Under Siege

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sitting in his room in the FBI dorm at the Quantico Marine barracks, Harrison Ronald Ford flipped through the Monday morning Post looking for the story about Ike Randolph’s body. Most of the paper was devoted to the assassination attempt. That and a minute-by-minute account of Bush’s life, including interviews with people who knew him when.

At first Ford thought it wasn’t there, but he finally found the story on page B-7, three whole paragraphs: Body of a severely burned unidentified black male shot through the head found Sunday morning by a military policeman on a routine check of the perimeter of Fort McNair. Well, that was better than the anonymous phone call idea, though Ford was sure that someone had told the MP to go look.

He was disappointed. Likely as not Freeman and the boys would never see this little piddley story, considering what great readers they were. The whole damn crowd didn’t invest a dollar a month in reading material. If it wasn’t on the top half of the front page and staring at them through the glass of the newspaper dispenser, they would never see it.

Maybe one or two of the TV stations had picked up the story and run it when they were momentarily out of George Bush footage.

He tossed the paper on the desk.

Nothing was going right. The grand jury appearance had been postponed, Hooper was out chasing assassins all over Maryland and northern Virginia, Freddy was unreachable at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. And he was sitting here stewing. Wondering what was going through Freeman McNally’s agile little mind.

It wouldn’t be anything good, that was certain. When he didn’t show up for work tonight, no doubt someone would check his apartment. At least he had had the good sense to leave the Mustang parked in front of the joint. That simpleton Freddy had wanted to take it back to the FBI lab. Harrison had told Hooper and Freddy in no uncertain terms what he thought of their intellectual ability.

His disappearance would not be something Freeman McNally would ignore. What was it he had said about Fat Tony Anselmo — you can find out anything if you know who to ask and have enough money?

Harrison stared out the window at the manicured lawn and trimmed trees.

The day was dismal. Overcast, threatening to rain.

And he was sitting here in plain view of anybody out there with a set of binoculars. He lowered the window blind and pulled the string to shut the louvers.

Then he threw himself full-length on the bed.

Ten months of this shit and he was still sweating it. Would it ever end?

“Did you watch any TV this morning?” Mergenthaler demanded of Jack Yocke on Monday morning. The older man stood at the opening of the cubicle with a wad of newspapers in his hand. He always read the New York Times, the Chicago Herald Tribune, and the Los Angeles Times every morning when he arrived for work.

“Fifteen minutes or so.”

“Those idiots are canonizing Bush and he hasn’t even had the decency to die. I got NBC’s eulogy with my morning coffee. If he lives we’ll have our very first saint in the White House. The Democrats won’t even bother to have a convention in ’92.”

“Haven’t you heard? The Democrats are talking about running Donald Trump and Leona Helmsley in ’92.”

“Stop laughing! I’m not kidding! I don’t care how maudlin and saccharin those television twits get after he dies, if he dies. But if he doesn’t, we’re going to have to live with a politician the public gets all weepy just thinking about. Saint George. Yuck! Turns my stomach.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” Jack Yocke said slowly. “The public’s memory is short. By ’92 the Republicans will be spending millions trying to remind the voters that George almost gave his life for his country.”

“Humph! By God, I hope you’re right. This damn country won’t work if we gotta start being nice to the politicians. And it won’t work if we have only one viable political party.” Mergenthaler stalked away toward his glassed-in office.

All across America this Monday morning the wheels of commerce turned slowly, if at all. Parents let children stay home from school and took a sick day themselves. The televisions stayed on. From coast to coast streets, stores, and factories were nearly deserted as everyone participated in the national drama by watching the talking heads on television.

Normal programming was preempted. Every fact, rumor, and tidbit about the shootdown and the President’s condition was played and replayed, experts discussed the massive manhunt, politicians went from network to network for cameo appearances to assure the viewing audiences that the wheels of government were continuing to turn and to urge the public to remain calm.

Why these officials felt it necessary to urge the public to keep its wits was never explained. The only people who seemed outraged beyond endurance were a few elderly ladies who telephoned their local television stations to voice bitter complaint about the preemption of their favorite soap operas. Even so, there were fewer of these calls than television executives expected.

Amidst the speculation about the identity and motives of the assassins, a new element was slowly introduced. Tentatively, with circumspection at first, Dan Quayle began to get airtime.

