Azrael (24 page)

The setup was what Joe had figured all along—somebody trying to force Mrs. Hudson into doing something. Trotter and Joe had been talking. Trotter had said he was impressed with the setup.

“I called for it yesterday,” Rines said.

“Before you talked to me?”

Rines smiled. Joe had been surprised to see it. Hadn’t thought a smile would fit Rines’s face, somehow. “I knew how that was going to turn out. I also figured the best time to make our move right after the next demand, and I wanted to be sure to know when it happened. So I called for the Congressman’s little toy.”

“And it came?”

“Oh, sure. The old man had told everybody who counted in the Agency that if anything happened to him, they should take orders from me. Or you.”

“One of the reasons I’ve always hated him is his penchant for thinking of everything.”

“Pitching you in without water wings, I know.” Rines tightened his lips, then said, “Her bodyguard’s being killed has made it easier for us—she stays at the office now. We’ve got any phone she could conceivably get to covered, and we’ve got computer descramblers if she somehow finds a coded phone. We’re intercepting her mail, and if she gets a telegram, we’ll know about it before she does. We’re getting photographs of anyone she meets and running checks on them right away.”

“What if somebody passes her a note?” Joe had found himself asking.

Rines gave that smile again. Joe suppressed a shudder.

“We’ve got a man inside,” Rines said. “A plumber. There was suddenly a lot of trouble with the plumbing yesterday. How did you think the bugs were planted?” He hadn’t waited for an answer, which made Joe just as glad. Instead, he turned to Trotter and said, “I only hope we don’t wind up sitting in this parking lot for three days waiting for the Russians to move.”

“They won’t,” Trotter said. “They thought taking care of Smolinski would remove a problem for them. I put it back in their laps. With the heat on about that, and, for all they know, Regina dead, they’re going to want to get the Hudson Group sewn up as soon as possible. They’ve got to figure they’re going to need it.”

And that’s when it had hit him. Trotter had “dumped it back in their laps.” He had probably made a lot of Americans good and mad.
Too
goddam good and mad. And all Rines was worried about was a junior Special Agent saying “fucking” in public, if a bunch of zombies with headsets plugging their ears and their eyes glued to green scopes counted as public.

“Don’t worry, Joe,” Trotter told him calmly. Even
he
had an earplug. “There won’t be a war.”

“Maybe not. But the press has hold of this already—”

“That’s why there won’t be a war. Listen to this.” He pulled the earplug from his ear, wiped it thoroughly on his pants, and handed it to Joe. Joe wasn’t crazy about the idea of a used earplug, but he decided Trotter looked clean enough, and stuck it in.

He expected to hear terse voices speaking arcane codes in reassuring tones. What he got instead was the local all-news radio station. “... doubtful the KGB did in fact commission Smolinski’s death. The Soviet news agency, TASS, as well as official Polish government sources, say that Smolinski was executed by the CIA, who were afraid he was going to redefect. No U.S. Government source who would comment on the charges could be found. In Europe, American allies urged caution—”

“Enough?” Trotter asked.

Joe pulled the plug from his ear. “Sure,” he said. “You knew this was going to happen?”

“As well as I know the sun will come up in the east tomorrow. It used to be you got a couple of days before the media tore the guts out of the American side of anything. Now you’ve got a grace period of maybe two hours. If that. I refer you to the Libya raids. The American planes hadn’t landed yet, and we were getting Russians on network shows telling us what bastards we were. And, my, wasn’t there a lot about Qaddafi’s daughter. I just thank God the public has enough brains to know that if we
were
as corrupt and evil as most of the media makes us out, bastards like Qaddafi would be dead and these high-priced reporters would be in jail.”

“But in this case,” Albright pointed out, “they’re right. Sort of.”

“No, they’re totally wrong. It was still the Russians who killed him. I just brought things out into starker relief. So they couldn’t ignore the truth completely and say Smolinski committed suicide in despair at the state of American culture or something. This way, at least, we’ve got one person—this Mrs. Szczeczko—who is
sure
the KGB did it, and a lot more people who think they
might
have, because the media had to spend an hour or so acting like they really believed it.”

“It hardly seems fair. They make such a big thing out of being impartial.”

