“Well—good luck to you then.”

Kendig cradled it and went straight to the car and drove back into the pines.

– 9 –

ROSS DISLIKED JOHN Ives immediately and it was reciprocated: he sensed the underlayer of distaste and it came to the surface before he had been in the office five minutes. Ives said, “I know why you’re here. Let’s not waste each other’s time.”

“That suits me. All right, you’re representing Miles Kendig.”

“Who told you that?”

“I thought we weren’t going to fence. Claude Des-rosiers’s publishing company is negotiating a contract on Kendig’s book through you, isn’t that right?”

“When a contract’s pending I don’t make it a habit to give away information,” Ives said. He was young and smooth but the brown beard made Ross think of porcupines. “This is a competitive business, Mr. Ross. And I regard the agent-client relationship as confidential.”

“I don’t represent a rival publishing house.”

“I know. Miles Kendig warned me I’d be questioned by people from your agency. He instructed me to answer any questions with the whole truth. If you find me evasive it’s my own doing. You see I don’t like dealing with people like you. I don’t like what you stand for.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t got time to get sidetracked into a philosophical debate,” Ross said. “But I’d advise you to obey your client’s instructions. It would make things painless for both of us.”

“And the alternatives?”

Ross couldn’t help smiling a little. “I didn’t come here to make any threats. Why, were you expecting me to? Are you by any chance recording this conversation?”

Ives made no answer but his expression revealed that Ross had scored a hit. Ross shook his head. “I’m only going to ask you to do your duty as a public-spirited citizen. I’ve got no power to force you to do anything against your will. But we’re concerned with possible violations of the national security here. Kendig is threatening to publish material which is highly classified.”

“No,” Ives said flatly. “You can’t take that tack.”

“Why the hell not? It’s perfectly true and you know it.”

“I know it damn well, Mr. Ross, but it’s something you can’t take into court. If you accused Kendig of stealing legitimate government secrets you’d have to admit under oath that the material in Kendig’s book is true.” Then he grinned infuriatingly.

“It’s not. He’s a liar, obviously.”

“I see. And his motive?”

“How much money do you suppose this sensationalist tract will earn him if it’s published in fourteen countries, Mr. Ives? Isn’t that motive enough?”

“Not for a man as wealthy as Kendig.”

“Has it occurred to you that he may have lied to you about the extent of his wealth? Kendig was a salaried government employee for twenty-five years, Mr. Ives. I can assure you none of us has much opportunity to salt away a fortune on a civil service salary.”

“I have reason to believe he’s made quite a lot of money since he retired from government service.”

“But you have no real evidence of that, have you. Still, even if it were true, he might be doing it for notoriety. Celebrity is quite a temptation to most people.”

Ives said drily, “I doubt you people would permit him to appear on television programs.”

“I’m suggesting to you the possibility that Kendig is merely trying to do Clifford Irving one better, Mr. Ives. You’ve got to admit it’s possible.”

“Anything’s possible. But I notice you’ve made no effort to refute any of Kendig’s charges.”

“Would you believe me if I did?” Ross smiled again in an effort to be disarming. “I’m only asking you to grant us the benefit of the doubt.”

Ives’s shoulders lifted slightly, and dropped. “In any case I’ve told you what my instructions are. Ask your questions, Mr. Ross, and then get out of here.”

The plane’s vibration made concentric ripples lap at the rim of the coffee cup. He watched through the scratched Plexiglas port while the shuttle flight made its descent toward Washington National. He had rather enjoyed hectoring Ives because smug righteousness always annoyed him.

Cutter was waiting to collect him and he got into the car talking. “He was bugging it.”

“Naturally.”

“About all he got on the tape was his own opinionated claptrap. I hate moralizers.”

“Do you?”

“They sit on the sidelines and carp. What have they got to lose? They never have to make the decisions.”

“What did he say?”

“Hard stuff? Well the best bit is he heard from Kendig yesterday afternoon. A prearranged phone call to a booth in the Pan Am Building—Kendig probably expected we’d have Ives’s phone tapped by now. Anyhow Kendig told him he was on his way out of the country. It was a long-distance call from a pay phone. The operator had a Southern accent and it cost Kendig eighty-five cents for three minutes. That was either just before or just after five o’clock.”

“There’s a difference in the rates.”

“I know. I tried to pin Ives down but he really wasn’t sure about it. He wasn’t trying to fudge it.”

“What else?”

“When money comes in for Kendig, Ives is supposed to send it to Switzerland in the form of a cashier’s check. It’s Kendig’s brokers, I’ve got the address here.”

“We’ve already got that in the file. It won’t help us—they wouldn’t know where he was.”

“I got the names of the fourteen publishers.”

“For all the good it’ll do us.”

Ross said, “We probably can discourage the New York publisher.”

“What’s the good of that if it’s published all over the rest of the world? There’s no way to keep it secret. We’ve still got to stop him from writing the rest of it.”

Cutter parked in the Official Cars Only zone and they went into the FBI building.

Tobin was waiting for them. “We’ve got a line on your man.” Ross disliked his complacency instantly.

Tobin was all but smirking. Cutter said, “Yes?”—withholding a great deal from his tone of voice.

Tobin sat back and ticked the items off on his fingers. “He entered the country a couple of weeks ago on a Pan Am flight from Lisbon. P.O.E. Dulles. He rented a car there and turned it in twenty-four hours later at Newark Airport.”

Cutter said, “Then he went into New York.”

“Did he? Well anyhow. He shows up again two days later in Philadelphia—another rent-a-car. Then we lose him for a week. But he turned the car in.”

You bastard, Ross thought. “Okay. Where?”

“Down South somewhere?” Cutter said.

Tobin gave him an irritated look. “That’s right. Charleston, South Carolina.”

Ross nodded. The Southern-accented operator.

Tobin said, “So we’re a lot closer behind him now.”

“Unless he stops using those credit cards,” Cutter said. “All right, thanks for the update. Keep on it, will you?”

“We’ll nail him cold for you, brother, don’t give it another thought. Any time we can be of service.” Tobin grinned at them.

Out on the sidewalk it was Cutter’s turn to smile. “Those guys gloat too early. He’s put one over on them.”

“How?”

“We’ll see. You don’t suppose there’s a phone booth in this neighborhood that the boys back there haven’t bugged for practice, do you? No, why take the chance—we’ll drive a few blocks.” They went around to the car and Cutter said, “When we find a booth I want you to call Customs and Immigration. Check on all planes and ships that left Charleston in the past ninety-six hours. Find out if James Butler was on one of them.”

They found a booth and Cutter double-parked and sat in the car until Ross came back from the phone. “Okay?”

“All set. Now what?”

“Back to the salt mines. We’ve got to catch up on the paperwork.”

At four-fifteen the call came from Bu Customs. Ross took it and wrote down the information and hung up. Then he swiveled to Cutter. “James Butler took passage on a steamer for Capetown three days ago. One of those freighters with accommodations for twelve passengers. The Cape of Good Hope, Panamanian registry. First port of call is Casablanca on the nineteenth.”