hauled to the road twice a week. He opened one can and found it empty, but the second produced a last green plastic bag, knotted with yellow plastic ribbon at the top, it hadn't been picked up or even set out. Perhaps the garbage contract had been cancelled when the family decamped.
He took the bag to the barn, sliced it open with his Spyderco, and went through the materials very carefully.
Not much: old yogurt cups, the bones of steaks and chops and chickens eaten carefully, used paper towels, tin cans, an ice cream package, very sticky, coffee grounds, the usual detritus. But then: something crinkled, a yellow Post-It tab. Very carefully he unrolled it and saw what it revealed.
'Sally M.,' it said.
'American 1435, 9:40 a.m.'
CHAPTER forty.
Bob took his time driving back from the McDonald's, letting his baby- sitters enjoy their presumed advantage over him. He went back to his motel room just outside the airport, called Mrs. Carter and told her that he hadn't found anything at the site but that he had some other ideas to pursue and he would certainly keep her informed.
He went out, got some dinner and caught a movie at a suburban mall, a stupid thing about commandos who fired and never missed and who took fire and never got hit, just to eat up the time. When he got out of the film it was 2300, which meant in London it was 0600 tomorrow. That was fine. Instead of returning immediately to his car, he walked around the strip mall until he found a pay phone, well aware that at least two cars of watchers were in the lot, eyeballing him.
Using his phone card, he placed an overseas call to the American embassy in London, getting a night-shift receptionist, he asked to be transferred to the embassy Marine guard detachment, was passed on to the duty NCO and asked for the NCOIC, Master Sergeant Mallory, who should be up and about, and in a few seconds Mallory came to the line.
'Mallory, sir.'
'Jack, you remember your old platoon sarge, Bob Lee Swagger?'
'Jesus Christ, Bob Lee Swagger, you son of a bitch! I ain't spoke to you in thirty years, since I medevaced out of the 'Nam. How the hell are you, Gunny? You done some great things in your third tour.'
'Well, I am okay, still kicking around on a pension, no bad problems.'
'Now what in hell is this all about? You bringing a missus to London and want a place to stay? I got an apartment and you can camp there all you want.'
'No, Jack, it ain't that. It's an S-2 thing.'
'You name it and it's yours.'
'It's not a big thing, a little favor.'
'Fire when ready, Gunny.'
'Now, I'm thinking that with your embassy security responsibilities, you have probably made contact with folks in the British security apparatus.'
'I deal with Scotland Yard and the two Mi's all the goddamn time. We got two officers over here, but, shit, you know officers.'
'Do I ever. So, anyhow, you got a good NCO-type in Six or Five you know?'
'Jim Bryant, used to be a color sergeant in SAS. He now handles embassy coordination in security for MI-6.1 meet with him all the goddamn time, especially when we have people coming in that present security problems.'
'Good, counted on that. Now, here's the thing. In 1970, a guy named Fitzpatrick operated in Great Britain, but I think he was a Russian agent, or a Russian-hired agent. I don't know who the hell he was or what he did or what became of him, but it would be goddamned helpful for me to find out. Could you run that by your pal and see what shakes out? Their intel people would have the shit on him if anybody did.'
'Gunny, what's this all about?'
'Old business. Very old business that's come around and is biting me in the ass.'
'Okay, I'll give it a run. If it's in there and it ain't real top-secret or whatever, Jim Bryant can nose it out for me.
I'll get back to you soonest. What's your time frame?'
'Well, I'm about to sack out now. It's getting close to midnight over here.'
'I'll give Jim a call and get to him as soon as possible.
You got a number?'
'Let me call you. What's a good time?'
'Call me at 1800 hours my time. That would be, what, 1100 yours?'
'That's it.'
'Get me direct at 04-331-22-09. Right to my office, don't go through the embassy switchboard.'
'Good man.'
'You got me on that chopper, Gunny. Wouldn't be here if you hadn't. I owe you this one.'
'Now we're even, Jack.'
'Out here.'
