Dragonfly

“Well, a pun is supposed to be bad.”

“It was.”

“If you're ever in town again and need to make a fast getaway,” the driver said, “don't forget me. Name's Harry Tollins.”

“I'll recommend you to all my friends, Harry.”

They got back to the airport in plenty of time for Canning to check in at the airline counter and pay for his ticket to Hawaii. There were even ten minutes for him to take a cup of coffee in the line's VIP lounge before he had to board the plane.

Forty-five minutes after the jet lifted off from Los Angeles International, a stewardess came back the aisle and stopped in front of Canning. “Mr. Otley?”

“Yes?”

She held out a folded sheet of beige stationery. “From Captain Giffords, sir.”

“Thank you.”

He watched her as she walked back up the aisle; she had long, slim, exceedingly lovely legs. Abruptly, his trousers became too tight in the crotch. He suddenly realized how long it had been since he'd made love to Irene — and how much longer than that since he'd had a fully satisfactory sex life. Forcing himself to look away from her, clearing his throat, he opened the note and read the neatly hand-lettered four-line message:

Suitcase bomb found in baggage

compartment of Pan Am's flight

to Tokyo.

Safely removed and defused.

He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

The next time the stewardess came by, he asked her for a Scotch on the rocks. He felt that he could risk at least one small celebration.

When McAlister came on the line from Washington, Canning identified himself and said, “Do you trust our home phone?”

“Not really,” McAlister said.

“Then you'd better give me a number where I can reach you, a nice safe phone they'd never think of tapping.”

McAlister thought for a moment, then gave Canning another Washington number.

“Will you go there and wait for my call?”

“Yes. But I'll need a while to get there,” McAlister said.

Although it was only midnight in Honolulu, it was five hours later than that in Washington. McAlister had probably been asleep when the telephone rang.

Canning said, “An hour?”

“Half that.”

“Fine.”

Canning hung up and leaned back against the headboard of the hotel bed. He closed his eyes and looked through the stack of file cards in his mind, checking to see if he had remembered everything that he must tell McAlister. Like a dark flood tide, sleep swept up at him. The printing on the imaginary file cards blurred, and the cards themselves began to dissolve into blackness…

He quickly opened his eyes, shook his head in an attempt to clear it, got up, went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water in his face. The eyes that looked back at him from the mirror were bloodshot and ringed with loose, dark skin.

Back in the bedroom, he stood at the window and watched the big searchlights at Honolulu Airport, which was less than a mile away. At twelve-thirty he returned to his bed, sat down, picked up the telephone, and placed a call to the number that McAlister had given him half an hour ago.

“David?” McAlister said.

“Yes. Where are you?”

“At my sister-in-law's house,” McAlister said. “I don't come here more than once a month. There's no reason for anyone to have a tap on her phone.”

“Were you followed?”

“I was, but I shook them.”

“You're certain of that?”

“Absolutely. Where are you?”

“Honolulu.”

“That's not on the schedule.”

“You're telling me?”

“What's happened?”

“My cover's blown.”

“It can't be!”

Canning explained about the two agents who had come to kill him back in Washington. “You'd better send some men around to take care of the corpses. And if The Committee has already moved them, don't worry. I stripped the bodies of all identification and put everything between the mattress and box springs on my bed. You'll have some nice leads to work on.”

“Excellent. I'll have a detail at your place within an hour.”

“My cleaning lady comes tomorrow, Friday. She's very neat — and observant. You'll have to see there isn't a trace of blood left behind. Locate every bullet and patch up the holes they made. I used six shots. Four of them are in the dead men. The other two should be in the wall near the front door. The man in the kitchen fired five times. All of the slugs should be in the living room, and I know that three of them are lodged in the bookshelves.”

“But how could they tumble you so soon?”

“Maybe you were followed to my apartment.”

“I made sure I wasn't.”

“You're playing with professionals.”

“Look, I found a miniature transmitter attached to the bumper of my Mercedes. I got rid of it before I started for your place. I saw no one following me. I parked four blocks away and walked to your building — and I'm damned sure no one tailed me on foot!”

Canning was impressed with McAlister's thoroughness. “Who else knew about me?”

“The President.”

“That's all?”

“Andrew Rice was in the Oval Office when I told the President,” McAlister said. “Do you think either one of them would spread the word?”

“You know both of them better than I do.”

McAlister was silent a moment. Then he sighed and said “One of them might have told a second-level aide.”

“And the aide might have told his assistant.”

“And the assistant might have told his secretary.”

“And somewhere along the line it got to someone who's bent.”

“Christ!” McAlister said.

“Spilled milk.”

“How does all of this put you in Hawaii?”

Canning outlined the games that he and the taxi driver had played in Los Angeles.

“Then they still think you're in one of the rooms in this Holiday Inn?” McAlister asked.

“Quality Inn. I suppose that's just what they think.”

“How many rooms does this motel have?”

“Maybe — three hundred.”

“Too many for them to go knocking on doors.”

“Exactly.”

“So… They'll put the motel under surveillance and wait for you to come out.” The director laughed