fully opened letter on the desk and pressed. Then he turned it over and examined the blue smear on the back. Satisfactory. Not too much, yet enough for the lab to get a sample. He refolded the letter and replaced it m the see- through plastic bag.
‘Take it back to the lab.”
“Did I see that?”
”No. You are as ignorant as you look.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Indeed. And while you’re at it, see if this word is encoded in the text” Camacho seized a piece of scratch paper and carefully printed a word. “Kilderkin.” He passed the paper to Dreyfus.
“Anything else?” Dreyfus asked hopefully.
“Like what?”
“Oh, I dunno. I’ve got the feeling that neat and wonderful wheels are turning like crazy, though I haven’t the foggiest idea why. Or where the wheels will take us.”
“Wbat do you want? A Tuesday-morning miracle?”
“It doesn’t have to be a miracle. A tiny little sleight of hand would be welcome. Or a very brief explanation.”
Camacho shot his cuffs. “See. Nothing up my sleeves. No hat, so no rabbit”
Dreyfus stood and ambled toward the door. “Kilderkin, huh? You know, I get the impression that—“
“Never trust your impressions. Wait for evidence.”
“So what do we do with the original letter when the lab’s through with it?” The agent fluttered the plastic bag gently.
“The usual. Stick it back in the envelope and let the post office deliver it. I’m sure the ambassador will convey the writer’s advice to the members of the Politburo at his earliest opportunity. This may be the great watershed in U-S.-Soviet re—” He stopped be- cause Dreyfus was already out the door and had closed it behind liiqi-
At ten o’clock Dreyfus was back. He waited patiently until Ca- macho was off the phone, then said, “Okay, how’d you know?”
The Minotaur
“Know what?”
‘That that antique word from merry ol’ England would crack it?”
“Kilderkin?”
“Yeah.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson. A kilderkin is a barrel or cask. It contains something, as that letter did.”
“Shit”
Camacho extended his hand. Dreyfus passed him a small piece of white paper containing the three words from the message and waited white he examined it. The second word was “kilderkin.”
“That’s all,” Camacho said, looking up as he folded the small page and stuck it into his shirt pocket. “Thanks.”
“Always a pleasure, Holmes.”
When he was again alone, Camacho dialed a telephone number from memory and identified himself to the woman who answered. In a moment the person he wanted was on the line and he said, “Let’s have lunch.”
“Can’t today. Pretty busy.”
“Appointments?”
“Yep.”
“Cancel them.”
“Where and when?”
“On the mall, in front of the Air and Space Museum. Twelve or so.”
The line went dead in Camacho’s ear. He cradled the instru- ment. He leaned back in his chair and looked out his little window at the buildings on the other side of E Street. He pursed his lips and breathing deeply in and out, gently massaged his head with one hand.
An hour later he was out on the sidewalk in his shirt sleeves, striding along. He had left his pistol locked in his desk drawer, his jacket and tie over the back of his chair. He was violating FBI policy but so be it. The summer heat was palpable, a living, breath- ing monster no doubt goaded by the sheer numbers of humans who were defying it this midday. Where did all these people come from? The streets were packed with cars, taxis,’snorting buses and trucks, the sidewalks covered with swarming humanity.
Overhead the summer haze made the sky appear a gauzy, indis- tinct white, but it failed to soften the sun’s fierce glare. Camacho’s shirt wilted swiftly and glued itself to the small of his back. He could fed the perspiration soaking into his socks. Little beads of sweat congealed around the hairs on the back of his hands, and he automatically wiped the palms on his trousers as he walked.
Every shady circle under the mall trees was home to office work- ers and tourists who could no longer stay on their feet. Children sprawled and played on the hard-packed dirt. The grass that had grown under the trees so profusely this spring had succumbed weeks ago under the impact of infinite feet. An endless stream of joggers and serious runners pounded up and down the gravel paths of the mall, little dust spurts rising from the thud of each foot The combined effect was a thin brown curtain of dust that rose into the air and tilted away toward the monolithic art museums that lined the northern side of the open expanse.
The street in front of the Air and Space Museum was bumper to bumper with tour buses. As he came closer, Luis Camacho threaded his way through the hordes of teenagers and middle-aged pink people in shorts and cutesy T-shirts.
The great American sightseeing excursion was in full swing. Herds of Japanese tourists clad in the requisite button-down short- sleeved shirts clustered near some of the buses and busily snapped their cameras at each other, the huge windowless museums to the north, the distant Washington Monument and the dome of the Capitol rising in the east like a corpulent moon. In spite of the oppressive heat, the mood was cheerful, gay.
Camacho found a spot in the shade near a tree and sat down gratefully. Cigarette butts and candy-bar wrappers littered the ground. He didn’t care. To his left a souvenir stand was doing a land-office business in film, soft drinks and ice-cream bars. Squall- ing youngsters and frisky youths queued like soldiers in the sun as they waited for their turn to surrender their money to the happy merchant.
Derelicts shuffled slowly through the human forest. They were blithely ignored as they mined the trash bins for pop cans. A cou- ple of alkies snoozed further away from the street in the shade cast by the treetops, out where the grass still survived: their day had apparently ended some hours ago when the critical intoxication level had been reached and surpassed.
He had been there no more than five minutes when he spotted the man he had come to meet feeling his way through the crowd, looking about him. Camacho stood and walked toward him.
“Morning, Admiral.”
“Let’s get the hell out of this crowd,” Tyler Henry growled.
“Next time pick a quieter spot.” Henry was clad in beige slacks and a yellow pullover with a little fox on the right breast. His eyes were hidden behind the naval aviator’s de rigueur sunglasses.
“Aye aye, sir.”
The two men walked east, toward the duck pond at the base of Capitol Hill. When they were out of earshot of the tourists and drunks. Henry said, “Okay. I haven’t got much time today. What d’ya want?”
“We intercepted another letter from X this morning. Thought you’d be interested. Here’s the coded message it con- tained.” The FBI agent passed him the little square of words with the three words penciled on it.
Admiral Henry stopped dead and stared at the words on the paper. “Kilderkin. Holy rock! The damned Minotaur is giving away Athena!”
“Yes.”
“Awww, goddamn! Awww…”
Camacho gingerly removed the paper from the admiral’s fingers, refolded it and put it in his pocket.
“And I suppose you assholes with badges just stuffed the fucking letter back in the envelope and gave it to the postman?” When he saw Camacho’s silent nod, Henry scuffed angrily at the dirt. He indulged himself in some heavy cussing.
“Do you know what Athena is? Do you silly half-wit peepers have any idea what the hell Athena is all
