Goodbye California

CHAPTER FIVE

That was the night the earth shook. Not all of the earth, of course, but for a goodly portion of the residents of South California it might have been just that. The shock came at twenty-five minutes past midnight and the tremors were felt as far north as Merced in the San Joaquin Valley, as far south as Oceanside, between Los Angeles and San Diego, as far west as San Luis Obispo, close by the Pacific, to the southeast clear across the Mojave desert and to the east as far as Death Valley. In Los Angeles, though no structural damage was done, the shake was felt by all who were awake and it was pronounced enough to wake many of those who were sleeping. In the other main centres of population — Oakland, San Francisco, Sacramento and San Diego — no tremors were felt; but the earthquake, a very minor one of 4.2 on the Richter scale, was duly recorded on the delicate seismographs.

Ryder and Jeff, seated in the former’s living-room, both felt it and saw it — a ceiling lamp, travelling through an arc of not more than two inches at maximum, oscillated for about twenty seconds before coming to rest. Dunne, still in his office, felt it and paid no attention to it — he had been through many such tremors before and he had more important things on his mind. LeWinter, dressed now as was his secretary, felt it through the open door of his safe, the remaining contents of which he was examining with some anxiety. Even Donahure, despite an aching occiput and a mind somewhat beclouded by his fourth consecutive large Scotch, was dimly aware of it. And, although its foundations were firmly embedded on the very solid rock of the Sierra Nevada, the Adlerheim felt it most acutely of all, for the excellent reason that the epicentre of the earthquake was no more than a dozen miles distant; even more importantly, the ‘quake registered strongly in the seismographical office installed in one of the caves — wine cellars — which Von Streicher had excavated out of the rock and on two other seismographs which Morro had foresightedly had installed in two private residences he owned, each about fifteen miles distant and in diametrically different directions.

And the shocks were registered, too, in institutes which, one would have thought, had considerably more legitimate interest in such matters than Morro. Those were the offices of Seismological Field Survey, those of the Californian Department of Water Resources, in the Californian Institute of Technology and the US Geological Survey’s National Center for Earthquake Research. The last two, probably the most important of the four, were conveniently located where they would be the first to be demolished should a massive earthquake affect either Los Angeles or San Francisco, for the Institute of Technology was located in Pasadena and the Earthquake Research Center in Menlo Park. The nerve-centres of all four institutes were in direct and permanent contact with each other and it had taken them only minutes to pin-point, with complete precision, the exact epicentre of the earthquake.

Alec Benson was a large, calm man in his early sixties. Except on ceremonial occasions, which he avoided wherever and whenever possible, he invariably wore a grey flannel suit and a grey polo jersey, which went well enough with the grey hair that topped the tubby, placid and usually smiling face. Director of the seismology department, he held two professorships and so many doctorates and scientific degrees that, for simplicity’s sake, his numerous scientific colleagues referred to him just as ‘Alec’. In Pasadena, at least, he was regarded as the world’s leading seismologist: while the Russians and Chinese may have disputed this it was noteworthy that those two countries were always among the first to nominate him as chairman of the not infrequent international seismo-logical conferences. This esteem stemmed primarily from the fact that Benson never made any distinction between himself and his world-wide colleagues and sought advice as frequently as he gave it.

His chief assistant was Professor Hardwick, a quiet, retiring, almost self-effacing scientist with a track record that almost matched that of Benson’s. Hardwick said: ‘Well, about a third of the people in the State must have felt the shock. It’s already been on TV and radio and will be in all the late editions of the morning’s papers. At the least guess, there must be a couple of million amateur seismologists in California. What do we tell them? The truth?’

For once, Alec Benson wasn’t smiling. He looked thoughtfully round the half-dozen scientists in the room, the vastly experienced nucleus of his research team, and studied their expressions, which were neither helpful nor unhelpful: clearly, they were all waiting for him to give a lead. Benson sighed. He said: ‘No one admires George Washington more than I do — but, no, we don’t tell them the truth. A little white lie and it won’t even rest uneasily on my conscience. What’s to be gained if we tell the truth other than scaring our fellow Californians even further out of their wits than they are now? If anything major is going to happen then it’s just going to happen and there’s damn all we can do about it. In any event, we have no evidence that this is a prelude to a major shake.’

Hardwick looked doubtful. ‘No intimation, no warning, nothing?’

‘What point would it serve?’

‘Well, there’s never been a ‘quake there in recorded history.’

