“I know it’s out of my territory,” he said, “and even out of my league, for that matter, but Kalatis is the only thing I can think about right now. For the present, he’s the only thing I care about, and a ‘long, difficult investigation’ is not going to get him.”
He saw a look of sober fear set in behind Arnette’s eyes.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” she asked.
“I simply mean that this time patience and the long view have no appeal to me whatsoever. I’m not going crazy here. I know what the odds are that Kalatis will get away with this. I live with those odds every day, just like you do. Only this time I can’t be philosophical about it Sorry. The larger investigation is secondary.” He paused, and they stared at each other. “Arnette, I want that son of a bitch so bad that it’s become the only thing I want.”
She didn’t even blink. She was standing behind her chair, her thin fingers gripping the back of it.
“You’d better keep your head screwed on,” she said evenly. Her face had hardened, and she was looking at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. If he hadn’t been so wired, so nearly out of control inside his mind, the look on her face would have had a dark and restraining effect on him. He tapped the table thoughtfully with the side of his thumb.
“But I’m not cut off, Arnette. There’s a direct route to Kalatis… through Colin Faeber.”
“If you pick him up, the time you have to find Kalatis will be reduced to hours, not days,” she warned. “The minute he’s picked up…” She snapped her fingers once.
“If it looks like I’m going to lose Kalatis, I won’t hesitate to do it.”
“That’s risky.”
“That’s desperate.”
After a pause she asked, “How much time do you think you’ve got?”
Graver looked at the steno pad and pushed it back and forth on the table a few times.
“I’ve probably already had a telephone call at home from Westrate,” he said. “Or from Ben Olmstead, my sergeant in our Houston Terrorist Task Force. I’ve got three men besides Olmstead in a joint effort with the FBI. They work out of the Federal Building, not even in our offices. I’ll be getting immediate briefs from them, so I’ll know what they’re coming up with out there at South Shore Harbor as soon as it happens. At some point I expect Ginette to report Dean missing. They’ll eventually guess Dean might have been one of the bodies, but won’t be able to prove it. But because of his disappearance and the deaths of Tisler and Besom, somebody-probably Ward Lukens-will push for an inquiry. And they’ll get it That’s when I’m going to have to cough up what I know.”
“So… we’ve got…”
“I’d guess… a few days… maybe. I think it’ll depend on how quickly Ginette panics.”
The handset that had been sitting on the table at Graver’s elbow rang for the first time. He picked it up and answered it.
“It’s Neuman. I’m on the Gulf Freeway, coming in. I’ve got something from Sheck’s.”
“What is it?” Graver sat up in his chair, and Arnette froze, her eyes fixed on him. Graver flicked the conference switch on the handset so Arnette could hear.
“I’m not sure,” Neuman said. “I’ve got some aviation navigating maps, but I also found a canister, a waterproof, military-style container a little over five inches long. I found it tied to a piece of fishing line hanging down inside the floor drain of one of the bedroom showers.”
“Jesus, yes,” Arnette hissed, suddenly leaning forward and placing both hands flat on the table.
The muscles in Graver’s neck began a steady tightening.
“I didn’t open it.” Neuman said. “Afraid it might be undeveloped film.”
“Have him bring it here, “Arnette said, repeatedly jabbing a forefinger downward in front of her.
Graver looked at her.
“If you say it’s okay… then it’s okay,” she said.
Graver nodded.
“Give him the address,” she said.
“Neuman…”
“Yeah?”
“Listen, I’m going to give you an address. I want you to bring the canister to 4645 Rauer.”
Neuman repeated the address.
“That’s right. It’s a residence. Someone will be waiting for you at the front yard gate.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
Graver clicked off the radio.
“In a shower drain. “Arnette grinned with admiration. “Your boy’s pretty good.”
Graver suddenly was hopeful again. His adrenaline had been so taxed in the last few days that he was surprised his glands could still produce anything.
“Everybody has some rainy-day security,” he said, thinking of Sheck.
“That’s the kind of business we’re in, baby,” Arnette said with satisfaction. “Spooks are as predictable as everybody else. They just think differently. Once you know how they think, the odds are good you can make some guesses about what they think.” She walked back to the other end of the table, tapped a knuckle on the wood surface, and returned to stand in front of Graver. “Kalatis may have cause to regret that marina bombing,” she said.
“I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that he does,” Graver said.
The fact that they were addressing two entirely different matters was clear to both of them.
Chapter 55
He had four planes in the air at once. Two were flying back and forth along the Gulf Coast, each with a blindfolded client who thought he was en route to either Mexico or one of the many islands in the West Indies. All of the clients, the four he had flown in during the last two days and the four he would fly in during the next two days, thought they were going somewhere different All of them, however, believed they had left the United States. Right now one client was being flown “back to the States” and another was due to arrive at any moment A third plane had taken off from a point twenty miles out in the Gulf where twenty-two million dollars in cash had been loaded onto it from a cabin cruiser. This plane was headed for Grand Cayman. A fourth plane also had been loaded offshore, though at a different point than the third plane. It was carrying twenty-eight-million dollars and was headed for Panama City. This money was in the hands of capable accountants-as well as a generously paid security force-and would be scattered all over the Western Hemisphere in safe, legitimate accounts “within fifteen days.
Kalatis was standing on the veranda of his house above the beach. He was smoking a fresh Cohiba and was wearing dark trousers and a loose-fitting pastel salmon shirt of lightweight silk. He heard the distant soprano drone of the next plane, and looked at his watch. Right on time. He thought of Jael. She would be wrapping up her business soon, too. By three or four o’clock both of them would be through with their night’s work, and then they would crawl into a bed of fresh white Egyptian cotton sheets and stay there until noon. In the meantime, there were men he was paying to keep regular hours, and Kalatis’s biggest operation ever would continue rolling toward its finale with the inexorable and accelerating pace of a boulder tumbling down a mountainside.
He watched as the plane dropped out of the night sky, its winking lights falling toward the Gulf waters until it banked sharply to make its approach, the sound coming straight at him though only the lights were visible, skimming over the top of the water, nothing but the lights until suddenly two tracks of white spray shot up out of the darkness as the pontoons touched and cut the water, and the engines pulled down to a grumble as the plane taxied toward the dock below.
Throwing an appraising glance at the setting of the table on the veranda, Kalatis sucked in his stomach and jammed his flattened hand around his waistband to double-check his shirttail. This client was much more entertaining than the usual. A fitting way to conclude his evening. He turned back to the dock and waited for the telltale sounds as the plane cut its engines and drifted the last few yards to the dock, the sounds of mooring, the guards giving instructions to each other-people of this caliber often traveled with a companion or two of their own- and finally the footsteps on the dock as his men brought the blindfolded client up and across the lawn to the steps
