The Tomorrow File (52 page)

“Keys?” he said. “Was I driving?”

“You drove over from Washington. Your car is parked in front of Maya’s apartment. I’ll have it brought over here. Anything else?” “Can I visit Maya?”

“You better stay flat on your back as much as possible if you want to get out of here tomorrow. But I’ll send her in for a short visit. She’s just next door.”

“Good, good,” he gurgled. “Maybe she can fill me in on what happened.”

And maybe the anaphrodisiac was wearing off.

1845: Paul had connected two tape decks to the receiver in the back of the Rover. One was temporarily switched off, the other was operative and voice-actuated. We ran through the tape that evening.

Most of it was kaka: Roach snarling at nurses, Roach trying to lure Maya Leighton into his hospital bed for a session of rub-the-bacon. “No way,” Maya said firmly. Apparently pointing to her turban bandage. “Can’t you see I’ve got a headache?”

Roach made two phone calls. We couldn’t share the entire conversations, of course—just his part. One call apparently went to his office. He explained he was personally investigating a “serious security problem” at R&R Hospice No. 4, and expected to return to Headquarters the following day.

The second call apparently went to his residence hotel. Me told them he would be absent for a day, but was expecting an important phone call from a Mr. Seymour Dove. He gave the hotel his phone number at the Hospice and instructed them to tell Mr. Dove to contact him there.

I immediately called the Morse Hotel and left a message for Mr. Seymour Dove. He was to call
me
as soon as he registered.

And so the checkers went flying about the board.

October 20.

1135:1 was in the Group Lewisohn offices. Paul was monitoring Roach’s gimpy arm in the Rover, moved to a deserted end of the Hospice parking area.

Seymour Dove called me from the Morse. I explained the situation, told him to call Roach’s hotel and then call Roach at the Hospice as he would be instructed. I asked him to give me ten minutes before making the call to Roach.

1150:1 was out in the Rover with Paul when we heard Roach’s phone ring. His conversation went like this:

“Harya. . . .Yeah. . . .What hotel? . . . Real good. You got it?

. . .Fine. . . .No problem. . . .Be in the lobby at, oh, say 1400. I’ll meet you there. . . .Yeah, 1400. . . Right. . . .See you then.”

After he hung up, I called Dove’s hotel room on the Rover radiophone. I told him to meet Roach at 1400, play the role he was expected to play, and try to follow the original San Diego script as closely as he could.

“We’ll be shared?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. But I didn’t tell him how.

1210: I went up to Roach’s room. He was already dressed,
*
slipping his digiwatch onto his right wrist.

“Harya, doc,” he said genially.

He had the splinted arm in a sling, a wide strap of plastiweb around his right shoulder.

“How does the arm feel?”

"Real good, " he said. Rapping the splint with his knuckles. "No hurt at all.”

I went through the stethoscope charade. Lifted his lids to peer into his eyes. Took his pulse.

“Well ... all right,” I said doubtfully. “But check with your Medical Section as soon as you get back.”

“Oh, sure. Where’s my bumf?”

“Right here.” I handed him all his identification. He began stuffing it into his pockets. “Your car’s out in front,” I told him. “Take care of yourself.”

He was still checking to make certain no one had raped his wallet when I walked out. I went directly to the Rover. Paul had all the equipment ready. We were away and heading toward Washington , before Roach came out of the Welcome Ward.

1410: We were parked across from the Morse Hotel. We saw Art

Roach come down the street, striding purposefully. Actually, we heard him before we saw him. His arm was picking up street noise: honk of horns, screech of brakes, a siren, bits of passers-by conversation. Paul got his Instaroid movie camera fixed and focused before Roach turned in to the hotel.

We picked up a lot of lobby gabble. Interference from somewhere. Then, suddenly, voices clear enough to understand. Both tape decks were running now:

Roach: “Car accident. A kid ran out and I had to go off the road to avoid hitting him.”

Dove: “My God!”

Roach: “Nothing serious. Come on outside.”

In a moment, they came through the powered revolving door, Roach first. Seymour Dove was carrying an attache case. Paul got busy with his camera, adjusting the telephoto lens. They crossed the street to the park, looking both ways.

“Good shot,” Paul murmured. “Got them together.”