‘No matter. Even a major ‘quake there wouldn’t be of great importance. Devastation of property and loss of life would be insignificant, because the area is so sparsely populated. Owens Valley, eighteen-seventy-two, the largest recorded earthquake in Califomian history — how many people died there? Maybe sixty. The Arvin-Techapi ‘quake of nineteen-fifty-two, at seven-point-seven the largest in Southern California — how many died there? Perhaps a dozen.’ Benson permitted himself his customary smile. ‘Now, if this latest jolt had happened along the Inglewood-Newport Fault I’d take a different view entirely.’ The Inglewood-Newport Fault, which had been responsible for the Long Beach earthquake of 1933, actually ran under the city of Los Angeles itself. ‘As it is, I’m in favour of letting sleeping dogs lie.’

Hardwick nodded. Reluctantly, but he nodded. ‘So we blame it on the poor old blameless White Wolf Fault?’

‘Yes. A calmly reassuring release to the media. Tell them again, briefly, about our ESPP, that we are cautiously pleased that it seems to be going according to plan and that the intensity of this shake corresponds pretty closely to our expected estimate of fault slippage.’

‘Release to the TV and radio stations?’

‘No. General. Wire service. We don’t want to lend anything that smacks of undue urgency or importance to our — ah — findings.’

Preston, another senior assistant, said: ‘We don’t let ethics creep into this, huh?’

Benson was quite cheerful. ‘Scientifically indefensible. But from the humanitarian point of view — well, call it justifiable.’

It said much for the immense weight of Benson’s prestige that the consensus of opinion was heavily on his side.

In the refectory hall in the Adlerheim Morro was being equally cheerful and reassuring to the anxious hostages who had gathered there. ‘I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that there is no cause for alarm. I grant you, it was quite a nasty shake, the worst we have experienced here, but a shake of a thousand times that magnitude would leave us completely unharmed. Apart from the fact that you will probably have already learned from your TVs that there has been no damage throughout the State, you must all be intelligent enough and widely-read enough to know that earthquakes spell danger only for those who live in dwellings on made-up filled land, marshy land whether drained or not and on alluvial soil. Damage rarely occurs to dwellings that have their foundations on rock — and we have our foundations on thousands of feet of rock. The Sierra Nevada has been here for millions of years: it is not likely to disappear overnight. It is unlikely that you could find any safer or more desirable — from the earthquake point of view — residence in the State of California.’ Morro glanced smilingly around his audience, nodding his approval when he saw that his words seemed to have had the desired calming effect. ‘I don’t know about you people, but I have no intention of allowing this passing trifle to interfere with my night’s sleep. I bid you all goodnight.’

When Morro entered his private office the smile was markedly absent. Abraham Dubois was seated behind Morro’s desk, a phone in one hand, a pencil in the other, his huge shoulders hunched over a large-scale map of California. Morro said: ‘Well?’

‘It is not well.’ Dubois replaced the phone and delicately pricked a pencil dot on the map. ‘Here. Exactly here.’ He used a rule then set it against a mileage scale. ‘The epicentre, to be precise, is exactly eleven and a half miles from the Adlerheim. This is not so good, Mr Morro.’

‘It’s not so good.’ Morro lowered himself into an armchair. ‘Does it not strike you as ironic, Abraham, that we should pick the one spot in the State where an earthquake takes place outside our back door, so to speak?’

‘Indeed. It could be an ill omen. I wish I could fault the triangulation, but I can’t. It’s been checked and re-checked.’ Dubois smiled. ‘At least we didn’t pick an extinct volcano which has suddenly turned out not to be so extinct after all. What option do we have? There is no time, there is no alternative. This is our operating base. This is our perfectly secure cover. This is our weaponry. This is the only multi-band radio transmitting station we have. All our eggs are in one basket. But if we pick up that basket and try to walk away with it the chances are that we will fall and be left with only the ruined ingredients for an omelette.’

I’ll go sleep on it although I don’t think I’ll wake up feeling any differently from the way you do now.’ Morro pushed himself heavily to his feet. ‘We mustn’t let what could be only a once-in-a-lifetime coincidence affect our thinking and planning too much. Who knows, there may not be another tremor in this area for a hundred years. After all, there hasn’t been one for hundreds, not at least that we know of or has been recorded. Sleep well.’

But Dubois did not sleep well for the excellent reason that he did not go to bed. Morro did sleep, but it was for only an hour or so. He awoke to find his light on and Dubois shaking his shoulder.

‘My apologies.’ Dubois looked rather more cheerful than when last he had been seen. ‘But I’ve just made a video-tape of a TV newscast and I think you ought to see it as soon as possible.’

‘The earthquake, I take it?’ Dubois nodded. ‘Good or bad?’

‘One could not call it bad. I think you might well turn it to your advantage.’

