She paused. Went quiet again.
“Could be anybody,” she said. “There are a hundred agents in
Chicago.”
She was sitting on the forest floor, small, miserable, defeated. She
had trusted her people. She had told him that. She had been full of
naive confidence. I trust my people, she had said. He felt a wave of
tenderness for her. It crashed over him. Not pity, not concern, just
an agonizing tenderness for a good person whose bright new world was
suddenly dirty and falling apart. He stared at her, hoping she would
see it. She stared back, eyes full of tears. He held out his hands.
She took them. He lifted her to her feet and held her. He lifted her
off the ground and crushed her close. Her breasts were against his
pounding chest. Her tears were against his neck.
Then her hands were behind his head, pulling him close. She squirmed
her face up and kissed him. She kissed him angrily and hungrily on the
mouth. Her arms were locking around his neck. He felt her wild
breathing. He knelt and laid her gently on the soft earth. Her hands
burrowed at his shirt buttons. His at hers.
They made love naked on the forest floor, urgently, passionately,
greedily, as if they were defying death itself. Then they lay panting
and spent in each other’s arms, gazing up at the sunlight spearing down
through the leaves.
He stroked her hair and felt her breathing slow down. He held her
silently for a long time, watching the dust motes dancing in the
sunbeams over her head.
“Who knew your movements on Monday?” he asked softly.
She thought about it. Made no reply.
“And which of them didn’t know about Jackson then?” he asked.
No reply.
“And which of them isn’t short of money?” he asked.
No reply.
“And which of them is recent?” he asked. “Which of them could have
come close enough to Beau Borken somewhere to get bought off? Sometime
in the past? Maybe investigating the robbery thing in California?”
She shuddered in his arms.
“Four questions, Holly,” he said. “Who fits?”
She ran through all the possibilities. Like a process of elimination.
An algorithm. She boiled the hundred names down. The first question
eliminated most of them. The second question eliminated a few more.
The third question eliminated a handful. It was the fourth question
which proved decisive. She shuddered again.
“Only two possibilities,” she said.
THIRTY-THREE
MILOSEVIC AND BROGAN WERE STRAPPED SIDE BY SIDE IN THE rear of the air
force chopper. McGrath and Johnson and the general’s aide were crushed
into the middle row of seats. The aircrew were shoulder to shoulder in
the front. They lifted off from Silver Bow and clattered away
northwest over the town of Butte, nose down, low altitude, looking for
maximum airspeed. The helicopter was an old Bell, rebuilt with a new
engine, and it was pushing a hundred and twenty miles an hour, which
made for a lot of noise inside. Consequently McGrath and Johnson were
screaming into their radio mikes to make themselves understood. McGrath
was patched through to the Hoover Building. He was trying to talk to
Harland Webster. He had one hand cupped over the mike and the other
was clamping the earphone to his head. He was talking about the
missile unit. He didn’t know if Webster was hearing him. He just
repeated his message over and over, as loud as he could. Then he
flicked the switch and tore off the headset. Tossed it forward to the
co-pilot.
Johnson was talking to Peterson. Radio contact had not been restored.
He limited himself to requesting an update by secure landline direct to
the mobile command post in two hours’ time. He failed to decipher the
reply. He pulled off his headset and looked a question at McGrath.
McGrath shrugged back at him. The helicopter clattered onward.
Harland Webster heard the shrieking din cut off. He hung up his phone
in the sudden silence of his office. Leaned forward and buzzed through
to his secretary.
“Car,” he said.
He walked through to the elevator and rode down to the garage. Walked
over to his limousine. His driver was holding the door for him.