"I was beginning to wonder about you," he answered. "How did you get clear of the mess at the tavern?"
"I was squiring our little bird home. You probably know that someone extinguished the large-nosed bum.
And they put the steel to the girl once, before I got in on the action."
"Badly?"
"No."
"I'd like to hear about it. Come on over."
"It will be awhile. I might have company."
"I see. Be sure you take care of that first."
"Will do."
When I left the restaurant, there was no tail behind me that I could locate. I remained inside behind the dirty panes of the double doors in Chryssie's old building for five minutes before I went upstairs. No one followed me inside.
A single light was on when I let myself into the flat, and the familiar odor of Mary Jane was in the air. Chryssie still had a cache somewhere I hadn't found. She was sprawled on the bed in naked, childishly-smiling marijuana-euphoria. I had never known a girl with less use for clothes. I threw a sheet over her, locked her in the apartment again, and went downstairs to the street.
A lifetime of looking over one's shoulder hones the senses. I hadn't seen anyone follow me from Talia's place, but I still felt vaguely uneasy. I'd stayed there too long after her telephone call. I checked the sidewalk from inside the double doors and saw nothing suspicious.
Still, I had a feeling.
I left the building and walked a block to a subway. I ran down the stairs to the train level and was lucky enough to catch a crowded downtown local. Once aboard, I walked through the cars until I came to the head of the train. I had seen at least fifteen other people board the train at the same stop.
I got off at the first station. There was a crush of other people. I walked half a dozen steps toward the exit gate, then did an about-face. I had to sprint to get back aboard the same train. The closing, double doors almost stranded me. There was no question that I was the last one to make it aboard. And there was no question that if anyone had followed me to that point he was following me no longer.
At the next stop I disembarked and caught a taxi at the surface. I gave the driver an address within a block of Erikson's office. To play triply safe, I punched the elevator button for the fifteenth floor instead of the sixteenth.
I would have preferred to walk down instead of up, but I figured I had just enough juice left to do it by the book.
7
Jock McLaren admitted me into the office when I knocked. "Damn it all, Earl, you have all the excitement," he greeted me. He sounded wistful. "I got to the Picadilly when it was all over. Come on. Karl's inside."
Erikson was stoking a pipe at his desk when he entered the inner office. He nodded but was silent until he had the pipe drawing to his satisfaction. "Tell him your end of it first, Jock," he said.
"Well," McLaren replied, looking at me, "I found out from the bartender that a guy answering your description had blown the scene with the girl. So I figured I'd do the next best thing, and I trailed the police ambulance down to the morgue to check out the man we knew as Hawk. I identified myself and took considerable physical evidence from the body. We checked it out with sources we consider reliable, and we got a make. The man's name was Hakim Shukairat, age twenty-nine, a Jordanian. He held a rank roughly equivalent to captain in the fedayeen. He was the leader of a fanatical commando group that we're certain forced down a chartered American airliner near Las Vegas and also-"
"Earl knows that," Erikson interrupted him. I realized that Erikson, with his usual need-to-know security precautions, hadn't told McLaren that I was aboard the hijacked aircraft.
McLaren raised an eyebrow but continued. "Shukairat led or participated in the shoot-up of an El Al plane in Switzerland some time ago. It appears likely that he was brought to the U.S. for the same kind of work, and it's believed that he would have mounted similar operations."
McLaren paused for an instant. "So far we've been unable to tie him into any political, military, or financial contacts in this country that would make him anything but a bandit, although we're sure they exist. Our evaluation to this point indicates that he was an able field man but that he wasn't a planner. He probably received his orders from well-trained superiors. And he either got careless today or he was set up for the fall by the girl."
"I'll bet against the last one," I said.
"Do you think the two assassins were Israeli agents?" Erikson asked me. "Making a move on their own because they felt we weren't moving fast enough?"
"There was nothing to indicate it," I said slowly. "I imagine a man like Shukairat could have papered a room with his enemies. They didn't look any more like Israelis than they did any other Middle East nationality. Although come to think of it, the whole affair had kind of the look of an execution."
"I'm going to have a little talk with Bergman," Erikson said grimly. "If it was Israeli intelligence, and if Bergman can't keep his falcons leashed, we'll ship them out of the country. What about the envelope you mentioned, Earl?"
I unbuttoned my shirt, removed it, and tossed its bulk onto the desk. It was smudged and wrinkled, but the seal was still intact. McLaren hunkered down and peered at it from eye level without touching it at all. "Whose prints are on it?" he asked.
"Mine and the Turkish girl's that I'm sure about."
"I'd sure love to dust it for prints," he said in a regretful tone. "But if we're going to return it-" He didn't complete the sentence.
He walked to the back wall of the office and activated the concealed switch that operated the hidden wall panel. He returned from the equipment room, carrying a rolled-up leather tool case. When he unrolled it and spread it on the desk top, I saw numerous, blue steel drills with what I suspected were diamond tips, a small, but powerful drill motor, six-inch pipe lengths that could be screwed together and attached to a lead block or to interchangeable tips to make a mallet or a prybar, and numerous other familiar items.
"You must have gone to the same school I did," I said to McLaren.
"Not quite," Erikson said dryly. He had been watching my examination of the safe-cracking equipment.
I consider myself reasonably expert on small tools, but the narrow pockets of the tool case contained additional items the likes of which I'd never seen before. McLaren selected a pair of brightly polished, long-fingered tweezers with a hooked nose and picked up the envelope by one corner. He raised it gently and held it closer to the desk lamp, inspecting it from all sides. He seemed especially interested in the gap where the envelope's flap hadn't quite closed tightly after it had been sealed. He took a jeweler's loupe from the case, fitted it into his eye, and scanned the envelope.
"Well, Jock?" Erikson said.
"I can't be sure." McLaren removed the jeweler's glass from his eye. "I'd better 'scope it." He picked up the envelope with the tweezers again and carried it into the equipment room.
Erikson and I followed him. McLaren clipped the envelope to a sloping glass screen atop a box about the size of a one-drawer file cabinet. He flipped two switches, and a red light came on accompanied by a humming sound. Then the light went out, and McLaren pressed a concave button with his thumb.
Bright lavender light surrounded the envelope, and I could see two metal objects in its lower left-hand corner in the fluorescent image. "I thought those might be the old Klienschmidt trigger device when I first noticed them," McLaren said. "But you can see it's only a couple of staples."
He pointed to a dark panel covering most of the underside of the envelope's flap. "That's just as effective in showing evidence of entry, though. It's an oxidation detector, an atmosphere-sensitive surface, hermetically sealed to keep air out. If the flap is torn or pulled apart, as it would be if the envelope were steamed or pried open, the inner surface changes color and acts like a warning flag." He raised his thumb and the X-ray lamp went out.