Assassin's Express (3 page)

Frost had slipped the Metalifed Browning High Power back into the Alessi rig under his suit jacket, but he held the Gerber MkI boot knife cupped in his left hand, the blade extending up his sleeve. He'd told the FBI man driving the cab that one wrong move would get Frost to hammer the knife into the man's kidney. Frost knew that was the last thing he would do, but didn't think the FBI man knew it.

They'd parked the cab in the lot and gone through the front entrance, taking the stairs to the third floor where Frost had gotten the man to admit Deacon's room was. Frost had opted for the stairs out of simple reason—he could be trapped less easily in a stairwell than in an elevator. But there was no trap—at least not yet—as Frost stepped through the stairwell door onto the third floor by the nurses' station. He could see a young uniformed L.A. police officer sitting in front of the room nearest the nursing station. Frost's eye gravitated to the duty belt—some type of stainless Smith & Wesson revolver in one of the Bianchi Break Front holsters.

Frost edged against the FBI man, the FBI man's three-inch-barreled Smith Model 13 long since stuck into Frost's waistband. “Let's go,” the one-eyed man rasped.

“You're nuts—that cop's gonna nail your—”

“Better hope he doesn't.” Frost smiled, already starting to walk; the FBI man—haltingly—walked with him.

They walked past the nurses' station, Frost smiling at the white-capped woman in a white pantsuit uniform. “Remember the drill,” Frost rasped to the FBI man.

“And what if I don't, Frost?”

Frost kept smiling. “I've got your gun, my gun, and this knife—maybe I won't get too far, but neither will you, that cop, anybody who tries to stop me.”

“Bite my—”

“You're not my type.” Frost laughed.

They stopped three feet away from the young black cop watching the door. Frost read the name tag—he couldn't believe his eye, blinked, and read it again; the tag read, FRIENDLY.

“Officer Friendly?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man answered, already on his feet.

“My name is Cullom—I'm with Special Agent Boyd here,” Frost told the police officer.

“That's, ahh, that's right, Officer Friendly,” the FBI man said, his voice sounding tight and strained. “Here's my I.D.—want to question Mr. Deacon if he's awake?”

“I think he is, sir,” the young black cop answered, taking the I.D. case a moment, scrutinizing it, then stepping aside from the door as he handed back the case.

Reaching out with his right hand, the left one concealing the knife still at his side, Frost almost shoved the FBI man ahead of him, as they started to the door. He got the doorknob in his fist, turned it, and letting the FBI man, Boyd, ahead of him, started through the door. Frost turned to Officer Friendly, “Ahh—please don't let anyone disturb us.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer smiled, stepping back behind Frost as Frost closed the door.

Frost could see Deacon sitting propped up on the bed, eyes closed, an i.v. tube leading out of his left arm; the arm was heavily bandaged.

Frost scanned the room, seeing no immediate evidence of closed-circuit television cameras.

“Now what?” The FBI man turned toward Frost who already had the little three-inch Smith .357 out in his right hand.

“Well?”

“Is he asleep?”

“How the hell should I know?” And Boyd, the FBI man, turned half-around to look at Deacon. As he did, Frost brought the round butt of the little revolver down right behind the FBI man's left ear.

“Sorry, pal,” Frost muttered, dropping the revolver into his suitcoat pocket and catching the FBI man under the armpits to keep him from hitting his head on the hard floor.

Frost dragged the man half-across the room, leaving black heel marks on the polished floor. He inched Boyd into a pink vinyl chair, the unconscious agent's head lolling forward onto the chest. Frost continued talking, as though Boyd were still conscious. “Looks like Deacon's asleep, Boyd—all this way for nothing. I want to wait a few minutes though and see if he wakes up.” As Frost talked—to himself—he searched the room, this time giving a more detailed look to make certain no cameras were present. To search without mechanical aid for optical fibers would have been too time consuming and the chances of total success would have been poor, Frost realized. He looked for microphones, too, still keeping up the imaginary conversation with the unconscious Special Agent Boyd. Deacon was starting to stir, his eyes opening, their lids fluttering.

Then Deacon turned his head, the eyes—a little bloodshot—wide open, staring at Frost. Frost touched a finger to his lips, gesturing him to silence, as he continued his conversation. “Let's give it a couple more minutes, Boyd—see if Deacon wakes up.” Frost rustled the pages of a magazine on the night stand beside Deacon's bed. “Here, Boyd, read a magazine—good for your mind.” Then Frost made a low grunt as if Boyd were saying something.

And then Frost found the microphone—in the nurse call switch beside Deacon's pillow, clipped to the end of the casing. Frost didn't touch the device; instead, silently, he eased Deacon's head up and slid the pillow from underneath it, then slowly, carefully cushioned the pillow over the microphone.

Frost looked at Deacon, smiled, and whispered, “I'd say it's good to see you, Andy, but that'd be a lie.”

“Frost—you came. Thank God.”

“Well, don't thank the FBI,” Frost murmured, gesturing toward Boyd. Frost handed Deacon Boyd's gun. “Here—when I leave, keep this guy covered if he starts to wake up too soon. Now what have you got yourself into?”

“I'll pay you twenty-five thousand bucks, Hank—twice what I should pay.”

“Fine—the money is nice, but I won't die without it. Now—what's up? Why the FBI, the CIA maybe, maybe some other people? Who shot you—who potshotted at me near the airport?”

“Then they're onto you!” Deacon exclaimed, wide-eyed. Frost studied the pupils briefly—dilated. Probably the medication, he thought.

His tone softening, Frost asked, “How are you doin'—I mean, you gonna be all right?”

“Yeah—in a few weeks I guess. I'm not gonna run any races for a while though,” and Deacon gestured feebly with his bandaged right hand toward his leg.

