and had gone freelance. Only a man of remarkable talent could make a career move like that and not be killed by his ex-bosses. Ramon would not turn on his employers, because he had a large family to think of.
“Ramon remembers and likes you. We asked him to come up for a visit. He’ll take care of this problem. Also, our best marksman will be watching from the roof.”
“I am sure Martin knows Ramon. Martin… what if he sees Ramon?” Lallo was starting to panic at the thought of being in a cross-fire situation. Ramon was indeed a terrifying sight. A stony-eyed Indian with a deeply pocked, pie-shaped face and muscles a bull would envy.
“It won’t matter. We will end this problem. As soon as Martin shows himself, get him to the car, open the car door, and step back. Between my two men there’ll be nothing left to chance.”
George Spivey made it sound as though facing Martin on the dock would be no more dangerous than a walk in Jackson Square at high noon. Even given Martin’s demise, it was always possible that Spivey might decide to bury everything in one big hole. In that case… what could he do anyway? Nada.
“You know I am not used to this sort of-”
The man outside the car put a hand on Lallo’s shoulder and applied too much pressure, the way a schoolyard bully would-measured for discomfort but not pain. A promise. “And for a bonus you get to keep the money you shorted him. No one will know Martin is gone but us.”
“What about the police? They could hear the rifle.”
“There will be no noise and no police. Just make sure you step out of the way after you open the door.”
“Si.” Lallo shook his head. Bullets have no eyes.
“Lallo, when all is said and done, Martin Fletcher is just another nickel-and-dime cleaner gone off the deep end. He’s been lucky, that’s all. Besides”-he patted the man’s cheek-“he’s an old man now.”
Lallo shook his head. “And you are young. Never underestimate your elders and the experience that comes only to those who live to see the next sunrise. This old man has been evading you people for, what, five years? You should have sent experienced men to kill him in the jungle when you had the chance. Not boys.”
There was no answer. The man who called himself George Spivey was gone. How George Spivey had got the information he had on Lallo was a question Lallo could not fathom. He was a professional. A cold man. Surely he was working for the CIA. Maybe freelance; there didn’t appear to be any red tape wrapping Spivey. He was officially tied in, at any rate. How long would these federales keep making Lallo do their will? Maybe it would continue until they killed him themselves, or leaked word to the cartel that Lallo was playing games on the wrong side.
Lallo stepped from the car and went back into the house. But there was no question of trying to sleep, so Lallo used his key to let himself into the maid’s bedroom off the kitchen, where he could lose himself in her soft, fragrant embrace until morning.
George Spivey sat in his car, opened his cellular phone, and hooked a small black box onto the telephone’s mouthpiece to scramble his voice. He dialed a number in New Orleans that was a relay extension and sent the signal to some receiver in a location unknown to Spivey. The man who answered the telephone spoke in a flat, monotonous drone.
“Nature Center,” he said.
“It’s Terrence,” George Spivey said. “We’re about to tag the purple martin. The Amazonian parrot should be migrating north immediately.”
“I have that,” the voice answered. “Another thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“That one-eyed eagle from up in the mountains?”
“Yeah, I know the one.”
“He’s no longer on the endangered-species list. He’s out of his nest in the sanctuary, and it seems he’s circling the farm.”
“I know.”
“If he flies over the henhouse, he’s fair game.”
“If he interferes?”
“As long as he flies, an eagle’s a threat.”
“So he’s not protected.”
“The checkbook wants him brought down.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“If there is a clean shot.”
“That wasn’t part of the arrangement. The deal was to tag the martin.”
“There’s a new grant that should cover the additional fieldwork. The deposit is already in your account.”
“That’s a go.”
“Happy hunting, Terrence.”
George Spivey ended the call and unhooked the box from the telephone.
He thought about Paul Masterson. It was a shame he had decided to get involved, but so went the world. Things were never easy. He made a note to check with the bank in Switzerland. Just to make sure. He understood that this was all in the interests of national security, but he wasn’t an employee with a retirement plan. He was a nice guy, but he’d be damned if he’d do Masterson for nothing, national-security risk or not.
23
Stephanie thought that time was against the mail search’s success. After the first night Andy Lustiv started delivering Eve’s mail to the van so they wouldn’t have to show up at the post office during office hours. She placed Eve’s mail on the table and began by opening a gas bill and running the scanner over it. A few partials, no matches. She looked at Larry Burrows, who was yawning, a midafternoon slump. She took the next piece, an envelope with a condominium-development return address, and placed it onto the scanner plate. There were several prints, but none of them Martin’s. She opened the envelope, and on the cover of the enclosed brochure she isolated three good prints. As she rubbed her eyes, the computer beeped, and when she looked up, there was a message on the screen. Her heart felt as if it had stopped beating, her throat closed.
Martin Fletcher… Left index… Left middle… Left thumb.
“Bingo!” she shouted.
Larry straightened up and turned his gaze onto the screen.
“I’ll get McLean,” he said.
“No, I’ll tell Joe McLean,” she said. “This is one announcement I want to make personally.”
So what does this say? Where’s the message?” Joe checked each of the faces in the van’s radio-control room. He was holding a photocopy of the condo brochure and asking a rhetorical question for the tenth time. “We need to figure this out, people. We have to make sure we don’t miss anything. Anything.” He had just got off the telephone, having told Paul they had struck pay dirt on the prints.
Sierra was keeping an eye on the screen, which showed Eve sitting in her chair, clipping her toenails, and watching television. “Maybe he’s going to meet her in Colorado?” she said. “I mean, really meet her there.”
“Too obvious,” Joe said.
“It’s a code for another destination,” Stephanie said. “Given the level of paranoia Martin Fletcher exhibits, I’d imagine there’s a system of messages they worked out in advance.”
Joe nodded. He seemed to be really listening to Stephanie for a change. “That’s a fair assumption. Whatever the message, we have to stay with her from the second she leaves the house. She’s lost every tail she’s ever had on her. Maybe they weren’t trying very hard, but if we lose her, it won’t be due to lack of effort or manpower. Look at her, for Christ’s sake, she can’t be that smart. He plans all her moves. The lost tails were flawless. I imagine he set down the location last time they met. I’m sure the brochure just means it’s a go.”
Stephanie hated the way he had taken her thoughts as his own. Or maybe he had thought it all out before. It made sense. “We keep watching the Eve Fletcher show. And if it looks like she’s going to get away from us, we grab her and hope Martin moves to take her back from us. He’ll be close by, watching when she gets to her destination.”
Walter said, “This surveillance is like bad BBC in freeze-frame. The most exciting thing that happens is when
