After several minutes he tapped the sleeve of the driver, Jenkins, who looked over through the open window. He motioned the other man to give him the binoculars, and put them to his eyes, tracking the automobile specified by his fellow officer. He spoke one word: «Confirmed.»
Jenkins started the car and headed south. He picked up the radio phone. «Two car calling in. Heading south on Register Road. Tailing green Ford sedan. New York plates. Filled with niggers or P.R.’s.»
The crackling reply came over the speaker, «Read you, two car. Chase ’em the hell out.»
«Will do. No sweat. Out.»
The patrol car then turned left and sped down the long incline into Route Five. Once on the highway, Jenkins pressed the accelerator to the floor and the car plunged forward on the smooth surface. In sixty seconds the speedometer read ninety-two.
Four minutes later the patrol car slowed down rounding a long curve. A few hundred yards beyond the curve stood two aluminum-framed telephone booths, glass and metal reflecting the harsh glare of the July sun.
The police car came to a stop and Jenkins’ companion climbed out.
«Got a dime?»
«Oh, Christ, McDermott!» Jenkins laughed. «Fifteen years in the field and you don’t carry the change to make contact.»
«Don’t be a smartass. I’ve got nickels, but one of them’s an Indian head.»
«Here.» Jenkins took a coin from his pocket and handed it to McDermott. «An ABM could be stuck and you wouldn’t use a Roosevelt dime to alert operations.»
«Don’t know that I would.» McDermott walked to the phone booth, pushed in the squeaky, shiny door, and dialed «0». The booth was stifling, the still air so close that he kept the door open with his foot.
«I’ll head down to the U-turn,» yelled Jenkins from the car window. «Pick you up on the other side.»
«Okay… Operator. A collect call to New Hampshire. Area Code three-one-two. Six-five-four-oh-one. The name is Mr. Leather.»
There was no mistaking the words. McDermott had placed a call to the state of New Hampshire and the telephone operator put it through. However, what the operator could not know was that this particular number did not cause a telephone to ring in the state of New Hampshire. For somewhere, in some underground complex housing thousands of trunk lines, a tiny relay was activated and a small magnetized bar fell across a quarter-inch space and made another connection. This connection caused—not a bell—but a low humming sound to emanate from a telephone two hundred and sixty-three miles south of Saddle Valley, New Jersey.
The telephone was in a second-floor office in a red brick building fifty yards inside a twelve-foot-high electrified fence. The building was one of perhaps ten, all connected with one another to form a single complex. Outside the fence the woods were thick with summer foliage. The location was McLean, Virginia. The complex was the Central Intelligence Agency. Isolated, secure, inviolate.
The man sitting behind the desk in the second-floor office crushed out his cigarette in relief. He’d been waiting anxiously for the call. He noted with satisfaction that the small wheels of the recording device automatically started revolving. He picked up the telephone.
«Andrews speaking. Yes, operator, I accept the charges.»
«Leather reporting,» came the words rerouted from the state of New Hampshire.
«You’re cleared. Tape going, Leather.»
«Confirming the presence of all suspects. The Cardones just arrived from Kennedy Airport.»
«We knew he landed …»
«Then why the hell did we have to race down here?»
«That’s a rotten highway, Route Five. He could have an accident.»
«On Sunday afternoon?»
«Or any other time. You want the statistics on accidents for that route?»
«Go back to your Goddamn computers …»
Andrews shrugged. Men in the field were always irritated over one thing or another. «As I read you, all three suspects are present. Correct?»
«Correct. Tanners, Tremaynes and the Cardones. All accounted for. All waiting. The first two are primed. We’ll get to Cardone in a few minutes.»
«Anything else?»
«Not for now.»
«How’s the wife?»
«Jenkins is lucky. He’s a bachelor. Lillian keeps looking at those houses and wants one.»
«Not on our salary, McDermott.»
«That’s what I tell her. She wants me to defect.»
For the briefest of seconds Andrews reacted painfully to McDermott’s joke. «The pay’s worse, I’m told.»
«Couldn’t be… There’s Jenkins. Be in touch.»
Joseph Cardone drove his Cadillac into the circular drive and parked in front of the stone steps leading to the huge oak door. He turned off the engine and stretched, bending his elbows beneath the roof. He sighed and woke his boys of six and seven. A third child, a girl of ten, was reading a comic book.
Sitting beside Cardone was his wife, Betty. She looked out the window at the house. «It’s good to get away, but it’s better to get home.»
Cardone laughed and put his large hand on his wife’s shoulder. «You must mean that.»
«I do.»
«You must. You say it every time we come home. The exact words.»
«It’s a nice home.»
Cardone opened the door. «Hey. Princess … get your brothers out and help your mother with the smaller bags.» Cardone reached in and withdrew the keys from the ignition. He started toward the trunk. «Where’s Louise?»
«She probably won’t be here till Tuesday. We’re three days early, remember? I gave her off till then.»
Cardone winced. The thought of his wife’s cooking was not pleasant. «We eat out.»
«We’ll have to today. It takes too long to defrost things.» Betty Cardone walked up the stone steps, taking the front-door key out of her purse.
Joe dismissed his wife’s remark. He liked food and he did not like his wife’s preparation of it. Rich debutantes from Chestnut Hill couldn’t begin to cook like good South Side Italian mamas from Philadelphia.
One hour later he had the central air-conditioning going full blast throughout the large house, and the stuffy air, unchanged for nearly two weeks, was becoming bearable again. He was aware of such things. He’d been an exceptionally successful athlete—his route to success, both social and financial. He stepped out on the front porch and looked at the lawn with the huge willow tree centered in the grass within the circular drive. The gardeners had kept it all up nicely. They should. Their prices were ridiculous. Not that price ever concerned him any more.
Suddenly there it was again. The patrol car. This was the third time he’d seen it since leaving the highway.
«Hey, you! Hold it!»
The two officers in the car looked briefly at one another, about to race away. But Cardone had run to the curb.
«Hey!»
The patrol car stopped.
«Yes, Mr. Cardone?»
«What’s with the police routine? Any trouble around here?»
«No, Mr. Cardone. It’s vacation time. We’re just checking against our schedules when residents return. You were due this afternoon, so we just wanted to make sure it was you. Take your house off the check list.»
Joe watched the policemen carefully. He knew the officer was lying, and the policeman knew he knew.
«You earn your money.»
«Do our best, Mr. Cardone.»
«I’ll bet you do.»
«Good day, sir.» The patrol car sped off.
Joe looked after it. He hadn’t intended to go to the office until mid-week, but that had to be changed now. He’d go into New York in the morning.