Soft Targets

light. He pointed toward the nearest of the sloops that nodded at moorings. 'The Bitch is the only other boat I have, a refitted Islander Thirty-Four. She'll do all of six knots with the big jib, friend; she wouldn't outrun a pissant with waterwings.' He eyed the little man with shrewd good humor: 'But I won't have to be fast on the south crossing, and maybe not on the return trip. If you really don't care whether the old geezer makes it all the way,' he added.

'Baztan's' smile was bland. 'I believe the sailboat will do. How long will you need for the crossing?'

'Four hours, maybe five; I have to run close-hauled a lot with the fuckin' winds in the strait. What do you care, so long as I make Port Angeles tomorrow?'

'My client asks such things. When should we rendezvous?'

'High noon, with a brass band?' Graham laughed. 'I'll start from here about noon tomorrow. That way we'll have your guy on deck without too much light. I want it dark before I'm back in the strait if I'm gonna, like, dump some ballast.'

There was no need to ask about that ballast. The smaller man produced an envelope from his wrinkled but very expensive jacket. Moving back into the shadow he allowed Graham to watch him peel fifteen bills from the stack and tuck them into a pocket. The other fifteen he handed to the Canadian, who counted them without apology. 'You will have the rest in Port Angeles.'

'Why not right now,' asked Graham, stepping closer, and a trifle too quickly.

'Because that is as it must be,' he heard, see­ing for the first time how a spring-loaded armpit holster works. The little man's right hand did not actually disappear into the jacket butonly seemed to flicker at its lapel, and then Graham was dividing his time between staring into the barrel of a Llama automatic and into the still darker barrels of the little man's eyes. Given the choice, he found he honestly preferred star­ing at the pistol. The death it suggested would at least be swift and clean. Taking two backward paces, 'Baztan' moved against the boathouse wall. 'You will understand if I ask you to precede me.'

Graham was still protesting as he stepped through the doorway. 'I never meant to spook you, fella,' he said, turning to see 'Baztan' who now stood relaxed with empty hands. They were small hands, carefully groomed, and he noticed that they were not shaking as his were. He thrust his hands into his pockets, feeling the money again. He had thought it would be interesting, though no contest, to take the entire three thousand just to see what would happen. Now, stand­ing a head taller than the innocently smiling 'Baztan,' he felt like a tame bullock beside a wolverine. 'No hard feelings, Baztan. I should've moved slower.' He thrust out his hand, feeling the limp dry fingers in his own. 'See you in the States tomorrow about five,' he said. 'I'll have to go to diesel and switch main­s'ls, so look for a dark red sail on the Bitch.' He strolled toward the sloop. The back of his neck itched. He let it itch.

'Baztan' walked back to the business district, choosing a hotel at random. In the telephone booth he extracted the HP from a pocket, punch­ing a simple program into it before dialing his second Toronto number. After a moment he placed the HP to the mouthpiece and punched the Memory Return key. A series of tones came to him faintly. It would be lunchtime in Toronto, he mused; perhaps McEvoy was consuming another sandwich.

Then the relay connection fulfilled its task as he heard McEvoy answer. The filters masked the background which might otherwise suggest a long-distance call. 'This is Jan Trnka, Mr. McEvoy,' he said. 'I seem to have overlooked another detail.'

'Anything I can help with?'

'No, regrettably. Business compels me to delay our flight. And yet I need the film. You don't suppose,' he began quickly, then laughed. 'No, I don't suppose you could fly your aircraft and use a camera simultaneously.' He spoke as if asking for some rare feat of valor.

McEvoy could, of course. Changing film might be a chore but he was, after all, his own mechanic. 'But jeez, Mr. Tee, how do I know what you want to shoot?'

An excellent reply crossed his mind but was throttled. 'As much shoreline as you can on the lake,' he said, 'a cross-section of everything that is—the word?—photogenic? I myself could do no more. And,' he lowered his voice, 'I shall be very grateful.'