The replay of the video-tape lasted no more than five minutes. The newscaster, a bright and knowledgeable youngster who clearly knew enough about what he was talking about not to have recourse to a teleprompter, was remarkably brisk and fresh for one who was up and around at the unchristian hour of 3 a.m. He had a large relief map of California hanging on the wall behind him and wielded a slender cane with all the fluent dexterity of a budding Toscanini.

He began by giving concise details of what was known of the earthquake, the area over which it had been felt, the degree of apprehension felt in various areas and the amount of damage which it had caused, which was zero. He then went on to say: ‘From the latest authoritative statement it would appear that this earthquake is to be regarded as a plus and not a minus, as a matter for some self-congratulation and not as a pointer towards some future calamity. In short, according to the State’s top seismological sources, this may well be the first earthquake ever knowingly and deliberately brought about by man.

‘If this is correct, then it must be regarded as a landmark in earthquake control, the first successful implementation of the ESPP. For Californians, this can only be good news. To remind you: ESPP stands for “Earthquake Slip Preventative Programme”, which must be one of the clumsiest and most misleading titles thought up by the scientific fraternity in recent years. By “slip” is meant simply the rubbing, sliding, jarring, earthquake-producing process which occurs when one of the eight, maybe ten — no one seems very sure — of the earth’s tectonic plates, on which the continents float, push into, above, under or alongside each other. The title is misleading because it gives the impression that earthquakes may be brought under control by preventing this slip from taking place. In fact it means precisely the opposite — the prevention of earthquakes, or at least major earthquakes, by permitting, indeed encouraging, this slipping factor to take place — but to take place in a gradual and controlled process in which there is a continuing and progressive easing of the strain between the plates by allowing them to slide comparatively smoothly past one another producing a series of minor and harmless quakes at frequent intervals instead of massive ones at long intervals. The secret, not surprisingly, is lubrication.

‘It was purely a chance discovery that led to this possibility — which would now appear a strong possibility — of modifying earthquakes by increasing their frequency. Somebody, for reasons best known to themselves, injected waste water into a particularly deep well near Denver and discovered, to their surprise, that this triggered off a series of earthquakes — tiny, but unquestionably earthquakes. Since then there have been many experiments, both in the laboratory and under actual field conditions, that have clearly demonstrated that frictional resistance in a fault zone is lessened by decreasing the stress along the fault.

‘In other words, increasing the amount of fluid in the fault lessens the resistance in the fault while withdrawing the fluid increases the resistance: if an existing stress is present between the faces of two tectonic plates it can be eased by injecting fluid and causing a small earthquake, the size of which can be fairly accurately controlled by the amount of fluid injected. This was proved some years ago when Geological Survey scientists, experimenting in the Rangeley oil fields in Colorado, found that by alternately forcing in and then withdrawing fluids they could turn earthquakes off and on at will.

‘To what may be to their eternal credit, seismologists in our State were the first to put those theories to practical use.’ The newscaster, who seemed to relish his role as lecturer, was now tapping the map on the wall. ‘From here to here’ — he indicated a line that stretched from the Mexican border to the San Francisco Bay area — ‘massive drills, specifically designed for this task, have bored holes to an incredible depth of up to forty thousand feet in ten selected areas along this roughly south-east-north-west line. All of those bore-holes are in known earthquake faults and all in areas where some of the most severe of recorded earthquakes have taken place.’

Starting from the south he tapped out a number of spots on the map. ‘Ten bore-holes in all. The scientists are experimenting with various mixtures of water and oil for lubricating purposes. Well, not quite mixtures, for oil and water don’t readily mix. First oil, then stuff they call mud, the whole pushed further down and through cracks in the rocks by water under high pressure.’

He stopped, looked at the camera for a dramatic five seconds, turned, placed the tip of the cane against a spot at the southern tip of the San Joaquin Valley, then, holding the cane in position, turned to face the camera again.

‘And here — if I may coin a phrase — we seem to have struck oil at one-twenty-five a.m. today. Twenty, thirty miles southeast of Bakerfield. Exactly where a massive earthquake struck a quarter of a century ago. And exactly where the sixth borehole from the south is located. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the villain of the piece — the White Wolf Fault.’ The newscaster relaxed and smiled boyishly. ‘And now, folks, you know as much about it as I do, which I’m afraid isn’t very much. But have no fear: I’m sure the real seismo-logical experts will be busy lecturing you on this for days to come.’

Wordlessly, Dubois and Morro rose from their seats, looked at each other then went to the map still spread on Morro’s table. Morro said: ‘You are quite certain that the triangulation is correct?’

‘Our three seismologists will swear to it.’

‘And our three bright boys place the epicentre in the Garlock Fault, not the White Wolf Fault?’

