Authors: Robert Ludlum
“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!
”
Suddenly, from the shadows underneath the full trees in the middle of the block, Matlock heard the roar of an automobile engine, then the sound of swerving tires as the vehicle pulled out into the middle of the street and started forward. He rushed to the edge of the porch. The long black automobile plunged out of the darkness and sped to the corner. Matlock
tried to see the license plates and, realizing that was impossible, took a step down to identify the make of the car. Suddenly he was blinded. The beam of a searchlight pierced the dimly lit spring night and focused itself on him. He pulled his hands up to shield his eyes and then heard the quiet slap, the instant rush of air he had heard minutes ago.
A rifle was being fired at him. A rifle with a silencer.
He dove off the porch into the shrubbery. The black car sped away.
He waited alone. The room was small, the window glass meshed with wire. The Carlyle Police Station was filled with officers and plainclothesmen called back on duty; no one could be sure what the killing signified. And none discounted the possibility that others might follow.
Alert. If was the particular syndrome of midcentury America, thought Matlock.
The gun.
He’d had the presence of mind after reaching the police to call Sam Kressel. Kressel, in shock, told him he would somehow contact the appropriate men in Washington and then drive down to the station house.
Until further instructions, they both agreed Matlock would restrict himself to a simple statement on finding the body and seeing the automobile. He had been out for a late night walk, that was all.
Nothing more.
His statement was typed out; questions as to time, his reasons for being in the vicinity, descriptions of the “alleged perpetrator’s vehicle,” direction, estimated speed—all were asked routinely and accepted without comment.
Matlock was bothered by his unequivocal negative to one question.
“Did you ever see the deceased before?”
“No.”
That hurt. Loring deserved more than a considered, deliberate lie. Matlock recalled that the agent said he had a seven-year-old daughter. A wife and a child; the husband and father killed and he could not admit he knew his name.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him, but it did. Perhaps, he thought, because he knew it was the beginning of a great many lies.
He signed the short deposition and was about to be released when he heard a telephone ring inside an office beyond the desk. Not
on
the desk, beyond it. Seconds later, a uniformed policeman emerged and said his name in a loud voice, as if to make sure he had not left the building.
“Yes, officer?”
“We’ll have to ask you to wait. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Matlock had been in the small room for nearly an hour; it was 2:45
A.M
. and he had run out of cigarettes. It was no time to run out of cigarettes.
The door opened and a tall, thin man with large, serious eyes walked in. He was carrying Loring’s briefcase. “Sorry to detain you, Dr. Matlock. It is ‘Doctor,’ isn’t it?”
“ ‘Mister’ is fine.”
“My identification. Name’s Greenberg, Jason Greenberg. Federal Bureau of Investigation. I had to confirm your situation.… It’s a hell of a note, isn’t it?”
“ ‘A hell of a note’? Is that all you can say?”
The agent looked at Matlock quizzically. “It’s all I care to share,” he said quietly. “If Ralph Loring had completed his call, he would have reached me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. I’m out-briefed—that is, I know something but not much about the Nimrod situation; I’ll get filled in before morning. Incidentally, this fellow Kressel is on his way over. He knows I’m here.”
“Does this change anything?… That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? A man is killed and I ask you if it changes anything. I apologize again.”
“No need to; you’ve had a terrible experience.… Any change is up to you. We accept the fact that Ralph’s death could alter tonight’s decision. We ask only that you keep your own counsel in what was revealed to you.”
“You’re offering me a chance to renege?”
“Of course. You’re under no obligation to us.”
Matlock walked to the small, rectangular window with the wire-enclosed glass. The police station was at the south end of the town of Carlyle, about a half a mile from the campus, the section of town considered industrialized. Still, there were trees along the streets. Carlyle was a very clean town, a neat town. The trees by the station house were pruned and shaped.
And Carlyle was also something else.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “Does the fact that I found Loring’s body associate me with him? I mean, would I be considered a part of whatever he was doing?”
“We don’t think so. The way you behaved tends to remove you from any association.”
“What do you mean?” Matlock turned to face the agent.
“Frankly, you panicked. You didn’t run, you didn’t take yourself out of the area; you flipped out and started shouting your head off. Someone who’s programmed for an assignment wouldn’t react like that.”
“I wasn’t programmed for
this
.”
“Same results. You just found him and lost your head. If this Nimrod even
suspects
we’re involved …”
“Suspects!” interrupted Matlock. “They
killed
him!”
“
Someone
killed him. It’s unlikely that it’s any part of Nimrod. Other factions, maybe. No cover’s absolutely foolproof, even Loring’s. But his was the closest.”
“I don’t understand you.”
Greenberg leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his large, sad eyes reflective. “Ralph’s field cover was the best at Justice. For damn near fifteen years.” The agent looked down at the floor. His voice was deep, with faint bitterness. “The kind of goddamn cover that works best when it doesn’t matter to a man anymore. When it’s finally used, it throws everyone off balance. And insults his family.”
