Man on a Leash

10

There were twenty-one steps in the pea gravel, and then he felt a header under his foot. Then five steps across hard-baked ground, and they were on gravel again. Top Kick turned him in a left oblique, and in three steps he felt concrete under his shoes, and simultaneously the sunlight was off his head. Left again, which should put them about ninety degrees from their original direction, and eight steps back. “Hold it,” Top Kick ordered. He stopped. Garage, he guessed, oriented in the same direction as the house and approximately fifty-five feet from it. He heard the creaking of springs as an overhead door came down. Right on.

“Interesting trip,” Paulette said beside him. “Like a sorority initiation, and about as intelligent.”

“Shut up,” Top Kick said. “And turn around, both of you.”

He did an about-face and heard Paulette turn beside him. Top Kick should be in front of him now, but another gun prodded his back. “Like the monkey said in the lawn mower, don’t make no sudden moves, ole buddy.” Tex. Somebody was throwing rope around his ankles, hobbling him. He thought of the photograph of his father and was swept with cold rage for an instant but controlled it.

“I’m still here, Romstead,” Top Kick said in front of him then. “All right, unlock the cuffs.” He felt the handcuffs being lifted. They clicked open. “Put your hands in front of you,” Top Kick ordered. He held them out. “You too, Mrs. Carmody.” The cuffs closed over his wrists again, and he heard another pair click shut beside him. The pictures, he thought. Realism, artistic detail, the director’s touch. Footsteps receded across the concrete. He heard the rustle of cloth somewhere.

“All right, turn them on.” This was the intercom voice, presumably Kessler. “And take off the blindfolds.”

There was a soft swishing of cloth right beside him. Tex, or whoever it was behind him now, was removing Paulette Carmody’s blindfold. He felt fingers working at the knot of his own. Then, from the middle distance somewhere in front, a feminine voice said, “You mean you really would ball that old thing?”

“What an adorable child,” Paulette said.

“Who-eee, would I?” It was Tex behind him, all right. “Be like ridin’ a Braymer bull.” He went on, in imitation of a rodeo announcer, “—comin’ out of chute number five on Widow-maker—”

“Get on with it,” Top Kick ordered somewhere off to his right. “For Christ’s sake, don’t you ever think of anything else?”

The blindfold came off then. He blinked, momentarily unable to see anything in the almost painful glare of light burning into his face. Then he could make out that there were four of them, high-intensity floods on standards, two in front and two off to his right. Everything beyond them was indistinct and shadowy, though he could vaguely make out the swing-up door of a two-car garage directly facing him. To his left was a car, a two-door sedan several years old, and on the other side of it, across that whole wall, was a backdrop that appeared to have been made from a cheap plastic dropcloth sprayed with a thin coat of green paint. He looked around in back and saw the wall behind them was covered the same way. He had to admit for the second time that for all their theatricality they didn’t miss a bet. They knew as well as he did that the second set of people to see these pictures was going to be a room full of FBI special agents, and they weren’t going to see a hell of a lot. No knotholes, no distinctive grain patterns, stains, old nails, or anything that would identify the place later.

He looked to the right. Tex or Top Kick was standing just far enough back to be well out of the picture, holding the sawed-off shotgun. Six feet two, at least, and heavy in the shoulders, wearing a black jumpsuit and a black hood. By squinting his eyes against the glare he could just make out three more shadowy figures now, slightly behind the lights in front and on his right. One was obviously the girl, not over five five, the second could very easily fit Kessler’s description as to build, while the third was as big as the man with the shotgun. They all were dressed the same way.

All those lights weren’t necessary for the pictures, of course; they could have used flash bulbs just as well, but the object was to keep him from seeing very much beyond them. His eyes jerked back to the car then; he’d seen something before that hadn’t registered at the time. It had two short whip antennas installed on it, one on the roof and one on top of the trunk. And now he saw something else; a half-inch or three-quarters-inch hole had been drilled in the left-hand door, and on the concrete floor beside the car was a steel rod about six feet long threaded at both ends.

“Go ahead, Romstead, take a good look at it,” the intercom voice said. “It’s yours.” The slender figure stepped out of the shadows then, holding a Polaroid camera. He came forward a few steps, sighted through the viewfinder, and moved back a step, presumably to get the handcuffs in the frame.

