Mike said, “What about these pills?”
“I’ve got them,” Lynsey Rayne said. “As soon as that—creature—was off the phone, I called Ian Komlosy, head of Triple S; got him out of bed. He sent someone to open the studio and let me into Koo’s dressing room. His pill-case is in the other office.”
Jock Cayzer said, “It seems to me the most important thing here is to get this man together with his medicines.”
“It would be best if I could see him as well,” Doctor Answin said, ducking his head.
“I doubt we can swing that, Doctor,” Jock told him. “And if they did let you see him, they’d probably want to keep you right along with him.”
“I wouldn’t permit you to go,” Mike said. Then, remembering the twenty-four hours weren’t yet up, he was still merely an advisor, he added, “And I don’t believe Jock would either.”
“Sure not,” Jock said. “But, Doctor, I will want you to talk to the fellow, when he calls back.”
“Make them let him go,” Lynsey Rayne said. Her gaunt face looked as though she too were about to be critically ill. “They can’t keep him if he’s sick, they’ll have to let him go, start all over again with someone else.”
“I doubt they’ll see it that way,” Mike told her.
“Then let me talk to them. Doctor Answin, you tell them; it isn’t just the pills, it’s medical attention, it’s his age, it’s all the risk involved.”
Mike said, “Miss Rayne, that fellow said on the last call he wouldn’t talk more than two minutes, obviously to keep us from putting a trace on the call. He’ll surely do the same thing when he calls back. Doctor Answin should tell them the truth, answer questions as truthfully—and briefly, Doctor, please—as he can. If there’s time, he can make an appeal for Mr. Davis’ release, but you know and I know it won’t do any good. If we do convince them Davis is in critical danger, they’ll tell us that simply reinforces the tightness of their deadline. Negotiations of this kind aren’t easy under any circumstances. If we tell them Koo Davis is a goner unless they release him, we’re handing them a gun they can put at our heads.”
“Then release those people,” Lynsey Rayne said. “Ten leftover radicals, my God, what difference can it make anymore? Let them go to Algeria, anywhere they want, good riddance.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Rayne,” Mike said. “Nobody in this room can make that decision. And so far, I don’t even think all ten have been positively identified, so it might be a bit early to characterize them all as simply harmless ‘leftover radicals’.”
“Whoever they are,” she said, “getting them out of the country has got to be a good idea. Is Koo’s life worth keeping these people in prison?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “We hope to get Washington’s answer to that question tomorrow.”
As he was speaking, the phone rang. Everyone stopped, looking at the tape reels suddenly turning, listening as the technician turned up the sound.
Receptionist: “Seven seven hundred.”
Caller: “You know who this is. You got the doctor?”
Jock was pointing at a phone on one of the worktables. As Doctor Answin picked it up, the technician turned the taped sound down slightly; still, there was an odd echo in the room as the doctor’s voice went into the phone and emerged a micro-millisecond later from the tape machine. “Doctor Answin here.”
“What’s the story? You got one minute.”
“I should see him. He’s not a young man, he should have proper medical care.”
“No. Give me an alternative. Quick.”
The doctor sighed and shook his head, then spoke in a brisk, matter-of-fact manner: “Koo Davis is a very sick man. He can’t live more than a few days without his medications, and there would be irreversible damage before death.”
“All right. You got the pills he was talking about?”
“Yes. We have Koo’s pill-case here.”
“A whole case, huh? All right. One car—not a police car, no car with a police radio—should get on the San Diego Freeway northbound at the Sunset Boulevard entrance at three A.M. The car should identify itself with a white handkerchief tied at the top of the antenna. Drive at fifty in the right-hand lane. When a car behind you flashes its highs, pull off the road, put the case outside the car, drive on. Do not get out of the car. If you get out of the car, or if you try to put more than one car on the Freeway, we won’t pick up the pills, and the bastard can live or die. This is Davis’ own case?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t bug it, don’t switch it for another case. Any cute stuff at all, and Davis doesn’t get his pills.”
Mike had scribbled on a piece of paper, “Make it 6AM,” and he now held this in front of the doctor’s eyes. The doctor nodded and said, “I don’t think we could do it that soon. Make it six A.M.”
The caller laughed, a dry scornful sound. “When it’s light enough for choppers? No, Doc, you don’t follow us home. We’ll make it three.”
“I’m not sure I—”
The technician said, “He hung up.”
The small metal object in Mike’s palm was the size and shape of a shirt button. “Look, Miss Rayne,” he said. “They won’t find this. Some of those medicines are in capsule form. I can put this in one of the capsules and how in God’s name are they going to find it?”
The button was actually a radio transmitter, capable of broadcasting a single beam for a distance of perhaps a quarter-mile. They planned to follow this transmitter to wherever Davis was being held—except that Lynsey Rayne was putting up an unexpected argument. “There’s a chance they’ll find it,” she insisted. “Either looking for it or by accident. And you just listen to that man’s voice. He wants to hurt Koo, you can hear it. Don’t give him the excuse.”
Mike was losing his patience. In ordinary circumstances he would simply go ahead and plant the transmitter, but Lynsey Rayne had already threatened once to phone Washington, to throw Koo Davis’ weight around and get a countermanding order from Bureau Headquarters. The point wasn’t whether or not Koo Davis’ name was influential enough to get the order reversed; his name definitely was influential enough to get Lynsey Rayne a hearing. It was now five-thirty in the morning, Washington time, and Mike Wiskiel was not going to be the man responsible for rousting a lot of important people out of bed at this hour. The problem had to be solved here, in this office.
Unfortunately, Mike had to fight the battle alone, Jock Cayzer having artfully eased himself out of the conversation the instant trouble began to emerge on the horizon. Jock was now in the workroom next door, dealing with the arrangements for the medicine delivery, while Mike was here in the main office, alone with Lynsey Rayne. “Look, Miss Rayne,” he said, and tried very hard to control his impatience and contempt. But the woman was getting in the way of the job to be done, arguing tactics when what mattered was results. And basing her convictions on the sound of a voice on the telephone! “Look. The important thing is to get Davis out of these people’s hands.”
“No, it is not.” She wouldn’t even accept that much. “The important thing right now is to keep Koo alive. Don’t you plan to negotiate at all?”
“Washington negotiates,” Mike said. “If we can do it a quicker way, we do it. Miss Rayne, this isn’t the kind of negotiation you’re used to, we’re not dealing here with a bunch of calm businessmen. These people are terrorists, they’re criminals, and they’re most likely more than a little psychotic. If we can deal with them, we will, but if we can get Koo Davis out of their hands, that’s the goal to aim at.”