He had appeared in the White House press room at seven-thirty a.m., in time to be carried live on all the morning shows, said a few carefully prepared words, then embarked in a heavily guarded motorcade for Bethesda Naval Hospital to see the President’s doctors, since Bush was still comatose.

By midmorning the networks were heavily into Quayle. His wife, his kids, his parents, his school chums and former professors back in Indiana, all were paraded before cameras and all mouthed appropriate words. Those that didn’t, didn’t get on the air.

All the networks approached the subject in basically the same way. The popular perception that Quayle was a lightweight airhead was silently refuted by the carefully chosen words and pictures the network chose to air. Quayle was cast in a presidential light, spoken of with deference. Conspicuously absent this morning were the snide asides and giggles up the sleeves and lighthearted try-to-top-this reporting of his public misstatements and bloopers that had characterized media coverage of Dan Quayle since the day Bush chose him as his vice-presidential candidate.

In the Post newsroom Ott Mergenthaler noticed the collective corporate decision to polish Quayle’s image and began making phone calls, trying to pin down producers and executives on why they made this decision.

Over in the Joint Staff spaces of the Pentagon, Toad Tarkington noticed it too. And when Toad noticed something, he quickly made everyone in earshot aware of it. Today, as usual in his new assignment, his listeners were all senior to him in years, rank, and experience, but that didn’t seem to crimp the Toad-man’s style in any significant way.

“Hoo boy, I’m telling you, they’re grooming Danny the Dweeb for the big one. They ought to turn on the TV in George’s room. If he saw this he’d leap out of bed and jog down to the White House.”

“Mr. Tarkington,” the Air Force colonel said in a tired, resigned voice, “please! Must you?”

“This is all a sick joke, right? Quivering Dan Quayle? The pride of the Indiana National Guard? Somebody call me when the commercial comes on. I’m gonna go buy some popcorn.”

“Can it, Toad,” Jake Grafton said. “Don’t you have any work to do?”

“Yessir. As you know, I’m preparing a contingency plan to convert all the A-6s to Agent Orange spray aircraft so we can zap the South American cocaine fields. I figure if we mix the stuff with the gas, we can just fly over the fields with the fuel dumps on and—”

“Back to work.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Judge Snyder was at least seventy, with thin hair and a thick waist and big, hamlike hands. He was tall, about three inches over six feet, but he appeared taller because he moved with that clumsy awkwardness that some big men have. Still, the word that came to most people’s minds after they had met Judge Snyder was “crusty.” Even his wife used that word when describing him to new acquaintances. The young lawyers with fashionably long, styled hair who practiced in front of him would have added another word—“profane”—although no one had ever heard him indulge in salty language in the presence of his wife. Clearly he was not of the generation of the buttoned-down, big-firm Mercedes drivers who constituted the majority of the lawyers who practiced in his courtroom.

When Thanos Liarakos entered the judge’s office at ten o’clock on Monday morning, Snyder had a television going and was reading a newspaper. He held the paper up before him, spread wide, as he leaned back in his heavy swivel chair.

His office was full of books, with briefs and case files stacked everywhere. On the wall behind him was a framed piece of needlework. Inside delicate pink and yellow flower borders were the words SUE THE BASTARDS.

When the door closed Judge Snyder lowered one corner of the paper and frowned at his visitor. “Why aren’t you at home, Liarakos, watching the damned TV with everybody else?”

“Seen enough of it, your honor,” was the reply.

“Me too. Turn that damn thing over there off, will you?”

Liarakos did, then dropped into a chair. He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and extracted the contents, which he handed to the judge.

Snyder reluctantly folded the newspaper and laid it in front of him on his desk. He perused Liarakos’ document.

“The prosecutor seen this?” the judge asked curtly.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’d he say?”

“Well, he didn’t want a say. Said he would abide by your decision.”

“I know he’ll abide by my decision. I want to know if he wants to argue before I make it.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

“Well?” the judge said, holding the sheets between thumb and forefinger and waving them gently back and forth.

“It’s a personal problem. I just don’t think I can adequately represent Aldana and I want to be excused. There are dozens of competent, experienced criminal lawyers in this town and Aldana can afford any of them. Hell, he could hire ’em all.”

“Why?”

“It’s personal.”

“Had some young puppy in here last week with a motion like this. It all came down to the fact he thought his client was guilty. This isn’t any damned silly nonsense like that, is it?”

“No. It’s personal.”