The camera clicked, and there was a wait while the picture developed. Romstead continued to study the car. The two antennas suggested that basically it was the same operation as before except that it had been transferred to wheels. One would be a transmitter tied to one or more bugging devices inside the car to monitor anything he said or did, while the other would be a receiver for the radio signal that constituted his tether. He’d just grasped the function of the steel rod when Kessler—it was bound to be Kessler—removed the film, peeled off the backing, and studied the result. He nodded. “Perfect the first time.” Romstead noted that he was wearing nylon gloves.

“All right, in the car now,” Kessler said. “Both of you. Romstead at the wheel.” With the shotgun prodding his back, Romstead hobbled over to the car. The other of the two big men opened the door, and he got in behind the wheel, while Paulette was helped into the seat beside him.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said, “unless we’re shooting a commercial for mental disease.” Nobody paid any attention. Romstead said nothing; he was too intent on what they were doing, probing the setup for any flaw that would offer the slightest ray of hope. Apparently she was to go, too; he hadn’t expected that. While the man with the shotgun covered him from Paulette’s side, the other unlocked his handcuffs and produced a short length of chain with steel rings at both ends. One cuff was replaced on his left wrist and the other was snapped into one of the rings on the chain. The doors were closed, and Romstead noted there was a hole drilled through the right one too. He’d been right about the rod. The man beside him reached down for it. The end of it appeared in the hole at his left, just over the armrest on the door. It was threaded through the ring at the lower end of the chain, then between Paulette’s shackled wrists, and on through the hole in the right-hand door. He heard washers and nuts being applied and the nuts being tightened with wrenches. Nothing, he thought. There was no way they could get out of the car until they were let out.

The rod was half-inch steel, and it passed in front of them between the bottom of the rib cage and the lap, pinning them down and back against the seat. Even without the shackles you couldn’t get past it any more than you could get out of the seat with the safety belt fastened. And the doors couldn’t be opened, of course, with that rod locking them shut. His right hand was free, and there was enough length to the chain to permit him normal positioning on the wheel with the left, so he could drive, but drive was all he could do. He wouldn’t be able to rise from the seat far enough to reach anything else in the car.

“Does she have to go, too?” he asked.

“She shore does.” It was Tex who was on the right. “Ain’t inny glass in them doors now, Sugarfoot, but you won’t be thinkin’ about yore hairdo nohow.”

She ignored him. One of the light standards was brought around in front of the car to shine in through the windshield. Kessler positioned himself to Romstead’s left with the Polaroid. “Left hand up on the wheel, Romstead,” he said. “And both of you face this way.” They turned. He snapped. Very careful, Romstead thought, not to get any of the exterior of the car. Just the two of us and the backdrop on the other side. When the picture was developed, Kessler nodded with satisfaction. He moved in closer then, shooting downward at an angle to get the detail of the bar and the manacles.

The bar was removed then, and they were taken from the car. Romstead’s hands were cuffed behind him again, and they were covered by the ever-vigilant Tex with the shotgun while Kessler photographed something on the floor of the car behind the front seats, using flash bulbs this time because the floods couldn’t be brought to bear. When he had two shots to his satisfaction, he nodded to Tex.

“All right, show it to him.”

Tex gestured with the gun and nodded. Romstead hobbled forward and looked in around the front seat, which was tilted forward. There was enough peripheral light from the surrounding floods to make it out, though except for one chilling item, none of it made much sense to him. A square aluminum-cased piece of electronics equipment that was obviously homemade because it bore no manufacturer’s nameplate was mounted on foam rubber and strapped in place on the floor on the far side. On this side what appeared to be a whole bank of batteries was likewise secured in place, and in between were several interconnecting cables lying loose on the floor. The dynamite was just barely visible, but he was sure that Kessler had framed it in the picture exactly as he wanted it.

There were two bundles of it, one under each seat with only the ends protruding. There were seven sticks in each, strapped together and somehow secured to the floor, and the center stick was armed with a detonating cap whose bare copper wires were connected to some of those running across the floor.

“Just for the pictures,” Kessler said behind him. “We’ll disarm it until you’re on station.”

The great-hearted nobility of that, Romstead thought, was somewhat diluted by the fact that one of them would also be in the car to that point, to drive it. He’d be shackled and blindfolded. They had now raised the lid of the trunk, and Kessler was photographing the interior with flash bulbs. The second shot appeared satisfactory.

“All right,” he said. “Let him see it.”

