Paul Kavanagh - Such Men Are Dangerous

“Neither do I.”

“I don’t even like being awake at that hour, but what I like least of all is all this hurry-up action. This morning I figured we were going through a lot of waste motion, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve got a feeling there’s going to be trouble in Texas.”

“You could be right.”

“No other explanation, Dick. I don’t like it.”

He couldn’t have liked it less than I did. The way I saw it there were two possibilities, and one was worse than the other. With the shipment heading south at sunrise and George taking himself out of the play, at best we were letting the score slip past us.

That was the best way to look at it. Another possibility, and one that seemed increasingly likely the more thought I gave it, was that our play was already completely blown. Somehow or other they had tipped to us. That explained the new departure date, and it also explained why I had never gotten a second wire from George. They didn’t let you send telegrams from a jail cell.

I couldn’t sit still. I kept getting up and pacing around like a caged wolf. I did several crazy things. Once I started packing, and I had one suitcase half filled before realizing that there was nothing I wanted to take with me. I put everything back where it belonged. Another time I decided that I had to make a run for it, and I went out and took the car a mile down the road before I managed to get hold of myself and drive back to the motel.

Obviously my cover hadn’t been blown so far, or they would have ordered a pickup for me at the same time as they changed the shipping date. It was possible that they had George; if so, he would talk, but I would have a few hours safe time. I compromised with myself. I stayed at the motel, but instead of walking back and forth across the room I sat in my car and listened to the radio while the sky got dark.

I was parked off to the side, lights and motor off. A few minutes before eight a car turned into the lot and moved slowly past the units, as if the driver was trying to find a particular number. The light was coming from the wrong direction and I couldn’t see the driver’s face.

The car stopped next to my unit. I decided it was either George or someone who had come to arrest me. The door opened and the driver got out, and it was George. I winked my headlights at him as he knocked on my door. He turned around slowly. He had his hand inside his coat. He didn’t draw the gun, but he didn’t take his hand out, either. Maybe he was posing as Napoleon.

I snapped off the lights and flicked on the dome light so that he could see my face. He nodded and withdrew his hand, and I got out of the car and hurried over to him. “We’ll take my car,” he said. “It’s stolen, I don’t want to leave it parked.”

“You want to cruise around in it?”

“Don’t argue, just get in.” I did, and he slid behind the wheel. The car was a Chrysler with all the extras, including air-conditioning, which was the last thing we needed. He backed up, swung out of the lot and took a left away from town.

“They switched the takeoff time,” he said.

“I know. Six-thirty tomorrow morning.”

“I didn’t have time to put it in a wire. I didn’t even have time to code what I sent you. I got that wire off from the airport and ran for my plane. Those rotten bastards.”

“What happened?”

“Crazy bastards. I’ve had some day. You know where I’m supposed to be right now?”

“Amarillo.”

“How did you know?”

“I guessed. They seem to expect some sort of right-wing nut group to take the Texas truck between the Oklahoma line and Amarillo. I just heard this today, and just a few minutes before everything started to fall in. Give me the whole thing, will you?”

“Sure.” He took a breath. “I think it’s all blown.”

“Just let me hear it. And slow down, these roads are pure hell in this weather.”

“You’re telling me? I put this oversized piece of crud in two ditches so far. I stole it in Chicago. Did you ever steal a car right off the street? I’ll tell you, Paul—”

“Calm down.”

“Right.” He slowed the car, stayed silent for a full minute. When he started talking again his voice was pitched lower and the brittle quality was gone.

He said, “Okay, let’s start at the beginning. The crap about the Sons of the Spirit of ‘76 was my doing.”

“I thought it was.”

“It seemed like a sensible diversion. We talked about something like that. After you told me about the trucks splitting up, I found out the Texas destination and got some rumors in motion. I figured it would be good to get them concentrated on protecting one truck. Then if they got any other rumors they would fit them into the framework I had established. You follow?” I nodded. “What I didn’t count on was the Sons of the Spirit getting hold of the leak. It’s not certain that they did, but the way it shapes up they have a man planted either in our shop or in Military Intelligence, and I guess they heard the rumble and decided it was a good idea. Or else it was just a case of one rumor feeding on another. It’s hard to say how these things work. I remember one time when—”

“Forget it.”

“Check. The upshot is that there’s serious concern that the Texas truck will be hit, and I’d say there’s a good chance of it. Either way, the Agency was ordered in on the play. A crew went to Texas today.” He managed a smile. “Including yours truly.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Because I’d rather have a million dollars.”

“You think we still have a shot at it?”

“Who knows? Right now I don’t think anything. You want to hear something really funny, Paul? I quit smoking a week ago.”

“Why?”

“You told me yourself it’s a dirty habit. No, seriously, I wanted to be in the best possible shape for this. And it wasn’t hard to quit. It even looked good at the office. If I got nervous, I could always pass it off as smoker’s nerves.” He coughed, laughed. “For the first time since I quit I really want a cigarette.”

I waited for him to go on. He slowed the big car, turned left on a dirt road. I told him it didn’t go anywhere. He said he could turn around eventually. I waited, and he turned around at the first driveway and headed back toward the main road.

I asked him what would happen when he didn’t show in Amarillo.

“I can cover myself,” he said.

“All right.”

“Paul, we have less than twelve hours.”

“More like ten.”

“More like ten. Two more days and it might have been easy. Or as close to easy as it could ever get. I had a van lined up, I had some details worked out and ready to go—”

“Forget them now.”

“Yeah. Did you manage to get any of their planning?”

“All of it.”

“What?”

I told him how they had briefed me, and why.

“That’s a big break,” he said. “Give it to me now, all of it. I won’t interrupt. Give me the whole thing.”

I didn’t give him everything because there was no point to it. I told him how they had it arranged and what precautions they would be taking from the moment of departure to the breakup of the four-truck convoy in Omaha. I told him about my own reconnaissance, and the spots I had tentatively selected for the ambush. He wasn’t at his best. He was hyped up, and there were points he missed at first hearing that I had to explain to him a second time. When I was done he pulled over to the side of the road and told me to take the wheel.

“I want to go over the route now,” he said. “I want to see the spots you’re talking about.”

We went back through the town and past the base. The landmarks I had pinpointed before disappeared in the darkness, but I remembered my mileage figures and found both locations without trouble.