Dragonfly Page 10

  "I'm no killer."

  "You don't have to be."

  "Then you name it," he said, folding the bill and thrusting it into his shirt pocket.

  "Get moving first."

  The driver put the cab in gear and pulled away from the terminal.

  Looking through the rear window, Canning saw the two agents hail the next taxi in line.

  "We being followed?" the cabbie asked.

  "Yes."

  "Cops?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "For one-fifty in cash? I guess it doesn't." He smiled at Canning in the rear-view mirror. "Want me to lose them?"

  "No. I want them to follow us. Just keep them from getting too close."

  "That cab behind us?"

  "That's right." Canning looked back at it again. "Give them all the breaks. It isn't easy to run a tail at night."

  "Got you."

  "But don't be too obvious."

  The cabbie said, "Trust me. Where we going?"

  "Do you know the Quality Inn on West Century Boulevard?" Canning asked.

  "It's a little over a mile from here."

  "That's the one."

  "Sure. I've taken people there."

  "First, I want you to drop me in front of the lobby."

  "And then?"

  Crisply, succinctly, with his characteristic orderliness, Canning told him the rest of it.

  "One of the oldest tricks in the book," the cabbie said, showing his broad white teeth in the mirror.

  "You sound like an expert."

  "I watch the old movies."

  Canning grinned. "Think it'll work?"

  "Sure. What you got going for you here's the simplicity of it. These guys won't be looking for anything that uncomplicated."

  "No trouble on your end?"

  "Easiest money I ever made," the cabbie said.

  The other taxi stayed between a hundred and a hundred-fifty yards behind them, nearly far enough back to blend in with the other sets of headlights. Canning had no trouble keeping it in sight because one of its headlamps was dimmer than the other and flickered continuously. Just as, he thought, something about the tail end of this car individualized it and helped the Committeemen to keep it in sight.

  "Here we are," the driver said.

  "You remember everything?"

  "What's to remember?"

  Before the screech of the brakes had died away, while the car was still rocking back and forth on its springs, Canning opened the door and got out. He grabbed both suitcases, kicked the door shut, and started toward the lobby entrance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flickering headlight of the other cab, which was now rushing across the motel parking lot.

  The super-cooled lobby air snapped whiplike against his sweat-slicked face and sent shivers through him. At the back of his mind, just for a fraction of a second, there was a vivid picture of the dead man lying in blood on his kitchen floor. But the dead man was not Damon Hillary: he was David Canning, himself. He was standing over his corpse, looking down at his own dead body. He had shot himself. One David Canning had killed the other David Canning.

  What the hell did that mean?

  Forcing himself to walk slowly, he went past the front desk and on across the lobby. He entered a carpeted side corridor and kept going. He moved faster now.

  None of the desk clerks called after him. He might have checked in earlier and left his bags in the car until he had eaten dinner. Or perhaps his wife had registered during the afternoon, and he was joining her. Or joining his mistress. Or his girl friend. Whatever the case, because he was tall and handsome and well dressed, he aroused no suspicion.

  At the end of the corridor, he climbed a set of stairs, the two suitcases banging against his legs. He stopped at the top to catch his breath, and he looked down to the bottom of the stairwell.

  It was silent, empty.

  The two agents were either at the front desk or searching frantically through other parts of the motel maze in the hope of finding out which room he had entered.

  He had to move.

  In the second-floor corridor, with closed and numbered doors on both sides, Canning turned left and went to the intersection at the end of that wing. He turned right into another carpeted hall, and it was also silent, deserted. At the next set of stairs, he went back down to the first level, although he was now in a different wing from the motel lobby. He crossed a small concrete foyer that contained a rattling ice machine and two humming, clinking, syncopated soda vendors. Pushing open the outer door, he went into the parking lot at the rear of the motel.

  The taxi was waiting there, lights on, engine running, and back door open wide.

  Canning threw his suitcases inside, climbed in, closed the door, and laid down on the back seat.

  "Hot-diggity-damn! So far so good," the driver said with sheer delight.

  Massaging his strained, aching arms, Canning said "Back to the airport. Better move it."

  "Sure enough."

  After three or four minutes had passed, the cabbie said, "There's no one behind us."

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive. I've been circling around through these back streets all alone. If anyone was following me, he'd be as obvious as a pimple on Raquel Welch's ass."

  Canning sat up. He straightened his suit coat and shirt collar, adjusted the knot in his tie, and shot his cuffs to what he considered the proper one-half inch beyond his coat sleeves. Then he took a hundred dollars from his wallet and gave it to the driver. "You do very good work."

  "I told you so. I watch the old movies."

  Smiling, Canning said, "Good thing I didn't get a cabdriver who was an opera buff."

  "He'd have told you to give yourself up and sing."

  Canning winced.

  "Well, a pun is supposed to be bad."

  "It was."

  "If you're ever in town again and need to make a fast getaway," the driver said, "don't forget me. Name's Harry Tollins."

  "I'll recommend you to all my friends, Harry."