“You sick?”

“No.”

“In trouble with the law?”

“No, sir.”

“Motion denied.” Snyder tossed the paper back across the desk. It landed in front of Liarakos, who stared at it.

“It’s my wife. She’s a cocaine addict.”

“Sorry to hear that. But what’s that got to do with this motion?”

Liarakos raised his hands, then lowered them. He opened his mouth, then closed it and stared at his hands. “I want out. I can’t in good conscience defend Aldana. He’s entitled to a good defense and I can’t give it to him.”

“Horseshit,” Judge Snyder said. “How many lawyers are there these days who haven’t had a friend become addicted to something? All these damn fools used pot in college. They go to parties and somebody has a sugar bowl full of powder for the guests who are ‘with it.’ I may be an old fart but I know what the hell goes on. Half the bar has your problem or some version of it.”

Seeing the look on Liarakos’ face, Judge Snyder’s tone softened, “Now look. If I approve that motion, Aldana’s new lawyer will think up fifty reasons why he needs a ton of extra time to study the government’s case and file motions and I’ll almost have to give it to him. Yet the government wants Aldana tried as soon as possible, for a lot of reasons that have to do with foreign policy and our relations with Colombia. Those reasons are good ones, in my opinion. I suggest you talk to your client. Tell him what you’ve told me. If he wants to get another lawyer, that’s his business. It’s his ass. But the new lawyer will get not one more day than you’ve got. Tell Aldana that too.”

“I’ve already talked to him,” Liarakos said. “He wants me.”

“Did you tell him your wife was a cocaine addict?”

“Yes. I did.”

The judge very much wanted to ask what Aldana’s reaction to that revelation was, but he refrained. Attorney-client privilege. He contented himself with readjusting his fanny in his chair and easing the pressure on his scrotum. He also raised an eyebrow.

“He just grinned,” Liarakos muttered. He stood up and walked around the room.

He was examining a law book when he said, “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I will. My impression is that it really doesn’t matter to Chano Aldana who his lawyer is. Apparently the man thinks he’ll never go to trial.”

“Had a dog like that once,” Judge Snyder said, and lazily stretched his arms out as far as they would go. “Kept shitting on the carpet. His education was painful, but he finally got the message.”

At two o’clock that afternoon Vice-President Quayle held a news conference. Television rating services later reported that more people watched this news conference than any previous one in the history of television.

When Quayle first walked into the glare of the television lights and looked at the sea of faces of the waiting media, he handled it well, his aides offstage thought as they watched him on a monitor. He looked calm, properly somber, in charge. He began by reading a short statement that expressed the nation’s outrage at the person or persons who had attempted to take the President’s life and the government’s resolve to bring the perpetrators to justice. The aides nodded with every phrase. The Vice-President had rehearsed this little speech for a quarter hour, and it came off just right, they thought.

The first question was unexpected, however, and horrified the aides and William C. Dorfman, who stood among them staring at the monitor with his tummy hanging over his belt and a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. “Mr. Vice-President, a group calling themselves the Extraditables, who are known Colombian narcotics traffickers, has just claimed credit for shooting down President Bush. Does the government have any evidence to support or refute that claim?”

It was here that the worldwide audience got another look at that blank, frozen, wide-eyed stare that an inspired reporter had once dubbed “the deer in the headlights look.”

“I … I hadn’t heard that,” Quayle said after a few seconds. “Did it just come in?”

“Yessir. From Medellín, Colombia.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Quayle said lamely. “We are investigating — looking at evidence and all — I don’t know. Ahh … of course, nut groups and criminals can say anything. We’ll see.”

The same reporter had a follow-up question. “What will be the United States government’s response if the Extraditables’ claim proves to be true?”

“Well, I don’t know that it is true. As I said, criminals can say anything. If it’s true, I don’t know. We’ll … ahh … I guess I don’t want to … ahh … speculate about what we might do.”

Offstage Dorfman nodded vigorously. He had impressed on the Vice-President the necessity of not committing himself or the government to any particular course of action on any matter. So far so good.

“Why,” another reporter asked, “haven’t the people who did this been apprehended?”

Quayle was ready for this one. “The various law-enforcement agencies are doing everything within their power to find the people who shot down the President. I am satisfied with the manpower and methods they are using. We will announce results when we have some that can be publicized without jeopardizing the ongoing investigation.”

