Reeves shook hands with Peters. As he did so he gave him a slightly surprised look, as if something were mildly wrong.
The dispatcher nodded across the warehouse. `Truck's over there,' he said. `Have a good trip.'
Peters blinked in the sun and put on his sunglasses. Beside him, Reeves sighed. `Bright day,' he said.
`Sure is.'
`You new at this?'
`Yeah.'
`What'd you do before?F
'Aeroplane tail assembly. Lockheed, in Palmdale.'
`Tail assembly, huh?' Reeves said, and laughed loudly.
`They laid me off.'
Reeves stopped laughing and nodded sympathetically. `Rough,' he said. And then after a moment, `Laid off the tail assembly.' And he chuckled some more.
Peters smiled. He felt confident about Reeves, who was fat and sloppy and casual - and fifteen years his senior. There wouldn't be any difficulty.
`Well,' Reeves said, `since you're new at this, you might as well learn the ropes.'. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a plastic bottle of yellow pills. He handed it to Peters.
`What's this?' Peters asked.
`Dex. Go ahead, take one. Feel terrific.'
Peters shook a pill into his hand and paused. Reeves took one, then reached into his leather jacket and produced a flask.
`Wash it down with this,' he said. `Vodka. No smell.' He handed Peters the flask.
Peters dropped the pill from his hand, letting it roll down between the seats. He pretended to swig from the flask, then returned it to Reeves.
`You'll learn,' the driver said, and smiled.
Peters nodded and leaned forward slightly in his seat. That way he could see out the side-view mirror and keep an eye on the black Ford sedan that had been following them for the past fifteen minutes.
Ten minutes later they were on the San Diego Freeway, moving down the far right lane. They passed a green and silver sign: HACKLEY RD EXIT 1 MILE. Peters shifted in his seat. Reeves was talking about his children.
`They're good kids,' he was saying, `but they don't show proper respect. All this screaming about the President, all this revolution talk, it makes me want to -,
'We get off at the next exit,' Peters said.
`No,' Reeves said, `we don't stop for another -' He broke off.
Peters had taken the pistol from the pocket of his leather jacket.
`Hackley Road,' Peters said quietly. `Turn off the ramp and go half a mile east. You'll see a small dirt road. Turn right onto that.'
`I'll be goddamned,' the driver said.
They came to Hackley Road and turned off on the exit ramp. They drove east. Peters glanced in the side mirror and saw that the Ford sedan was still following.
`I should have known,' Reeves said.
`How's that?'
`I should have known something was wrong when I shook hands. It's your hands.'
`What about them?'
`They're as soft as a baby's ass,' Reeves said. `You never worked in your life.'
`Turn right, up here,' Peters said.
It went smoothly. Reeves pulled the truck onto the dirt road and stopped in a clump of eucalyptus trees. Peters made Reeves get out and lie on his stomach on the ground, with his hands over his head.
Reeves said nothing for a long time. Finally he said, `You going to shoot me?'
`Not if you stay quiet,' Peters said.
The Ford sedan drew up behind the truck and three men, all wearing children's Halloween masks, jumped out. A driver remained at the wheel. Nobody spoke as the men opened the back of the truck, climbed up on the hydraulic tailgate, and went into the cargo area.
`Nice and easy,' Peters said, standing near Reeves with the gun. `Nice and easy.'
Reeves did not move.
The men emerged from the truck carrying two small, extremely heavy boxes. Peters could see the triple-blade radiation symbol on the boxes. The men closed the truck and started to load the boxes into the car. One of them came over and expertly tied and gagged Reeves with adhesive tape.
Then, speaking for the first time, the man said, `bet's go.'
Peters was confused. `I thought you were going to take -'
`Let's go.'
Peters went with the man, who wore a Donald Duck mask, and got into the car. The sedan backed out of the road and drove off.
The men all left their masks on. One of them said, `What's the time?'
`Nine thirty-two.'
`Perfect.'
Peters was given a mask of his own, a witch's mask with day-glo pink cheeks and wild eyes. He pulled it on ` and said, `I thought we were taking the penicillin too.'
`The plan was changed,' somebody said.
`But if we just take the capsules -'
`The plan was changed this morning. We were told to take only the capsules.'
