Delta Factor, The Page 3

  “Damn!” was all I could manage.

  She smiled a little bigger this time. “You embarrassed a lot of my colleagues, Morgan.”

  “That’s why they didn’t come themselves.”

  “No ... they simply thought it would be a little less conspicuous this way. Why did you do it?”

  I squirmed up on the bed and stared at her. “Because I don’t like people trying outthink me. They needed a damn lesson ...”

  “No,” she interrupted, “I didn’t mean that. Why did you come back?”

  My mouth twitched back into a grin. “Things were getting dull. I was having fun. I hated to see it stop.”

  She nodded as if she understood completely. “And when they stop being fun?”

  I shrugged. “Then I’ll do something else.”

  “You have only two choices,” she reminded me.

  “Do I?”

  “It’s a stop-action order now. You’ll be killed if you try it again. The rest are waiting. Nobody’s taking any chances this time.”

  “Why did they sweat me for a week, kid?”

  “They were getting things organized. They didn’t want any attention brought to this matter.”

  “Be candid, sugar,” I said. “They had things organized before that.”

  Her mouth opened in a quiet laugh and I could see the even edges of her teeth. “I think they were testing you. They put you under maximum security and wanted to see what you’d do. Apparently they didn’t think it could be done. You’ve compounded their embarrassment by coming back. They won’t try that routine again.”

  “So?”

  “Now you’ll go with me. Quietly, no fuss, no bother and we’ll help you make that decision.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Her eyes twinkled at me. “I’ll have to hold your hand,” she said.

  I let the laugh rumble out of my chest. “Okay, baby, after a threat like that I’m totally demoralized. There’s only one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hold my hand. You’ll be safer that way too.”

  “Don’t be so sure of yourself, Morgan,” she said. She meant it, too.

  Something had changed in their faces. The aggressiveness was still there but a subtle respect had wiped out the antagonism. Only Jack Doherty remained untouched. The big cop still clamped a stub of a cigar in his teeth looking like he had eaten something sour, and eyed me impassively with no show of curiosity whatsoever.

  Kimberly sat beside me and only then did I let go of her hand. We had left the others downstairs, the ones who had surrounded us on the street and squeezed into taxis fore and aft of our own. They had been a different bunch, their eyes frankly appraising me, hoping I would try something while their shift was on duty and looking disappointed when I didn’t.

  Gavin Woolart took the seat at the head of the table and went through his paper-shuffling routine again. He’d have to break that habit or somebody would make something of it someday. Finally he said, “That was a very ingenious ruse you pulled, Mr. Morgan.”

  I shrugged it off. “My pleasure. Maybe it’ll keep your boys on their toes the next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “That’s what you said the last time.”

  A flush of red crept into his face from his neckline. “There is one question ... why you returned.”

  I saw Kim’s head turn my way a fraction of a second and knew she was smiling. “I was bored,” I told him.

  “No other reason?”

  “What one could there be?”

  “We were hoping it was more an act of patriotism.”

  “Balls,” I said.

  Somebody coughed. Carter, from the Treasury Department, said, “You are at your best when you’re bored, I assume?”

  “I’ve never tried it any other way.”

  “Then I hope we’re not making a mistake.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  For some reason they all turned and gave each other the briefest of glances. “We’ll get to that later,” he told me. “Now, Mr. Gavin ... ?”

  Gavin Woolart nodded and cleared his throat. “Your return, I take it, means you’ll accept the terms of our ... ah, proposal.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Then let us proceed directly to the heart of the matter. Time is an important element. We can’t afford to waste any of it. Every day, every hour impairs our national security that much more. We have a lot of briefing for you.”

  “I’m a quick study, kid. Don’t you waste time with non-essentials.”

  The red came back in his face again and he nodded. “Tell me, Morgan, have you ever heard of the Rose Castle?”

  Tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up and prickled my skin.

  Yes, I knew the Rose Castle. At least I knew of it from a few who had been there and gotten out, a granite fortress built by the Spaniards in 1620, dedicated to death and destruction and used as a prison for political prisoners with a reputation of being absolutely impregnable and to tally escape-proof. The Spaniards hadn’t fooled around with modern conceptions of humane treatment for its inhabitants.

  “So that’s where he is,” I said. “Yes, I know of it.”

  Woolart studied my face and said pleasantly, “Yes, I can see that you have.” He paused, then, “Does the name Victor Sable mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “It shouldn’t. He is the one we want.” From the pile of papers he took three photographs and passed them down the line to me. They were front and profile shots of a man apparently in his sixties. He was partially bald, graying, his expression a curious mixture of seriousness and studiousness, and one I’d label as harmless. But for some reason he was pretty damn important.

  “Background?”

  “Nothing you need concern yourself with, Morgan.” From the papers he took several more and let me have them. “Detailed sketches of the Rose Castle as complete as we were able to get them. The top one is the original construction design we got from the archives in Madrid; the others contain modifications supplied by certain former inmates and a few bribed ex-guards. However, there has been some construction on modification of the interior which we can’t supply at this time.”

