Thomas Perry - The Informant

"Waring," she said.

"Please hold for Mr. Hunsecker." After a few seconds, a click brought him. "Ms. Waring."

"Yes?"

"I understand we reached you in Phoenix."

"That's right. I'm at the FBI field office."

"What are you doing there?"

"There's been an important FBI operation near here in the mountains, a big meeting of the crime families at a resort. It's sort of a dude ranch, and they took over the whole place for a meeting. The FBI did a sweep to see who was there and so on."

"I asked what you were doing there."

"When I learned what was happening, I realized that this was a time when they could use my help to figure out who they had. It was also an occasion for us to find out things we might need to know about changes in the current power structure and the up-and-coming generation we don't know a lot about. So I took a couple of personal days and flew out to lend a hand."

"You left Washington without asking permission or approval from higher authority and flew across the country to attach yourself to an operation by another agency. Is that about right?"

She couldn't tell him that the operation was hers as much as the FBI's. She had learned about it from a source he had already ordered her to drop and gone around him to get the FBI involved because she knew he wouldn't. "Mr. Hunsecker. I took steps in order to avoid any ambiguity about my actions and to prevent the suspicion that I was using Justice Department time or money. I took two personal days to be here, and paid for my own flight and lodging."

"You left your post without leave."

"In order to get here while it still mattered, I had to make the arrangements overnight and be on an early morning flight. If my acting alone offended you, I apologize. Often things have to happen before office hours, and Justice Department employees have to act on their own initiative. If one of the people in my section learned that something this big was happening and didn't realize it was more important to be here than to clear it with me, I'd be angry."

"We're well into the second business day, and the only reason I know about this is that the deputy director of the FBI called to thank me for sending someone to Phoenix."

"That was thoughtful of him," said Elizabeth. "May I ask what you said to him?"

"This is beginning to try my patience. We can go into all of it when you return. Make an appointment with my assistant to see me at eight A.M. tomorrow morning."

"But I'm still accomplishing things here. Can we make it the day after?"

"No. Consider yourself recalled. Be here at eight A.M. "

"Yes, sir." She heard him hang up, not a click, but the incidental air noise went away, a sound like a door closing.

She decided she shouldn't be surprised that he had insisted on eight A.M. That was five A.M. Phoenix time, and it meant she would have to take a red-eye flight that arrived at seven. Even then she would have to go from the airport directly to the office to be on time. To be berated for doing her job.

He got off the plane at George Bush Intercontinental Airport outside Houston and rented a dark blue Buick LaCrosse. He drove to the comfortable old hotel near the Astrodome where he'd made a reservation and checked in. Instead of sleeping on the plane, he had remained alert because his conversation with Agnoli had been disturbing. He could have killed him in the men's room where there were no cameras and probably could have gotten away with it. But his previous dealing with Agnoli had convinced him that Agnoli wouldn't invite trouble he didn't need. And he had the feeling that a man who wasn't one of the capos who had agreed to his death should be left alone right now. There was going to be enough killing soon.

Two hours later he had dinner in the fish restaurant beside his hotel. He sat in the dark wooden booth thinking about the rest of his life. If he were to stop right now and fly back to the UK, what would happen? He might be able to fit in a few months with Meg before another enterprising young soldier managed to find him. It was possible, if he was very careful about his movements, to make it last a bit longer. He had killed Tosca's first three scouts in Brighton, but dumped their bodies in London. It was difficult for him to know if anyone in the United States knew they'd even been in Brighton.

It had been bad luck that they found him. He and Meg seldom went to Brighton, partly because that was the city where one of the Talarese family had spotted him ten years ago. For him it had seemed an unnecessary risk, and for Meg Brighton had unpleasant associations. But there he had been again, down in Brighton for the races with Meg, and he had been spotted. He wished there could have been a way to get rid of the three or elude them without killing them. Then nothing more would have happened. Carl Bala could have died of old age after a few more years in prison, and Tosca could have succeeded him, with no personal interest in the Butcher's Boy.

He hadn't seen the three men coming, and so he hadn't had a chance to do something different-go to a more remote part of the United Kingdom to stay out of sight, or go to France. Even as these thoughts formed, he knew they were lies. If he had noticed the three men looking for him in England, he wouldn't have concocted some clever way to hide. He simply would have killed them sooner and more efficiently.

The whole issue would have gone away without the old men. It was typical of bosses to listen to Tosca's request and see some advantage in it for themselves that made them indifferent to the risks. Did those fat bastards forget who Tosca was talking about? Didn't they take a moment to reflect on why a man who commanded over three hundred soldiers wanted to share the credit for killing one solitary enemy? And now, even after he had found his way into their meeting to kill Tosca and walked out again, didn't even one of them remember who he was?

He looked at the window. It was dark out and getting to be evening, time to get busy. He finished his dinner and went out to his rental car to begin his search for the necessary weapons. In the old days he'd had connections in many cities who would sell him guns. Now he was alone, and he would have to scavenge.

He thought about how he was going to find a gun. At times he had bought guns at garage sales, or from street drug dealers, who he had found would sell just about anything. He'd once known a gunsmith who sometimes had people leave guns with him to be fixed or modified and then never come back for them. Once he'd bought a compact. 32 Beretta from a gas station owner outside Las Vegas who had taken it from a busted gambler in exchange for a tank of gas to get home. He knew he would have to work a little harder this time. He would have to prepare.

He had passed a big thrift store on his way into town from the airport, and he drove back now and went inside. The sales floor looked like a hurricane had blown through and deposited the contents of twenty houses. There were various unmatched pieces of furniture, toys, books, vases, clothing of every sort and size, costume jewelry, old magazines, small appliances, recordings in every format since Edison. The other shoppers were as various as the merchandise. Some appeared to need a cheap way of staying warm, while others scrutinized and evaluated each item like antique collectors.

In the clothing section, he picked out four different baseball caps, a few T-shirts in dark colors, a couple of zip-up sweatshirts with hoods, an olive drab canvas messenger bag with a shoulder strap, and a navy blue work shirt with an embroidered patch over the left pocket that said BOBBY. At a counter he bought a pair of aviator sunglasses. He bought a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, an adjustable crescent wrench, a cold chisel and hammer, a lock-blade knife. When he got to the car, he put all of his purchases in the trunk.