Brian Garfield - Checkpoint Charlie

He sank onto the divan and leaned back warily. I dropped the .32 into my jacket pocket and sidled around toward Ross, keeping my automatic trained on Stenback and Myra Hilley; knelt by Ross and laid my fingers along his throat to test for a pulse. There was a good deal of blood. I removed my hand and stood, grunting with the effort. “He’s dead.”

“Self-defense,” Stenback snapped.

“Sure.” I gave him a crooked smile. “Who’s going to believe that?”

I saw realization grenade into Myra Hilley. She clutched his arm in fear.

I looked down at Ross. “Everybody knows you two had it in for the CIA. Now you’ve murdered a CIA agent. Man, you’ll be a hundred and five before they let you out into the light of day again. Both of you,” I added, looking up sharply at the woman. “It’s felony murder — she’s as guilty as you are. And I’ll testify to that.” Then I gave it a slow chilly smile. “Come to think of it you’ve done me a couple of favors. I never could stand the punk. I’m glad you’ve taken him out — they’ll never stick me with him again. And you’ve done my job for me. The assignment was to stop you from publishing the rest of those names. You can’t publish in a prison cell.”

Myra Hilley sat up straight. “But we can still talk. We can talk in court and we can talk to our lawyers and they can talk to the press. We can still make those names public. Then what happens to you, superspy? It’s a black mark on your record, isn’t it.”

I regarded her with suspicion. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the punk had a point. Maybe I’ve got no choice.” I lifted the automatic.

“Wait.” She stared at me.

Stenback seemed mesmerized by Ross’s huddled body. Then he looked up at me, at my pistol.

Myra Hilley gripped his hand tighter. He didn’t pull away. He seemed to have shrunk; it was the woman’s strength that supported both of them.

She said, “You wanted to make a deal with us. All right — we’ll take the deal.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Myra. With the evidence I’ve got now? I’ve got Stenback’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. Not to mention my own testimony.”

“But you still can’t stop us from revealing the names of your agents. Only I wan and I can do that.”

I contrived an indifferent expression. I picked up Ross’s unused revolver and dropped it in my pocket for safekeeping; it balanced the weight of the .32 in the other pocket. Then I went toward the phone, the guns dragging my jacket down.

She watched me pick up the receiver before she spoke.

“Wait a minute.”

“For what?”

“Let us go. We’ll leave the country. You’ll never hear from us again. We’ll never publish those names.”

“How do I know that, lady?”

“If we ever reveal the names,” she said shrewdly, “you’ll find us. Nobody can hide from you people. You’ll find us and kill us, or you’ll have us extradited and brought back to Australia to stand trial for murdering that man.”

I still had the phone in my hand. The dial tone buzzed at me. “It’s not my habit to trust your kind.”

Stenback said, “She’s right, Dark.” He seemed to have found his spine. “It’s the only chance you’ve got of keeping those names secret. We’re offering you the only way out. For you and for us. You let us go — we save our lives, or at least our freedom, and you get what you want. The paper stops publication.”

I spent a while thinking about it. Finally I put the phone down on its cradle. I squinted dubiously at the two of them.

I saw it when the silence began to rag their nerves. I let it grate for a bit. Then abruptly I said, “All right. Get out. I’ll give you six hours to get out of Australia before I report his death. We’ll keep the murder weapon out of it unless you double-cross me — in which case I’ll manage to ‘find’ it damn quick. You keep that in mind.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“We will,” he said.

“Get out fast now — before I change my mind.”

They fled. They looked as if they were holding their breath. I left the door open until I heard them enter the lift. Then I shut it and locked it, glanced down at Ross’s bloody body and went across to the window; I parted the drapes and watched Stenback and Myra Hilley emerge from the canopy below me. They got into her white MG and I watched it squeal away.

Then I let the drapes fall to. Turning around, I said, “They’re gone.”

Ross grunted and got to his feet.

Looking down at himself he grumbled, “Do these phony blood capsules wash out? If not I’ve just ruined a good suit. Good grief, but I’m cramped. Couldn’t you have done it faster? I think I bruised a rib when I fell. Incidentally I didn’t take kindly to you calling me ‘punk’ and ‘oaf’ and all that stuff.”

“Are you about out of complaints now?”

He grinned at me. He was an awful sight. “Why, Charlie, I’ve barely started.”

“Look at it this way, Ross. You’ve got something to tell your grandchildren about. You’ve just assisted Charlie Dark in pulling a brand new twist on the oldest con-game in the world — the blank-cartridge badger game. Now doesn’t that just fill your heart with pride and admiration?”

“I believe you are by all odds the most infuriatingly smug conceited arrogant fat old man I’ve ever met,” he said, “and I thank you for the privilege of allowing me to work with you.”

Myerson lives for the day I fall down on the job. I suppose he thinks it will prove I’m no better than he is after all. He keeps throwing impossible jobs my way; the only way I can get revenge is to bring them off and show him up. One of these days I will come a cropper — or I’ll bring off a feat so incredible it will blow all his fuses. That’s the nature of the tug-of-war between us.

Myerson said, “The van was hijacked between the printer’s and the Atlanta office. The Bureau traced the shipment to Miami. A day too late.”

“How many?” I asked.

“Four thousand. Genuine U.S. passport blanks.”

“Uh-huh. Worth a bloody fortune on the illegal market,” I boseryed.

“Not if you recover them. That’s your job. I don’t think you can do it — I don’t think anybody can — but it’s in your ample lap.” He blew smoke from his noxious Havana toward my face and favored me with his barracuda smile. “Bon voyage, Charlie. Don’t come back without the passports.”

The FBI Agent didn’t resent the imposition; he was relieved to pass the buck and said as much — he was convinced the shipment had left his jurisdiction and that was fine with him; the headache was ours now.

“It was organized. They weren’t two-cent stickup men. Two or three private cars were used to bring the passports to an assembly point here in Coral Gables. We nailed one of the hijackers, you know — blind luck but we’ve got him and he’s willing to testify. A deal for a light sentence provided we give him protection. The Bureau’s taken it to the Justice Department and I’m pretty sure they’ll agree to it. Trouble is, he doesn’t know enough to help you.”

“I’ll talk to him anyway if you don’t mind.”

His name was Julio Torres and he was a sad man — a Cuban, down on his luck. He was heavy, nearly as fat as I am but not so tall. I guessed his age at forty-five. He had a black mustache and calloused hands. In the interrogation cell we both overlapped our wooden chair seats.

“Who recruited you for the robbery?”

“He calls himself Obregon. I never heard his first name.”

“Cuban?”

“No. I think Puerto Rican.”

“What was your job?”

“To follow the van and drug the crew.”

“How?”