Soft Targets

'Sounds crazy when you put it that way. There was no doubt about that charlie with the shotgun, though. Was there?'

'None. Just got factual verification of your story; a print tally from him on the weapon. Yours too, of course.' Fulton pursed his lips obscenely around the unlit cigar, running a forefinger along the lined paper. 'Who's Sean McTaggart?^'

'Never heard of him. Or Flynn, that I recall.'

'Eoin Flaherty?'

Pause. Headshake. 'Nope. Wait; the guy with the automatic pistol? I think he called me `flirty'; maybe `Flaherty'. But why is some Boston Irishman I never heard of financing a hit on me? Doesn't make sense.'

'Flynn claims he'd just met the two Irishers, mutual friends back in the old country and so on. Loaned 'em the car with his teen-aged son to drive it, out of a sense of loyalty. Claims he had no idea what they intended to do here beyond sightseeing:'

'Should we believe in that?'

'Sure; that and the Easter bunny.' Fulton lifted a page to read another. 'We have Flynn's prints too, and they're also on the magazine we took from the Vzor.'

'Come again?'

'Vzor seven point six-five millimetre,' Fulton said with satisfaction. 'A Czech automatic with magazine, takes a silencer. Little thirty caliber slugs, more or less; it sprays 'em out the barrel like shit through a tin horn. The shotgun barrel was shortened very recently by an expert. And Flynn is a machinist. I'm betting we find metal from that shotgun barrel around his shop somewhere.'

Everett put his hands over his face, sighed into his palms. 'Why would American citizens be helping these people?'

'Lee Oswald was American. Charlie Manson, too,' Fulton said. 'But there's more to this attempt than your garden-variety political lunatic, Commissioner.'

'How do you know? No, tell me later, Fulton. I've got a case of nerves that won't quit. What if I just drive out a ways, find a motel, and come hack later if you need me? I'd call here and tell you where I am.'

The FBI agent inspected the tattered wet end of his cigar, discarded it, and drew another from his vest pocket before answering. 'Go out back here and yell your head off for a minute. Cry, if it'll help. I would, and no apologies,' he said, smiling candidly into Everett's face. 'But someone you know has made you my responsibility until I'm relieved, since I'm senior in the office. Shouldn't be long.'

Everett squinted, then smiled back. 'Dave Engels,' he said flatly.

A shrug. 'A minute ago you were curious about something that I can tell you. Yesterday we got some information from a gent we can deport at any time. Jersey City fella; as long as he gets in touch now and then, he doesn't have to chase goats up hillsides in Sicily, or whatever the hell they do there.

'There are a hell of a lot of thorny types in the FLQ—that's the Front de Liberation du Quebec—who funnel arms to the Irish Provi­sionals. Some of the stuff is American, and some like the little Vzor comes from Eastern Europe through Libya and Syria to Canada. Long way around, but some countries are very sloppy about checking imports. Those are the same ones where the Customs people live on tips, like wait­ers.

'So the FLQ is well-placed to be middleman for terrorists. And that's where you came in; or rather, didn't come in.'

'You've lost me,' said Everett. 'Can I borrow a cigar?'

'Long as you don't light it,' Fulton grinned, fishing out another stogie. 'They stink. Well, early this week the FLQ offered three hit contracts, a matched set, to—ah--certain undesirable elements, all with names ending in vowels, in the Big Apple area. That territory includes Philly and Jersey City. Ordinarily I suppose the contracts would've been fulfilled and we'd have three more unsolved snuffs on our hands, proba­bly from twenty-two pistols they're using these days and don't ask me why.

'But when the local banditti learned the names of the marks—people they were to hit—they turned the FLQ down flat.' Fulton cocked his head; one side of his mouth twitched. 'I like that; even the Mafia has scruples. You'll be in­terested in the marks,' Fulton continued, hold­ing up three fingers. 'A script writer named Althouse,' he turned down his ring finger; 'an artsy-fartsy swish named D'Este, and—' he turned down his forefinger, leaving the middle finger thrusting up in emulation of a familiar TV logo.

