“Think it’s X?”
“What in hell would X have to say to Smoke Judy?”
“How’re they hanging down in your shop? How’d you like to ski Moscow? Quit fucking my wife. The possibilities-” The radio speaker squawked to life with another report from the food court and Dreyfus closed his eyes to listen.
Camacho took off the radio he was wearing and handed it to one of the technicians. “See you tomorrow at the office,” he said to Dreyfus during a silent moment, then let himself out of the van and walked through the drizzling rain toward his car.
Harlan Albright came over to Camacho’s house after supper. He accepted a cup of coffee and the two of them went to the basement. The boy was there, and he got up with a wounded look on his face and took the stairs two at a time. His father watched him go, then settled onto the couch and picked up the television remote control and began flipping channels.
“I see in the paper that Matilda Jackson is dead.”
Camacho grunted. Two of the channels had those damned game shows, people answering trivial questions to win flashy, useless consumer goods.
“Who killed her?”
“Someone who knew exactly what he was about.” Camacho stared at the sex goddess nipping answer cards on Channel 4.
“Too bad. Had you had a chance to show her Franklin’s pic- ture?”
“No.”
“Well, she was an old woman, had lived a long life. It would have come soon anyhow.”
Camacho jabbed the remote savagely. The television settled on the educational channel. Some Englishman was talking about cathedrals. “Listen, asshole. I’m not in the mood for that shit to- night. It’s been a long goddamn weekend.”
“Sorry. I read about that shooting incident in front of Jackson’s house. That must have been touch and go.”
He examined the Russian’s face. “I know you probably dropped a dime on her, so don’t waste the hot air on me. You don’t give a damn about that old woman or anybody else.”
“Sometime—“
“Shut up!”
The Englishman was explaining about flying buttresses. He used a computer model to graphically depict the forces transferred through the stone.
Albright stood up. “I’ll drop over some night this week when you’re in a better mood.”
“Ummm.”
Camacho listened to the footsteps climbing the stairs and the noises of Sally letting him out the front door. He stared at the television without seeing it, lost in thought.
When Luis Camacho returned to his office from his usual Monday- moming conference with his boss, he was in a foul mood. The boss had made several candid remarks about Camacho’s conduct Friday night.
“Look at this shit,” he roared, waving a section of the Sunday Washington Post. “the special agent in charge of counterespionage standing on a street comer with two punk dopers, in front of a fucking crack house, for Christ’s sake! What in hell has busting dopers got to do with catching spies?”
Camacho remarked that he had asked the newspaper photogra- pher not to take his picture.
“Ha! Apparently you haven’t read the Constitution lately, mis- ter.”
“That’s what he said.”
“And I’m saying it too. I don’t ever want to see your sweet little puss in the public press again, mister, or you’re going to wind up in Pocatello chasing Nazis through cow shit up to your armpits. Those crackpots are probably the only nut cases around who never read the goddamned paper!” The boss had been irked for months by press coverage of the FBI investigation of the Aryan Nations white supremacy fanatics, and ridiculed it and them every chance he got. Sometimes he made up chances. “If you wanta be famous, get a lobotomy and become a rock star.”
After he’d calmed down, he wanted a complete oral report on Matilda Jackson and Smoke Judy. That had taken an hour. Then the boss had asked questions for a half hour and discussed tactics and strategy for another thirty minutes. When he signaled the dis- cussion was over, Luis Camacho was tired and needed to go to the rest room,
Now Camacho slumped in his office chair and shuffled through the paper in his in basket. He was rereading a new administrative procedure for the third time when Dreyfus tapped on his door, then stuck his head in. Pipe smoke swirled into the room. “Wanta watch the tape of Smoke Judy we made yesterday?”
“Sure.”
“Got it on the VCR.”
The two men went to the little conference room next door and Dreyfus pushed buttons. “The plates and glasses they used are at the lab. Should have some good prints.”
“Terrific.”
‘The lab wizards synched up the sound from one of the mikes with the video.” Judy and the beefy man in the windbreaker ap- peared on the television screen. Dreyfus twiddled the color knob and adjusted the volume.
“… not happy with all the media on procurement problems down there.” The beefy man had a well-spoken baritone voice, but Us nervousness was evident.
Judy replied, but his back must have been to the parabolic mike that picked up this sound track, because his words were indistinct Dreyfus punched the pause button and said, “We have two other audio tracks and think we got it all, but it’ll take a few hours to come up with a complete transcript.”
Camacho nodded and the tape rolled on.
“… big risks. Some people will be going to prison,” Judy’s companion said, “after they’ve been drawn and quartered in a pub- lic trial that will take six months.”
Judy leaned forward and spoke earnestly. Snatches of his re- marks came through. “… you people … a lifetime building the company… literally millions at stake. You guys really need this because… You’ll make tens of millions in the next twenty years and I’ll get a little stock and a paycheck and a pension… not much…” The rest was too garbled to follow.
‘That’s enough,” Camacho said after another five minutes. “Let me see the transcript when it’s finished.”
Dreyfus stopped the tape and pushed the rewind button. “I think that guy’s gonna buy what Judy’s selling.”
“When you get that rewound, come on back to my office.”
In his office Luis Camacho took a sheet of scratch paper and printed one word: “Fallacy.” He handed it to Dreyfus when he came in. “See if this is in any of X’s letters.”
Dreyfus dropped into a chair and began to fiddle with his pipe. He put the paper in his shirt pocket after a glance. “Where’d you get it?” he asked when he had his pipe going again.
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,”
“Vice Admiral Henry, huh?”
“I found it in the John.”
“Why can’t we get a list of all the code words from NSA?”
“We’ve been all through this before.”
“So I’m not too bright. Tell me again.”
“NSA won’t give us the code words without the approval of the committee. The committee has not approved.” The committee was slang for the ultrasecret group that formulated intelligence com- munity policy and coordinated the intelligence activities of all U.S. agencies. Some of its members included the directors of the FBI and CIA, the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of State, the National Security Agency chief, and speaking directly for the Pres- ident, the National Security Adviser.
“So what does that tell you?” Dreyfus asked, his voice sharper than usual.
Camacho rubbed his eyes, then his face. “You tell me.”
“If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and leaves duck shit all over, it probably is a duck.”