“What happened?”

“Three guys—I knew what they were out to do, a bag job, put the snatch on me to tell 'em where she was. So I forced the fight. I nailed one of the guys, but he got away—but if
I
was in bad shape, he was worse. Submachine gun did this to me,” and he made an expansive gesture with his bandaged right hand again, the hand dropping to his side on the bed.

“Why, Andy—what the hell has the FBI got out for you?”

“You ever hear of Calvin Plummer?”

Frost thought a moment. “Some guy with the CIA—right?”

“He heads a special, almost autonomous branch of the intelligence fraternity, loosely tied to Central Intelligence.” Frost felt like yawning at Deacon—he was sounding like an official report. “He runs deep-cover, covert-operations agents. It was decided several years ago that one man should be responsible for managing the deep-cover people, be responsible for them, have total authority for their operations. Well, Plummer is the guy. We haven't been doing too well in that field of covert operations, really. But Plummer's had this one girl planted in KGB now for five years, girl by the name of Jessica Pace, substituting for a KGB agent named Irena Pavarova. They're perfect duplicates for one another, identical to the smallest detail.”

“So?” Frost groaned.

“So—she's coming in from the cold.”

“Aww, cut the spy-story stuff, huh.” Frost moaned.

“All right—she's coming back from Russia—all right?”

Frost smiled. Deacon seemed to be getting his wind back.

“Anyway, she blew her own cover identity intentionally—she had to.”

“I don't follow you,” Frost complained.

“She found a list, Frost—that's why I'm in on this and they shot me, why they want her dead, why I need your help.”

“Who are they?” Frost asked slowly, then without waiting for an answer, pointed at Boyd, the FBI man. “They?”

Deacon—overly solemn Frost thought—nodded. “Some of them. The list is a master list stolen from Calvin Plummer's opposite number in the Soviet Union.” Frost groaned again at the spy-lingo double-talk-opposite number. “It's a list of all the double agents holding positions of trust and authority in the FBI and Central Intelligence Agency. And it's a big list, Hank—Plummer trusted me enough to tell me that.”

“Why didn't he give you a bulletproof vest instead of a merit badge?” Frost asked, feeling the corners of his mouth down-turning in a sour expression under his mustache.

“This is one of the greatest responsibilities any American could ever be trusted with, Hank,” Deacon said sincerely.

“So why are you trusting me with it?” Frost cracked.

Deacon didn't smile. “I need to get the job done, and I heard about Bess dying. I guess I figured I could trust your loyalty and your, ahh—”

Deacon was stammering; Frost felt his face getting hot, saying, “You figured if I had to die doing this it wouldn't bother me much—right?”

“No, I ahh—”

“Bullshit!”

“O.K.—they got me, they can get you. I needed somebody I could trust—the money's good, you're the mercenary, I thought that's what you looked for,” Deacon snapped.

Frost looked at his on-again, off-again boss from Diablo. “Yeah, the money's good, all right,” Frost whispered, still mindful of the mike covered with the pillow. “But it doesn't really matter, does it,” and Frost looked at the FBI man, Boyd, still unconscious on the chair. “After cold-cocking the fed, forcing him to get me in here—hell... The only way I can get out of goin' to the slam for thirty years is to get that broad—what's her name?”

“Jessica Pace,” Deacon said emotionlessly.

“... Jessica Pace where she's gotta go—isn't it?” Frost didn't wait for an answer. “And where is it she's gotta go, anyway?”

“To Washington—”

“D.C.?” Frost interrupted incredulously.

“Yeah—and all the airports, train stations—everything will be watched.”

“We walk, right?”

“Drive it out—the only way, I think.”

“Where's she to go in Washington—Plummer?”

“You'll notify him—but she goes straight to the President, reports only to him. Like I said, Hank—that list's got some big names on it.”

“What about these guys?” And Frost gestured toward the FBI man in the chair.

“My guess—and Plummer warned me it could happen—was the big guys in FBI and CIA put out some kind of cover story of their own on Jessica Pace. The ones who know who she is and what she's carrying in her head will be back of it, out to kill her and with whatever story they've got trumped up, probably have all the legitimate guys in both agencies gunning for her too. That's why Plummer called me—he knew me, trusted me, and admitted frankly that he didn't know who he could trust in the government—the list of traitors was so pervasive.”

“So all the way from here to Washington,” Frost began, his own voice sounding tired to him, “I'll have the FBI and the CIA on my tail.”

“And the KGB—they put a lot of effort into working those moles they got in the company and the bureau.”

“Moles,” Frost thought, saying it half-aloud. “Cut the spy crap, huh? So the KGB too,” Frost spit out in desperation.

“Yeah—the KGB, the FBI, and the CIA—all of 'em, and probably every local cop between here and there too.”

Frost started to say something, then looked at Deacon—he figured at least three more weeks in the hospital for the man, barring complications. Frost decided if there was one malady he was expert at, it was gunshot wounds. Then there was the FBI man—Boyd. Unintentionally, Frost had committed himself to the point where he couldn't just walk away from it anymore.

Throwing his hands up, walking across the room toward the window, he rasped, “All right!” Then, turning back to Deacon, “Where is she—give me all the poop on how to contact Plummer, too.”

Frost started back toward the bed, then stopped, looking Deacon square in the face. “How come with you here they haven't, ahh,” and Frost gestured in the air.

“Shot me up, squirted the truth drugs—couldn't without risking the local cops getting in on what Plummer told me. Oddly enough, I'm halfway safe here.”

I'm all smiles, Frost thought.

“Gimme a matchbook, Hank,” Deacon began.

Frost reached into his pockets with both hands, finding a half-dead matchbook from the airport restaurant where he'd boarded the jet. He handed it to Deacon.

“You got a pen?”