Tex gestured with the shotgun. Romstead duck-walked around in back. There was more arcane electronics equipment foam rubber mounted and lashed in place around the peripheral areas of the trunk, again homemade and interconnected with lengths of insulated wire and cables, but it was the chest or box that immediately caught his eye and was in its own way as ominous as the dynamite. It took up most of the space in the trunk and was large enough to hold two big suitcases, constructed of welded quarter-inch steel plates lined with asbestos. There was a hinged lid, also of steel plate and asbestos, and a heavy latch on the front of it.

“You see?” Kessler asked.

“Sure,” Romstead replied bleakly. “So why should we go?”

“You’re misinterpreting it. We just want you to know we’re not bluffing; we’ll blow it if you force us to. You’re a dangerous man, Romstead; we admit it. You’re too much like that old son of a bitch to begin with, and we’ve learned a little of your background. If you thought we’d hesitate for a minute in sending it up because we’d also be blowing the money all over half the state, you’d take the chance. So we took the temptation away from you. If you force us to make it jump, as the French put it, that’s too bad, but the money’s still safe.”

Romstead said nothing, but his face, largely concealed under the blindfold, was intensely thoughtful as they were herded back to the house and into the bedroom. Apparently even a genius could make a small mistake now and then, and maybe if he boasted and embroidered long enough, he might make a bigger one.

* * *

He lay stretched out on the bed looking at the passbook and withdrawal slip from the Southland Trust and listening to Kessler’s voice on the intercom. At the moment it was addressing Paulette Carmody.

“—just so you won’t waste any of our time hoping we don’t know what we’re talking about and trying to bluff, I’ll give it to you fast, chapter and verse. Your husband left an estate of just a little over three million dollars after taxes, all of it to you. About seven hundred thousand of this is real estate, a house in La Jolla, the one in Coleville, some waterfront in Orange County, and the tax-shelter ranch near Elko. About a half million is stock in the land development company he founded in 1953. The rest, pretty close to a million nine hundred thousand, is in bonds, some tax-free—municipals, school district, and so on—some industrials, and some government. The executor of the estate was your husband’s younger brother, Jerome Carmody, a La Jolla attorney who’s also your attorney.

“The ransom note is addressed to him, to verify the phone call he’s already received. It goes out tonight airmail special delivery from some place we’ll just say is north of the Tehachapis, along with the pictures to prove we’re not lying or bluffing. We want a million eight hundred and thirty thousand from you. It’s not his money, so there’s no strain. That’s what makes this a rather unique kidnapping—you’re both paying your own way.

“He’ll get the note early tomorrow morning, and he can do the whole thing in one business day. We want delivery of the money day after tomorrow. There are two ways he can do it. He can either mortgage all your holdings for that amount, or he can sell the bonds—”

“Forget it,” Pauline Carmody interrupted. She was sitting on the other bed, smoking a filter tip. “The bonds are in my name, and nobody can sell them except me, so he couldn’t if he wanted to. And a mortgage form has to be executed before a notary—”

“Nice try,” Kessler’s voice interrupted in turn. “But we happen to know he has your power of attorney.”

Romstead saw her wince a little at this, but she recovered fast. “Which is void the minute I’m dead,” she replied. “And as a graduate of Stanford Law School he might conceivably know that.”

“But you’re not dead, and we’ve just taken some pictures to prove it. But you will be if we don’t get that money, so let’s get on with it. He’s to deposit it in the Southland Trust and make arrangement for it to be available in cash by day after tomorrow at noon. These things can be expedited when there’s an emergency and enough big-money clout behind them.

“And now, Romstead. We want a hundred and seventy thousand. All you have to do, naturally, is sign that withdrawal slip. It’s not the bank’s money; it’s yours, and what you do with it is your business. We’ve already contacted your friend Carroll Brooks there by telephone—.”

“No.” It was Romstead’s turn to interrupt. “The signature doesn’t mean a thing. The bank is obligated to turn the money over only to me or somebody I’ve designated as my authorized agent.”

“Which is exactly what the bank is going to do. Deliver it to you personally.” Kessler’s voice was smug. “Along with Mrs. Carmody’s, since she’ll be there too. Carroll Brooks is going to do it.”

So now he’s made the second one, Romstead thought, but he kept his face impassive, knowing he was being watched through the mirror. “It’ll like hell be Brooks,” he said scornfully. “You know as well as I do it’ll be a special agent of the FBI. You don’t think they’re going to hold still for this, do you?”

“Oh, I don’t doubt the wires to Washington are red-hot right now. But it won’t be an FBI agent. That’s taken care of.”

