Koko

A few minutes later a doctor came around to discharge them, and said that a young woman had come by that morning with a change of clothing for each of them. After the doctor left, a nurse brought in two brown shopping bags, each containing fresh underwear, socks, a shirt, a sweater, and jeans. Underhill’s clothes were from those he had left at Saigon, but Poole’s were new. Maggie had guessed at his sizes, and the shirt collar was a size too small and the waistband of the jeans was thirty-six instead of thirty-four, but he could wear it all. He found a note at the bottom of the bag: I couldn’t buy you coats because I ran out of money. The doctor says you’ll be able to leave around nine-thirty. Will you come to Saigon before you go wherever it is you’ll be going? Your car is in the garage across the street. Love, Maggie. Clipped to the note was a tag from a garage.

“No coats,” Poole said. “Mine was ruined, and yours is probably evidence. But don’t worry—we can get something to wear. People are always leaving things in hospitals.”

They signed form after form in the billing office. A young orderly, St. Vincent’s own Wilson Manly, outfitted them, as Poole had foreseen, with overcoats that had been the property of two elderly gentlemen without family who had died during the week. “These are pretty shabby,” the orderly said. “If you could wait a day or two, there’ll probably be something better coming in.”

Underhill resembled a middle-aged poacher in his long filthy coat; Poole’s was an ancient Chesterfield with a threadbare velvet collar, and in it he looked like a run-down man about town.

When they had reclaimed the Audi, Poole sat behind the wheel for a time before pulling out onto Seventh Avenue. His side hurt, and the Chesterfield smelled of wine and cigarette smoke. He realized that he had no idea of where he was going. Perhaps he was just going to drive forever. He stopped at the first light, and realized that he could go anywhere. For a moment he was not a doctor, not a husband, or anything at all to Maggie Lah: his greatest responsibility was to the car he sat in.

“Are you going to take me back to Saigon?” Underhill asked.

“I am,” he said. “But first we’re going to pay a call on our favorite policeman.”

6

Lieutenant Murphy could not see them immediately. Lieutenant Murphy sent word that they could wait if they liked, but matters related to other cases were keeping him very busy; no, there was no information about the fate of the fugitive M.O. Dengler.

The young officer on the other side of the bulletproof Plexiglas refused to let them into the precinct house, and after a while avoided their eyes and kept his back turned while pretending to be occupied with something at a nearby desk.

“Did they get him when he left the plane?” Poole asked. “Is he coming back all wrapped up in chains and carrying a lot of fresh bruises?”

The officer said nothing.

“He didn’t get clean away, did he?” Poole was speaking so loudly he was almost shouting.

“I think they might have had some trouble on the flight,” the young officer said in a barely audible voice.

After they had waited half an hour, Detective Dalton finally took pity on them and allowed them into the station. He took them up the stairs and opened the door to room B. “I’ll get him to come in here,” he said, and grinned at Poole. “I like that coat.”

“I’ll swap you for yours,” Poole said.

Dalton disappeared. Only a minute or two later, the door opened and Lieutenant Murphy came in. His skin had lost some of its angry healthy flush and his shoulders were slumped. Even the arrogant Keith Hernandez moustache looked tired. Murphy nodded at the two men, dropped a file on the table, and then dropped into the nearest chair.

“Okay,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I was avoiding you. I didn’t want to call you until I had some definite word.”

He spread out his hands as if he had said all there was to say.

“Hasn’t the plane landed?” Poole asked. “What did he do, hijack it?”

Murphy sat slumped in the chair. “No, the plane landed. More than once, in fact. I suppose that’s the problem.”

“It made an unscheduled stop?”

“Not quite.” Now Murphy was speaking very slowly and reluctantly, and his face had begun to show the first signs of spring. “Apparently the Tegucigalpa flights from this country always stop in Belize. We had men waiting there just in case Dengler tried something funny. Or so the forces in Belize tell us.” Poole leaned forward to speak, and Murphy held up a hand like a stop sign. “It also regularly stops at a place called San Pedro de Sula, which is in Honduras, and where the Hondurans had people check everybody who left the plane. Now hold on, Doctor, I’m going to tell you what happened. What I think happened. Between San Pedro de Sula and Tegucigalpa there is only one more regularly scheduled stop.” He tried to smile. “A place called Goloson Airport in a jerkwater town called La Cieba. The plane’s only on the ground about ten minutes. Only domestic passengers ever get off there—they have different colored boarding passes from the international passengers, so everybody can see who they are. Domestic passengers don’t have to pass through Customs, Immigration, any of that stuff. A couple Honduran soldiers were posted out at Goloson, but they didn’t see anybody except domestic passengers.”

“But he wasn’t on the plane when it landed at Tegucigalpa,” Poole said.

“That’s right. At this distance, it’s a little hard to tell, but it looks like he never landed there.” He sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

“The policeman at the desk downstairs said there was some trouble on the flight,” Underhill said. “I can’t help remembering what happened at Kennedy.”

Murphy gave him a flat glare. “There was a little trouble, you could call it that, I suppose. When the crew checked out the plane they found one passenger who hadn’t left his seat. He was asleep with a magazine over his chest. Only when they picked up the magazine and shook him they found out that he was dead. Broken neck.” He shook his head. “We’re still waiting for identification.”

“So he could be anywhere,” Poole said. “That’s what you’re saying. He could have booked another flight as soon as he got off the plane.”

“Well, now we have men at Goloson Airport,” Murphy said. “I mean, they have men there.” He pushed himself away from the table and stood up. “I think that’s all I have to tell you, gentlemen. We’ll be in touch.” He began to move toward the door.

“But in other words, nobody’s found him yet. We don’t even know what name he’s using.”

Murphy made it to the door. “I’ll call you when I have some positive word.” He fled.

Dalton entered a second later, as if he had been waiting outside the door. “You have the story now? I’ll take you back downstairs, you guys don’t have any worries, you know, police all over Honduras are looking out for this guy. Hondurans will bend over backwards to do us favors, believe me, and our man will turn up in custody in a day or two. I’m glad your injuries weren’t too serious. Say, Doctor, tell that good-looking girlfriend of yours if she ever gets sick of—”

They were out on the sidewalk in their dead men’s coats.

“What’s Honduras like?” Poole asked.

“Haven’t you heard?” said Underhill. “They love us down there.”

PART

EIGHT