Mission: Earth "Black Genesis" (24 page)

The erratic "tour" was certainly not the scheduled public tour, even to the point of Maulin shouldering through a couple of small mobs of sightseers to show Heller something of special interest.

They finally came to the "Ten Most Wanted Fugitives" and Heller got an education on how people were spotted and traced. And how the FBI never, never failed to find them every time.

Shortly, Maulin had him back for an out-of-sequence look at the gangsters of the 1930s. "Now," he said, "here were the real gangsters. They weren't the cream puffs

you find around today. They were really, really gangsters. And you got no idea how hard it was to catch them. But Hoover solved all that."

Maulin pointed at a death mask and a display of photos. "Now, take Dillinger there. He never had any record at all. Just one minor charge. But Hoover made him a famous man."

He got around in front of Heller and wagged a huge finger at him. "Hoover had the greatest imagination in history. He used to dream up," said Maulin proudly, "the God (bleepest) dossiers for people. Total inventions! Right off the top of his head. Pure genius! And then he could go out and shoot them down! In a blaze of glorious gunfire! A master craftsman! He taught us how and we are left with the heavy responsibility of carrying on this magnificent tradition!"

Heller waved his hand to include all of the most advertised criminals in history. "He got all these the same way?"

"Every one," said Maulin proudly. "And he included the general public, too, so don't think this is complete."

"Hey," said Heller. "There's a really vicious one!" He was pointing.

Maulin blew up. "God (bleep) it, kid, that's HOOVER!"

He was so upset that he simply stalked off. Heller clickety-clacked along behind him. Then, fitting his mood, Maulin went down some stairs and shoved Heller through another door. It was a firing range!

I was apprehensive. I knew they were up to something. I hoped it wouldn't include shooting Heller on the premises!

There were targets at the other end of the room and

guns and ear protectors on the counter. I held my breath. I prayed to Heller not to get any notion of grabbing a gun and shooting his way out of the building.

"Where's the agent that does the public demonstrations?" demanded Maulin of an old man that was cleaning some guns.

"Hey? Oh, there ain't any more public demonstrations today."

Maulin socked some ear clamps on Heller and picked up a gun. He fired a round at the targets and it seemed to make him feel better. He turned to Heller. "You've classified on revolvers, of course."

"I've never shot one of those," said Heller.

"Military school!" snorted Maulin. "I knew all they taught was to tat and knit." But he proceeded to instruct Heller. "This is a Colt .457 Magnum revolver. A shot from it will go through a motor block and then some." And he showed Heller how to swing its cylinder, inspect it, load and unload it, and even how to carry it. Then he picked up a Colt U.S. Army .45 and showed Heller all about that.

Maulin looked at his watch and frowned. Obviously he had to delay Heller longer. "Tell you what, Junior. I'll give you a little demonstration of real marksmanship. Now, first, I take a look at a wanted poster here. And then several targets jump up and I have to select which one is the wanted man and put a bullet in his heart. If I shoot the wrong man, I get another chance."

He picked up a poster, glanced at it. He drew his own gun. He had the technician push some buttons. Face after face popped up. Maulin fired. He shot the wrong man.

"I told you to see an eye doctor, Maulin," said the old man.

"Shut up," said Maulin. "Hit the buttons again."He gripped the butt of the gun with both hands. He sighted carefully. He shot the right man.

"Here, Junior. You try it. You'll see it ain't so easy."

Gods, all Heller had to do was shoot the two of them and walk out. In the spot he was in, it was the textbook solution.

Heller looked at a wanted poster and put it down. The targets popped up. Heller fired and hit the right man, dead center. Nothing marvelous for a Fleet blast-gun expert.

"No, no, no," said Maulin. "Jesus. Don't ever pull a trigger before you raise the gun to eye level. But I don't blame you for being nervous. And don't get cocky about accidental hits. They don't happen in real battles. Now hold the gun in both hands, spread your feet apart to get steadiness. Now sight carefully down the barrel. Good. Now we'll give you another chance. Hit the buttons, Murphy."

Heller with great pains did exactly as he was told. He hit the right target dead center.