“Look, use your head, will you? It’ll be D, B. Cooper all over again, and if they let you get away with it, every lamebrained creep in the country who can change the batteries in a flashlight is going to become an electronics supercriminal, demanding millions and blowing people up all over the place. This time they’re going to get the first one, believe me, if it takes every man in the bureau, and they’re going to skin him very slowly with a dull knife and nail his hide on every front page in the country before the imitators can start crawling out of the woodwork.”

“If you’ll remember,” Kessler’s voice said, “D. B. Cooper got away with it, precisely because he was first and he was qualified.”

The bed was beginning to creak on the other side of the wall. Romstead and Paulette Carmody looked at each other and shrugged.

“So sign it, Romstead,” the voice went on. “And Mrs. Carmody, just write ‘Dear Jerry’ comma ‘send it’ period ‘He means business’ period on that sheet of paper. I want that note on its way in the next ten minutes.”

“And if we don’t sign?” Romstead asked, knowing it was a futile question and what the answer would be.

“We bring Mrs. Carmody out here and work on her. We’ll do it in front of the intercom, so you can listen.”

Romstead thought of the burro. He signed the withdrawal slip and handed her the pen. The sheet of paper was on the nightstand between the beds. The little gasps and outcries filtered through the wall. “I’ll be glad to sign it,” she said wearily to the intercom, “if you’d just move that riding academy to some other room.” She wrote the message he had dictated and put her signature to it. Romstead put the two pieces of paper on top of the chest under the panel, along with the passbook. A hand came through and picked them up. The slide closed and he heard the latch being refastened. The ecstasy on the other side of the wall reached climax, died with one final shriek, and silence returned. Paulette Carmody didn’t even try to evade it anymore; maybe, Romstead thought, she had accepted it as part of the process of breaking them down and decided that escape from it was hopeless.

He wondered if the girl could be Debra, but it didn’t seem likely. Debra was presumably on heroin, which was supposed to inhibit all sexual desire; if anything had ever eroded this chick’s libido, he’d hate like hell to have run into her in a dark alley before she began to cool down. He heard a car start up somewhere in front. The ransom note was on its way.

“What was all this about D. B. Whatsisname?” Paulette asked.

“You remember,” Romstead replied. “D. B. Cooper—at least that was supposed to be his name. He started the wave of plane hijackings for money; bailed out over the Pacific Northwest with two hundred thousand dollars, and so far he’s either got away with it or he’s dead. I’m all for his being dead, and there’s a good chance of it. Jumping into heavy timber in the dark will never make you the darling of the insurance companies.”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “I remember it now. And you figure if this dingy creep gets away with it, electronic extortion will be the latest craze to sweep the country? I see what you mean. And what do you think his chances are of getting away with it?”

“Damned good,” Romstead said. “For the short term. They’ll get him in the end, of course, but I don’t know how much good that’ll do us.” There was no use raising any false hopes; also, they were being overheard.

There was no further word from the intercom. The day dragged on. At noon two bowls of some kind of stew were handed in through the sliding panel, along with some cans of beer and a carton of Paulette Carmody’s brand of cigarettes. They began to hope the girl had gone off with the bearer of the ransom note, but shortly after noon she was back in action again.

“Do you suppose,” Paulette asked, “there are any convents that take neophytes my age?”

Romstead smiled but said nothing. He was only half listening to her. He wished Kessler would come on the intercom with his plan for the ransom pickup. There was little or nothing to work on until he did. After a while he went over and spoke into it. “When do we get some idea of what we have to do and where we do it?” There was no reply. Maybe it was going onto a tape. How many were left out there now? There had been complete silence for more than half an hour. Had they all left on business in connection with the pickup? He took off one of the heavy brogues, went over to the chest, and raised the shoe as if to smash in the mirror. The panel slid back, and the barrels of the shotgun came through, aimed at his chest.

“Okay?” a voice asked. It was Top Kick.

“You answered my question,” Romstead said. He put the shoe back on and paced the room, goaded by restlessness and frustration.

“I’ve never been able to understand,” Paulette Carmody said, “what the relationship was between you and your father. If there was any.”

“There wasn’t much,” Romstead replied.

“I know. Let’s face it, parenthood must have weighed about as heavily on him as it does on the average ram or stallion or seed bull, and somehow I can’t quite see him as today’s suffering blob of guilt on the head candler’s couch weeping and beating his chest and asking, ‘What did I do wrong?’ He supported you until you were old enough to support yourself, and if he happened to run into you now and then he’d buy you a drink, but that was about it. But still he liked you and admired your athletic ability, and it all seemed to turn out all right. Did you resent the fact you hardly ever saw him? Did you feel rejected?”