Peters frowned and said nothing. He felt the change in plan was a terrible mistake. By stealing the penicillin they would have confused the issue; it might have taken the truckers several days to discover the theft of the radiation capsules. But now they'd find only the capsules gone... It was too obvious, too simple. Why had the change been made?
`Time?'
`Nine thirty-six.'
The driver nodded and pulled over to the side of the road. The men sat quietly, not removing their masks. Peters looked at the backs of their necks, noticing the length of their hair, the condition of their collars, the way they were dressed. Several minutes gassed.
`Time?'
`Nine forty.'
The driver put the car in gear. He drove down the road through gently rolling farm country. The morning air was still cool.
`There it is.'
Up ahead was another dirt road turnoff, with another truck pulled off the road and another man standing over the driver.
`Remember, we want twenty pounds of it.'
The black sedan pulled up behind the truck. Peters was given the spool of inch-wide adhesive tape; he quickly tied and gagged the driver. Meanwhile the others opened the truck and removed several small packages. They were wrapped in clear plastic and looked like bread dough: a whitish, puttylike substance. The men carried two packages each, bringing them around to the trunk of the sedan, setting them in carefully, then going back for more.
Peters gave a mask to the man standing over the driver with the gun. The gunman did not speak. Then Peters went around to the trunk of the sedan and began counting the plastic packages. When there were twenty, he placed them in a suitcase, locked the case, and closed the trunk.
The men climbed back into the sedan and drove off.
`Time?'
`Nine fifty-one.'
`Beautiful.'
'T'he black sedan drove back to the San Diego Freewa, and stopped at the on-ramp for Hackley Road. Peters got out. So did the other gunman. Peters went around to the trunk and removed the suitcase with the plastic packages. The other gunman placed the two radiation capsules into the blue canvas gym bag.
He stood with Peters until the sedan had pulled onto the freeway and disappeared. Then, his back to the road, he took off his mask. Peters took off his mask as well. The other man removed a paper American flag from the bag. With Peters' help, he taped the flag onto the side of the suitcase.
Then Peters removed his black-haired wig and his moustache. The other man removed his blond wig and peeled away a reddish, new-looking scar on the side of his cheek.
The two men looked at each other and laughed.
`Well done, brother,' Peters said, and clapped him on the back.
They waited five minutes, and then another black sedan, very dusty, pulled up. An older man leaned out and said, `Give you boys a lift?'
Peters said, `We're going to Phoenix.' As he said it, he glanced at his brother, who was frowning.
`Hell of along way,' the old man said. `Anyhow, you want to go south. This is the north ramp.'
`We're just resting a minute.'
The man looked at them as if they were peculiar, shrugged, and drove onto the ramp. His car rattled as he gathered speed, and then he was gone. They were left by the roadside.
His brother lit a cigarette.
`You know,' his brother said, `this is going to create a hell of a mess.'
`That was the idea.'
`When are you leaving?'
`Four.'
`That's cutting it awfully close. I'm getting out at three.'
`To Vegas?'
His brother nodded. `You?'
`Chicago.'
`You better hope nothing delays that plane on the ground.'
`There's another flight at four thirty. I'm booked on that one as well.'
His brother nodded.
Down the road they saw a car approach. It was black and white, a sedan. They couldn't see it clearly, but as it came closer they saw the configuration better. A police car.
`Shit,' Peters said.
His brother lit another cigarette. `What if he wants to look in the suitcase? What if he -'
`We haven't done anything wrong,' Peters said. He glanced at his watch. It was almost ten o'clock. Where the hell was the pickup?
The police car came closer.
`I don't like this at all,' his brother said.
`We haven't done anything wrong,' Peters said again.
The police car approached them and put on its blinker.
`The bastard's pulling over.'
But the car did not pull over. Instead, it drove onto the ramp and merged with traffic. The cop hardly glanced at them.
They sighed.
`What time is it?'
`I have ten, on the nose.'
In the distance a car got off the far ramp and made a U turn under the freeway. It was a Cadillac convertible with a woman driving. She came around and started up the ramp, going back the way she had come. She stopped when she saw them.
`I took the wrong turnoff. Can I give you fellows a lift?,
'We're going to Phoenix,' Peters said.
`No kidding,' the woman said. `That's my home town.'
`No kidding,' Peters said. `Which part?'
`The right part,' she said.
The two men exchanged glances, then got into the car, placing the suitcases in the back seat. The woman said, `Sorry I'm late,' and drove off. Nothing else was said.
