“Sure is a hot one,” Kendig said. “Draw me a beer.”
He was representing himself to be a writer who’d come into the piney woods in search of solitude to finish a book. He’d let it drop that it was a book about fishing the Arkansas River-a topic he’d chosen because he’d once used up the better part of a two-week vacation flatboating and fishing out of Fort Smith at the insistence of Joe Cutter. It had taught him he despised fishing but it had also taught him the lingo and enough local color to bluff out any questions that might be asked. Not many were likely to be asked; he’d picked the deep South to go to ground because it was a country of close-mouthed xenophobia. But it was also the most cheerless land he’d ever entered and it was already on his nerves.
He drank his beer in silence; then he bought a newspaper and a magazine and sat at the counter over them and gnawed on a chicken-fried steak and cornbread. It had been a slow day for news; a school-bus wreck had made the headlines. He read the paper and the magazine from cover to cover and finally it was five minutes to five and he finished his third beer and went outside and hung around the phone booth pretending to look up a number in his pocket notebook until it was 4:59; then he stepped into the booth and made the call.
The number was that of a public phone in a booth in the lobby of the Pan Am Building in New York. It rang only once before it was picked up and the operator said, “Please deposit eighty-five cents for the first three minutes.”
The coins bonged and pinged. Then Ives’s voice said, “You’re right on time.”
“How’s it going?”
“Desrosiers balked a bit but he finally went the price. And I think we’ve sewed it up with the New York publisher. When we’ve got that one signed the rest of them will fall in line. In London they’re drooling over it-they can’t wait to have the finished manuscript, they’re planning a crash schedule to get it on the market as fast as they can. I’d say you’re in fabulous shape.”
“Have you been approached by government types?”
“I had a call this afternoon from someone named Ross. He was pretty vague about his function but I gathered it was official. He wants to come up and meet with me tomorrow morning.”
“All right. Tell him the truth-whatever he asks.”
“Yes.”
Kendig said, “You won’t hear from me again for quite a while. I’m on my way out of the country tonight.”
“Well-good luck to you then.”
Kendig cradled it and went straight to the car and drove back into the pines.
— 9 -
Ross disliked John Ives immediately and it was reciprocated: he sensed the underlayer of distaste and it came to the surface before he had been in the office five minutes. Ives said, “I know why you’re here. Let’s not waste each other’s time.”
“That suits me. All right, you’re representing Miles Kendig.”
“Who told you that?”
“I thought we weren’t going to fence. Claude Des-rosiers’s publishing company is negotiating a contract on Kendig’s book through you, isn’t that right?”
“When a contract’s pending I don’t make it a habit to give away information,” Ives said. He was young and smooth but the brown beard made Ross think of porcupines. “This is a competitive business, Mr. Ross. And I regard the agent-client relationship as confidential.”
“I don’t represent a rival publishing house.”
“I know. Miles Kendig warned me I’d be questioned by people from your agency. He instructed me to answer any questions with the whole truth. If you find me evasive it’s my own doing. You see I don’t like dealing with people like you. I don’t like what you stand for.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t got time to get sidetracked into a philosophical debate,” Ross said. “But I’d advise you to obey your client’s instructions. It would make things painless for both of us.”
“And the alternatives?”
Ross couldn’t help smiling a little. “I didn’t come here to make any threats. Why, were you expecting me to? Are you by any chance recording this conversation?”
Ives made no answer but his expression revealed that Ross had scored a hit. Ross shook his head. “I’m only going to ask you to do your duty as a public-spirited citizen. I’ve got no power to force you to do anything against your will. But we’re concerned with possible violations of the national security here. Kendig is threatening to publish material which is highly classified.”
“No,” Ives said flatly. “You can’t take that tack.”
“Why the hell not? It’s perfectly true and you know it.”
“I know it damn well, Mr. Ross, but it’s something you can’t take into court. If you accused Kendig of stealing legitimate government secrets you’d have to admit under oath that the material in Kendig’s book is true.” Then he grinned infuriatingly.
“It’s not. He’s a liar, obviously.”
“I see. And his motive?”
“How much money do you suppose this sensationalist tract will earn him if it’s published in fourteen countries, Mr. Ives? Isn’t that motive enough?”
“Not for a man as wealthy as Kendig.”
“Has it occurred to you that he may have lied to you about the extent of his wealth? Kendig was a salaried government employee for twenty-five years, Mr. Ives. I can assure you none of us has much opportunity to salt away a fortune on a civil service salary.”
“I have reason to believe he’s made quite a lot of money since he retired from government service.”
“But you have no real evidence of that, have you. Still, even if it were true, he might be doing it for notoriety. Celebrity is quite a temptation to most people.”
Ives said drily, “I doubt you people would permit him to appear on television programs.”
“I’m suggesting to you the possibility that Kendig is merely trying to do Clifford Irving one better, Mr. Ives. You’ve got to admit it’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible. But I notice you’ve made no effort to refute any of Kendig’s charges.”
“Would you believe me if I did?” Ross smiled again in an effort to be disarming. “I’m only asking you to grant us the benefit of the doubt.”
Ives’s shoulders lifted slightly, and dropped. “In any case I’ve told you what my instructions are. Ask your questions, Mr. Ross, and then get out of here.”
The plane’s vibration made concentric ripples lap at the rim of the coffee cup. He watched through the scratched Plexiglas port while the shuttle flight made its descent toward Washington National. He had rather enjoyed hectoring Ives because smug righteousness always annoyed him.
Cutter was waiting to collect him and he got into the car talking. “He was bugging it.”
“Naturally.”
“About all he got on the tape was his own opinionated claptrap. I hate moralizers.”
“Do you?”
“They sit on the sidelines and carp. What have they got to lose? They never have to make the decisions.”
“What did he say?”
“Hard stuff? Well the best bit is he heard from Kendig yesterday afternoon. A prearranged phone call to a booth in the Pan Am Building-Kendig probably expected we’d have Ives’s phone tapped by now. Anyhow Kendig told him he was on his way out of the country. It was a long-distance call from a pay phone. The operator had a Southern accent and it cost Kendig eighty-five cents for three minutes. That was either just before or just after five o’clock.”
“There’s a difference in the rates.”
