Алистер Маклин - Goodbye California

‘Just that the original of the dossier should make very interesting reading up in Sacramento.’

‘You’re bluffing.’ The contempt in Donahure’s voice would have carried more conviction if he hadn’t licked his lips immediately afterwards.

‘Could be.’ Ryder contemplated a smoke-ring with a mildly surprised interest.

‘I’m warning you, Ryder.’ Donahure’s voice was shaking and it could have been something else other than anger. ‘Get in the way of this investigation and I’ll have you locked up for interfering with the course of justice.’

‘It’s just as well you know me, Donahure. I don’t have to threaten you. Besides, it gives me no pleasure to see fat blobs of lard shaking with fear.’

Donahure dropped his hand to his gun. Ryder slowly unbuttoned his jacket and pushed it back to put a hand on each hip. His .38 was in full view but his hands were clear of it.

Donahure said to Lieutenant Mahler: ‘Arrest this man.’

Dunne spoke in cold contempt. ‘Don’t be more of a fool than you can help, Donahure, and don’t put your lieutenant in an impossible position. Arrest him on what grounds, for heaven’s sake?’

Ryder buttoned his jacket, turned and left the office, Jeff close behind him. They were about to climb into the Peugeot when Dunne caught up with them.

‘Was that wise?’

Ryder shrugged. ‘Inevitable.’

‘He’s a dangerous man, Ryder. Not face to face, we all know that. Different when your back’s turned. He has powerful friends.’

‘I know his friends. A contemptible bunch, like himself. Half of them should be behind bars.’

‘Still doesn’t make them any less dangerous on a moonless night. You’re going ahead with this, of course?’

‘My wife, in case you have forgotten. Think we’re going to leave her to that fat slob’s tender care?’

‘What happens if he comes up against you?’

Jeff said: ‘Don’t tempt my father with such pleasant thoughts.’

‘Suppose I shouldn’t. I said I’d like you to work with me, Ryder. You, too, if you wish, young man. Offer stands. Always room for enterprising and ambitious young men in the FBI.’

‘Thanks. We’ll think it over. If we need help or advice can we contact you?’

Dunne looked at them consideringly then nodded. ‘Sure. You have my number. Well, you have the option. I don’t. Like it or not I’ve got to work with that fat slob as you so accurately call him. Carries a lot of political clout in the valley.’ He shook hands with the two men. ‘Mind your backs.’

In the car, Jeff said: ‘Going to consider his offer?’

‘Hell, no. That would be leaving the frying-pan for the fire. Not that Sassoon – he’s the Californian head of the FBI – isn’t honest. He is. But he’s too strict, goes by the book all the time and frowns on free enterprise. Wouldn’t want that – would we?’

Marjory Hohner, a brown-haired girl who looked too young to be married, sat beside her uniformed CHP husband and studied the scraps of paper she had arranged on the table in front of her. Ryder said: ‘Come on, god-daughter. A bright young girl like you–’

She lifted her head and smiled. ‘Easy. I suppose it will make sense to you. It says: “Look at back of your photograph”.’

‘Thank you, Marjory.’ Ryder reached for the phone and made two calls.

Ryder and his son had just finished the re-heated contents of the casserole Susan had left in the oven when Dr Jablonsky arrived an hour after the departure of the Hohners, briefcase in hand. Without expression or inflection of voice he said: ‘You must be psychic. The word’s out that you’ve been fired. You and Jeff here.’

‘Not at all.’ Ryder assumed an aloof dignity. ‘We retired. Voluntarily. But only temporarily, of course.’

‘You did say “temporarily”?’

‘That’s what I said. For the moment it doesn’t suit me to be a cop. Restricts my spheres of activities.’

Jeff said: ‘You did say temporarily?’

‘Sure. Back to work when this blows over. I’ve a wife to support.’

‘But Donahure–’

‘Don’t worry about Donahure. Let Donahure worry about himself. Drink, Doctor?’

‘Scotch, if you have it.’ Ryder went behind the small wet bar and pulled back a sliding door to reveal an impressive array of different bottles. Jablonsky said: ‘You have it.’

‘Beer for me. That’s for my friends. Lasts a long time,’ he added inconsequentially.

Jablonsky took a folder from his briefcase. ‘This is the file you wanted. Wasn’t easy. Ferguson’s like a cat on a hot tin roof. Jumpy.’

‘Ferguson’s straight.’

‘I know he is. This is a photostat. I didn’t want Ferguson or the FBI to find out that the original dossier is missing.’

‘Why’s Ferguson so jumpy?’

‘Hard to say. But he’s being evasive, uncommunicative. Maybe he feels his job is in danger since his security defences were so easily breached. Running scared, a little. I think we all are in the past few hours. Even goes for me.’ He looked gloomily. ‘I’m even worried that my presence here’ – he smiled to rob his words of offence – ‘consorting with an ex-cop might be noted.’

‘You’re too late. It has been noted.’

Jablonsky stopped smiling. ‘What?’

‘There’s a closed van about fifty yards down the road on the other side. No driver in the cab – he’s inside the van looking through a one-way window.’

Jeff rose quickly and moved to a window. He said: ‘How long has he been there?’

‘A few minutes. He arrived just as Dr Jablonsky did. Too late for me to do anything about it then.’ Ryder thought briefly then said: ‘I don’t much care to have those snoopers round my house. Go to my gun cupboard and take what you want. You’ll find a few old police badges there, too.’

‘He’ll know I’m no longer a cop.’

‘Sure he will. Think he’d dare to say so and put the finger on Donahure?’

‘Hardly. What do you want me to do? Shoot him?’

‘It’s a tempting thought, but no. Smash his window open with the butt of your gun and tell him to open up. His name is Raminoff and he looks a bit like a weasel, which he is. He carries a gun. Donahure reckons he’s his top undercover man. I’ve had tabs on him for years. He’s not a cop – he’s a criminal with several sentences behind him. You’ll find a policeband radio transmitter. Ask him for his licence. He won’t have one. Ask him for his police identification. He won’t have that either. Make the usual threatening noises and tell him to push off.’

Jeff smiled widely. ‘Retirement has its compensations.’

Jablonsky looked after him doubtfully. ‘You sure got a lot of faith in that boy, Sergeant.’

‘Jeff can look after himself,’ Ryder said comfortably. ‘Now, Doctor, I hope you’re not going to be evasive about telling me why Ferguson was being evasive.’

‘Why should I?’ He looked glum. ‘Seeing that I’m a marked man anyway.’

‘He was evasive with me?’

‘Yes. I feel more upset about your wife than you realize. I think you have the right to know anything that can help you.’

‘And I think that deserves another drink.’ It was a measure of Jablonsky’s preoccupation that he’d emptied his glass without being aware of it. Ryder went to the bar and returned. ‘What didn’t he tell me?’

‘You asked him if any nuclear material had been hi-jacked. He said he didn’t know. Fact is, he knows far too much about it to be willing to talk about it. Take the recent Hematite Hangover business, so-called, I imagine, because it’s given a headache to everybody in nuclear security. Hematite is in Missouri and is run by Gulf United Nuclear. They may have anything up to a thousand kilograms of U-235 on the premises at any given time. This comes to them, bottled, in the form of UF-Six, from Portsmouth, Ohio. This is converted into U-235 oxide. Much of this stuff, fully enriched and top weapons-grade material, goes from Hematite to Kansas City by truck, thence to Los Angeles as air cargo then is again trucked a hundred and twenty miles down the freeways to General Atomic in San Diego. Three wide-open transits. Do you want the horrifying details?’