HOUR 7
SAN DIEGO
10 AM PDT
The voice crackled over the telephone line. `Fucking around with the computers,' Phelps said, `is not my idea of a. joke.'
Graves sat in the hotel phone booth and stared across the lobby at Lewis and a marshal. Lewis was gesturing to Graves to get off the phone. `It wasn't intended as a joke.'
`How was it intended?' Phelps said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
`It was intended as an attempt to recall my own file.'
`You're not supposed to do that.'
`There are a lot of things I'm not supposed to do.'
`And you seem bent on doing all of them,' Phelps said. `Have you picked up Wright yet?'
`No.'
`You've certainly had time; it's ten -'
`I want to play him a little. Besides, I have somebody else.'
`Oh?'
`Timothy Drew.'
`Where?'
`Upstairs. We've got him in a hotel on Third.'
`We've been looking for him for forty-eight hours,' Phelps said. `And I mean looking hard. How did you find him?'
'Wright led us to him,' Graves said. That was the only thing that bothered Graves. It was too much like a setup, as if Wright were giving him Drew.
`How convenient,' Phelps said. `When are you going to arrest him?'
`He's already arrested. The federal marshals are up there with him.'
`I mean Wright.'
`Later in the day,' Graves said.
`You and your goddamned poker games,' Phelps said. `I want you to call me in an hour.'
`All right.'
`Stop agreeing with me. Just do it.' And he hung up.
Graves left the phone booth. Lewis came over with his notebook open. They headed for the elevator.
`What've you got?' Graves said.
`It's pretty strange,' Lewis said. `At Sanderson's today, Wright bought a Model 477 scintillation counter. Retail price, two hundred forty-seven dollars.'
`A scintillation counter?'
`Yeah. It's apparently a kind of high-grade Geiger counter. Reads radiation.'
`Does it have any other uses?'
`Nobody knows of any.'
`What else?'
`The machine shop ground three fittings for him to custom specifications. All high-grade stainless steel. Two of them are on-off pressure valves with special handles. The third is a T coupling which brings together two hoses into a common outlet.'
`What's special about the valve handles?'
`The handles have a series of perforations, presumably so the valves can be turned on and off by some sort of machine.'
`Any information about what kind of machine would be used to turn the valves on and off?'
Lewis shook his head. `But they said the handles are spring-loaded. A moderate pressure will snap them from full shut to the full open position.'
`Now that's really interesting,' Graves said. `You mean there are no intermediate positions for the valves?'
`Yes. It's either full shut or full open.'
The elevator came. Graves pressed the button for the sixth floor.
`When did Wright order these custom fittings?'
`Last week. Rush order.'
`Really interesting,' Graves said. `What about the plastics store?'
Lewis scratched his head. `Three weeks ago Wright ordered two pressure-moulded plastic tanks from them. Long tanks roughly a foot in diameter and eight feet long. Specified as triple-laminate things able to withstand pressures up to five hundred pounds per square inch. The shop was surprised to get the order.'
`Well, the guy said nobody orders tanks like that in plastic. It's too dangerous. All high-pressure tanks are metal and seamless. There's no advantage to plastic, even in weight. Plastic tanks, if they're triple-thickness, are heavier than metal.'
'Wright wouldn't order something that had no advantage.'
`Well,' Lewis said, `the guy thought Wright was a pretty strange customer. Not only did he want these plastic tanks, but he wanted them made out of allacron.'
`Which is?'
`A very tough resilient plastic, but highly combustible. It burns like a bastard, so it isn't used much.'
`Have the tanks been finished?'
`They were delivered a week ago to a private airfield hangar in El Cajon, about twelve miles from here.'
`You have the address?'
`Yeah. I tried to call; no telephone there.'
Graves frowned. He was more convinced than ever that Wright was playing with him, leading him on a chase, daring him to put the puzzle together.
Two high-pressure tanks of combustible plastic.
Special steel fittings, including a T nozzle.
Two steel hoses, flexible.
All that made a kind of sense. You had two tanks, and two hoses that joined in a T nozzle, so that the contents of the two tanks - liquid or gas, presumably - would come together at the T nozzle and then be expelled as a mixture.
That was easy to visualize.
But what was the point? And what was the point of the skin-diving tanks, and the rubber strips, and the Geiger counter?
