The Tomorrow File (46 page)

So it was decided that Paul and I, with the monitor, would park in the copse of trees bordering the road that ran in front of the Scilla plant. The trees, fortunately, were in the opposite direction from that Roach would probably take in arriving at the factory by taxi or rented car. The chances of his spotting and recognizing us were minimal. And our parking area was well within the claimed range of the TV camera transmitter.

Then we went over Seymour Dove’s role. Several times. I gave him a page of dialogue we had prepared: questions to ask Art Roach, the answers to which, we hoped, would implicate Angela

Berri. Dove was a quick study. He scanned the page swiftly, nodded, handed it back.

“All right,” Paul said. “Let’s try it. Pretend I’m Art Roach.” They went into the suggested dialogue:

Paul: “So you see, Mr. Dove, if you want that contract, it’ll cost you.”

Dove: “How much?”

Paul: “Ten percent.”

Dove: “Ten? My God, there goes my profit.”

Paul: “Not at all. If the contract figures out to a hundred thousand, bid a hundred and ten. You’ll get it. No loss to you. You get the hundred. We get the ten. Up front.”

Dove: “Up front? Jesus! How do I know I can trust you. No offense to you, but I’ve never seen you before. I’ve never even
heard
of you. You’re in Security and Intelligence. All my dealings up to now have been with Satisfaction Section.”

Paul: “Who did you deal with in SATSEC?”

Dove: “The last purchase order was signed by Nicholas Flair. But before that, it was Angela Berri.”

Paul: “That’s who you’re dealing with now.”

Dove: “Berri? But she’s Director of Bliss.”

Paul: “That’s right.”

Dove: “You mean she’s in on this?”

Paul: “She’s in all right. She’s your guarantee.”

Then Seymour Dove looked at me, troubled.

“Something wrong?” I asked him.

“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. “Look, I don’t want to damper this thing. I'll serve on it. You ems know what you’re doing. You know the objects concerned. But ...”

“But what?” Paul asked.

“I’ve been involved in deals like this before,” Dove said, shaking his head. “Believe me, it’s never that easy.”

“Well,” I said, “you know what we want. If Roach doesn’t follow the scenario, you’ll have to play it by ear.”

“That I can do.” He nodded.

I admired the em. He appeared to welcome the challenge. A new role at the San Fernando Playhouse. He was the star and would get great reviews. He had the unreasoning confidence of all actors.

We spent the following morning and early afternoon installing and testing the equipment. Paul and I picked up the monitor at the Chauncey Higgles, Ltd., warehouse on Sampson Street. Then we drove to our stakeout under the trees. Higgles delivered the fiddled television set to Scilla Pharmaceuticals in a van chastely marked “New World TV Service & Repair.” Seymour Dove had it positioned at one end of his long office, against the wall. The hidden camera covered practically the entire room. The image we received on the small monitor screen was remarkably detailed. Not as bright as I would have liked, but adequate. Sound reception was excellent.

Paul drove me back to the beachhouse, then left to put in an appearance at the Field Office and take Nancy Ching to dinner. I went for a swim, then walked down the road to a seafood restaurant and gnawed futilely at a rubberized abalone steak afloat in an oleaginous sauce. Finally I gave up, returned to the cottage, made two more prowurst sandwiches. I washed them down with vodka-and-Smacks, while watching a televised execution. A rapist-murderer was being hanged. It was messy. But I imagined the ratings would be lovable.

We were in position by 1430 the next day. Well off the road. Practically against the tree trunks. We had brought sandwiches and cans of Smack. Not so much to assuage hunger, but as an excuse for parking in case a highway patrol car stopped to look us over.

Paul sat in the back seat, tending the monitor. I sat up front, behind the wheel. I held the mike, on a short cord. We both watched the screen. Dove’s office was empty.

At 1440 an ef secretary came in and placed a folder on Seymour Dove’s desk. She scratched her ass before departing. I don’t believe either Paul or I smiled.

Dove entered the office about 1450. He came over to stand directly in front of the television set.

“Receiving?” he asked softly.

“Fine,” I said. Just as softly. “Picture and sound good.”

He stood motionless a moment.

"Would you like to see my impersonation of President Hilton?” He grinned.

“No, ” 1 said. It was the first time he had evidenced nervousness.

He went back behind his desk, sat down, began to scan papers in the folder the secretary had left.

1455.

1500.

1505.

Dove glanced once toward the TV set, seemed about to speak, then thought better of it.