"There, you see?" said Maulin. "That's what happens when you get good instruction. Now you want to try this Army Colt?"

Heller fired an assortment of weapons and finally, with a sigh of relief, Maulin, looking at his watch, said, "It's time we went back to my office." They left but Maulin used the whole long route to lecture Heller about the power and majesty and total world dominance of the FBI. It was just an act to cover up what they really intended. For I knew that, by now, whatever trap they were party to had been arranged.

Maulin, puffing a bit from his exhaustive lecture on the glories of the FBI, had no more than entered his office when Stupewitz's phone rang. Maulin pointed to a chair and used the hand signal with which they order dogs to sit down and rushed to answer.

I didn't need to turn up the gain. "Maulin here," he bawled. Then, in an extremely polite tone of voice he said, "It's all right to tell me. I am Agent Stupewitz's partner. I think he gave you my name." Then he grabbed a pad and started to write. Finally he said, "Yes, Mr. Bury. It's all under control here.... Oh, he's fine, Mr. Bury... No, he hasn't talked to anybody else ... Yes, Mr. Bury... Yes, Mr. Bury. Thank you, Mr. Bury." And he hung up.

Stupewitz came in and he and Maulin whispered briefly together. Then they put Heller in a chair with two chairs facing him and Stupewitz turned on a bright light in Heller's eyes. The two agents sat down.

"Me first," said Stupewitz. "Junior, we reported to Virginia that a wrecked Cadillac with your license plates was discovered in Maryland. We also said it had a body in it answering your description that was burned beyond recognition. The people concerned did not have your name; the hooker is dead. So you are in the clear. So don't never mention that incident again and make liars of us. You understand?" he added severely.

The light was blinding Heller. But I suddenly realized with relief they were not interrogating him. They

were briefing him! They just didn't know how to talk to anybody any other way.

"Now, here," continued Stupewitz, "is your car registration. It now has District of Columbia plates. The motor and body serial numbers have been changed. It is in your name now. We know you were the one who originally paid the dealer for that car, so don't get the idea we're doing anything illegal. Got it?"

Heller took the registration. It had a little slip fastened across the top of it that said:

All or any police: In case of contact, call Agents Stupewitz or Maulin only, FBI, D.C.

"We won't bother with insurance," continued Stupewitz. "But if you're in any accidents, with your name you could be sued for your shirt. So drive carefully. No more crazy hundred-mile-an-hour chases. Got it?"

Heller got it.

"Now, here," said Stupewitz, "is your driver's license."

Heller took it and, against the glaring light, saw that it had another little slip on it.

All or any police: In case of contact, call Agents Stupewitz or Maulin only, FBI, D.C.

I suddenly realized what they had done: they had put "tail plates" on the Cadillac. In the computers used by all police departments, if those "tail plates" came up, the reply would read: "This car is under surveillance by the FBI. If spotted, report it to Agents Stupewitz or Maulin, FBI, D.C." It amounted to the FBI having a continuous tail on him!

"Now, here," said Stupewitz, "are all your papers back." And he gave him the birth certificate, diploma and grades. Heller put them in his pocket.

Maulin got up and hauled an old, tattered Octopus Oil Company road map out of a cluttered desk drawer. He sat back down.

"All right," said Maulin, opening the map and putting his phone notes on it. "Mr. Bury wanted to be sure you had money and I said you did. Mr. Bury says you will probably be tired—he's quite concerned for your welfare. So you are to go to Howard Johnson's Motel in Silver Spring, Maryland. You leave here, go up Sixteenth Avenue, over the District line and the motel is right here. See it?"

Heller was studying the map. And I suddenly knew the why of the delay. It was not the FBI. It was Mr. Bury. Somewhere up that route, he had arranged a hit! I tried frantically to figure out how he would do it.

Heller had it. Actually, he probably had every road and byway on the east coast now.

"Good," said Maulin. "Now, he said some reporters had gotten wind of your refusing to come home this summer. Some crazy tale that you wanted to live your own life. Maybe join a baseball team or something. So he said that under no circumstances were you to register in a motel or hotel under your right name as he wanted no news release until you were reconciled with your family and you had talked with your father who is out of the country now. Got it?"