Greenberg looked up and tried to smile, but no smile would come.
“I still don’t understand you.”
“It’s not necessary. The main point is that you simply stumbled on the scene, went into panic, and had the scare of your life. You’re dismissible, Mr. Matlock.… So?”
Before Matlock could respond, the door swung open and Sam Kressel entered, his expression nervous and frightened.
“Oh, Christ! This is terrible! Simply terrible. You’re Greenberg?”
“And you’re Mr. Kressel.”
“Yes. What’s going to happen?” Kressel turned to Matlock, speaking in the same breath. “Are you all right, Jim?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Greenberg, what’s
happening!?
They told
me in Washington that you’d let us know.”
“I’ve been talking to Mr. Matlock and …”
“Listen to me,” interrupted Kressel suddenly. “I called Sealfont and we’re of the same opinion. What happened was terrible … tragic. We express our sympathies to the man’s family, but we’re most anxious that any use of the Carlyle name be cleared with us. We assume this puts everything in a different light and, therefore, we insist we be kept out of it. I think that’s understandable.”
Greenberg’s face betrayed his distaste. “You race in here, ask me what’s happening, and before you give me a chance to answer, you tell me what
must
happen. Now, how do you want it? Do I call Washington and let them have
your
version or do you want to listen first? Doesn’t make a particle of difference to me.”
“There’s no reason for antagonism. We never asked to be involved.”
“Nobody does.” Greenberg smiled. “Just please let me finish. I’ve offered Matlock his out. He hasn’t given me his answer, so I can’t give you mine. However, if he says what I think he’s going to say, Loring’s cover will be activated immediately. It’ll be activated anyway, but if the professor’s in, we’ll blow it up a bit.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Kressel stared at the agent.
“For years Ralph was a partner in just about the most disreputable law firm in Washington. Its clients read like a cross section of a Mafia index.… Early this morning, there was the first of two vehicle transfers. It took place in a Hartford suburb, Elmwood. Loring’s car with the D.C. plates was left near the home of a well-advertised capo. A rented automobile
was waiting for him a couple of blocks away. He used that to drive to Carlyle and parked it in front of 217 Crescent Street, five blocks from Sealfont’s place. 217 Crescent is the residence of a Dr. Ralston.…”
“I’ve met him,” interjected Matlock. “I’ve heard he’s …”
“… an abortionist,” completed Greenberg.
“He’s in no way associated with this university!” said Kressel emphatically.
“You’ve had worse,” countered Greenberg quietly. “And the doctor is still a Mafia referral. At any rate, Ralph positioned the car and walked into town for the second transfer. I covered him; this briefcase is prime material. He was picked up by a Bell Telephone truck which made routine stops—including one at a restaurant called the Cheshire Cat—and finally delivered him to Sealfont’s. No one could have known he was there. If they had, they would have intercepted him outside; they were watching the car on Crescent.”
“That’s what he told me,” said Matlock.
“He knew it was possible; the trace to Crescent was intentionally left open. When he confirmed it, to his satisfaction, he acted fast. I don’t know what he did, but he probably used whatever stragglers he could find until he spotted you.”
“That’s what he did.”
“He wasn’t fast enough.”
“What in God’s name does this have to do with
us?
What
possible
bearing can it have?” Kressel was close to shouting.
“If Mr. Matlock wants to go on, Loring’s death will be publicized as an underworld killing. Disreputable lawyer, maybe a bag man; undesirable clients. The capo and the doctor will be hauled in; they’re
expendable. The smoke screen’s so thick everyone’s off balance. Even the killers. Matlock’s forgotten. It’ll work; it’s worked before.”
Kressel seemed astonished at Greenberg’s assured glibness, his confidence, his calm professionalism. “You talk awfully fast, don’t you?”
“I’m very bright.”
Matlock couldn’t help but smile. He liked Greenberg; even in—perhaps because of—the sadly disagreeable circumstances. The agent used the language well; his mind was fast. He was, indeed, bright.
“And if Jim says he washes his hands of it?”
Greenberg shrugged. “I don’t like to waste words. Let’s hear him say it.”
Both the men looked at Matlock.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to, Sam. I’m still in.”
“You can’t be serious! That man was killed!”
“I know. I found him.”
Kressel put his hand on Matlock’s arm. It was the gesture of a friend. “I’m not an hysterical shepherd watching over a flock. I’m concerned. I’m
frightened
. I see a man being manipulated into a situation he’s not qualified to handle.”
“That’s subjective,” broke in Greenberg quietly. “We’re concerned, too. If we didn’t think he was capable, we never would have approached him.”
“I think you would,” said Kressel. “I don’t for a minute believe such a consideration would stop you. You use the word
expendable
too easily, Mr. Greenberg.”