'And Charlie George,' Everett supplied.

'You got it. Our informant says it was of Charlie who queered the whole job. It was suddenly obvious that this was a political thing, and believe it or not Charlie G. is a favorite of the Mafia boys. Who knows, they may own a piece of him.'

'Nobody owns much of Charlie,' Everett replied, wondering how accurate he was. 'But I'm beginning to get your drift.'

'Well, even your corrupt, stodgy old small-minded FBI can add the fourth name that belongs there.'

'Mine.'

'Only it wasn't. Why not? Then we got the call from the Colorado Highway Patrol about lunch-time, and somebody was awake in Washington, and now we think we know why not. The FLQ knew there was already a group setting you up. They must've taken that contract from another bunch, and had the money, and why waste dough they could use to buy more plastique? You were already spoken for.'

Everett stared out the window, squinting as headlights swept the roadhouse in the evening murk. 'What does the FLQ do now? What do I do? I mean, do they just give up, or is there an underworld all-points bulletin out for the four of us?^'

Fulton almost laughed. 'Nicely put. We don^'t know who the FLQ finally set it up with, but there must've been somebody. Which brings me to some very unpleasant news. But first, I think what you should do is take a new ID. That's unofficial, man-to-man, Mr. Everett. But I think you should let us tell the media you did a long yoo-hoo-hoo over the cliff in the BMW. Flaherty won't tell on you; we can put him on more ice than Admiral Byrd.'

Headlights swung toward them as a Pontiac Firebird slithered into the parking lot. Everett slapped the table. 'That'll be Dave Engels.'

'I doubt it,' said Fulton, studying his cigar, 'unless he's had a recent sex change.'

The dark hair that emerged from the Firebird was unfamiliar, but the shoulder bag and the stride could not be forgotten. Everett began to smile as Gina Vercours hurried through the snow.

Her greeting was offhand, unhurried, anodyne for Everett's twanging nerves. Fulton stood up, a thumb tucked under the ornate buckle beneath his vest. 'Good thing I remembered about the weather,' she said, stamping her feet as she tossed her wrap over a booth. 'It was eighty-seven degrees in Phoenix today. And don't tell me what that is in celsius, Maury,' she grinned.

'Gina; still old-fashioned,' he said, taking her hand in his.

'And you still don't believe me,' she coun­tered, then turned to the other man. 'Are you agent Fulton?'

Fulton nodded as she said, 'I'm Gina Ver­cours, which Maury will verify, and in lieu of a pass phrase they said to give you this.' She of­fered him the tiny tape machine, which he took after lowering his hand from his midriff. 'Better than working with Wally Conklin,' she added; 'I don't have to rent cars, and at the air terminal they hand you a synopsis on tape with a very sex-y voice.'

'Can I hear her?' Everett asked.

'Her? Him, fella.' She tossed him a mock-suspicious frown. 'So what's the drill, gentlemen?'

'Bury him somewhere,' Fulton aimed his cigar at Everett, then clamped down on it again.

'What if I hadn't been me,' Gina asked inno­cently.

'I'd have been disappointed.' Fulton tapped his buckle. 'Gas projector. You'd be in barf city,' he explained. He took his coat and snap-brim hat, adjusting them with care. 'And let us know where you bury him, Ms. Vercours, which means stay near a telephone. We may pick up more information for you. They gave you a phone scrambler?'

She nodded, patting the shoulder bag. As Ful­ton was leaving, Everett recalled their unfinished business, 'One more thing, Fulton, if you don't mind. How do you know the Cana­dians found somebody to take their contracts after the Mafia refused?'

Fulton stopped, glanced toward Gina, then took Everett by the arm. Outside, his breath frosty, Fulton said, 'Somebody bagged Dahl D'Este about one ayem this morning in San Francisco.'