated conversation, and she hurried briskly across their path toward the car. She stepped off the curb between two parked cars and suddenly the two men crowded against her.

"Anna-Anna Pastor, isn't it?"

The voice was vaguely familiar and she turned with a polite hesitant half-smile. Belmont came around the back of the limousine and she glanced at him. Then she froze. It wasn't Belmont.

The man who had spoken was reaching amiably for her arm. Something glinted in his hand. She drew back instinctively but his companion moved in closer and when she took a backward step she felt hard fists grip her by both arms from behind: the man who wasn't Belmont.

She opened her mouth but the taller man, the bearded one, said in a low voice, "Honey, I wouldn't do that was I you. You could get hurt real bad."

In a terrified confusion she glanced down. The man who had spoken first-the one with the moustache and gla.s.ses-had a firm grip on her right arm and now for the first time she saw the syringe clearly.

There was no time to react, no time for anything. The needle plunged into the soft web of skin between her thumb and forefinger. All three men held her tightly: She couldn't move. The bearded man loomed, screening her from the curb. A bus went by with a swis.h.i.+ng roar, filling the air with a noxious stink. The man behind her had something against her mouth-a handkerchief, she thought dispa.s.sionately. To keep me from screaming. It all went so fast ...

They were pus.h.i.+ng her into the car. She kept waiting for a shout of discovery from the people crowding past on the sidewalk.

She found herself in the back seat between the two tall men. The man in the chauffeur's uniform got in behind the wheel. The doors shut, sealing her off from the world.

She cleared her throat. "What was in that needle?"

The man with the moustache said, "Sodium pentothal. It won't hurt you. You'll go to sleep for a while."

The voice: Finally she recognized it. She turned and stared in horror at the man with the moustache.

"Merle."

"Just take it easy, Mrs. Pastor. n.o.body's going to hurt you."