‘They should know. Not only are they highly experienced but we’re practically sitting on top of the Garlock Fault.’

‘The Seismology Field Survey, Caltech, the Geological Survey and God knows how many other scientific bodies — how could they all possibly — especially when they were all certainly working in collaboration — come up with the same mistake?’

‘They didn’t.’ Dubois was positive. ‘For earthquakes, this is the best monitored area in the world and those are among the world’s top experts.’

‘They lied?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why should they lie?’

Dubois was almost apologetic. ‘I’ve had a little time to think about this. I think there are two reasons. California is today obsessed with the fear, the certainty almost, that some day, maybe quite soon according to a few eminent earthquake researchers, the big one is going to strike, one that will make the San Francisco nineteen-o-six look like a firecracker: it’s more than possible that State officials are trying to allay this fear by stating that this ‘quake was man-made. Secondly, all those clever seismologists may be living with a brand-new fear which particularly affects themselves — that they may have been dabbling in murky waters, that they may not really know what they were doing, that by messing around with those various faults they may have inadvertently triggered off something they didn’t expect — a movement in the Garlock Fault where they don’t have a bore-hole. But they do have a drilling rig sitting fair and square in the middle of the Tejon Pass on the San Andreas Fault — and at Frazier Park, near Fort Tejon, the San Andreas and the Garlock Faults intersect.’

‘I suppose it is a possibility. And if that were correct it might happen again, perhaps even on a major scale, and I don’t think we’d like that at all.’ Morro compressed his lips then slowly smiled. ‘You have had more time to think about this than I have. I seem to recall your saying that we might just possibly turn this to our advantage.’ Dubois smiled in return and nodded. ‘Ten past three in the morning and what better time for a glass of that splendid Glenfiddich. Don’t you agree?’

‘For inspirational purposes.’

‘Indeed. You think perhaps we should relieve those prestigious seismological institutes of the fear that the public may come to associate unexpected earthquakes — ‘quakes in the wrong place, that is — with their indiscriminate tampering with seismic faults? If the public were to know the truth, that is?’

‘Something like that.’

Morro smiled again. ‘I look forward to writing this communiqué’

Ryder wasn’t smiling when he woke up. He cursed, quietly but with considerable feeling, as he reached out for his bedside phone. It was Dunne.

‘Sorry to wake you, Ryder.’

‘No worry. I’ve had almost three hours’ sleep.’

‘I’ve had none. Did you see that newscast shortly before three this morning?’

‘The one about the White Wolf Fault? Yes.’

‘There’ll be another and even more interesting newscast in less than five minutes. Any channel should do.’

‘What’s it this time?’

‘I think the impact will be greater if you watch for yourself. Call me afterwards.’

Ryder replaced the receiver, lifted it again, told a querulous Jeff that there was something worth watching on TV, cursed again and went through to his living-room. The newscaster — the same cheerful youngster whom he’d seen just over three hours previously — came to the point without preamble.

He said: ‘We have received a further communication from the same Mr Morro who claimed last night to have been responsible for the break-in at the San Ruffino nuclear power station and theft of nuclear fuel. We had no reason to doubt that claim as the amounts claimed as stolen corresponded precisely to the amounts that were stolen. This station cannot guarantee the authenticity of this communication, that is to say, that it is from the same man. It may be a hoax. But as the various communications media received this message in exactly the same way as the previous one we regard this as prima facie evidence that the message is genuine. Whether the information it contains is also genuine is not, of course, for us to say. The message reads:

‘“The people of California have been subjected to a hoax in that they have been deliberately lied to by the State’s leading seismological authorities. The earthquake which took place at one-twenty-five this morning did not, as so falsely alleged, take place in the White Wolf Fault, and I am sure this can easily be verified by consulting the owners of scores of privately owned seismographs throughout the State. None of them would alone dare challenge the authority of the State’s official institutes but their combined testimony would make it clear that those State institutes are lying. I expect this statement to bring in massive confirmation of what I am saying.

‘“The reason why the institutes put out this untrue statement lies in their hope of allaying the people’s increasing fear of imminent earthquake activity on an unprecedented scale and their own fear that the citizens of this State might come to associate fresh earthquakes, in areas other than those in which they are operating their ESPP plan, with their controversial attempts to tamper with the earth’s crust.

‘“I can allay their latter fear. They were not responsible for this seismic shock. I was. The epicentre lay not in the White Wolf Fault but in the Garlock Fault, which, next to the San Andreas, is the largest in the State and is parallel and so close to the White Wolf Fault that seismologists may easily have been deceived into believing that they had misread their instruments or that their instruments were in error.

