nowhere with impossible records of achievement in some totally irrelevant endeavor—advertising or investment banking or the stock market.
Kearns said quietly, “Very true. At the same time, they picked two offices out of two hundred, the only two that contained anything worth stealing, probably. Then, if I remember the tape of the interview with the parking man correctly, it was only after they’d driven past the campus gate that they blew up the kiosk. They had driven past, and he decided to make a run for the telephone in his kiosk. What’s it sound like, Ben?”
Porterfield considered, then shrugged. “Most likely a hand-held rocket launcher. The Russians have a little beauty they’ve been passing out like candy, and of course there’s no guarantee our own disposable one they used in Viet Nam isn’t coming back to haunt us. God knows enough of them were left there in ’73. What’s it called again?”
Goldschmidt answered wearily, “Mark-360. In any case, there is no homemade aimable weapon that will disintegrate a building from a distance of fifty or sixty yards. The point is established. We’ll know the exact nature of the armament used in an hour or two. The Los Angeles Police Department has asked for federal assistance on that portion of the case, and they’ve received more than they know.”
Kearns continued. “Okay, so they did all this, then disappeared. That was…” he glanced at his watch, “…at least eight hours ago. I say we have to assume that they have enough to make us damned uncomfortable, maybe worse, and that they are funded and guided by some power capable of giving them military weapons, a power that won’t have any trouble figuring out what to do with the Donahue papers.”
“The LAPD is a pretty good force,” said Hadley. “There’s a chance they’ll catch up with these people in an hour or two longer. A foreigner can hide at night, but he really sticks out in the daylight.”
Kearns shook his head in disgust. “If they were going to catch them, they’d have done it by now. It might even be better if they didn’t. A squad car with two cops armed with revolvers against what—an antitank gun? Rocket launchers? No.” He turned to Pines. “I’d like a meeting with the Director this morning. What I’m going to say is that I’m pulling back about half my people—everyone whose cover is even remotely susceptible in Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua.”
“But that’s an immense pain in the ass,” Pines protested. “There’s no reason to imagine they’ll be in any danger. We don’t know if these people have anything at all, let alone something that compromises anyone in particular.”
Kearns spoke patiently. “That’s exactly the problem. Obviously, we have to find out who they are, what they have. While we’re doing that, I don’t see an alternative to arranging some vacations, business trips, prolonged illnesses, and maybe speeding up some transfers.”
Goldschmidt nodded. “A wise course. The worst-case reaction seems the only reasonable one. The approach is too mannered to ignore. They knew enough to find Donahue’s office, which means they are capable of receiving and acting on fairly sophisticated intelligence information. They provided a cover by stealing cocaine, which keeps the police and the press occupied. And yet they blow up an empty parking booth with a military weapon. It’s all rather too precise, isn’t it?”
Pines spluttered, shaking his head. “You’re saying they’re picking their adversary, aren’t you? That’s crazy.”
“They knew the police would be satisfied that it was a banal drug theft, something we can’t very well get involved in unless we reveal what it is we believe has been stolen, which they know we won’t do. They employed, apparently for effect, the most rudimentary terrorist tactics in the center of our second largest metropolitan area. In fact, they seem to have been sending us a message.”
Hadley groaned, but Goldschmidt ignored him. “The fact that we’re sitting here at this hour worrying about it is proof that the message has been received. And now they know that we must do what they intend: We can’t have the Donahue reports turning up as evidence in a spectacular drug trial in Los Angeles. They know we will do what is necessary to keep that from happening.”
Porterfield looked around the table and saw that everyone but Goldschmidt seemed to be deep in thought. Hadley’s lips were moving silently, as though he were adding up long columns of figures in his head. Then his eyes seemed to focus again. “Okay. Assume it’s a major league group. I guess then Kearns is right that we have to lower our profile in the regions we know are mentioned in these damned papers. That much we can do now.”
Pines said, “All right. I’m sure the Director will agree to that, but the priority has got to be finding out exactly what these people have.” He turned to Porterfield. “You’re our link with Donahue, aren’t you?”
Porterfield shook his head, frowning. “I’ve never had any contact with him. Morrison was supposed to steer him to me, but so far—”
“But you’re listed right here,” Pines said. He pointed to a line on a sheet of paper in front of him, alarmed. “My God, Ben, this is no time to turn coy. Am I supposed to put that ass Morrison in charge of something like this?”
“He seems to have been for the past twenty years.”
“You’ll damned well take charge of this,” said Pines. “You’re the only one who can possibly do it, and I don’t see what else you can do. The Director said it had to be you.”
“So I’m in charge? Of what?”
“Of the whole operation. Whatever has to be done to cut our losses on this,” said Pines, surprised. The others nodded.
Porterfield glanced at his watch and then stared at Pines, his eyes suddenly very cold and distant. “Then go call my office and tell them I’ll be in at noon, and arrange to have me see the tapes of the L.A. news and get copies of the police reports.”
Pines stood up and left the room, his ears turning bright red, his neck stiffening. He walked quickly, his shoes echoing on the tile floor in the empty hallway. He knew he hadn’t heard anyone laugh. They wouldn’t. They weren’t the sort of people who might. He wasn’t afraid of Porterfield. That was absurd, he was sure of it. What he was feeling was something else: anger, he decided, and distaste. He’d heard the stories, read the files. The man was little more than a common thug, a borderline psychotic. There was no reason to feel anything about him at all. He was an anachronism, a leftover from the days when things were cruder, the days when…Pines was beginning to feel calmer. He was the Deputy Director, after all. It was his duty to get this operation moving, and he was doing it. He wasn’t taking orders from Porterfield, he was giving him orders, even if they were really the Director’s orders. Pines felt better as he turned into the communications wing, with its computers, cryptographic decoders, and satellite monitors providing a barely audible whisper of electronic sound. This was the real world, his world. It seemed almost humorous that he should be setting up an operation for a man whose file said he’d been known to guerrilla bands in Guatemala as the Angel of Death. Pines had been—what? Nine years old then.
Chinese Gordon sat down abruptly on the cement pavement, leaning against the base of the drill press. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Kepler edged nearer to the wall, slightly to Chinese Gordon’s right side. Chinese Gordon, he remembered, was right-handed. “There wasn’t much choice, Chinese. You would have done the same thing. He wouldn’t leave without it.”
Immelmann stood beside the van, smiling. “I know after you think about it you’ll see I was right. He’s a great animal.”
Chinese Gordon looked up at him and spoke very slowly. “Magnificent. I’m surprised he hasn’t broken out of that trailer yet, a fine animal like that. It must be an off day for him, with all the travel and excitement. Have you thought about what you’re going to do when he does?”
