Brett Halliday - Six Seconds to Kill

“I had something to do with that,” Shayne agreed. “It wouldn’t have amounted to much.”

Without warning, traces of his smile still showing, Crowther drove one fist hard into Shayne’s stomach. Shayne grunted. Crowther pretended he had injured his fist, holding it up with a mock grimace.

“You keep in shape, don’t you, kiddo?”

His laugh boomed out. He tapped Shayne on the shoulder and went on to his seat, where he began working on his hair, disarranged by the breeze.

The helicopter filled rapidly. Berger came back up the aisle. His breath was sour and his eyes were heavy from lack of sleep.

“I hope he pulled that punch,” he remarked to Shayne.

“As long as it made him feel better.”

“You’ve been kind of elusive, boy. Gentry says he couldn’t locate you either. He’s used to your lack of cooperation. I’m not. They still haven’t found the Steele woman?”

“Not as far as I know.”

The door slammed. Through the closed door to the cockpit, Shayne heard the voice of the ATC ground controller in the tower: “Bell one-forty, cleared for takeoff. Change frequency for airways clearance.”

The rotors clacked and they lifted from the concrete. Crowther, halfway back in the cabin, put on his half-glasses to go over his speech. He began making breath-marks on the manuscript in red pencil.

Berger had to raise his voice so Shayne could hear him. “A hell of a place to talk. What happened last night after I left?”

“Not that much.”

“Mike, Mike,” Berger said impatiently. “Level with me, please. My radar’s picking up some funny blips. I don’t like secrets. You’re involved in something you don’t want to let me in on.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Instinct. When this much is going on, you don’t go to bed and take a pill so the phone won’t bother you. Did you talk to her?”

“Camilla?”

“Yeah, yeah!”

“No.”

They crossed the river, a thousand feet above the East-West Expressway, heading east toward Miami Beach. The tangled spaghetti of the 7th Avenue interchange lay ahead.

“I’m supposed to be in charge here,” Berger said savagely. “I don’t like people who duck my phone calls, and I’m making a note. But the hell with that now, we don’t have time. I get the feeling you don’t think this is quite as serious as you did last night, which means you know something I don’t, because it still looks goddamn serious to me.”

“He got a nice round of applause at the airport.”

Berger shook his head shortly. “Maybe I know something you don’t, Mike, has that occurred to you? I woke up a few people in Washington. I got an absolute denial from the CIA-this is not a public relations denial, it’s the real one, and I had to go as high as the President to get it. None of their people or anybody they deal with had anything to do with any of these demonstrations or counterdemonstrations. The Mr. Robinson who talked to Vega told him Gil Ruiz is in this country. The CIA is supposed to know things like that, and they didn’t. Ruiz, as a matter of fact, has a special reason for being sore at our boy.” He nodded at Crowther. “This is goddamn secret stuff, and I shouldn’t be shouting it in a helicopter.”

One of Crowther’s aides came up the aisle. Berger waved him to a stop. “This is private.”

When the man retreated Berger went on, “Crowther’s been arguing in cabinet meetings for tougher action in support of the Caldera junta against the insurgents. Diplomatic muscle, money, weapons-the works. To be specific, you’ve heard of the M-16, the new lightweight automatic rifle? All our own infantry divisions haven’t been equipped with it yet, and it hasn’t been peddled abroad. Crowther carried a vote in favor of letting Caldera have ten thousand M-16s to see how they work against guerrillas. The assumption is that they’ll work goddamn well.”

“Have they been shipped yet?” Shayne said quickly.

“You’re awake, good. No, they’re here in Miami, waiting for clearance. At the airport, as a matter of fact. There’s still some high-level lobbying going on, people who want to reverse the order. If Ruiz and his people can get public attention with some kind of action against Crowther, maybe they’ll stir up enough of a stink so the deal will be canceled.”

A few more pieces of the puzzle snapped into place. Biscayne Bay was beneath them. They began to glide in for a landing.

“They wouldn’t need many men to burn a warehouse,” Shayne said. “That could be it.”

“And a shooting or an attempted shooting would make a nice diversion. Mike, do this. Stay with us. If you see anybody who looks remotely like Camilla Steele, yell. Let’s get Crowther into the ballroom. That’s the first thing. Then I’ll call the airport and have Turner move one of his companies into the warehouse area. Here’s a direct question, and I have to get a direct answer. Do you know of any reason to change our arrangements for getting Crowther in and out of the hotel?”

Shayne met his eyes. “He doesn’t smoke or drink. I think he’ll outlive everybody.”

The helicopter was hanging above the cleared stretch of beach in front of the St. Albans. Using binoculars, Berger checked the beach and then swept the hotel facade. He said mildly, “And if you’re holding out on me, Mike, for whatever reason, I’m in a position where I can do some damage. I can lift your license, for openers.”

“That’s happened before, Abe. I’ve been thinking about taking a vacation.”

“This could be a long one.”

Berger tossed the binoculars on an empty seat. “Take her down,” he called.

The helicopter descended slowly. He waited until the second helicopter, bringing the rest of the entourage, settled alongside. He swung down, conferred with the officer in command of the waiting escort, then gave the signal to dismount.

Vacationers in bathing suits watched curiously as the new arrivals, all in suits and neckties, poured out of the two helicopters. The instant Crowther stepped onto the loose sand the party began to move, with Crowther himself and two aides packed tightly inside a cluster of soldiers and Secret Service men. Crowther was waving gaily, and some of the vacationers returned the waves and shouted approval and encouragement, while the other crowd, out of sight on the far side of the hotel, bayed angrily.

A siren howled in the distance. Photographers backed away in front of the moving group, taking pictures. The hotel manager was waiting at the front entrance to shake hands with his guest, but Berger kept everybody in motion.

“Come on, Mike. Keep up.”

A local politician and his wife squeezed into the elevator with them.

“Mr. Crowther, I want to congratulate you on your strong position against Latin American Communism,” the politician declared. “We’ve been too patient with those people. What’s the point in having power if we’re scared to use it? The people of Miami Beach are with you, sir, all the way!”

This was heady stuff, but Berger interrupted before he could answer.

“Stay in the car, if you don’t mind, Mr. Crowther. I want to be sure everything’s lined up in the ballroom.”

“Abe, you’re turning into a fussy old woman,” Crowther complained. “I don’t object to reasonable precautions, but can’t we relax a little? As I understand it, the people up here have all bought tickets.”

“Which have been on public sale for weeks.”

Crowther wagged his head wryly at the politician. “Why do we do it? Not for the salary!”

The elevator doors opened, and they saw a clamorous crowd, bathed in television light. Berger and another Secret Service man stepped out into the confusion. Press photographers spotted Crowther and began taking pictures. Shayne saw Tim Rourke. Catching Shayne’s eye, Rourke shook his head and shrugged. Crowther chatted easily with the politician until Berger returned.