‘“To be honest, I did not expect to trigger off this minor shock as there has been no earthquake in recorded history that would help explain the existence of this huge fracture. The small atomic device I exploded at one-twenty-five this morning was for purely experimental purposes — to see, in effect, whether it worked or not. The results were gratifying.

‘“It is possible that there will be many in the State who will disbelieve my claim. There will be none in the State, or in the nation, who will have any doubts remaining when I explode a second nuclear device tomorrow at a place and time to be announced later. This device is already in position and is in the kiloton range of that which destroyed Hiroshima.’

‘That’s it, then.’ This time there was no trace of the boyish grin he’d permitted himself in the earlier newscast. ‘It could be a hoax. If not, the prospect is at best sobering, at worst chilling. It would be interesting to speculate on the effects and intentions of —’

Ryder switched off. He was quite capable of doing his own speculating. He made and drank several cups of coffee while he showered, shaved and dressed for what promised to be a very long day ahead. He was into his fourth cup of coffee when Dunne rang and apologized for the delay in calling him back.

Ryder said: ‘The impact was guaranteed. There’s only one question I can see: has the State, in the persons of our seismologists, been lying to us?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘I have.’

‘That’s as maybe. Fact is, we have no closed line to Pasadena. But we have to our Los Angeles office. Sassoon is very unhappy, not least about you, and wants to see us. Nine o’clock. Bring your son. As soon as may be.’

‘Now? It’s only six-forty.’

‘I have things to tell you. Not over an open line.’

‘Tapping phones here, tapping phones there,’ Ryder complained. ‘Man’s got no privacy left in this State.’

Ryder and his son arrived at Dunne’s office a few minutes after seven. Dunne, his alert, precise and efficient self, showed no trace of his sleepless night. He was alone.

Ryder said: ‘This room isn’t bugged?’

‘When I leave two suspects alone in it, yes. Otherwise, no.’

‘Where’s the big white chief?’

‘Sassoon’s still in LA. He’s staying there. He is, as I said, unhappy. First, because this is happening in his own back yard. Second, the director of the FBI is winging his merry way from Washington. Third, the CIA have got wind of this and want into the act. As everybody must be very well aware, the FBI and the CIA are barely speaking to each other these days, and even when they do speak you can hear the ice crackling.’

‘How did they get into the act?’

‘I’ll come to that in a moment. We’re going on a short trip by helicopter soon. Pasadena. Nine a.m. the boss says, and we meet him exactly at that time.’

Ryder was mild. ‘The FBI has no jurisdiction over a retired cop.’

‘I wouldn’t even bother saying “please”. Wild horses wouldn’t stop you.’ Dunne shuffled some papers into a neat pile. ‘While you and Jeff have been resting lightly we, as usual, have been toiling all through the night. Want to make some notes?’

‘No need. Jeff’s my memory bank. He can identify over a thousand licence plates within thirty miles of here.’

‘I wish it were only licence plates we were dealing with. Well, now, our friend Carlton, the security deputy taken along with the nuclear fuel. A dossier of sorts. Captain, Army Intelligence, Nato, Germany. Nothing fancy. No cloak-and-dagger espionage or counter-espionage stuff. Seems he infiltrated a Communist cell among Germans working in the base camp. Unsubstantiated suspicion of having become too intimate with them. Offered transfer to regular tank battalion and refused. Resigned. He wasn’t cashiered, he wasn’t pressured to resign; let’s say the Army didn’t stand in his way. At least that’s what they say. Probably correct. No matter how unjustified the suspicions that hang over a man the Army understandably doesn’t take chances. End of that line. When the Pentagon decides to clam up, that’s it.’

‘Just a hint of a Communist tie-up?’

‘That would be enough for the CIA. You can’t move around the Pentagon without treading one of their agents underfoot. A whiff of a Red under the bed and they’re reaching for their cyanide guns or whatever before you know it.

‘His security references. Worked for an AEC plant in Illinois. Good record. Security chief checking on contacts. Then a reference from TVA’s twin Brown’s Ferry nuclear plants in Decator, Alabama. Man’s never been there. Certainly not under that name, certainly not in security. Some other capacity, some other name, but unlikely. Disastrous fire when he was there, incidentally, but not caused by him. Technician looking for an air leak with a lighted candle: he found it.’

‘How come the reference?’

‘Forged.’

Jeff said: ‘Wouldn’t Ferguson, the security chief, have checked out the reference?’

Briefly, Dunne sounded weary. ‘He admits he didn’t. Ferguson himself had been there and said that Carlton knew so many details about the place, including the details of the fire, that he thought a check-out pointless.’

‘How would he have known about the fire?’

‘Unclassified. It’s in the public domain.’

Ryder said: ‘How long was he supposed to have been there?’