At 1525, Dove’s desk flasher chimed. He switched it on. We could see no image on the flasher screen. It was obviously a phone call.

“Seymour Dove,” he said. His voice was steady and loud. We couldn’t hear the reply.

“Yes,” Dove said. “How are you, Mr. Roach? . . . Yes, sir, we’re all set and waiting for you ... I see . . . But what about the inspection? ... I see . . . Well, yes, of course . . .' When? . . . Yes, I can make it by then . . . of course . . . The Strake? Yes, I know where it is . . . Shall I ring your room? . . . Fine. See you then.”

He switched off the flasher. Sat a moment in silence. Rose heavily and came over to the TV set. He looked directly at the screen.

“It’s no-go,” he said. “He’s not coming out to inspect. He wants me to meet him at 1700 at the Strake Hotel.”

Paul and I stared at his miniature image on the TV monitor. Then we looked at each other. I wondered if my face was as pinched and drained as his.

I spoke into the mike: “We’ll drive down to the plant. Can you meet us just outside the gate? Across the road.”

“Sure,” he said. “Will do. Sorry, Nick.”

We moved down the road, pulled off into the shoulder opposite the Scilla gate. In a few moments Seymour Dove came out into the main building, walked down the graveled driveway.

“Sorry, Nick,” he repeated.

“Not your fault,” I said shortly. “I should have trusted your instinct. It
was
too easy.”

"Where are you meeting him ?" Paul asked. “His hotel room ?"’ 

“In the lobby,” Dove said. “At 1700. I suppose we’ll go someplace from there. Some safe place. His room, a restaurant, maybe just a ride. In
his
car. He’s cute.”

We were all silent. Trying to compute a way.

“Look,” Seymour Dove said finally, “you told me you brought a body-pack and some other trinkets from New York. Want to wire me and hope for the best?”

“Negative,” I said. “If he’s this cautious, he’s sure to be carrying or wearing a monitor. If he discovers you’re powered . . . well, just forget it. No, I think all you can do now is meet with him and see how much you can salvage from the scenario.”

“I’m willing to testify if you want him on extortion or bribery conspiracy.”

“Forget it,” I told him wearily. “Just your word against his. All it would accomplish would be to start them checking into the ownership of Scilla. That I can do without. How did he sound?” “Roach? Sharp, hard, no hesitation. He’s done this before.” “Shouldn’t wonder.” I sighed. “All right, meet him. Can you come out to the beachhouse later and fill us in?”

“Sure, Nick. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so after 1700. Unless he chisels a free dinner. I’ll get to you as soon as I leave him.”

Paul and I returned the TV monitor to the Higgles warehouse. Then we drove back to La Jolla Bay in silence. The beachhouse seemed airless and deserted. The sun was beginning a long, slow slide into the sea. From the porch we could see a few naked swimmers, a picnicking family group, a couple of nude efs suntanning on plastilume sheets. There were no birds.

I had bought a liter of lovable natural brandy. We were going to drink it to celebrate our triumph. We drank it to numb our defeat. The bottle was almost half-empty when Seymour Dove stalked in. He slammed the door behind him. He went directly to the brandy bottle, poured a glassful, drank it off the way I’d drink a glass of Smack. Then he looked at us.

“That em,” he said, “is one cold monkey.”

We said nothing. He took off his jacket, kicked off his sandals, slumped into a plastivas sling.

“You’ll never guess where he took me,” he said.

“Wait, wait,” I said hurriedly. “Don’t tell us. Let me compute this. I’ll tell you where you went.”

Suddenly it was important to me that I got this correct, that I could reason where a man like Art Roach would take a prospective victim to dictate terms. I reviewed everything I knew about Roach. Input, storage, retrieval.

“I’ll tell you,” I said. “He took you to a steam room or sauna. ” 

“My God,” Dove said. “You’re exactly right. A sauna. How did you know?”

"I know Roach, ” I said. Feeling better. “ He dotes on saunas and steam rooms. And where can you be certain the man you’re cutting isn’t wired? In a sauna or steam room, of course. Where you’re both bareass naked.”

“Well,” Dove said, “I’m glad you turned me down on the body-pack. I don’t know what he would have done if he had spotted it while we were undressing. And he was wearing a wrist monitor. I haven’t met many objects who scare me, but that em is one of them. Be careful of him, gentlemen. He bites.”

“How much did he want?” Paul asked.