  They got back to the airport in plenty of time for Canning to check in at the airline counter and pay for his ticket to Hawaii. There were even ten minutes for him to take a cup of coffee in the line's VIP lounge before he had to board the plane.

  Forty-five minutes after the jet lifted off from Los Angeles International, a stewardess came back the aisle and stopped in front of Canning. "Mr. Otley?"

  "Yes?"

  She held out a folded sheet of beige stationery. "From Captain Giffords, sir."

  "Thank you."

  He watched her as she walked back up the aisle; she had long, slim, exceedingly lovely legs. Abruptly, his trousers became too tight in the crotch. He suddenly realized how long it had been since he'd made love to Irene—and how much longer than that since he'd had a fully satisfactory sex life. Forcing himself to look away from her, clearing his throat, he opened the note and read the neatly hand-lettered four-line message:

  Suitcase bomb found in baggage

  compartment of Pan Am's flight

  to Tokyo.

  Safely removed and defused.

  He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

  The next time the stewardess came by, he asked her for a Scotch on the rocks. He felt that he could risk at least one small celebration.

  When McAlister came on the line from Washington, Canning identified himself and said, "Do you trust our home phone?"

  "Not really," McAlister said.

  "Then you'd better give me a number where I can reach you, a nice safe phone they'd never think of tapping."

  McAlister thought for a moment, then gave Canning another Washington number.

  "Will you go there and wait for my call?"

  "Yes. But I'll need a while to get there," McAlister said.

  Although it was only midnight in Honolulu, it was five hours later than that in Washington. McAlister had probably been asleep when the telephone rang.

  Canning said, "An hour?"

 
"Half that."

  "Fine."

  Canning hung up and leaned back against the headboard of the hotel bed. He closed his eyes and looked through the stack of file cards in his mind, checking to see if he had remembered everything that he must tell McAlister. Like a dark flood tide, sleep swept up at him. The printing on the imaginary file cards blurred, and the cards themselves began to dissolve into blackness . . .

  He quickly opened his eyes, shook his head in an attempt to clear it, got up, went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water in his face. The eyes that looked back at him from the mirror were bloodshot and ringed with loose, dark skin.

  Back in the bedroom, he stood at the window and watched the big searchlights at Honolulu Airport, which was less than a mile away. At twelve-thirty he returned to his bed, sat down, picked up the telephone, and placed a call to the number that McAlister had given him half an hour ago.

  "David?" McAlister said.

  "Yes. Where are you?"

  "At my sister-in-law's house," McAlister said. "I don't come here more than once a month. There's no reason for anyone to have a tap on her phone."

  "Were you followed?"

  "I was, but I shook them."

  "You're certain of that?"

  "Absolutely. Where are you?"

  "Honolulu."

  "That's not on the schedule."

  "You're telling me?"

  "What's happened?"

  "My cover's blown."

  "It can't be!"

  Canning explained about the two agents who had come to kill him back in Washington. "You'd better send some men around to take care of the corpses. And if The Committee has already moved them, don't worry. I stripped the bodies of all identification and put everything between the mattress and box springs on my bed. You'll have some nice leads to work on."

  "Excellent. I'll have a detail at your place within an hour."

  "My cleaning lady comes tomorrow, Friday. She's very neat—and observant. You'll have to see there isn't a trace of blood left behind. Locate every bullet and patch up the holes they made. I used six shots. Four of them are in the dead men. The other two should be in the wall near the front door. The man in the kitchen fired five times. All of the slugs should be in the living room, and I know that three of them are lodged in the bookshelves."

  "But how could they tumble you so soon?"

  "Maybe you were followed to my apartment."

  "I made sure I wasn't."

  "You're playing with professionals."

  "Look, I found a miniature transmitter attached to the bumper of my Mercedes. I got rid of it before I started for your place. I saw no one following me. I parked four blocks away and walked to your building —and I'm damned sure no one tailed me on foot!"

  Canning was impressed with McAlister's thoroughness. "Who else knew about me?"

  "The President."

  "That's all?"

  "Andrew Rice was in the Oval Office when I told the President," McAlister said. "Do you think either one of them would spread the word?"

  "You know both of them better than I do."

  McAlister was silent a moment. Then he sighed and said "One of them might have told a second-level aide."

  "And the aide might have told his assistant."

  "And the assistant might have told his secretary."

  "And somewhere along the line it got to someone who's bent."

  "Christ!" McAlister said.

  "Spilled milk."

  "How does all of this put you in Hawaii?"

  Canning outlined the games that he and the taxi driver had played in Los Angeles.

  "Then they still think you're in one of the rooms in this Holiday Inn?" McAlister asked.

  "Quality Inn. I suppose that's just what they think."

  "How many rooms does this motel have?"

  "Maybe—three hundred."

  "Too many for them to go knocking on doors."

  "Exactly."

  "So . . . They'll put the motel under surveillance and wait for you to come out." The director laughed softly.

  Canning said, "Don't underestimate them. They won't wait there forever. Before long they're going to find I conned them."

  "But they won't know you're in Honolulu."

  "No. But they'll pick me up again when I get to Tokyo. There's no question about that. They have to know about my Otley identity by this time."

