“Then I must demand more money. Whoever’s paying you can afford it.”
“Not a dollar!”
“Then I’m leaving.”
“Stop! … Five hundred more, that’s it.”
“Five thousand or I go.”
“Ridiculous!”
“See you in another twenty years—”
“All right. … All right, five thousand.”
“Oh, Randy, you’re so obvious. It’s why you’re not really one of the brightest, just someone who can use language to make yourself appear bright, and I think we’ve seen and heard enough of that these days. … Ten thousand, Dr. Gates, or I go to the raucous bar of my choice.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Certainly I can. I’m now a confidential legal consultant. Ten thousand dollars. How do you want to pay it? I can’t imagine you have it with you, so how will you honor the debt—for the information?”
“My word—”
“Forget it, Randy.”
“All right. I’ll have it sent to the Boston Five in the morning. In your name. A bank check.”
“That’s very endearing of you. But in case it occurs to your superiors to stop me from collecting, please advise them that an unknown person, an old friend of mine in the streets, has a letter detailing everything that’s gone on between us. It is to be mailed to the Massachusetts Attorney General, Return Receipt Requested, in the event I have an accident.”
“That’s absurd. The information, please.”
“Yes, well, you should know that you’ve involved yourself in what appears to be an extremely sensitive government operation, that’s the bottom line. … On the assumption that anyone in an emergency leaving one place for another would do so with the fastest transportation possible, our rumbottom detective went to Logan Airport, under what guise I don’t know. Nevertheless, he succeeded in obtaining the manifests of every plane leaving Boston yesterday morning from the first flight at six-thirty to ten o’clock. As you recall, that corresponds with the parameters of your statement to me—‘leaving first thing in the morning.’ ”
“And?”
“Patience, Randolph. You told me not to write anything down, so I must take this step by step. Where was I?”
“The manifests.”
“Oh, yes. Well, according to Detective Sleaze, there were eleven unaccompanied children booked on various flights, and eight women, two of them nuns, who had reservations with minors. Of these eight, including the nuns who were taking nine orphans to California, the remaining six were identified as follows.” The old man reached into his pocket and shakily took out a typewritten sheet of paper. “Obviously, I did not write this. I don’t own a typewriter because I can’t type; it comes from Führer Sleaze.”
“Let me have it!” ordered Gates, rushing forward, his hand outstretched.
“Surely,” said the seventy-year-old disbarred attorney, giving the page to his former student. “It won’t do you much good, however,” he added. “Our Sleaze checked them out, more to inflate his hours than for anything else. Not only are they all squeaky clean, but he performed that unnecessary service after the real information was uncovered.”
“What?” asked Gates, his attention diverted from the page. “What information?”
“Information that neither Sleaze nor I would write down anywhere. The first hint of it came from the morning setup clerk for Pan American Airlines. He mentioned to our lowbrow detective that among his problems yesterday was a hotshot politician, or someone equally offensive, who needed diapers several minutes after our clerk went on duty at five-forty-five. Did you know that diapers come in sizes and are locked away in an airline’s contingency supplies?”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“All the stores in the airport were closed. They open at seven o’clock.”
“So?”
“So someone in a hurry forgot something. A lone woman with a five-year-old child and an infant were leaving Boston on a private jet taking off on the runway nearest the Pan Am shuttle counters. The clerk responded to the request and was personally thanked by the mother. You see, he’s a young father and understood about diaper sizes. He brought three different packages—”
“For God’s sake, will you get to the point, Judge?”
“Judge?” The gray-faced old man’s eyes widened. “Thank you, Randy. Except for my friends in various gin mills, I haven’t been called that in years. It must be the aura I exude.”
“It was a throwback to that same boring circumlocution you used both on the bench and in the classroom!”
