Pines said, “Yes, sir. It’s a tourist attraction on the main highway between Palm Springs and Los Angeles. Big statues of dinosaurs in the desert.”
The Director looked at him. “How odd. At any rate, we don’t have their names yet. They were apparently part of the team that was supposed to block the escape of the terrorists. I haven’t been informed yet about the details.”
Goldschmidt said, “A dinosaur stampede?”
Porterfield leaned forward. “You said something about hope. You mean the papers have actually been recovered?”
“Not yet, but the report we received indicates that there were seven terrorists involved, and the operational group allowed none to escape. At this moment our people will be using every means to discover their identities. Raids will be conducted before morning.”
Goldschmidt shook his head. “Eleven people killed in public places—four of ours, seven of theirs, and nothing to show for it. And these raids you’re talking about, no doubt the people left to guard the papers will throw down their arms and come quietly.”
“This is the easy part,” Pines said. “We’re certain that this is a small, tightly knit terrorist cadre from somewhere in Latin America. They may not come quietly, but believe me, they’ll come. We have nearly two hundred operational men out there already, and there will be more before the first raid.”
Porterfield glanced at Kearns, who was staring absently at the menu, his mouth hanging open. “And how many people involved in the support and communication?”
Pines said proudly, “Over a thousand. As the Director told you two days ago, this time we took the threat seriously.”
Kearns winced. “But that means over twelve hundred people know what’s happened?”
“What do you mean?” asked the Director. “Of course these are handpicked people.”
“There is no such thing as twelve hundred handpicked people,” Kearns said. “You don’t even know the names of all the ones killed. That means the people with them didn’t know their real names either.”
“If there’s someone you’re worried about—”
“You!” said Kearns. “Before this happened there were people whose lives were in jeopardy all over Latin America, and who knew it, and knew you were doing nothing to protect them. Now you’ve got twelve hundred —”
Pines interrupted. “If you’re going to bring all that up again, we might as well just give up.”
Porterfield said quietly, “You could do what we’ve been asking you to all along, pull the people home who have a reason to be afraid. It may be too late to negotiate with the ones who have the papers, since you’ve betrayed them twice.”
The Director smiled. “But we’ve got them, blasted them off the face of the earth. We’re going to go through with the mopping up.”
Porterfield’s eyes suddenly seemed to lose their luster. The lids half-covered them, and he stared at the Director with a look that might have been boredom. He seemed to be old and tired. “Is that your final word?”
“Of course.”
Goldschmidt slowly stood up, pressing his palms against the table to support himself. His face was pale and he was sweating. “Excuse me, please. I just remembered I got a number wrong on an important telephone call I made a few minutes ago.” He walked to the door and stopped. “For the record, I’d like to say I agree with Ben.” He opened the door, then said, “But I forget—that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? There is no record.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Pines said to the Director, “I wonder if we shouldn’t all take Mr. Goldschmidt’s lead. Mr. Porterfield and Mr. Kearns have given their opinions. They didn’t wait for the reports from California, but I don’t think that would change anything. Would it, Mr. Kearns?”
Kearns shook his head and stood up. “I don’t think so.” His voice changed, and he seemed to be pleading. “Don’t you see? We don’t have to worry about one little gang of terrorists. We’ve got the makings of a revolt inside the Company. Seventy-eight people so far, and any one of them knows more than Donahue did. Any one of them can do more than these terrorists have done. Any one of them—”
“Thank you,” said the Director and stood up. Kearns took one long look at Porterfield, then turned and walked out of the room.
Pines walked to the Director’s seat and picked up the file from the table. Porterfield remained seated, leaning down to lift his briefcase slowly to his lap. His face had not changed. He looked at the two through half-lidded eyes.
The Director smiled compassionately at Porterfield. “Ben, I admire your guts. I always have. You’re an old pro who’s spent a lot of time in the field and is used to doing things on your own and relying on your own wits to stay alive. But I can’t have you doing this to me. You see what the problem is?”
Porterfield was silent for a moment. The hand in his briefcase stopped moving. “Yes. I do.” The Director and Pines looked at each other. Porterfield said, “You are both people who aren’t up to what you’re doing.”
The Director flipped his hand at Pines, urging him to leave. Pines turned on his heel and took a step, but there was a sharp, spitting sound and his head jerked and he walked into the wall. He took another step and collapsed. The Director looked down at Pines. The side of his head was already oozing blood. It ran down his temple to his neck and then to the floor to form a pool that grew as he watched.
The Director froze, as though he couldn’t step across the body. Then he bent over and looked at it closely. He pointed at the floor. “I suppose that mess is his brain. I see the bullet hole, and that’s what came with it, isn’t it?” He turned to face Porterfield, standing straight. “You’ve done it now. I’m sure you know. There are people waiting for us outside the door.”
Porterfield stood up. “Yes.” He aimed carefully with both hands, and the gun spat again. The Director’s head slammed against the wall, and his body fell forward to the floor.
Goldschmidt opened the door and slipped into the room. “The meeting’s over?”
Porterfield walked to the Director’s body and nudged it with his toe. “Did you take care of the arrangements?”
Goldschmidt shook his head. “I didn’t have to. Yesterday afternoon Pines ordered the autopsy team to report this morning.” Goldschmidt stopped and studied Porterfield. “They were expecting to lose agents on this.”
Porterfield picked up his briefcase and moved toward the door. “Can you take care of the cleanup?”
Goldschmidt sat on the table and stared down at the bodies on the floor. “I’ve already talked to the people at the gate. You didn’t come here this morning.”
“What about Kearns?”
“He was the one who told the Director’s bodyguards to take a break.”
Washington—(UPI)—In a press conference at noon today the White House announced the deaths of William Blount, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and Deputy Director Arthur Pines, reputed to be Blount’s most trusted assistant. The two officials were victims of an automobile accident which occurred while they were beginning a surprise inspection of several outlying installations in the vicinity of the CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia, shortly before dawn. Within seconds of the accident an escort vehicle reached the scene and rushed the victims to the nearest medical facility, a CIA emergency station near Langley. Both were declared dead on arrival. Autopsies have been conducted by the agency. As yet there has been no indication of foul play, but a White House spokesman said that the President has ordered the agency to conduct a thorough investigation, saying that in the deaths of two key members of the intelligence community the possibility can never be ruled out.
Chinese Gordon tossed the newspaper on the floor. As Kepler reached for it, the huge dog lunged past him, pushing his arm aside, and scooped up the newspaper in its jaws, then bounded for the open door of the garage.
“What the hell was that?” said Kepler.