  "You're right, of course," McAlister said resignedly. His pipe-stem rattled against his teeth. Then: "When are you leaving Honolulu?"

  Picking up the airline-ticket folder that was lying on the nightstand, next to the telephone, Canning said, "There's a flight to Tokyo leaving here at noon, just about eleven hours from now."

  "And when they get on your tail in Tokyo?"

  "That's not your worry," Canning said. "It's mine. And I can handle them. But there are three things you're going to have to handle yourself."

  "Name them."

  "You've got to get hold of my backup man, the interpreter who's waiting for me in Tokyo. Tell him how things have changed and give him my new estimated time of arrival."

  "No problem."

  "Tell him that he and I are going to have to double up in his room, since any room rented to Otley or Canning is bound to be hit by a Committeeman during the night."

  After a brief hesitation, McAlister said, "You're right."

  "Number two. We're scheduled to go to Peking aboard that French corporate jet. Will it wait an extra day, now that I'm one day behind schedule?"

  "The French are extremely cooperative, especially this company," McAlister said. "I don't foresee any trouble there."

  "Make sure they give the plane a thorough search. There might be a bomb aboard it."

  "They'll search it. But that probably won't be necessary. I didn't mention the French connection to the President. If there's been a leak to The Committee from someone on the White House staff, it can't have included anything about the French jet." His teeth rattled on his pipestem again. "You said there were three things you wanted me to do."

  "Number three: I've got to know who my backup man is. Now that The Committee knows I'm your man, I've got to be sure they don't bring in an imposter when I get to Tokyo."

  "The interpreter's name is Tanaka," McAlister said.

  "Any identifying marks?"

  "Scar toward the left corner of the upper lip. I believe I heard that it was caused by a sliver of broken glass. Perhaps a cut in a bottle fight."

  "Anything besides the scar?"

  "Mole on the left cheek. Long, thick black hair. Kind of a high-pitched voice, soft-spoken. But don't let that fool you. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, Tanaka's stronger than you would think."

  "From the tone of your voice, I gather that you still think Tanaka's going to surprise me."

  "Oh, yes."

  '"How?"

  "David, I've told you all that I'm going to tell you. You know enough about Tanaka to keep from falling for some Committeeman trying to pass himself off as your contact. But you don't yet know so much that you'd be a danger to Tanaka if they got their hands on you. Let's keep it that way, okay? Let's keep it on that need-to-know basis."

  Reluctantly, Canning said, "All right."

  "Good."

  "Do you think Tanaka's cover has been blown as thoroughly as mine?" Canning asked.

  "Until I told you the name a minute ago, I was the only man who knew Tanaka was involved."

  "You didn't tell the President?"

  "He didn't ask."

  Canning smiled and shook his head. The brief glow of anger he had felt toward the director faded away. “The next worst moment is going to be at the airport in Tokyo. They're bound to be watching for me."

  "Do you want me to have the Tokyo police—"

  "The last thing we need is a shoot-out," Canning said. "I'll take care of myself at the airport. But once I get out of there, how do I make contact with Tanaka?"

  "Go to the Imperial Hotel and check into the room that's b
een reserved for you in Otley's name. Tanaka will call you there. Don't worry. Even if the other side knows you're staying at the Imperial, they aren't going to try to hit you in the first few minutes after you arrive. They saw what panic bought them when they tried to get to you in Washington. This time they'll be careful, slow, thorough. By the time they're ready to come after you, you'll be hidden away with Tanaka."

  Canning thought about it for a moment, stood up, rubbed the back of his neck, and said, "You're probably right."

  "You'll be in Peking late Saturday."

  And the job wrapped up by Monday morning at the latest, Canning thought hopefully.

  "Anything more?" McAlister asked.

  "No. That's all."

  "Cable me from Peking."

  "I will. Upon arrival."

  "Goodnight, David."

  "Goodnight."

  Ten minutes later, having been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, Canning was in bed, curled fetally, fast asleep.

  EIGHT

  Capitol Heights, Maryland

  "This is the house."

  "Number checks."

  Lights were on downstairs.

  The driver pulled to the curb, parked behind a yellow Corvette, and switched off the engine. "How do we operate?"

  "As if we're on a case."

  "Seems best," said the man in the back seat.

  "Neighbors are close here. Can't be much noise."

  "There won't be if we use our credentials to get inside," said the man in the back seat.

  The driver doused the lights. "Let's go."

  At seven-thirty Wednesday evening, Washington time—when David Canning was still high over the Midwest in an airliner on his way to Los Angeles— three men got out of a Ford LTD on a quiet residential street in Capitol Heights, just outside the Washington city limits. In the new autumn darkness, with a fight rain drizzling down their raincoats, they went up the walk to the front door of a small, tidy two-story Colonial saltbox-type house. The tallest of the three rang the bell.

  In the house a stereo set was playing theme music from a current hit motion picture.

  Half a minute passed.

  The tall man rang the bell again.

  "It's chilly out here," said the man who wore eyeglasses. "I'm sure as hell going to catch pneumonia."

  "We'll visit you in the hospital," said the tall one.