Dragonfly

“Take them all,” Jackson said.

Kirkwood scooped up all eleven issues.

At the front door, as they were shaking hands, McAlister said, “Mr. Jackson, I can only repeat what I said on Wednesday: you're sure full of surprises.”

Jackson nodded and smiled and shuffled his feet, putting on a bit of that refined Stepin Fetchit routine which he used to such great effect at the White House.

“Would you and your wife consider joining Mrs. McAlister and me for dinner some evening soon?”

“I believe that would be most interesting,” Jackson said.

“I believe you're right.”

On the way down the flagstone walk to the car, neither McAlister nor Kirkwood said a word.

On all sides of them, the grass looked bluish-white, pearly in the October moonlight.

A teenage boy and a pretty blonde were leaving the house next door, just starting out on a big date.

A child's laughter came from the front porch of the house across the street.

McAlister felt as if the sky were going to collapse on him any second now. He walked with his shoulders hunched.

When they were both in the car again and the Pinkerton man had started the engine, McAlister turned to Kirkwood and said, “It was your group that got the Cofield lead.”

“That's right.”

“And the Hunter lead too.”

“Yes.”

“How are you using your investigators?”

“Some of the other teams are working a sixteen-hour day. But I've got my men divided into three different eight-hour shifts so we can pursue our leads around the clock.”

“Who are the federal marshals guarding your team?”

“Right now, on the four-to-midnight grind, it's a man named Bradley Hopper. Midnight to eight in the morning, it's John Morrow. During the day shift, when I'm on duty with two assistants, we've got a marshal named Carl Altmuller.”

After six months with this man as his chief investigator, McAlister was no longer in awe of Kirkwood's ability to remember every detail of his work, even the full names of the guards who were assigned to him. “Which one of them was on duty when the Potter Cofield lead began to get hot?”

Kirkwood said, “Altmuller.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not much. I chatted him up when he first came on duty. Let me see…” He was quiet for a few seconds. Then: “I think he said he wasn't married. Lived in — Capitol Heights somewhere.”

“Capitol Heights, Maryland?” McAlister asked.

“Yeah.”

He turned to Burt Nolan, the Pinkerton man. “That's not very far from here, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Better get to a phone, look in the book, see if there's a full address listed for him,” McAlister said.

Nolan pulled the Mercedes away from the curb.

Leaning up from the back seat, pushing one thin hand through his bushy hair, Kirkwood said, “You think that Carl Altmuller is working for Rice?”

“Rice assigned the marshals,” McAlister said. “He chose them. And once he had a list of possibilities sent over to him from Justice, he needed six hours to call the first one of them. Now, what do you think he was doing all that time?”

Kirkwood's glasses had slid so far down his nose that they were in danger of falling off. He looked startled as McAlister pushed them in place for him. “Well… I guess he was trying to find a man — or men — he could buy. It took six hours.”

Nolan found a telephone booth at the corner of a shopping-center parking lot, and Kirkwood went in to look through the book. While he was out of the car, McAlister said, “Burt, I hope you remember that you've taken the agency's secrecy oath.”

“I haven't heard a thing,” Nolan said.

When Kirkwood came back a minute later, he said, “Altmuller is listed.” He gave Nolan the address. To McAlister he said, “Isn't it dangerous for us to walk in on him all by ourselves?”

“He won't be expecting anything,” McAlister said. “And Burt here has a gun of his own.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Nolan said, keeping his eyes on the busy highway, “but I think that you might be getting me in over my head. I'm not a public law officer. That secrecy oath didn't give me any police powers. I've been hired to protect you, but I can't go looking for trouble.”

“Then,” McAlister said, “I'll borrow your gun. Bernie and I can go it alone.”

Burt took a long moment to consider all the angles of that. He accelerated around a panel truck and pulled back into the right-hand lane. His broad face was expressionless in the lights of the oncoming cars. Finally: “I'd have to take the gun out of my holster and lay it on the seat. Why would I do that?”

“Maybe while we were parked at the telephone booth, you saw someone approaching the car, someone who looked suspicious,” McAlister suggested.

“That's a possibility. I wanted to be ready for him. But maybe after this person proved to be no threat, I left the gun on the seat where it would be handy. And then you picked it up without my seeing.”

Smiling, McAlister said, “I suppose you could make a mistake like that.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Burt agreed.

Kirkwood didn't like the sound of it. He shifted nervously and said, “I think we should get some help.”

Turning around to look at the younger man once more, McAlister said, “I'd like nothing better, Bernie. But who in the hell could we trust?”

Kirkwood licked his lips and said nothing.

PEKING: SATURDAY, 1:00 P.M.

The air terminal in Peking was a hulking neo-Stalinist building with cold marble walls and floors and altogether too much gilt trim around the ceilings. Ranks of fluorescent lights cast stark shadows; but there was not a speck of dust or a smear of grease to be seen in any corner. Even on Saturday afternoon there were no more than sixty or seventy travelers using the facilities. Of these, the most eye-catching were three beautiful North Vietnamese women who were dressed in white silk trousers and brightly colored, flowered silk odais. North Vietnamese and Cambodian women, Canning thought, were among the most beautiful in the world: petite, extremely delicate and yet shapely, with very fine-boned faces, enormous dark eyes, and thick black hair. These three — as they stood waiting for cups of tea at one of the carts that dispensed free refreshments — contrasted pleasantly with the inhuman architecture and with the generally drab clothing of the Chinese around them.

A smiling, pretty Chinese woman of about thirty-five met Lee Ann and Canning when they got off the Frenchman's jet. Her long hair hung in a single braid behind her. She wore baggy blue pants, a baggy white shirt, and shapeless khaki jacket. She was all crisp efficiency as she escorted Canning and Lee Ann through customs, gave their luggage to a baggage handler, and led them out into the terminal's great hall, where Alexander Webster, the United States' first fully accredited ambassador to the People's Republic of China, was waiting for them.

Webster-was an imposing figure. At six foot three, he was two iniches taller than Canning. He was conscious of his posture; he stood stiff and straight to emphasize his height. His neck was thick, not with fat but with muscle. His shoulders and chest were unusually broad; and although he was a bit heavy in the stomach, he managed to hold it in well. His face was like the marble bust of some famous Roman centurion: square chin, bulging jaws, firm mouth, straight nose, eyes set back like ornaments on a deep shelf, and a formidable brow. Only two things kept him from looking like a roughneck: his expensive and stylish New York suit, which he wore as if he were a model; and his wavy silver hair, which softened the sharp angles of his rather brutal face. All in all, he appeared to be a former football star who, when he had lost his physical edge, had left the game and set out upon a brand-new career as a banker.

“Welcome to Peking,” Webster said, bowing slightly to Lee Ann and shaking hands with Canning. His voice