“Do you feel,” a woman reporter asked, “that you are capable of properly fulfilling the heavy responsibilities that you have just assumed?”

“Well … I … I think I can do what needs to be done. I’m hoping right along with everybody else that George Bush recovers quickly and can reassume the responsibilities of his office.” Here the Vice-President spoke sincerely, and quite effectively, Dorfman thought. This response had been carefully rehearsed. “No one wants George Bush to get well more than I do. I’m praying for him and I hope everyone else in America is too.”

When it was over Dorfman led the entourage back toward the office spaces as he snarled at his executive assistant, “Get me a copy of that damned Extraditables press release. And get the CIA and State Department people over here on the double. I want to know what the fuck is going on and why the hell the press got it before we did. I want to know now!”

At the conference in the cabinet room that followed, Quayle sat at the center of the table where Bush normally sat and said little. Arranged around the table were the directors of the FBI, CIA, and DEA, the assistant secretary of state — the secretary had died in the helicopter crash that had injured the President — the attorney general, and the head of the Secret Service. Dorfman sat beside Quayle and did the talking. As usual, he was blunt.

“Are the Extraditables behind this?”

No one knew.

“By God, we’d better find out and damn fast.”

“We’re squeezing our sources now. We’ll hear something soon.”

“Squeeze harder. We’ve got to find out who is behind this attempted murder and get these people arrested. Right now the public is holding its breath. We can’t get on with the business of government when ninety percent of the stuff in the newspapers and on the air is about assassins and victims. So the people who did this have got to be found. Find them.”

Afterward Dorfman had a private conference with Dan Quayle, a man whom he would have despised if he had ever taken the time to think about him, which he hadn’t. Dorfman occupied the center of the universe and everyone else merely orbited his star. Still, while he had never had any patience with people who lacked his intellectual gifts, lazy rich people who floated effortlessly along enjoying life’s bounties had always brought forth the darkest side of his aggressive personality. Just now he had to steel himself to treat Quayle with what he thought was deference.

“This Extraditables claim,” he muttered, “is political dynamite. No doubt this very minute someone is advocating an invasion of Colombia. The least misstep and we could have Colombians publicly assaulted in our streets. Remember the hostage mess in Iran ten or eleven years ago?”

Quayle remembered.

“And yet, if we don’t take measured, positive steps to handle this mess, people will say that you’re incompetent. Anything you do will be too much for some people, too little for others.”

“I’ve been in politics for a while,” Quayle said, a little annoyed at Dorfman. He disliked being patronized and that was all he ever got from Dorfman. He had spent the last two years assiduously avoiding the man.

Dorfman continued, trying to sound reasonable. “My role for the President has been to play the bad cop, the hard ass, the guy who says no. I suggest that until the President recovers enough to resume his duties, you continue to use me the same way. Let me play the heavy. When something positive comes along, you take the credit.”

“That might have worked for George Bush, but it won’t work for me,” Dan Quayle said. “Not over the long haul. People think I’m incompetent, a featherweight.” Dorfman tried to interrupt but Quayle kept going. “I’m not going to let you be de facto President while I sit on my thumb. That won’t work.”

“I know that, sir. I’m merely making a suggestion. You’re the man in charge.”

Quayle’s innocent blue eyes zeroed in and didn’t blink. “Governor, I’m going to lay it right on the line with you. Everyone knows that you wanted to be the vice-presidential candidate in ’88 but Bush picked me instead. Everyone knows that you want the spot in ’92. And everyone, including me, suspects that you’ve been lobbying the President to dump me from the ticket.”

“I haven’t,” Dorfman said, his face reddening.

Dan Quayle continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Right now I don’t think it would be a good idea to replace Bush’s team, at least until we get some idea of when the President might be capable of resuming his duties. But,” Quayle added matter-of-factly, “this team had better get some results.”

At four p.m. that afternoon Thanos Liarakos had a short visit with his client, Chano Aldana, in a cell. The guard was outside and the two were alone. Liarakos had long suspected these visitation cells were bugged but this afternoon he never gave possible listeners a thought.

“Your colleagues in Colombia are taking credit for the attempted assassination of George Bush.”

Aldana merely grunted. Something like amusement played across his fleshy features.

“Well, did they do it? Or did you hire it done?”

“What’s it to you, Mr. American lawyer?”

“I’m your defense counsel. I want to know if you’re responsible for the attempt on the President’s life.”