“Come on, Joe. Did you ever meet a reporter who didn’t have his mind made up about any issue you could think of? Also, there’s more money in bad news. That’s what this is all about, Joe. Petra Hudson has kept the Hudson Group papers clear of the bandwagon. They’re a ‘conservative voice.’ The idea has to be for Borzov to swing them left at the right time.”

“And this is the right time.”

“Damn soon.”

“Why?”

“Something in the works. Something big.”

“What could be bigger than this? I see figures that say the Hudson Group subsidiaries reach almost a hundred million people.”

Trotter gave him a bland look. “Scary, isn’t it?”

Joe never got the chance to answer. One of the technicians said, “Mr. Rines.” Joe had to admit he did not sound like a zombie. He sounded like a robot.

“Put it on the monitor,” Rines said.

“... at last ready to agree to perform your duty?” The voice on the monitor could have belonged to the technician’s brother.

“Where—where is my daughter?”

“Mrs. Hudson, you still have your son. For the time being. You personally have been spared because you can still fulfill your duty, but our patience is not inexhaustible.”

“You son of a bitch! You’ve killed my daughter, do you think I care what you do to me?”

“There is still your son.”

Joe had to admire both their techniques. Joe knew (now) that Regina Hudson was tucked safely away in a hospital, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t, and the accusation was an attempt to get confirmation. The caller was pretty sure Regina
was
dead, but he was admitting nothing.

“You have thirty seconds, Mrs. Hudson.”

Rines said, “Can we trace this call?”

Trotter’s face said why bother. “New York,” he suggested. “Washington. One of the embassies. They’re not going to make a call like this from anyplace the government can raid.”

“New York or Washington look like good guesses, Mr. Rines,” one of the technicians said. He punched a few buttons. “South and east of here, at any rate. We’ll have it for you in a few minutes.”

Petra Hudson was taking every one of her thirty seconds. Everybody in the truck waited with her. Finally, she said, “I’ll do what you say.”

“Good, good,” Trotter said.

The robot voice spoke from New York or Washington. “You will receive instructions.” There was a click, very loud, over the monitor, as the connection was broken. Joe thought he heard a sob from Mrs. Hudson before she hung up, but he wasn’t sure.

Joe turned to Trotter. “Okay, I’m just a simple little FBI man from the backwoods of the Northwest, but I don’t see what’s good about it. She just said she’d do what they wanted, didn’t she?”

“It’s
why
she said it, though. It means she’ll do what
we
want.”

Joe thought it over for a second. “Not if anything happens to her son. You’d better keep an eye on Junior.”

“We’re watching him,” Rines said. Joe thought, God, what a set of rabbit ears. “Junior,” Rines went on, “is being watched by six men. He’s safe as a church.”

“I hope so,” Joe said.

“In fact, he’s
in
a church.”

“M
R. NELSON?”

Will Nelson gave the bolt one more turn with the big-bladed screwdriver, then slid out from under the pew. “Oh,” he said, “hello, Jimmy. I’m just tightening up the benches, you know, or they creak. I could barely hear my own sermon last Sunday.”

Jimmy Hudson did not smile. “It—it looks like a big job.”

“I don’t mind. Mike was going to help me. Do you know Mike? Helps out here part-time.”

“I’ve seen him around.”

“But he had a chance to go over to the lake and help some fellow get his boat in for the winter. Seems to me he’s about a month late, wouldn’t you think? The pay was half again what the church could afford to give him, so I told him to go ahead. Besides, it’s kind of fun sliding around on the marble floor. Undignified without a good excuse.”

“I’d think it would be cold.”

“Cold it is. Come on over to the house, I’ll make us some hot chocolate, and you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

Jimmy looked miserable. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble. And I don’t want to take you away from your work.”

Will put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Look. For one thing, it’s no trouble. I want some myself. For another thing, I’m done with this section. I’ll get to the rest some other time, or when Mike gets back. And, finally, the Scripture says, ‘Whenever two or more of you are gathered in My Name, there I am among you.’ It doesn’t say anything about pews, creaking or otherwise. People are the business I have to attend to first. I can tell by looking at you that you’ve got something on your mind that’s so heavy, it’s mashing you flat. Am I right?”

