Stuart Woods: Heat

“Any black people in town?”

“None. A few Indians.”

“If this guy Coldwater is half Indian, what’s he doing as head of something called Aryan Universe?”

“Apparently, they consider the Indians as some sort of racially pure strain; I know, it’s bizarre.”

“What sort of ideas have you got about infiltrating?” Jesse asked.

“Maybe you, as Barron, could set up some sort of small business, maybe remodeling of houses, like Barron? You had some construction experience in your past, didn’t you?”

“I worked summers at house building when I was in high school and college. I’m fairly handy, but God help the person whose house I tried to remodel.”

“Well, then.”

“I don’t like it; two guys have already gone in there in regular middle-class jobs. If Coldwater is recruiting, I doubt it’s from that bunch. He’s likely to want a more disappointed kind of recruit, I would think; somebody who’s pissed off at the world. Certainly Barron, if he were alive, would have a lot to be pissed off about — he’s lost his family and his business. Tell me, was the drunk who hit his family black?”

“I’ll find out. I think you’ve got a good idea about the guy being disappointed. How would you infiltrate?”

“Maybe just drift in there, look for work, drink at the local beer joint, see who’s who around St. Clair. If Barron suddenly turned up, would the local cops want to talk to him about anything? Did he do anything illegal?”

“Nothing like that in the record.”

“So I could use Barron’s name with no fear of his name ringing alarms if he got busted for speeding or something?”

“Why not? That way, if somebody did some checking on him, we’d know exactly what they’d find. He’s got a social security number and that’s helpful, if you’re going to look for work — and we could have a word with some of Barron’s former construction employers in Atlanta, alert them for requests for references.”

“Okay, let’s do it that way. What about a driver’s license and credit cards? I’d like to have one working credit card in my pocket.”

Fuller looked through some papers. “His credit report says he’s got a Visa, but it’s tapped out and way overdue. I’ll fix something up with the bank and have them issue a new card. As for the driver’s license, I can get one made up with your picture on it. Hang on, I’ve got a Polaroid camera in my luggage.” Fuller got up and went to his bedroom.

Jesse wiped off the hefty steak knife the Ritz-Carlton had furnished with the prime rib, slipped it under his belt in the small of his back and tucked his shirttail in over it. He had still to hear from Dan Barker, and he meant to be ready if he didn’t like what he heard.

Jesse stood at the bathroom sink and looked at himself in the mirror. The face that stared back at him was still unfamiliar; there had been no mirror in the solitary confinement cell where he had spent so much of his prison stay.

The nose was the worst; it had been broken twice and badly repaired in the prison infirmary. It was flat across the bridge and distorted at the tip, but at least he could breathe through it properly. There was scar tissue around the eyes, and the right ear had begun to cauliflower at the top. He looked like nothing so much as a punchdrunk fighter. The face would scare anybody; it certainly scared him.

The doorbell of the suite rang, and Fuller knocked on the bathroom door. “Barker’s here,” he said. They had been in the suite for three nights.

“Be right there,” Jesse said. He tightened the knot of his tie, slipped into his jacket and looked at himself. The suit and shirt had been finely cleaned by the hotel, and, except that his clothes were a bit loose on him, he thought he looked quite well. He wrapped the blade of the sharp steak knife in two sheets of hotel stationery, making a kind of scabbard, then tucked it into his belt at the small of his back. In a few minutes, he knew, he would either have preserved his freedom or stolen it by killing Barker. He hoped Kip would not force his own death by resisting. Since the day he had been arrested Kip had been the only person who had treated him decently.

Jesse buttoned his jacket and walked into the living room. Barker sat at the dining table, and a catalog case rested on the floor beside him. “Sit down, Jesse,” he said.

Jesse took a chair two down from Barker, so he could reach him easily.

Barker took a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket and handed them to Jesse. “See if that’s what you want,” he said.

To Jesse’s surprise, it was, including the letter signed by the attorney general. “It looks just fine,” Jesse said.

Barker reached into the case and removed an automatic pistol and a box of ammunition. “I wouldn’t send anybody, even you, up there unarmed,” he said. “It’s a brand new, Hechler & Koch 9mm automatic; takes fifteen in the clip and one in the chamber. It was bought this morning at an Atlanta gun shop in the name of Jesse Barron, and all the proper forms were filled out, so it can’t be traced to any government agency.”

Jesse nodded and removed the weapon from its holster.

“No need to load it now.” Barker handed him a card. “Here’s an eight hundred number; memorize it; Kip will be on the other end of it.”

Jesse glanced at the number, committed it to memory and returned the card to Barker. “I’m not going to report in every day,” he said. “I don’t want people noticing the calls.”

Barker reached into his magic case again and produced a small cellular phone in a leather pouch. “This is a very special cellular phone,” he said. “Press this button and your conversation is scrambled. Hide it somewhere. The eight hundred number is programmed in already; just hit zero-one and S-E-N-D. The cellular coverage in the St. Clair area is good.”

Jesse accepted the phone and its recharging accessories. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Remember that you have absolutely no law enforcement authority. Whatever happens, this is not going to be your bust. I want you to work this so that you get evidence, then call us in for the climax, is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Barker handed him a well-worn wallet; inside were a driver’s license, a credit card, social security card and some business cards from Jesse Barron’s business.

“These look good,” Jesse said, shoving the wallet into his hip pocket.

“Kip tells me you’ve got your cover down pat, and I’ve arranged to have Barron’s name put on your fingerprint record, so if you get printed for any reason, you’re okay.”

“It sounds like we’re all buttoned up, then,” Jesse said. “Except I’m going to need a good bit of cash.”

“How much?”

“I’m going to need a vehicle and a little nest egg; say, thirty thousand?”

Barker turned to Fuller. “Get him twenty-five, and get a receipt.”

“I’ve got that much now,” Fuller said.

“Give it to him.”

Fuller produced some banded stacks of bills from his briefcase and handed them to Jesse; he wrote out a receipt, and Jesse signed it.

“I want you on a plane to Boise today,” Barker said, “and in St. Clair tomorrow.”

Jesse shook his head. “I’m going to buy a vehicle here, register it in Barron’s name and drive across country, picking up motel receipts and buying stuff I need. I’ll be in St. Clair in a week or ten days.”

Barker leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “I guess you think I’m just turning you loose,” he said. “I guess you must think I’m a blithering idiot.”

Jesse smiled. “That’s pretty close to my personal opinion of you, Dan, but I know very well you wouldn’t let me out except on a leash.”