‘Fifteen months.’

‘So he may just have dropped out of the scene for that time?’

‘Sergeant Ryder, a man with the know-how can go underground for fifteen years in this nation and never surface once.’

‘He may not have been in the country. He could have a passport at home.’

Dunne looked at him, nodded and made a note. ‘Washington checked out with the AEC at seventeen-seventeen H Street. They keep records there of those seeking information, those consulting card indices and dockets on nuclear facilities. No one had ever checked information on San Ruffino — there was none to check. I got Jablonsky out of bed over this one. He was reluctant to talk. Usual threatening noises from the FBI. Then he admitted they have advanced plans for building a fast breeder reactor there. This comes under AEC control. Top secret. No records.’

‘So Carlton’s our man?’

‘Yes. Not that that’s going to help much now that he’s holed up with Morro.’ Dunne consulted another paper. ‘You wanted a list of all the organized and — “successful”, I think you said — cranks, weirdos, eccentrics or whatever in the State. This is it. I think I said two hundred. Actually, it’s a hundred and thirty-five. Even so, I’m told it would take for ever to investigate them all. Besides, if this lot are as clever and organized as they seem to be, they’ll have an unbreakable cover.’

‘We can narrow it down. To start with, it’ll have to be a large group. Also, a comparatively new group, formed just for this purpose. Say within the past year.’

‘Numbers and dates.’ Resignedly, Dunne made another note. ‘Don’t mind how hard we have to work, do you? Next comes our friend Morro. Not surprisingly, nothing is known about him, as a man, a criminal with an eye-patch and damaged hands, to us or to the police authorities.’

Jeff looked at his father. ‘Susan’s note. Remember she wrote “American?” American, question mark?’

‘And so she did. Well, Major, another little note if you please. Contact Interpol in Paris.’

‘So Interpol it is. Now the notes you took from Donahure. Easy — just meant waking up half the bank managers and tellers in the county. Local Bank of America. Drawn four days ago by a young woman with pebble-tinted glasses and long blonde hair.’

‘You mean twenty-twenty vision and a long blonde wig.’

‘Like enough. A Mrs Jean Hart, eight hundred Cromwell Ridge. There is a Mrs Jean Hart at that address. In her seventies, no account with that bank. Bank teller didn’t count notes — just handed over ten banded thousands.’

‘Which Donahure split up eight ways for eight banks. We’ll have to get his prints.’

‘We got them. One of my boys with the help of a friend of yours, a Sergeant Parker — who, like you, doesn’t seem to care overmuch for Donahure — got them from his office about three this morning.’

‘You have been busy.’

‘Not me. I just sit here running up phone bills. But I’ve had fourteen stout men and true working for me during the night — had to scrape the southern Californian barrel to get them. Anyway, we’ve got some lovely clear specimens of Donahure’s prints on those notes. More interestingly, we have some lovely clear specimens of LeWinter’s too.’

‘The paymaster. And how about the paymaster’s automatic?’

‘Nothing there. Not registered. Nothing suspicious in that — judges get threats all the time. Not used recently — film of dust in the barrel. Silencer probably a pointer to the type of man he is, but you can’t hang a man for that.’

‘The FBI file on him. Still reluctant to tell me about it?’

‘Not now I’m not. Nothing positive. Nothing very good either. Not known to associate with criminals. His open list of telephone numbers would appear to confirm that. From that list he would appear to know every politician and city hall boss in the State.’

‘And you said that he was not known to associate with criminals? What else?’

‘Both we and the police are dissatisfied with some — more than some — of the sentences he has been handing out over the past years.’ Dunne consulted a sheet before him. ‘Enemies of known cronies getting unduly stiff sentences: criminal associates of cronies — repeat, he himself has no direct criminal associates — getting light, sometimes ludicrously light, sentences.’

‘Pay-off?’

‘No proof, but what would you think? Anyway, he’s not as naïve as his minion Donahure. No local accounts under false names — none that we know of, anyway. But we monitor — without opening — his correspondence from time to time.’

‘You’re as bad as the KGB.’

Dunne ignored this. ‘He gets occasional letters from Zurich. Never sends any, though. Keeps his tracks pretty well covered, does our judicial friend.’

‘Intermediaries feeding pay-offs into a numbered account?’

‘What else? No hope there. Swiss banks will only open up in the case of a convicted criminal.’

‘This copy of Ivanhoe that LeWinter had in his safe? And the coded notebook?’

‘Seems to be a mish-mash of telephone numbers, mainly in this State and Texas and what are beginning to look like meteorological reports. Making progress. At least Washington is. There are no specialized Russian cryptographers in California.’