  I took the diagrams and glanced at them. It took only a second to realize that an expert had laid out this crib. They were asking the impossible when they wanted a multiple break out of the joint. I handed them back but Woolart waved me off. “Keep them to study, Morgan.”

  I grinned at him. “I already did, Woolart. I could duplicate them from memory right now.”

  For the first time Mr. Rice spoke: “I hope you aren’t being facetious, Mr. Morgan.”

  “It’s my life, friend; I hope not.”

  “This isn’t a conventional operation. We don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  “Neither do I. Want me to show you my little memory trick?”

  I was annoyed and they knew it. Treasury’s Carter said, “All right, Morgan. We’ll have to accept it.”

  “Then get on with it.”

  Woolart went through some more reshuffling before he looked up. “We’re basing your presence in that country on the fact that you are a fugitive from justice. They know of your forty-million-dollar coup and have always been willing to accept wealthy fugitives for as long as they could pay for the pleasure. There is no extradition act in effect between their country and ours, so whoever reaches their shores is safe ... for a while anyway, that is.”

  My mouth twisted in a funny grin. “They’ll be expecting me to pay for the privilege then. I’ll need financial backing.”

  “Morgan ...” Rice looked like he wanted to throw up.

  I said, “If you were expecting me to dig into the forty million, you’re nuts. I’d be admitting guilt and leading you to the loot. No, buddy, your agency has funds earmarked for these stunts and it will be a pleasure to spend it.”

  Rice nodded slowly, his eyes spitting animosity. “It
will be forthcoming, Morgan.”

  “But just to ease your minds,” I added, “keep in mind the premise that I might not have that loot.”

  “For the moment, we’re not concerned with that.”

  “The hell you’re not,” I laughed. “Now, when does the action start?”

  There was a momentary lull in the conversation, the hesitation of a man about to go over the top into a place he might not come back from, then Woolart said, “Immediately. There will be nothing elaborate about the procedure at all. You will make all the arrangements for your own evacuation through sources you will personally locate. Our cooperation will be in keeping our heads turned while you accomplish this. For a person of your resources it should prove fairly simple. We will make no attempt to apprehend any of your, er, accomplices, so if you wish to make use of any friends, feel free to do so.”

  “You mentioned a crime I was to commit.”

  “An overt move against the government,” Woolart said.

  “We’ll leave it to your discretion.”

  “They shoot you for that down there, friend,” I reminded him.

  “Not when they think you’re a person of extreme financial circumstance,” he smiled. “They’d much rather extract your fortune from you.”

  “And when they do?”

  “Then they shoot you,” he said.

  “Nice people.”

  “You should be used to them,” he said sarcastically. He picked up a printed sheet and scanned it. “A bank account containing twenty-five thousand dollars will be opened in the name of M. A. Winters.” He tossed two application cards across the table to me. “Sign those.”

  I wrote in M. A. Winters in the signature space and shoved them back again.

  “At the same time,” he continued, “in the Miami branch of the same bank we have taken out a safe-deposit box in the same name. You will retain the key. In the box there is a map that supposedly shows the location of your hidden money, but in reality shows one of our places. In the event you are forced to divulge the box and the key we will know you have failed the mission, but if someone else follows that map we at least will have our hands on one of their people who might be able to give us some information.”

  “Ingenious.” I said.

  He let my tone of voice pass. “Simple enough to be plausible. There really wouldn’t be much else for you to do. A man in your position either has to run or hide. Until now, you’ve been hiding. Now it’s time to run.”

  “Why?”

  There was another of those funny little halts in the sounds that a group of people make. Then Woolart said, “That’s simple too. You found a woman.”

  It came on me like the dawn of a cloudy day, slowly at first, hardly taking shape until it was well established. I looked around at Kimberly Stacy, not quite believing what I had heard. But there wasn’t any denying it. That flat, professional, steely look in her eyes gave me the same answer, but I had to be sure. “Her? She’s the agent going in with me?”

  “That’s right, Morgan.”

  “You people are crazy!”

  “We are?”

  “How the hell could she contain me?”

  Woolart’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Miss Stacy has had occasion to shoot five men, Morgan. She’s trained in all the skills demanded by her profession and is rated as one of our best operatives. I wouldn’t underestimate her.”

  I was half on my feet, my voice grating in my throat. “Knock it off. You think those people aren’t on their toes! You think they couldn’t pick off a setup like that? They could spot a tail ...”

  Gavin Woolart shook his head, one corner of his mouth twisted into a wry grin. “I told you we were keeping it simple, Morgan. She won’t be tailing you. She’s going in as your wife.”

  My mouth opened to say something, but he cut me off.

  “Your legal wife,” he said, “in case somebody checks. You’re getting married by a J.P. in the State of Georgia.”

  Damn,” I said.

  From her side of the room, Kim Stacy said, “It should be an interesting honeymoon, Morgan.”