McEvoy squirmed between rocks and hard places. 'You think you could pay me the balance before I take off, Mr. Tee? I could drive over and pick it up now.'

A pause to simulate weighing the idea. 'That may not be necessary, Mr. McEvoy. Where is my suitcase?'

'Stowed in the Seabee.'

'Would you mind bringing it to the tele­phone? You can call me here when you have it.' He gave a number. What could be more inno­cent? It was obviously a Toronto prefix.

He heard McEvoy hang up, waited seven min­utes, then heard the connection come to life again. 'Mr. Tee? Ian McEvoy. I got it here.^' He was puffing from exertion.

'Open it, please, and check the coat pockets. My damnable memory may have done us a favor for once.'

There ensued a long pause, then a faint rau­cous chuckle. Clearly, then: 'Jesus Christ, man, there's twelve hundred dollars here!'

'Two hundred more than we bargained for. It is yours, Mr. McEvoy, if you will allow me to pick up cartridges of exposed film on Friday. Will you be going today?'

'Don't see how. It'd be dark before I could get over to Lake Chautauqua. Would tomorrow be good enough?'

It was perfect. He let McEvoy twit him about leaving hard cash lying around in unlocked luggage, then mentioned being late for an appoint­ment.

He stepped from the booth, checked the time, and walked to the bus depot where he took his attache case from a storage locker. He found a restaurant with two entrances, expecting no sur­veillance but taking the usual precautions, and ordered filet of sole. Awaiting his early lunch, he pondered the likelihood that Ian McEvoy was working with Canadian authorities by now. Yet it took time to check the location of a telephone; still more time to secure a large apartment build­ing. It was unlikely that police would cut power to the apartment, or to the telephone. But it was possible.

At the moment when the little man started toward the pay telephone in the restaurant, Pelletier was scanning a collection of photographs maintained by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Pelletier drew a blank with the Que­becois, another with known elements of Meyer Cohane's people in the Jewish Defense League. He had basked in virtue when complimented on his ability to remember a telephone number; Pel­letier would have been unwise to admit indis­criminate bugging of a client's calls because police saw such criminal activity as their own particular vice.

RCMP plainclothesmen had already checked on Ian_. McEvoy. He had no previous record and eked out a precarious presence by flying sportsmen into wilderness lakes. To a business-suited gentleman of endless curiosity he said yes, the Seabee was for hire but he was already booked for the following day. Yep, he had plenty of hull storage, even for a moose head. Tomorrow? Oh, just a photorecon job for some movie people. Nope, he would be carrying no passengers.

The RCMP left a staff sergeant in plain clothes with field glasses in an unmarked car, unwilling to confide in McEvoy. Their job might have been simpler had they simply asked him about his client. But McEvoy was under suspicion.

While Pelletier's eyes grew red-rimmed in his search for a make on Mr. Trnka, the little man in Victoria reached his Toronto number. With a casual glance around him, he brought the HP from his pocket, punched an instruction into it, then let his machines confer. A poignant three-second tone from the HP was identified in the sink of the Toronto apartment and its instruction executed. The little man fidgeted for another fifteen seconds before the line went dead. He nodded to himself, replaced the receiver, and ambled back to his table.

In the Toronto apartment, beads of light had grown in the clay pot over the sink as the squibs energized pyrotechnic igniters. The beads began to sink from sight into the silvery mixture before, reluctantly, the thermite caught fire and pros­pered.

Thermite is a simple composition of great util­ity when it becomes necessary to weld, say, the frames of locomotives. Because one of its com­bustion products is pure liquid iron. The other product is aluminum oxide, also common in solid rocket exhaust.

A tiny ravening sun radiated from the top of the clay pot as its temperature rose to approxi­mately twenty- five hundred degrees celsius. Since thermite is hot enough to melt concrete there was a considerable quantity of smoke, which boiled above the starlike glare and crawled across the ceiling.