“I wanted to get your advice,” Jimmy admitted cautiously.

“Then come over to the kitchen and I’ll give you as much as you want.”

The house was right next door. Will had always thought it was the kind of accommodation a congregation with their head on right provided for the preacher. Everything in it was well built and well cared for; none of it was fancy. Too many places tried to impress—the world? God?—tried to impress whoever with their prosperity as indicated by the sumptuousness of the preacher’s house. Others seemed to get the idea that their minister should be a living symbol of the mortification of the flesh. The people of Kirkester realized that their spiritual leader was simply a human being with a job to do. Fanciness was unnecessary; poverty-for-show made the job harder. Will Nelson’s stay in Kirkester was going to be over soon—nothing definite, but he’d had a letter from Mr. Nethercott, the regular preacher, saying that his son was much improved, and that he might be able to start thinking about coming home in a month or so. Will would hate to leave. He liked to think he’d accomplished a lot here.

Still, he knew it wouldn’t have been possible without the good work Mr. Nethercott had already done here. And he knew when he’d first come the work would only be temporary. But he’d always remember the town with affection.

He took Jimmy’s jacket and hung it up in the hall closet, then led the way to the kitchen. He liked the kitchen, too. Big and homey, with a solid, black-enameled wooden table in the middle of it. He told Jimmy to sit, got cocoa powder and sugar and milk, measured, mixed, and put the pot on the stove over low heat.

“My wife is doing her weekly visiting,” Will said. He stirred with a wooden spoon.

“I’m sorry to miss her.”

“She’ll be back soon.”

Jimmy Hudson looked at his hands. Will decided to let him get to the topic in his own good time. In fact, he decided, it might be a good idea to give him a little while to think about it.

“Jim,” he said. “Would you mind watching the pot for a few seconds?”

“I wouldn’t mind, I just wouldn’t know what to do. The cook makes all the hot chocolate at my mother’s house.”

“You’re a college boy, right? I think you can master it.” Jimmy came over and joined him at the stove; Will showed him. “See? Figure-eight, then around the edge, keep the spoon touching the bottom of the pan. If it starts to steam, give a yell.”

Jimmy took over. Will watched him for five seconds, then said he was a natural, which elicited a smile from the young man. Will took the stairs two at a time, went to the bedroom and changed the jeans and plaid shirt he’d been working in for a pair of dark gray wool trousers, a black jacket, and his dog collar with a royal blue yoke. Then he looked in the mirror and thought about the demands of his ministry. He’d always known what his duty was, and now his duty was to take a risk, if it meant helping Jimmy Hudson.

“Mr. Nelson!”

“I’m coming.” When he got to the kitchen, he sniffed and smiled. “Smells good.” He got some marshmallows and put them in cups. He put the cups on the table, then poured.

“Sit down, Jim,” he said. He slurped some chocolate and melted marshmallow off the top of his cup. “I had to put on my preacher suit in case anyone shows up.”

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“Not a soul. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”

Jimmy took a sip from his own cup. “Hot,” he said.

“That’s the idea. Hot chocolate.”

“You sound just like my father. I think. I don’t remember him really well, but I seem to recall his saying things like that. Or maybe it’s just that right now I feel like a kid.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” the Reverend Mr. Nelson wanted to know.

“I don’t feel happy like a kid or innocent like a kid. I’m upset and afraid like a kid.”

“And angry, too.”

“Is it that obvious? At school, I have a reputation of being cool.”

“It’s not
that
obvious, I just have a lot of experience.”

“And I have a lot of anger. And hate.”

“Hatred of whom?”

“Allan Trotter. I don’t suppose it’s much of a surprise.”

Will sipped his chocolate. “Why do you think you hate him?”

“It’s not that I think it, Mr. Nelson. It’s a fact.”

“This is where I’m supposed to tell you that hate is a serious business.”

“Don’t you think I know that? That’s why I’ve
come
here!”

Will smiled, just a little sadly. “They don’t hand out magic wands with this job, you know. But I’ll help you all I can.”

“He killed Hannah,” Jimmy said.

“Only if your sister is lying.”