“No.” He stopped pacing and thought about it. People had asked him the same question before, and he’d never known how to answer it. There had been respect between them and a good deal of mutual admiration, but they’d simply never needed each other. Maybe, actually, neither of them had ever really needed anybody; the self-sufficiency was inherited, built in, and perhaps that was the only thing they shared.

“Have you got a girl?” she asked.

“Yes. Quite a girl.”

“I’d like to meet her sometime. But God help her if she ever marries you. You’re simply too much like him.”

He shrugged. “That’s what Kessler said.”

“And I wonder what he meant. They killed your father in the end, but I’m not sure that’s all that happened. They’re very, very careful.”

He started to tell her that you always had to be careful of people who didn’t have much more to lose, but there seemed no point to it. She was tough-minded and realistic enough to handle it, but why belabor the matter?

They were given some more of the stew for dinner. The overhead light was turned on at dusk. Sleeping under it was difficult, but, Romstead reflected, it would have been a little difficult anyway. All they could do was endure it and wait. It was eleven o’clock the next morning when they heard a car drive up in front. A few minutes later Kessler came on the intercom.

“You’ll be glad to hear that Jerome Carmody and the bank have agreed to the two million,” he said, “and to the terms of delivery.”

“What about the police?” Romstead asked. “And the FBI?”

“They swear they haven’t called them in, and there’s nothing in any of the papers or on TV; but of course they have. I have no doubt that right now whole roomfuls of them are playing the telephone tapes over and over and tearing their hair out in handfuls trying to get voice patterns or something in the background. A cordless vibrator against the throat doesn’t help them much.”

Keep going, Romstead thought; embroider. Egomania’s about all we’ve got going for us—egomania and greed.

“At first we thought of having Jerome Carmody deliver the money,” Kessler’s voice went on, “but we found out he’s got a serious heart condition, and I don’t want somebody crapping out on a freeway at seventy miles an hour with two million dollars of my money in his car—”

“You ought to guard against that streak of sentimentality,” Paulette interrupted.

“Shut up, if you want to hear this. So we decided on Brooks. He works for the bank, so the bank is simply delivering your own money to you. Two of us have seen him up close, so they can’t run in an FBI ringer on us.

“They have the pictures and the facts of life as they are. You’ll be on the leash, with enough explosive in the car to blow it all to hell and only the transmitted radio signal keeping the detonating circuit from closing and setting it off. I’m using a lower frequency this time for longer range of operation and so there’ll be no reception blind spots when you’re behind hills or in canyons. And I won’t be at the transmitter; that’ll be in another part of the forest and remote-controlled itself. They can locate it with direction finders and get up there where it is with mules in five or six hours, but why would they? If they turn it off, they’ll kill you. They’ve been warned that any deviation at all from the procedure I’ve given them and you’ll go up, and they know that anywhere along the line we can get a look at the vehicle to be sure it’s Brooks in it.

“Delivery of the money will be in the Mojave Desert between Barstow and Las Vegas. If any other vehicle follows him off the highway or if there’s a plane or helicopter in sight anywhere the deal is off and we go back to square one and start over—”

“All right,” Romstead interrupted. “Let’s say they give you that—Brooks alone, nobody following him. You’ve got enough clout at this point that they probably have to. But for Christ’s sake, use your head. In the first place, you should know as well as I do that Brooks is going to be in constant contact with the FBI by radio. The United States government has access to maybe a little electronics expertise itself. Second, the car, whatever it is, is going to be carrying a homing device of some kind so they can track it with direction finders, and in the third place—and this is the one you can’t beat—wherever you take delivery you’re going to be quarantined. You’re going to be surrounded on all sides to the point of saturation, by police, sheriffs deputies from a half dozen counties, and FBI agents. They’ll block every exit a jackrabbit could squeeze through. And don’t think they can’t.”

“Of course they can.” Kessler sounded amused. “Blockade, cordon, or whatever you want to call it, is one of the oldest law enforcement tactics in the world, and it works—provided you know what area to blockade. They won’t, until it’s too late, and it’s a long way from Barstow to Las Vegas. Over a hundred and fifty miles to be exact ... All right, pass him the maps.”

