«What does it mean?»
«Roughly translated: Respect the law of Omerta. Omerta is an oath of allegiance and silence. To betray either is asking to be killed.»
«Mafia?»
«It’s involved. You might say it’s the party of the second part. Bear in mind that this little announcement was issued jointly by two factions trying to reach an accommodation. ‘Omerta’ goes across the board; it’s understood by both.»
«I’ll bear it in mind, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.»
«Just know about it.»
«O.K.»
«One last item. Everything we’ve covered here tonight is related to narcotics. But if our information is correct, the Nimrod people are involved in other fields. Sharking, prostitution, gambling … perhaps, and it’s only perhaps, municipal controls, state legislatures, even the federal government… Experience tells us that narcotics is the weakest action, the highest rate of collapse among these activities, and that’s why we’ve centered on it. In other words, concentrate on the drug situation but be aware that other avenues exist.»
«It’s no secret.»
«Maybe not to you. Let’s call it a night.»
«Shouldn’t you give me a number where I can reach you?»
«Negative. Use Kressel. We’ll check with him several times a day. Once you start asking questions, you may be put under a microscope. Don’t call Washington. And don’t lose our Corsican invitation. It’s your ultimate clout. Just find another one.»
«I’ll try.»
Matlock watched as Loring closed his briefcase, looped the thin black chain around his wrist, and snapped the built-in lock.
«Looks very cloak-and-daggerish, doesn’t it?» Loring laughed.
«I’m impressed.»
«Don’t be. The custom began with diplomatic couriers who’d take their pouches to hell with them, but today it’s simply a protection against purse-snatching… So help me, that’s what they think of us.»
«I don’t believe a word you say. That’s one of those cases that make smoke screens, send out radio signals, and trigger bombs.»
«You’re right. It does all those things and more. It’s got secret compartments for sandwiches, laundry, and God knows what else.» Loring swung the briefcase off the desk. «I think it’d be a good idea if we left separately. Preferably one from the front, one from the rear. Ten minutes apart.»
«You think that’s necessary?»
«Frankly, no, but that’s the way my superiors want it.»
«O.K. I know the house. I’ll leave ten minutes after you do, from the kitchen.»
«Fine.» Loring extended his right hand by steadying the bottom of his case with his left. «I don’t have to tell you how much we appreciate what you’re doing.»
«I think you know why I’m doing it.»
«Yes, we do. Frankly, we counted on it.»
Loring let himself out of the library and Matlock waited until he heard the outer door open and close. He looked at his watch. He’d have one more drink before he left.
By one twenty Matlock was several blocks away from the house. He walked slowly west toward his apartment, debating whether to detour around the campus. It often helped him to walk out a problem; he knew sleep would come fitfully. He passed a number of students and several faculty members, exchanging low-keyed, end of the weekend greetings with those he recognized. He’d about made up his mind to turn north on High Street, away from the direction of his apartment, when he heard the footsteps behind him. First the footsteps, then the harshly whispered voice.
«Matlock! Don’t turn around. It’s Loring. Just keep walking and listen to me.»
«What is it?»
«Someone knows I’m here. My car was searched…»
«Christ! How do you know?»
«Field threads, preset markings. All over the car. Front, back, trunk. A very thorough, very professional job.»
«You’re sure?»
«So goddamn sure I’m not going to start that engine!»
«Jesus!» Matlock nearly stopped.
«Keep walking! If anyone was watching me—and you can be damned sure someone was—I made it clear I’d lost my ignition key. Asked several people who passed by where a pay phone was and waited till I saw you far enough away.»
«What do you want me to do? There’s a phone booth on the next corner…»
«I know. I don’t think you’ll have to do anything, and for both our sakes, I hope I’m right. I’m going to jostle you as I pass—pretty hard. Lose your balance, I’ll shout my apologies. Pretend you twisted an ankle, a wrist, anything you like; but buy time! Keep me in sight until a car comes for me and I nod that it’s o.k. Do you have all that? I’ll get to the booth in a hurry.»
«Suppose you’re still phoning when I get there?»
«Keep walking but keep checking. The car’s cruising.»
«What’s the point?»
«This briefcase. That’s the point. There’s only one thing Nimrod—if it is Nimrod—would like more than this briefcase. And that’s the paper in your coat pocket. So be carefull!»
Without warning, he rushed up beside Matlock and pushed him off the sidewalk.
«Sorry, fella! I’m in an awful hurry!»
Matlock looked up from the ground, reflecting that he’d had no reason to pretend to fall. The force of Loring’s push eliminated that necessity. He swore and rose awkwardly. Once on his feet, he limped slowly toward the phone booth several hundred yards away. He wasted nearly a minute lighting a cigarette. Loring was inside the booth now, sitting on the plastic seat, hunched over the phone.
Any second, Matlock expected Loring’s car to drive up the street.
Yet none came.
Instead, there was the tiniest break in the spring noises. A rush of air through the new leaves. Or was it the crush of a stone beneath a foot, or a small twig unable to take the weight of the new growth in the trees? Or was it Matlock’s imagination? He couldn’t be sure.
He approached the booth and remembered Loring’s orders.
Walk by and pay no attention. Loring was still huddled over the phone, his briefcase resting on the floor, its chain visible. But Matlock could hear no conversation, could see no movement from the man within. Instead, again, there was a sound: now, the sound of a dial tone.
Despite his instructions, Matlock approached the booth and opened the door. There was nothing else he could do. The government man had not even begun his call.
And in an instant, he understood why.
Loring had fallen into the gleaming gray metal of the telephone. He was dead. His eyes wide, blood trickling out of his forehead. A small circular hole no larger than a shirt button, surrounded by a spray of cracked glass, was ample evidence of what had happened.
Matlock stared at the man who had briefed him for hours and left him minutes ago. The dead man who had thanked him, joked with him, then finally warned him. He was petrified, unsure of what he should do, could do.
He backed away from the booth toward the steps of the nearest house. Instinct told him to stay away but not to run away. Someone was out there in the street. Someone with a rifle.
When the words came, he realized they were his, but he didn’t know when he’d decided to shout them. They just emerged involuntarily.
«Help … Help! There’s a man out here! He’s been shot!»
Matlock raced up the steps of the corner house and began pounding on the door with all his strength. Several lights went on in several different homes. Matlock continued shouting.
«For God’s sake, someone call the police! There’s a dead man out here!»