He continued to photograph the two men. They walked through the park slowly. No conversation. Roach looked about, spotted an empty bench that apparently appealed to him. He led Dove over to it. Seymour set the attache case down between his feet.

“Very good,” I said approvingly. “Can’t share a random park bench, can you, Art?”

I pulled the Rover away from the curb, circled until I found a parking space across the park, almost facing them. Paul got film on the two of them, huddling together. Then switched off the camera.

Roach: “—out in time. But it worked out real good. Mind opening your coat?”

Dove: “My coat? What for?”

Roach: “Just standard operating procedure.”

We saw Seymour Dove unbutton his violet velvet topcoat. We saw Roach pat all the pockets, feel the seams.

Roach: “Now your jacket.”

Dove: “What is this?”

Roach: “Just take a second. The jacket. . . .”

We saw him give Dove a quick frisk, patting pockets, waistline, trouser legs. He even bent over to feel Dove’s moccasins.

Dove: “I’m not shared, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Roach: “Afraid? Not me. But if you’re bugged,
you
better be afraid. Did you bring it?”

Dove: “Yes. Five thousand new dollars.”

Roach: “Small bills? Unmarked? Out of sequence?”    

Dove: “Just the way you told me. It’s in twenties.”

Roach: “In the case?”

Dove: “Yes. Want to take a look?”

Roach: “Why not? Is it locked?”

Dove: “Yes.”

Roach: “Just bend over casually and unlock it. Then hand it to me. Slowly.”

“Get this,” I said to Paul hurriedly. “It’s the actual payoff.” Paul switched on the camera again. I watched Dove lift the attache case. Roach took it from him, placed it on his lap. He opened the lid halfway, peering inside. He inserted his right hand, began pawing.

Dove: “It’s all there. Five thousand new dollars.”

Roach: “I know you wouldn’t scam me. I’m just making sure there’s nothing else in here.”

Dove: “A bug? Would I do that? Listen, I’m taking an awful chance doing this.”

Roach: “What do you think
I’m
taking?”

Dove: “But how do I know I’m not throwing it away? If you don’t come through, Scilla Pharmaceuticals is stopped. We’ve made heavy investments in raw materials and new machinery. We need that contract.”

Roach: “Don’t worry. You’ll get your contract.”

Dove: “I wish I had a guarantee.”

Roach: “This five thousand is your guarantee.”

“What a good little boy he is,” I whispered to Paul. “This time he’s following the scenario.”

Roach: “Can I have the case?”

Dove: “Sure. Take it. Here’s the key.”

Roach: “I’ll return it to you.”

Dove: “No need. It’s yours.”

Roach: “Thank you very much. Real good doing business with you.” We watched the two ems stand, stroke palms. They separated, Roach carrying the case in his free hand. He walked across the park, angling away from us. Dove headed back to his hotel. We watched Roach.

“He won’t go to Headquarters.” Paul frowned.

“Doubt it,” I agreed. “Not with the loot. He wouldn’t go directly to Angela’s apartment at the Watergate, would he?”

“I don’t know,” Paul said. Worrying it. “I don’t think so. She wouldn’t allow it.”

“No. She wouldn’t. Maybe he’ll go directly to a bank, put it in a safe deposit box. But I don’t think so. He’ll want to count it. Examine it. That means his place. The Winslow on N Street. We’ll lose him in this traffic if we try to follow. Want to take a gamble?” “Sure. The Winslow it is.”

We left the park, headed for N Street.

“We’ve got him, haven’t we, Nick?” Paul said happily. “Screwed, blewed, and tattooed,” I agreed. “He’s down the pipe. One down, one to go.”

We were parked across the street, near the corner, when Roach drove up to the Winslow Hotel in his official black Buick. He got out, carrying the attache case. We heard him say, “Be down in twenty minutes, Al,” to the doorman. Then he went inside. “Now what?” Paul said.

Suddenly, at his question, I felt a curious lassitude. Having come so far, I wanted to rest. Hadn’t I done enough? Hadn’t enough been accomplished? I had to flog my resolve, telling myself it would all be wasted if I didn’t finish. But I was weary.

“Got any uppers?” I asked Paul. “Amphetamine? Anything?” 

“The Pharm Team gave me a new methylphenidate. Experimental. No results yet. Want to chance it?”

“Sure,” I said. “I have nothing to lose but my balls.”