‘Russian?’

‘Apparently. A simple variation — well, simple to them, I suppose — of a well-known Russian code. Reds lurking in the undergrowth again? Could mean anything, could mean nothing. Another reason, I suppose, for the keen interest being shown by the CIA. I should imagine, without actually knowing, that the bulk of Washington cryptographers are on the CIA’s payroll, one way or another.’

‘And LeWinter’s secretary is Russian. Russian descent, anyway. A cypher clerk?’

‘If this were any of a dozen countries in the world I’d have the fair Bettina in here and have the truth out of her in ten minutes. Unfortunately, this is not one of those dozen different countries.’ He paused. ‘And Donahure has — had — Russian rifles.’

‘Ah! The Kalashnikovs. Import permit —’

‘None. So officially there are none of those rifles in the country. The Pentagon do have some, but they’re not saying where they got them from. The British, I imagine — some captured IRA arms cache in Northern Ireland.’

‘And Donahure is, of course, a second generation Irishman.’

‘God, as if I haven’t got enough headaches!’ To illustrate just how many he had Dunne laid his forehead briefly on the palms of his hands then looked up. ‘Incidentally, what was Donahure looking for in your house?’

‘I’ve figured that out.’ Ryder didn’t seem to derive much satisfaction from the thought. ‘Just give me a lifetime and by the end of it I’ll add up two and two and come pretty close to the right answer. He didn’t come because Jeff and I hadn’t been too nice to his stake-out and deprived him of a lot of his personal property, including his spy-van; he’d never have dared connect himself with that. He didn’t come for the evidence I’d taken from San Ruffino because he didn’t know I’d taken any and, in the first place, he hadn’t even had time to go to San Ruffino. By the same token he didn’t have time to go to LeWinter’s for a search warrant either. He wouldn’t have dared to, anyway, for if he’d told LeWinter the real reason why he wanted the search warrant LeWinter might have considered him such a menace that he’d not only refuse such a warrant but might have had him eliminated altogether.’

Dunne wasn’t looking quite so brisk and alert as when they had arrived. He said in complaint: ‘I told you I’ve got a headache.’

‘My guess is that a proper search of Donahure’s home or office would turn up a stack of warrants already signed and officially stamped by LeWinter. All Donahure had to do was to fill them in himself. I’d told him about the dossier I had on him. He’d come for that. So obvious that I missed it at the time. And I’d told him he was so bone-headed that he just had to be acting on his own. So he was, because it was something that concerned only him personally.’

‘Of course it has to be that. The two of them might run for cover.’

‘Don’t think so. They don’t know the evidence is in our hands. Donahure, being a crook at heart, will automatically assume that only crooks would have stolen the money and the guns, and they wouldn’t be likely to advertise the fact. And I don’t think that LeWinter will run either. He’ll have been worried sick at first, especially at the thought of the stolen code-book and the fact that his fingerprints have been taken. But when he’s found out — if he hasn’t already found out — that the dreaded picture of himself and his accommodating secretary has not appeared in the Globe, he’ll have discreet enquiries made and find out that the two men who had come to photograph him were not employed on the Globe and he will come to the inevitable conclusion that they were blackmailers, perhaps out to block his appointment as Chief Justice to the State Supreme Court. You’ve said yourself he has powerful friends: by the same token such a man must also have powerful enemies. Whatever their reason, he won’t be scared of blackmailers. Blackmailers wouldn’t know a Russian code. True, fingerprints have been taken, but cops don’t wear hoods and take your prints in bed: they arrest you first. And he can take care of blackmailers. Californian law is ruthless towards that breed — and LeWinter is the law.’

Jeff said in injured reproach: ‘You might have told me all this.’

‘I thought you understood.’

‘You’d all this figured in advance? Before you moved in on them?’ Dunne said. Ryder nodded. ‘Smarter than the average cop. Might even make the FBI. Any suggestions?’

‘A tap on LeWinter’s phone.’

‘Illegal. Congress is very uptight about tapping these days — chiefly, one supposes, because they’re terrified of having their own phones tapped. It’ll take an hour or two.’

‘You appreciate, of course, that this will be the second tap on his line.’

‘Second?’

‘Why do you think Sheriff Hartman’s dead?’

‘Because he’d talk? A new recruit, still not deeply involved, wanting to get out from under before it was too late?’

‘That, too. But how come he’s dead? Because Morro had LeWinter’s line tapped. I called the night telephone manager from LeWinter’s house to get Hartman’s address — he was unlisted, but that’s probably because he was fairly new to the area. Someone intercepted the call and got to Hartman before Jeff and I did. By the way, there’s no point in recovering the bullet that killed him. It was a dum-dum and would have been distorted out of recognition and further mangled on embedding itself in the brick wall. Ballistic experts are not wizards: you couldn’t hope to match up what’s left of that bullet with any gun barrel.’