  3

  THEY LET ME TAKE the shock of it, let it wear off until the sensation was more one of novelty, then briefed me on the people to contact to save me the time of researching the details personally. I had three days before we were to drive south to the Florida Keys where the exodus was to take place and when I insisted on it, they agreed to let me have those three days to myself without having to check in with anyone or having a tail assigned to me. Kim Stacy was going to stay at the Mark Sanford Hotel in case I needed a contact for any reason and would take care of all the final preparations.

  When it was over they let me get up and leave just like that.

  Crazy, I thought, crazy. All that time on the wanted list; now I walk out on my own and hope I don’t get spotted and gunned by some observant cop who doesn’t know about the deal. And they trusted me. That was the damned stupid part that choked me. Old Morgan the Raider on the other side of the fence and that little thing inside me wouldn’t let me buck the traffic. They did that to old Sir Henry Morgan, too. The Crown gave him a commission and he got rid of their enemies for them. He strung up his old buddies to become a governor... but for him the end was different. At least he lived a while to enjoy the fruits of his trickery.

  There was only one ironic part to the whole thing. The forty million bucks. They could have nailed me on a dozen different charges but they picked that one to hit me with.

  And I didn’t have it.

  But somebody did and sure as hell they were going to get raided for it.

  Mrs. Gustav Timely was affectionately known as Gussie in the trade and had been harboring fugitives at a price for over thirty years. Her operation was neat, but not gaudy, just a mediocre rooming house on the West Side of Manhattan in the middle forties. She kept her mouth shut, asked no questions and had never taken a fall even though a dozen arrests had been made on her premises. In that neighborhood a lot of undesirables had holed up and nobody bothered to stick an elderly widow because a wanted person had checked in under an assumed name.

  I rapped on her door and Gussie opened it, her heavy body wrapped in the same cotton bathrobe I had seen her in last. “Morgan,” she said.

  “Hello, Gussie.” I stepped inside without being asked and pushed the door shut.

  “You ain’t being too smart, Morgan.”

  “They got you staked out here?”

  “Like you wouldn’t know.” She grunted and made her way to the couch and sat down with a wheeze. “Since you got picked up here I’m marked lousy. I get roused regular and none of the crowd uses the place. I got to depend on them stinking transients or the bunch from the ships.”

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

  She lit the stub of a butt and blew a cloud of smoke my way. “They all come back sooner or later. Only you ain’t staying, Morgan. This time they’d really bounce me.”

  “No sweat, Gussie.”

  “So why’d you come?”

  “Information.”

  “I ain’t got any.”

  “Nobody gets hurt and if it pans out you’ll make a bundle,” I said.

  Her massive shoulders heaved in a shrug and she waved one pudgy hand at me. “So ask. It ain’t saying I got to answer.”

  I pulled up a straight-backed chair with my foot and sat down. “Who had my room before me?”

  Gussie frowned and said, “Before you got nailed here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hell, Morgan ...” She frowned at me and shrugged again, then reached over into a cracked wicker basket beside the couch and pulled out a ragged ledger. She thumbed back through it until she found what she wanted and nodded thoughtfully. “Character named Melvin Gross. He was a waiter on a ship. Spent his shore time here twice. Kind of a ...”

  “Before that, Gussie.”

  She poked a couple more pages over with a moistened forefinger then poked at a name. “Mario Tullius. He cam
e here sick, spent three days in bed, then they took him to Bellevue where he died from pneumonia. Dockhand, I think he was.”

  “Try another,” I told her.

  “Gorman Yard. He was here three weeks. Joey Jolley called me to take him on account they had a warrant out on him in Syracuse.”

  “What for?”

  “Hit-and-run. Tagged some pedestrian up there. My money is that he was paid to do it. Looked like that kind. I don’t know where he went to after he left.” She glanced up at me suspiciously. “What’s this all about?”

  I didn’t answer her. “Try the one before that.”

  She didn’t bother to look it up. “Bernice Case,” she said. “Cute little hooker who kept the room three years. No trouble at all. She never brought her marks here with her and slipped me some extra dough whenever she landed a real live one. She did real well, that girl.”

  “Why’d she stay in a place like this?”

  Gussie let out a little grunt that was supposed to be a chuckle. “Sentiment, that’s why. Even a prostie can have that, Morgan. She was born here, right up on the top floor. If it wasn’t that she found a guy who wanted to marry her she’d be here yet.” She squashed the butt out in a wet saucer on the arm of the couch, then let her eyes roll up to meet mine again. “You ain’t said what you wanted.”

  “Guess,” I said.

  Old Gussie nodded sagely. “You figure one of ’em came back to get something they stashed up there, spotted you and put the squeal in.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re tagging Gorman Yard, ain’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He might be the kind if he wanted an in with the cops. A little grease helps out when you got a warrant on you. Want me to check it with Joey Jolley?”

  “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

  “Go ahead.” She grinned through her layers of fat and added, “When you gonna give me a slice of that forty mil, Morgan?”

  “Later, baby.”

  “Well, I know it ain’t around here. I like to tore that place apart after the cops got done with it just to make sure you didn’t leave it lying around.”