“You do know,” the FBI agent said finally, when all the laugh- ing had stopped.
“You found the bomb?”
“Yes.”
“It was a warning. I needed that name.”
“I know. Hard or easy. Your choice.”
“You mean it?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll take you and Captain Grafton as hostages,” Albright said, rising from the chair. He glanced toward Yakov and jerked his head at Jake. As Yakov stepped in that direction Albright shot him.
Yakov spun, firing at Albright. The bullet hit Albright square in the chest and his pistol sagged, exploding again pointed at the floor. At almost the same instant Toad Tarkington lashed out with his feet, and Albright went sideways as a foot was kicked out from under him. Yakov’s second shot hit his shoulder and he spun from the impact as he fell.
Yakov’s third shot came as he was falling. It was aimed at Cama- cho. who was still sitting on the couch. He hadn’t moved.
Camacho doubled over as Yakov hit the floor.
Jake toppled his chair going for Yakov’s pistol. He wrestled the gun from the major’s weak grasp and crouched beside the chair, on top of the Russian major as he watched Albright
The whole sequence hadn’t taken five seconds.
Toad got to his feet. He was free of the table. He bent down shakily and retrieved the pistol that Albright had dropped. “This ‘ one’s still alive.”
“Quick,” Jake said. “Check Camacho.”
Jake held the gun on the major’s head as Toad stretched Cama- cho on the couch. “He’s hit lower down,” Toad said. “Dead center. Still alive, though.”
“Go upstairs. Get the agents.” Toad made for the stairs. “Put the gun in your pocket,” Jake called after him. “Don’t let them shoot you.”
Camacho sat up on one elbow.
“Is he dead?” be whispered hoarsely, looking at the major.
“No,” Jake said. “He’s hit in the right side, but he isn’t dead. He may make it.”
“Kill him.”
“Why?”
“He heard too much. Kill him!” Camacho coughed, a bubbly gurgle.
Jake moved toward Camacho, dragging the chair. Behind him Major Yakov began to crawl.
“Give me the gun,” Camacho said.
“No.”
“This isn’t a game, Grafton! Give me the gun!”
Jake tossed it.
The pistol landed on the couch. Camacho groped for it while Yakov struggled for the stairs.
Yakov jerked as the first shot hit him. He tried again to crawl. Taking his time, Camacho shot him four more times. A red stain spread across the back of Yakov’s shirt and he lay still.
Camacho dropped the pistol and sagged down onto the couch.
“Albright! Albright, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Give — me — the — names.” Camacho dragged himself along the couch so he could see the Russian’s face-
“I—” Albright’s lips were moving but no sound came out. Then he ceased to move at all.
Camacho’s head went down to rest on the couch-
“Who is X?” Jake demanded. With a heave he got the chair over to the couch and shook Camacho. ‘Tell me! Who is?”
“You don’t want— No! It’s not what you — he’s not…”
Camacho went limp. Jake turned his head so he could see his face. His eyes were open, staring fixedly at nothing.
Jake sagged down beside the bloody couch. He heard the sound of running feet upstairs.
30
The sky was crystal-clear, a pleasant change from the late-summer haze. From this infinite sky a bright sun shone down on a day not hot and not yet cold, a perfect late-September Sunday. The trees along the roads where Jake Grafton drove had just begun to lose their green and don their autumn colors. Their leaves shimmered and glistened in the bril- liant sun.
Most of the radio stations were broadcasting music, but it was public-service time on the others. He listened a few moments to two women discussing the nuances of breast-feeding, then twirled the selector knob. The next station had a preacher asking for dona- tions for his radio ministry. Send the money to a P.O. box in Arkansas. He left the dial there. The fulminations filled the car and drifted out the open window. Samuel Dodgers would have hked this guy: hellfire for sinners, damnation for the tempters.
Toad Tarkington was leaning against the side of his car at the Denny’s restaurant when Jake pulled into the lot.
“Been waiting long?”
“Five minutes.” Toad walked around the front of Jake’s car and climbed in. In spite of the sun and seventy- five-degree temperature, he was wearing a windbreaker.
“How’s Rita?”
“Doing okay.”
Jake got the car in motion.
“Where’re we going?”
“I told you on the phone. To see X.”
“Yessir. But where is that?”
“You’ll see.”
Toad lapsed into silence. He sat with his hands in his lap and stared straight ahead at the road. On the radio the preacher ex- pounded on how Bible prophecy had predicted the popularity of rock music.
Passing through Middleburg Toad said, “I think we ought to kill him.”
Jake held out his right hand, palm up. Toad just looked at it.
“Let me have it.”
“What?”
“Your gun. The one you have under that jacket.”
Toad reached under the left side of his jacket and extracted a pistol from his belt, which he laid in the captain’s hand. It was a navy-issue nine-millimeter automatic, well oiled but worn. Jake pushed the button and the clip fell out in his hand. This he pock- eted. Holding the gun with his right hand, he worked the slide with his left. A shiny cartridge flipped out and went over his shoulder into the backseat. The gun he slipped under the driver’s seat.
“Who is he?”
“You’ll see.”
“Why are we going if we aren’t going to kill him?”
“You’ve been watching too many Clint Eastwood movies. And you ask too many questions.”
“So why did you call me?”
“I didn’t want to go alone. I wanted a witness. The witness had to be someone who is basically incorruptible, someone beyond his reach.”
“I’m not beyond anyone’s reach.”