‘“Someone”, you said?’

‘Perhaps Donahure — he was showing signs of coming to when we left him — or, just possibly, one of Donahure’s underworld connections. Raminoff wasn’t the only one.’

‘You gave your name over the phone?’

‘Had to — to get the information I wanted.’

‘So now Donahure knows you were in LeWinter’s house. So now LeWinter knows.’

‘No chance. To tell LeWinter that he’d have to tell him that he either had LeWinter’s phone tapped or knew that it was tapped. By the same token if my call to Aaron of the Examiner was tapped Donahure or whoever would still be unable to tell LeWinter. But unlikely that that second call was tapped — our eavesdropping friend would have taken off like a bat after he’d heard mention of Hartman’s name and address.’

Dunne looked at him curiously — it might almost have been with respect. ‘To coin a phrase, you got all the angles figured.’

‘I wish I had. But I haven’t.’

One of the desk-phones rang. Dunne listened in silence and his lips compressed as all trace of expression left his face. He nodded several times, said, ‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ and replaced the receiver. He looked at Ryder in silence.

Without any particular inflection in tone, Ryder said: ‘I told you. I didn’t have all the angles figured. They’ve got Peggy?’

‘Yes.’

Jeff’s chair crashed over backwards. He was on his feet, face almost instantly drained of colour. ‘Peggy! What’s happened to Peggy?’

‘They’ve taken her. As hostage.’

‘Hostage! But you promised us last night — so much for your damned FBI!’

Dunne’s voice was quiet. ‘Two of the damned FBI, as you call them, were gunned down and are in hospital. One is on the critical list. Peggy, at least, is unharmed.’

‘Sit down, Jeff.’ Still no inflection in the voice. He looked at Dunne. ‘I’ve been told to lay off.’

‘Yes. Would you recognize the amethyst she wears on the little finger of her left hand?’ Dunne’s eyes were bitter. ‘Especially, they say, if it’s still attached to her little finger?’

Jeff had just straightened his chair. He was still standing, both hands holding the back bar as if he intended to crush it. His voice was husky. ‘Good God, Dad! Don’t just sit there. It’s not — it’s not human. It’s Peggy! Peggy! We can’t stay here. Let’s leave now. We can be there in no time.’

‘Easy, Jeff, easy. Where in no time?’

‘San Diego.’

Ryder allowed an edge of coolness to creep into his voice. Deliberately, he allowed it. ‘You’ll never make a cop until you learn to think like one. Peggy, San Diego — they’re just tangled up on the outside strand of the spider’s web. We’ve got to find the spider at the heart of the web. Find it and kill it. And it’s not in San Diego.’

‘I’ll go myself, then! You can’t stop me. If you want to sit around —’

‘Shut up!’ Dunne’s voice was as deliberately harsh as Ryder’s had been cool, but at once he spoke more gently. ‘Look, Jeff, we know she’s your sister. Your only sister, your kid sister. But San Diego’s no village lying out in the sticks — it’s the second biggest city in the State. Hundreds of cops, scores of trained detectives, FBI — all experts in this sort of man-hunt. You’re not an expert, you don’t even know the town. There’s probably upwards of a hundred men trying to find her right now. What could you hope to do that they can’t?’ Dunne’s tone became even more reasonable, more persuasive. ‘Your father’s right. Wouldn’t you rather go kill the spider at the heart of the web?’

‘I suppose so.’ Jeff sat in his chair but the slight shaking of the hand showed that blind rage and fear for his sister still had him in their grip. ‘I suppose so. But why you, Dad? Why get at you through Peggy?’

Dunne answered. ‘Because they’re afraid of him. Because they know his reputation, his resolution, the fact that he never gives up. Most of all they’re afraid of the fact that he’s operating outside the law. LeWinter, Donahure, Hartman — three cogs in their machine, four if you count Raminoff — and he gets to them all in a matter of hours. A man operating inside the law would never have got to any of them.’

‘Yes, but how did they —’

‘Simple with hindsight,’ Ryder said. ‘I said that Donahure would never dare tell I — we — were in LeWinter’s place. But he told whoever ordered him to fix the tap. Now that it’s too late I can see that Donahure is far too dumb to think of fixing a tap himself.’

‘Who’s the whoever?’

‘Just a voice on the phone, most likely. A link man. A link man to Morro. And I call Donahure dumb. What does that make me?’ He lit a Gauloise and gazed at the drifting smoke. ‘Good old Sergeant Ryder. All the angles figured.’