“A modest five percent. I followed your scenario. He did, too—up to a point. I said five percent would kill my profit. He said to add it on the top. But he wanted the five percent up front. I asked what guarantee I had that if I paid the love, I’d get the contract. That’s when he departed from the script. He said the only way I could prove his sincerity—that’s the word he used: ‘sincerity’— was
not
to pay the love. Then I wouldn’t get the contract, and I’d know positively he hadn’t been scamming me. Beautiful?”

“He never mentioned Angela Berri?” I asked.

“Never. Not once. He implied he had complete rule of contract awards. He was the only object I had to deal with. No one else.” “How does he want the payoff?” Paul asked.

“If I agree to his terms, I go to Washington on October 20 and check into any hotel. I call him at the hotel where he lives—the Winslow on N Street. I act like an old friend unexpectedly in town, looking him up. He’ll give me instructions on delivery then.” “Uh-huh.” Paul nodded. “At a place of his choosing. And you’re to bring the love in cash. Small, untreated bills. Nothing larger than a twenty. In nonconsecutive serial numbers.” “However did you guess?” Dove said.

We all laughed. I don’t know why, but suddenly we all had the idea we were still alive.

“Well?” Dove asked. “Should I plan to be in Washington on October 20?”

"Sure,” I said. “With the love. I’ll be in touch with you or Simon Hawkley before that.”

We sat a few minutes after he left. I think what most pleased both of us, although we didn’t mention it, was that our basic premise had proved out: Roach was on the suck. And by reasonable inference, so was Angela Berri.

“Paul,” I said suddenly, “let’s get out of here. Let’s go back. Right now.” “Nick, we’ve got reservations on a morning flight.”

“So? Change them. Get on the flasher. See if there’s a flight tonight we can make. I’ve got to get moving. Even if it’s only from Point B to Point C.”

We made it, with minutes to spare. The jet was only one-quarter filled. In fact, there was only one other passenger in the first-class cabin. He had his left leg encased in a heavy cast. It stuck out into the aisle. We stepped over it carefully on the way to our seats.

“Sorry,” he said cheerfully. “Skiing. I zigged when I should have zagged.”

We smiled sympathetically.

After takeoff, we each took our three free drinks: vodka-and-Smacks. They lasted to Phoenix. There we started on what remained of the natural brandy, which we had thoughtfully brought along. We nursed it to Tulsa. Pleading dehydration, we got two more drinks from the stewardess and sipped those to St. Louis.

Meanwhile, we had been brainstorming the logistics of the payoff: Seymour Dove to Art Roach, Washington, D.C., October 20, 1998. We came up with many ingenious scenarios. A lot of kaka. The only possible solution was to have Seymour Dove swallow an internal mike and transmitter. Or implant a set in a molar or in the rectum or in the external auditory meatus. But if Art Roach wore a wrist monitor, he could detect any of those. Checkmate.

At St. Louis, our crippled fellow passenger debarked, slowly and painfully, leaning on crutches. We watched him move himself up the aisle*to the open door, assisted by the stewardess.

“My God,” Paul said, “he must be dragging twenty pounds of plaster in that cast.”

“Probably plastiment,” I said. “Half the weight, one-third more strength.”

“Why not an inflatable splint? One-hundredth the weight.”

“Can’t use an inflatable splint,” I said. “Not on a load-bearing break.”

We took off from the new St. Louis jetport, heading for GPA-1. The fenced compound. Home. I closed my eyes.

“You want to sleep?” Paul asked.

“No. Go up to the galley. See if you can wheedle some more booze.”

He came back in a moment, giggling.

“Well?” I said.

“Look,” he said.

I opened my eyes. He had four miniatures of vodka. He handed me two.

“Stole them,” he said.

“Good em,” I said. “Fine service.”

I twisted off the little plastic cap. Drained half in one swallow. Closed my eyes again.

“Paul,” I said dreamily.

“What?”

“Ever see an inflatable splint?”

“Of course I’ve seen an inflatable splint. Are you drunk?”

“Just enough. A double sleeve of opaque heavy-gauge plastic. Compressed air forced between the sleeves. After inflation, it’s hard as a rock. Keeps the fracture rigid. Right?”

“Nick, for God’s sake, what’s all this about inflatable splints?”

I opened my eyes.

“Very scientific. Very objective. Given: Two objects. Problem: To share their conversation. Known factor: One object cannot be equipped for sharing. Ergo: Equip the other.”