“Have you got anything at all on Pastor or Ezio Martin or George Ramiro?”

“I don’t—Where’d you get Ramiro’s name?”

“It’s a talkative Ouija board.”

“I don’t know if I’m obliged to give you every scrap that I’ve got.”

“It’s damn well the least you can give me, Glenn.”

Bradleigh showed his discomfiture. “Well as you know we’ve been bugging Gillespie every way from Sunday. Mostly he talks with Ezio Martin and mostly they do their talking in Martin’s office in Manhattan. It’s fully equipped—for example with an electronic jammer. All we get is static.”

“But you do have those bits and pieces.”

“Yes. For one thing, we’re not the only ones who’ve been bugging Gillespie.”

“No?”

“There are three sets of microphones in his office and his apartment. One set, each, is ours.”

“And the other two?”

“We think Gillespie installed one set himself. The Nixon syndrome—the compulsion to record his own crimes for posterity. In case he ever has to go back and find out what actually happened. These people deal in lies all the time. Sometimes they need to check back, find out what lies they told somebody so that they can remember to stick to the story the next time they meet the same person.”

“I see. And the third set?”

“We think it’s Ezio Martin. We think maybe Ezio’s getting a little jealous. Maybe he bugged Gillespie to try and get something on him so he can discredit Gillespie with Pastor. Martin would love to drive a wedge between them.”

“That makes sense.”

“Anyway we know the bugs aren’t another government agency.”

“Any evidence stronger than guesswork?”

“Yes. Fairly strong evidence. But I’d rather not divulge it.”

“Just out of curiosity, if Gillespie happened across the two sets of microphones in his office—the ones he didn’t plant himself—could he tell the difference between yours and Martin’s? Would he know one bug was official and one wasn’t?”

“He might, if he knew what to look for.”

“Namely?”

“Why are you pumping me about it?”

“If I’m ever bugged,” Mathieson lied, “I’d like to know how to tell whether it’s official or private.”

“There’s no way to tell for sure. Gillespie’s an easy obvious case. The next one might not be.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Hell, it’s simple enough. Ezio’s equipment is wireless. He’s got the best stuff money can buy—voice-activated miniature transmitters. Somewhere in the neighborhood there’ll be a small receiving set and a cassette recorder attached to it. The recorder doesn’t start running until somebody starts talking. It’s not the most reliable system but it’s the most practical, especially for an organization that doesn’t have unlimited man-hours to spend on monitoring. But we prefer the old-fashioned wire, ourselves. A wire isn’t subject to interference by radio-jamming equipment. The reception isn’t affected by static in the air or neon lights in the vicinity. Anyhow that’s the difference and it’s easy enough to spot. The official microphones have wires attached to them. The other stuff—the mikes we think are Ezio Martin’s—they don’t have any wires on them.”

“What about the bugs you said he planted on himself?”

“They’re wired right into his own tape recorders in the desk drawers. They’re activated by switches hidden under the desks.”

“What about the phones?”

“We tapped the incoming lines. The other outfit puts bugs in the receivers. As a matter of fact that’s where most of Ezio’s mikes are—in the phones. It’s as good a place to hide them as any.” Bradleigh smiled vaguely. “I wish we’d been able to get wires into Ezio Martin’s offices in New York. All we’ve been able to use has been bugs sewn into the buttons of Gillespie’s clothes and they’ve been wiped out by jammers whenever he goes inside. If we could get wires into Ezio’s office we’d probably get enough on them to put them all away for consecutive five-hundred-year prison terms.”

“Tell me what else you’ve found out.”

“This may come as a shock to you, old buddy, but a lot of things don’t have the remotest thing to do with you.”

“Anything that has to do with Frank Pastor has to do with me. The more I know about him, the better I can keep out of his way.”

“You’re clutching at straws.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“I’m sorry. It just isn’t included in the price of your ticket.”

“My ticket came pretty high, Glenn. For instance when you people put my face and the Paul Baxter name out on a national FBI bulletin. Did you think that wouldn’t get back to Pastor?”

“It wasn’t my doing. I put a stop to it as fast as I humanly could. Who’s been feeding you all this information about Deffeldorf and Tyrone and Ramiro and the FBI bulletin? Did you hire a private security outfit?”

“No,” he lied. He had to put Bradleigh at ease and it had to be plausible. “Pastor found out I was off your hook and he decided I might get in touch with my old friends. He staked some of them out. We made the mistake of phoning one of them. His phone was tapped. Pastor’s hoodlums started putting pressure on my friend, so my friend did some inquiring—he wanted to find out who was harassing him. He’s a man with contacts in Los Angeles—big executives who have access to police officials. He found out about Deffeldorf and the FBI bulletin and all that. He told me about it—from a pay phone, of course.”

“What friend was this?”

“He’s out of it now. They’ve been leaving him alone. I don’t want him interrogated by your people—I don’t want him dragged back into it.”

Bradleigh tapped his cigarette on the tabletop and lighted it. “What name are you going under?”

“Try another one.”

Bradleigh smiled, evidently without wanting to. “Anything you need?”

“Information.”

“About what?”

“Anything you’ve got.”

Bradleigh said, “There’s nothing you’d find useful. We’re talking about the results of a secret investigation that’s still in progress. It’s got to stay secret until we blow the whistle.”

“It’s been nice talking to you, Glenn. Thanks for coming on such short notice. I’ll be in touch.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Washington, D.C.: 2–4 October

1

HE SPENT TWO HOURS WITH HOMER SITTING IN THE PARKED Cadillac at a meter opposite the nine-story office building, Homer had the various photographs arranged on the seat between them—Gillespie, his junior partner, the two secretaries, the clerk and the receptionist.

At 4:30 the clerk appeared with a briefcase and walked to the corner to wait for a bus. Homer said, “Probably an errand to do on his way home. At this hour he won’t be coming back.”

“Let’s hope.”

In the next forty minutes people emerged from the building in knots and they scanned faces carefully. Mathieson checked off the receptionist and, at two minutes past five, the two secretaries. At 5:10 Homer stiffened. “There he is.”

Mathieson watched C. K. Gillespie walk away toward the parking garage at the end of the block. The heels of Gillespie’s polished Italian shoes threw back brisk hard echoes. Mathieson studied him keenly: You could tell a great deal about a man by his walk. Gillespie strutted: a tense man, alert, arrogant.

Mathieson said, “It’s suite seven-one-six.”

“What kind of locks?”

“Just one, the original equipment. Eaton Yale and Towne. Standard unit. He wouldn’t keep anything incriminating in the office. But there could be a burglar alarm.”

“According to our preliminary work-up there’s only one alarm circuit in the building—jewelry outfit on the third floor.” Homer checked his notes. “Twenty-four-hour doorman service. After six you have to sign in when you enter the building. That’s why we’ve got to go in sometime in the next half hour.”

“I’d feel more comfortable after dark.”

“That’s just instinct. Actually we’re less conspicuous now, while there are still a lot of people in the building.”