Aldana snorted. Then his lips curled in a sneer. “You’ve got two daughters, right? What are their names — let me think — oh yes! Susanna and Lisa. Now listen very, very carefully, Mr. Thanos Liarakos, rich American lawyer with the clean white hands. You tell these people that if they don’t send me back to Colombia, many more Americans will die. You silly people have been living in a dream world. I’m going to show you the hard, naked truth. And if you double-cross me, if you don’t do exactly what I tell you, you won’t have two pretty little daughters anymore.” Aldana snapped his fingers. “Do you understand me, Mr. Thanos Liarakos?”

“Guard! Guard! I’m ready to leave.” Liarakos pounded on the door. He wiped his palms on his trousers.

“You had better pay attention, Mr. Liarakos,” Aldana hissed. “If you think I can’t reach you or your daughters, that will be your last mistake. I got to George Bush. I can get to anyone on this planet. Do you understand?”

The door opened then and Liarakos went through, but not without looking back over his shoulder at the round, sneering face of Chano Aldana.

As he walked down the corridor he wiped his hands on his trousers again, then swabbed his face with his sleeve. He saw the sign on the door that said MEN and ducked in. Suddenly he had an overpowering urge to urinate.

The prosecutor, William Bader, and Thanos Liarakos twisted uncomfortably in their chairs across the desk from Attorney General Gideon Cohen. Liarakos had gone directly from the cell to the prosecutor’s office, and the two of them had come here, to the Department of Justice. Liarakos had just finished his tale.

“What does he expect the American government to do?” Cohen asked, his eyebrows high in disbelief.

“Send him back to Colombia,” Liarakos said curtly. “I told you that.”

“No.”

The attorney general leaned back in his chair and stared at Liarakos. Liarakos stared back.

“I want protection for my daughters,” Liarakos said at last.

“Send them to their grandparents.”

“Don’t give me that crap! These people can reach anywhere! I believe the son of a bitch. I want protection!”

“Two FBI agents.”

“Around the clock. In school and in the head. Every minute of every day.”

“For a while, okay.” Cohen nodded. “But we’re going to hold Aldana incommunicado. You are the only human who talks to him.”

Liarakos snorted. “You wish. The jailers will see him. We have to feed him. They’ll tell him what’s happening. He’ll threaten and bribe them. How are you going to stop that?”

“Quantico,” Bader suggested. “Let’s let the Marines hold him in their brig down there. Move all the other prisoners out.”

“Any objection, counselor?” Cohen asked.

“Do it.” Liarakos stood.

“Not so fast,” Cohen said, straightening in his chair. “I want you to talk to the FBI. He claims he’s responsible for four murders and the attempted assassination of the President. He’s threatened other people. You’re going to repeat this word for word in a sworn deposition.”

“No, I’m not. Attorney-client privilege.”

“Waived,” Cohen shot back.

“Like hell! I do a deposition like that and you’ll have to find another lawyer to defend the cocksucker and Judge Snyder will have a pound of my ass. I’ve told you what my client wanted me to say. That’s it. You tell the FBI and the White House and anybody else you care to. This hot potato is all yours. I’m done. And I’m leaving.” Liarakos walked out.

Cohen was on the phone to the FBI before the door closed behind the defense lawyer.

At midnight Henry Charon locked the door to the Hampshire Avenue apartment and went down the stairs to the street. He walked the block to his car, unlocked it, maneuvered it carefully from his parking place, and drove away.

The evening was chilly and humid. Much colder and it might snow. He was dressed for the weather. Long underwear, hiking boots, a sweater and warm coat. Under his thin leather gloves he wore a set of latex surgical gloves, just in case.

Scrupulously obeying the traffic laws, Henry Charon drove to National Airport and parked in the long-term lot. He put the entry ticket in his shirt pocket and sat behind the wheel scanning the lot. It took him about three minutes to decide on the vehicle he wanted. Just as he was about to get out of his car, another car drove in. He waited until the driver had exited the lot, then got out and carefully locked his door and put the keys in his trouser pocket.

The car he had selected was a Toyota. Getting in took about half a minute. Charon slid a thin, flat metal shim down between the driver’s window glass and the felt seal and fished carefully until he got the notch in the shim in the right place. Then he pulled. The door lock button rose with a click.