He fished around in his shopping bag. He came up with a plastic container of spansules as big as suppositories.

“For whales,” I said. “Where’s the size for humans?”

“This is them.” Paul laughed.

I sighed. “Give me one. Maybe there’s a water fountain in the lobby.”

We had a big, horsey briefcase among our gear. We packed it with everything I thought I’d need.

“Are you still getting him?” I asked.

Paul moved his head closer to the receiver speaker. He turned up the volume, cautiously moved the tuning knob. What we heard could have been Roach moving around in his hotel room. It could have been anything. Then we heard a toilet flush.

“That’s him,” I said. “On my way. Get it all. If you hear anything bad, or if I don’t come out within an hour, take the other tape to the Chief Director.”

I started to duck out of the car. Paul pulled me back, kissed me on the lips. I was surprised. And pleased.

“Take care, Nick,” he whispered.

He had said the same thing to me on the helipad of the compound when I was starting off to meet Angela Berri in her California beachhouse. Was that aeons ago? Or yesterday?

There was no water fountain in the hotel lobby. But there was a unisex nest in the cocktail lounge. I went in there, used a cupped palmful of water to bolt down the giant energizing spansule. I could almost feel it thud into my stomach.

Do something, I urged it.

I was turning to leave when an ef came out of one of the toilet booths, adjusting her skirt. She looked at me.

“I suck cocks,” she said.

“Who doesn’t?” I said.

It was a stuffy obso hotel, with a color photograph of the Washington Monument over the registration desk. Not the kind of place that encourages wandering about the corridors. I called Roach on the single house phone. It rang seven times before he answered. “Yes?”

“Art Roach?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Flair. Dr. Nicholas Bennington Flair. I’m downstairs. I’ve got to see you.”

“What the hell for?”

“About your condition. The results of tests we took. It’s very important I see you at once.”

He panicked. “Oh, my God! What is it, doc?”

“I must see you immediately. What room?”

He was standing outside his door. He practically pulled me inside.

“What is it, doc?” he demanded. “What about the tests? What’s wrong with me?”

I sat down near a glass cocktail table. I set the briefcase at my' feet, opened it, took out the threaded tape deck. He watched me. First in astonishment. Then warily. His attache case was not in sight.

“Nothing wrong with you,” I said. “Cracked arm. That’s all. But you’re strong as a horse. And not much smarter. Sit down. Something I want you to hear.”

I stared at him. Slowly, almost tentatively, he slid into a chair at a diagonal to mine. Not across the table. Clear of the table.

I switched it on. We listened to his entire conversation with Seymour Dove. When it came to an end, I switched off the tape.

“There’s another tape,” I told him hastily. “Exactly like this one. Elsewhere. And films of the entire meet.”

“And I suppose the bills are marked?” he said bitterly.

“What else?” I shrugged.

That was inoperative, but he couldn’t be sure.

We sat in silence for at least a minute. Then he stood. I stood.

“Motherfucker!” he shouted.

It was more an expletive than an accusation.

Then he came at me. Good arm reaching for me.

I was not unmuscular, and I had a kind of desperate courage. Not quite hysterical. But even in that state it would never occur to me to strike an opponent with my fist if a more effective weapon was at hand.

I bent to slip his lunge, picked up a heavy plastilead ashtray with rounded edges. As he was starting his turn, I clipped him just to the left and low on the occipital area.

He went down, going “Houff!” Then he was still.

I replaced the undamaged ashtray on the table. I bent over him, felt for pulse and respiration, peeled back his eyelids. He was already blinking, snorting, curling up into the fetal position. I patted him over and found a weapon, a short-barreled rocket pistol.

Then I went back to my chair, sat down, lighted a Bold. My hands were trembling slightly. I abhor violence. I sat silently, staring at him.

“I’m all right, Paul,” I said loudly. “Everything’s fine.”

After a while, Art Roach roused. He looked at me from the floor.

“You’re fast,” he said admiringly.

“Thank you,” I said.

He glanced at his pistol on the table in front of me. No way. He climbed to his feet, staggered over to his armchair, sat down heavily. He lowered his head between his knees.

“Dumb-ass,” he said dully. “I’m a dumb-ass.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You come here with enough to take me, ” he said in a grumbling voice. Shaking his head. “But you don’t just take me, like you could. So you want to talk deal. Right?”