"Don't use my own name," said Heller. "Got it."

Oh, that Bury. He knew (bleeped) well there was no Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior! He was going to avoid any crazy newspaper stories by simply murdering the imposter. Rockecenter certainly had the resources and

was not slow to use them. But how was he going to do it? And where?

"All right," said Maulin. "Now, tomorrow morning, you drive up to U.S. 495, the circle highway around D.C., and you turn off to the left onto U.S. 95. You go on that highway straight across Maryland, then across Delaware to this point where you go to the right on U.S. 295 across the Delaware River and then you're on the New Jersey Turnpike. You just follow along—actually you can't get off it. Now, you see here, just north of Newark, the turnpike splits? Well, there's a Howard Johnson's Motel right here," and he put an X on the map. "You're supposed to be there by about 4:30 in the afternoon. It's only a four-hour trip. No speeding! Don't register. Just go in the dining room, sit down and have an early supper. An old family retainer will be waiting there for you and will guide you home. Got that?"

Heller said he had.

"Now, Mr. Bury said to tell you you were in no danger whatever, so not to do anything silly. In fact, he said to tell you that Slinkerton will be tailing you all the way so you won't get scared."

"Slinkerton?" said Heller.

"That's the Slinkerton Detective Agency, the one your dad uses. They're the biggest in the country," said Maulin. "You won't see them but they'll be there." He laughed suddenly. "I think he's making sure you won't run off again, no matter how many hookers you meet!"

Stupewitz said, "Shall we go down to the car now?"

They went down to the FBI garage and there was the car. Heller checked the trunk: his gear was undisturbed. He glanced at the new D.C. plates, front and back. Then he got in.

Stupewitz said, "So it's good-bye, Junior."

"Thank you," said Heller (was that an emotional

tremor in his voice?), "for making it possible for me to go straight."

Maulin laughed, "Save your thanks until you get your hands on your old man's money, Junior."

The agents both laughed and then, the way Americans do—talking in front of children as though the child isn't there—Stupewitz said to Maulin, "He's a good kid, Maulin. A little wild but okay."

"Yeah," said Maulin, "you can see his family's stuff in him. But all these kids is tamer than we used to be."

They both guffawed and waved to Heller as he drove off.

I didn't wait to watch Heller wrestle with the evening rush hour of Washington. I went plunging down the side tunnel that led to Faht's office. It's a long way and I was totally out of breath when I burst through the secret side door.

"I've got to contact Terb!" I shouted.

Faht opened a drawer and handed me a report. It was their daily radio transmission. It had come through at the rate of five thousand words a second, using hyper-band. It contained, however, no five thousand words. It was very terse. Heller had gotten his birth certificate, beaten up two cops, was found by Terb again through bugs in Lynchburg, had gone to Washington, been arrested by the FBI and now was safely in their hands, probably about to be imprisoned as intended.

The Hells he was! I knew a lot more than Terb or Raht!

"I've got to contact our people!" I blared at Faht.

Heller was going to be killed! Within the next day or two. And I didn't have the platen! I had to get word to Terb to get into those motel rooms quick and ransack that baggage!

Faht shrugged. "They don't have a receiver-typer.

They're bulky and you didn't order them to take one."

Oh, my Gods! I slumped in a chair. The worst of it was, I couldn't even talk to Faht or anybody. They must not know how I knew or they could get in on the lines and maybe do something wild!

"I might get word to them in New York," said Faht helpfully. "They'll probably report in there at the end of the week if they're out of money."

They weren't ever out of money. They had it by the bucket load!

I only knew three things for sure. One: Bury was going to have Heller killed, whatever else Bury was up to. Two: Soltan Gris was going to be executed if Heller was. Three: Earth population was going to be slaughtered if they interrupted Heller's communication line and I, right now, was part of that population!

I started to ask Faht if there was a good mortuary in Afyon. At least I could have a decent funeral. But I didn't even dare say that.