Inside the car he felt under the mat. No luck. Not that he really needed a key, of course. He could hot wire the car with about five minutes of work, but a key would be nice. He looked in the ashtray and the glove box and the little compartment for cassette tapes. A spare key was wedged in there under a Grateful Dead tape.

The car started on the first crank. Half a tank of gas.

Charon gave the attendant the ticket from his shirt pocket and a dollar on the way out. The attendant had a portable radio going, a news-talk station. As the attendant glanced at the ticket and rang it up, Charon heard a voice on the radio mention Dan Quayle. As the wooden arm in front of the car rose, Charon fed gas. The attendant hadn’t even looked at him.

It took an hour to find the house he was looking for in Silver Spring, set back among tall, stately maples and some really large pines. No cars on the street. He drove down to the corner and out to the main avenue, memorizing the turns, then turned around and came back.

As he eased the car down the driveway he examined the house for lights. One was on behind drapes in a downstairs room — he could just make out the glow.

Charon left the engine running and slipped the transmission into park. He pulled off the leather gloves and laid them on the seat beside him.

The automatic was in one coat pocket and the silencer in another. It took about six twists to screw the silencer into place. He didn’t check the magazine or chamber — he knew they were ready.

He opened the car door and stepped out, then pushed the door closed until the interior light went out.

A brick stoop, a little button for the doorbell. He could hear the tinkle somewhere in the house.

The breeze was chilly and the wind in the pines made a gentle moan. It was a sound he had always liked. Now he shut that sound out and listened for others, car doors or engines or voices.

Nothing.

The door opened. A man about sixty, thick at the waist, in his shirtsleeves. He looked just like his photo last week in Newsweek magazine.

Well, Charon thought, this was luck indeed.

“Yes?” the man said, cocking his head quizzically.

Henry Charon shot him dead center in the chest. The gun made a popping noise, not loud, a metallic thwock. As he fell Charon shot him again. With the man lying in the foyer on his side, his legs twisted, Charon stepped over and fired a slug into his skull.

Then he pulled the door closed and walked for the car.

He heard voices now. “Dad! Dad!” A woman calling.

Seated behind the wheel, Charon saw lights in the second story come on.

He pulled the shift lever one notch rearward, into reverse, then looked over his shoulder and backed down the driveway toward the circle of warmth from the streetlight. No cars coming.

Henry Charon backed into the street, put the car in drive, and drove at twenty-five miles per hour toward the avenue. He glanced at his watch. Two-nineteen a.m.

At three-oh-five he took a ticket from the automatic device guarding the parking lot entrance at National Airport and wheeled the car back into exactly the same stall he had taken it from. He replaced the key in the cassette tray, locked the car, then walked toward the terminal to get a cup of coffee.

He would let about an hour pass before he drove his own car past the attendant and handed him the ticket he had just acquired driving in. No use giving the man two short-time tickets in the same night. The second time he might look at the driver. Not that he would remember me, Charon thought, wryly amused. Nobody ever does.

During the night Harrison Ronald awoke with a start. He found himself fully alert, lying rigid in bed, listening to the silence.

And God, it was quiet. Nothing! He strained his ears to pick up the slightest noise.

Fully awake and taut as a violin string, he eased the automatic from under his pillow and slipped from the bed. He listened at the door. Nothing. He put his ear to the door and stood that way for several seconds, listening to the sounds of his breathing but nothing else.

The fear was palpable, tangible, right there beside him in the darkness. He could smell the monster’s fetid breath.

Frustrated, listening to his heart thud, he glided noiselessly to the window.

He pulled the blinds back ever so slightly. The light on the pole between the trees cast weird shadows on the grass, which looked from this angle like the green felt on a pool table.

Too quiet. No wind. The tree limbs were absolutely still.

What had awakened him?

He held his wristwatch so that the dim glow coming through the gap in the blinds fell upon it. Three-fourteen a.m.

Not even a hum from the heating system. That was probably it. It was off.

In a moment the system kicked back on.

He felt the tension ebbing and walked back to the bed. He sat gingerly upon it and tossed the heavy pistol onto the blanket beside him. Rubbing his face, then lying full-length on the bed, Harrison Ronald tried to relax.

What was Freeman doing right now? Did he know?

Of course he knew. Or suspected. Freeman would be curious, with that alley dog asshole-sniffing curiosity that had to be satisfied, so he would take steps to learn the truth. He would talk to people and use money and sooner or later he would know. What then?