This latter was obviously addressed to whoever was on the other side of the mirror. Romstead went over by the chest. The panel slid open. Oil company highway maps of California and Nevada were deposited on top of the chest, followed by a large sheet of white paper folded several times and some thumb tacks. The panel closed, and Romstead heard the latch being fastened.

“Unfold the large map, and thumbtack it to the wall,” Kessler ordered, “so you can follow this.”

Romstead unfolded it. It was meticulously hand-drawn and inked, and he assumed it was a large-scale blowup of some section of the highway from Barstow to Las Vegas. He stuck it to the wall between the beds with the tacks.

“Those highway maps you’ve got don’t show all the desert roads,” Kessler said. “Mine does, even the ungraded ones. It’s drawn to scale, and I’ve run all those roads myself, the ones we’re going to use. It extends for thirty miles east and west along a section of Highway Fifteen east of Barstow and covers the area from ten miles south to twenty miles north of the highway, or nine hundred square miles in all.

“Now. Brooks doesn’t know yet where he’s supposed to go, only that he’s to use an open Toyota Land Cruiser so we can see there’s no FBI joker concealed in it. Ten minutes before he’s due to leave the bank with the money he’ll get a phone call, the last one, which will throw all the Efrem Zimbalist Juniors into a third-degree flap trying to trace it. It will be long-distance-dialed from one of a room-long bank of pay phones at Los Angeles International by a girl in a wig and dark glasses, and the message will take five seconds, so lots of luck—”

“Accomplished young lady,” Paulette Carmody murmured. “She operates vertically, too.”

Kessler paid no attention. He went on. “It’ll simply tell him to go to Barstow, which will take less than four hours, and register at the Kehoe Motel under the name of George Mellon. There’s a package there for him that was delivered two days ago by a parcel service with instructions to hold for arrival. It’s a radio receiver, single channel, crystal-controlled. The object of all this scrimshaw, of course, is to keep the Zimbalists from getting hold of it enough in advance of when he has to use it so they can find out what frequency it’s tuned to. They’ll descend on the Kehoe the minute they hear this, of course, and they’ll have the receiver before Brooks gets there; but there’s still not time, and they wouldn’t have the lab facilities in Barstow anyway. There’s a note with it telling Brooks to proceed east on Highway Fifteen with the phones plugged into the receiver for further instructions.”

Romstead broke in. “It won’t do any good. They’ll be in front of him and behind him, and even if they can’t pick up the channel themselves, they’ll see where he leaves the highway.”

“Sure.” Kessler went on. “But it takes time to surround an area of several hundred square miles. And when they do, they’re going to surround the wrong area. Brooks is going to leave the highway headed south, but you’re going to be waiting for him on the opposite side, to the north. In that six hundred square, miles.”

Romstead whistled soundlessly. That was going to be rough to handle if he could pull it off. But how could he?

“The radio message,” Kessler went on, “will simply tell him to take that exit I’ve got marked A on the map and proceed five point eight miles straight down that road, where he will receive further instructions. But not by radio this time. One of us will have him under visual surveillance with a telescope—we’ll have two of them in operation, with our own communications setup. If anybody follows him off the highway, the whole deal is off. And after a little over four miles he’s in very rough country and completely out of sight of the highway.

“When the five point eight turns up on his odometer, there will be a pickup truck parked a little distance off the road, just a dusty, beat-up old truck like a thousand others in the area. It’s stolen, and so are the plates. The ignition key will be in it, along with a note and a change of clothes, Levi’s, blue shirt, and rancher’s straw sombrero. He’s to leave his Toyota there, change clothes, transfer the two suitcases of money to the truck, and go on in it. After a mile he takes a road to the right; four and a half miles farther on there’ll be another road running right again, back toward the highway. He’ll cross the highway at that exit I’ve got marked B and continue on to where he’ll meet you in a little over six miles. Even if the highway is still running bank to bank with FBI men, they’ll never recognize him.”

“Except,” Romstead said, “that they’ll have a complete description of the new vehicle, including the license number, plus the information that he’s now headed north, and on which road. When he transfers the money to the truck, he’ll also transfer the FBI’s communication gear and the squealer—the radio beacon ...” His voice trailed off then, and he felt a little chill begin between his shoulder blades.

“Sure he will,” Kessler agreed. “Only now they’re completely useless. I’ve been monitoring that whole end of the spectrum with some very sophisticated gear, and before he’s even left the highway the first time, I’ll know his communications and beacon frequencies. And from the time he starts south, before the transfer, I’ll be sitting right on both of them with a couple of wide-band jamming signals. Communications blackout.”