“Impatience was always your weak suit. I ascribed it to your annoyance with other people’s points of view that interfered with your conclusions. … Regardless, our Major Sleaze knew a rotten apple when the worm emerged and spat in his face, so he hied himself off to Logan’s control tower, where he found a bribable off duty traffic controller who checked yesterday morning’s schedules. The jet in question had a computer readout of Four Zero, which to our Captain Sleaze’s astonishment he was told meant it was government-cleared and maximum-classified. No manifest, no names of anyone on board, only a routing to evade commercial aircraft and a destination.”
“Which was?”
“Blackburne, Montserrat.”
“What the hell is that?”
“The Blackburne Airport on the Caribbean island of Montserrat.”
“That’s where they went? That’s it?”
“Not necessarily. According to Corporal Sleaze, who I must say does his follow-ups, there are small flight connections to a dozen or so minor offshore islands.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, Professor. And considering the fact that the aircraft in question had a Four Zero government classification, which, incidentally, in my letter to the attorney general I so specified, I think I’ve earned my ten thousand dollars.”
“You drunken scum—”
“Again you’re wrong, Randy,” interrupted the judge. “Alcoholic, certainly, drunk hardly ever. I stay on the edge of sobriety. It’s my one reason for living. You see in my cognizance I’m always amused—by men like you, actually.”
“Get out of here,” said the professor ominously.
“You’re not even going to offer me a drink to help support this dreadful habit of mine? … Good heavens, there must be half a dozen unopened bottles over there.”
“Take one and leave.”
“Thank you, I believe I will.” The old judge walked to a cherry-wood table against the wall where two silver trays held various whiskies and a brandy. “Let’s see,” he continued, picking up several white cloth napkins and wrapping them around two bottles, then a third. “If I hold these tightly under my arm, they could be a pile of laundry I’m taking put for quick service.”
“Will you hurry!”
“Will you please open the door for me? I’d hate like hell dropping one of these while manipulating the knob. If it smashed it wouldn’t do much for your image, either. You’ve never been known to have a drink, I believe.”
“Get out,” insisted Gates, opening the door for the old man.
“Thank you, Randy,” said the judge, walking out into the hallway and turning. “Don’t forget the bank check at the Boston Five in the morning. Fifteen thousand.”
“Fifteen … ?”
“My word, can you imagine what the attorney general would say just knowing that you’d even consorted with me? Good-bye, Counselor.”
Randolph Gates slammed the door and ran into the bedroom, to the bedside telephone. The smaller enclosure was reassuring, as it removed him from the exposure to scrutiny inherent in larger areas—the room was more private, more personal, less open to invasion. The call he had to make so unnerved him he could not understand the pull-out flap of instructions for overseas connections. Instead, in his anxiety, he dialed the operator.
“I want to place a call to Paris,” he said.
6
Bourne’s eyes were tired, the strain painful as he studied the results of the computer printouts spread across the coffee table in front of the couch. Sitting forward, he had analyzed them for nearly four hours, forgetting time, forgetting that his “control” was to have reached him by then, concerned only with a link to the Jackal at the Mayflower hotel.
The first group, which he temporarily put aside, was the foreign nationals, a mix of British, Italian, Swedish, West German, Japanese and Taiwanese. Each of them had been extensively examined with respect to authentic credentials and fully substantiated business or personal reasons for entering the country. The State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency had done their homework. Each person was professionally and personally vouched for by a minimum of five reputable individuals or companies; all had long-standing communications with such people and firms in the Washington area; none had a false or questionable statement on record. If the Jackal’s man was among them—and he might well be—it would take far more information than was to be found in the printouts before Jason could refine the list. It might be necessary to go back to this group, but for the moment he had to keep reading. There was so little time!
Of the remaining five hundred or so American guests at the hotel, two hundred and twelve had entries in one or more of the intelligence data banks, the majority because they had business with the government. However, seventy-eight had raw-file negative evaluations. Thirty-one were Internal Revenue Service matters, which meant they were suspected of destroying or falsifying financial records and/or had tax havens in Swiss or Cayman Island accounts. They were zero, nothing, merely rich and not very bright thieves, and, further, the sort of “messengers” Carlos would avoid like lepers.