I stood over the bed and thumbed 9mm rounds into the magazines. Then I put one in the gun and racked a round into the chamber. I popped the magazine out and topped that off. The remainder of the box of ammunition went in my bag, along with clean clothes and my shaving kit. I put a pair of sneakers in the bag too.

  I threaded my leather belt through the slots in the leather holster. It was the type that canted forward slightly and had a thumb break that went over the back of the pistol when it was holstered. I double-checked the chamber of the Hi-Power, made sure the safety was on, and slid it in the holster.

  The gunsmith had replaced the rear sight with the adjustable sight from a Smith & Wesson Model 19 and had made me a front sight with a bright orange insert. He had Parkerized the gun and bobbed a quarter-inch off of the hammer so that it wouldn’t bite my hand. To that he added a pair of custom-made slim wood grips that were well-checkered. The whole thing had been expensive, but I had ended up with an excellent handgun for gunfighting. I slipped a thirteen-round magazine in my left front pocket. I reached into the closet and pulled out a British paratrooper smock in that funky camouflage pattern they like. I dropped the other magazine in the left front pocket.

  I made sure that I packed an old surplus wool commando sweater in my bag. I pulled the smock on over the flannel shirt I was wearing. I left some food for the cat and let myself out. I thought about stopping by Carney’s on the way out of town. Instead of going to Carney’s, I steered the Maverick through the city streets and up on to the freeway.

  I pulled off the highway and turned on to the road by the hunting lodge a little over two hours later. Once I got over the Tobin Bridge, I was able to open the Maverick up. It was a fun car to drive on the highway. Out of habit I had watched my rear-view, checking it often. Despite what Bradley had suggested about Kovach following me, I did take precautions as a matter of course. The ride had been uneventful, save the steady rain that beat down on the Maverick’s roof, keeping time to the Rolling Stones songs on the radio.

  As I approached the house, I could see the light blue Mustang was parked in front, as was an AMC Eagle with New York plates and the unmistakable green Vermont State Police car. I pulled in the driveway at a gentle speed so as not to alarm the trooper. He got out of his car, and I pulled up to him, rolling down my window. I was about to tell him who I was when he waved me on and got back in his car.

  I guess someone was on top of things and told him that I was OK. I parked behind the AMC, which looked like a station wagon with an overactive growth hormone. They were supposed to be four-wheel drive, and I didn’t know much about AMCs, but I have heard good things about the Javelin.

  I got my postman’s bag out of the car and walked up the hill to the house. There was a man standing on the terrace. He had on an old Army field jacket, blue jeans and combat boots. His hair was on the long side, but he was far from being a hippie. The silver antenna from a walkie-talkie stuck out of the pocket of his field jacket. He was holding the ugliest-looking gun I have ever seen. It looked like the Doctor Frankenstein of gunsmiths had gotten ahold of Mac-10 parts, leftovers from a sheet metal factory, then cobbled together the Weaver Nighthawk. It was a semi-automatic 9mm carbine.

  He said something into the walkie-talkie while not quite pointing the Weaver at me. He nodded to himself and then I heard the door to the veranda open. Another man walked out wearing a commando sweater, a dark blue one, blue jeans, sneakers; he was also carrying a Nighthawk which he wasn’t quite pointing at me either. Jesus, these guys were a matched set. I walked forward slowly. The last thing I wanted was to get shot by some trigger-happy hired help.

  ‘You Roark?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘OK, they’re expecting you. Baz says you’re a private eye and you have a gun on you.’

  ‘I am and I do.’

  ‘Baz also says you are touchy about giving it up.’

  ‘What else does Baz say?’

  ‘That you’re a wiseass but cool under fire.’ He rested the gun, front pistol grip in his left elbow, muzzle down and stuck out his right hand. ‘I’m Smith. That’s Jones over there.’

  ‘Smith and Jones, huh? At least you guys are original.’

  ‘Those actually are our last names.’

  ‘No shit,’ I said cleverly.

  ‘No shit,’ Smith replied.

  We went in the house, and I went downstairs to find both the Ambassador and Honey. There was also a neat pile of bedding at one end of the couch.

  ‘Roark. Glad you’re back.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Andy. It’s good to see you. We have Baz and the two others.’

  ‘Frick and Frack,’ Stevenson added.

  ‘But Gordon and I both feel better having you here.’

  ‘Where did they come from?’ I asked, putting my bag down beside the couch.

  ‘Baz found them. Said he knew them from a job that he did.’

  ‘OK. Where did you find Baz?’

  ‘Bradley found him. I’m not sure where. Why?’

  ‘Curious, that’s all. Did Watts tell you about the search warrant?’

  ‘Yes, they found his typewriter.’

  ‘That and his rifle is missing. It’s a semi-automatic that shoots the same round as lit up the house the other night. That and he has a .357 magnum revolver with him.’

  ‘Well, that is why I have three hired guns and you.’

  ‘Are they any good?’

  ‘They seem to be. They are using radios and the three of them are working in shifts. Two men on duty at all times. That, and there is a state trooper parked out front. I have to think that will give Kovach some pause.’

  ‘Has he been in contact?’

  ‘No, not since the other night. I have been in touch with my bank, and they will arrange for me to get the money from a local bank in Hanover or White River Junction.’

  ‘What does Watts say?’

  ‘Not much other than don’t make a move without her. I get the feeling that the FBI is not happy about this.’

  ‘Probably not. They don’t like extortion and they really don’t like things they can’t control.’

  ‘And this is both of those.’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Do you think he will stop when he gets the money?’ Honey asked.

  ‘I don’t know. On one hand, he knows that the FBI will forever be hunting him and that might mean he is planning on this being a one-time deal. It’s enough money that Kovach could leave the country and go live in someplace like Thailand, where he could live like a king. On the other hand, there is nothing to stop him from starting up again if he runs out of money.’ I wasn’t offering much comfort, but there was no point in lying.

  ‘Jesus, Roark, don’t be such a depressive. This man Kovach wants to make some money at my expense and then be on his way. I’m certain of it.’ He went to the bar and poured himself a drink without offering one to anyone else. It was early afternoon, not that I am one to judge.

  ‘We are a little jumpy, Mr Roark.’ I was Mr Roark again. ‘Gordon and I are both nervous, and we just want this ordeal to be over so we can move on with our lives. You can understand that, can’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Anyone would, really.

  ‘It’s the waiting. Gordon isn’t used to waiting, to not being in charge.’

  ‘That’s true, and Gordon is right here in the room, dear.’

  ‘Yes, you are, but Mr Roark is just trying to help, and you are being rude.’

  ‘Roark’s a mercenary, just like the rest of them. He’s here to help because he is getting paid to be. It isn’t like he cares about us, just the money.’

  ‘Gordon!’

  ‘It’s OK, Mrs Stevenson. The Ambassador is right, I am being paid to help you, and he is right that I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

  ‘Thank you, Roark. See, Honey, he is a professional, not some sort of knight errant. He knows the score and he isn’t here out of chivalry.’

  ‘Yes, Gordon, I am sure that’s all it is,’ she said sarcastically and went upstairs, leaving us with a heavy, uncomfortable silence between us.

  ‘Aw, Jesus! Women. No, that woman. Lately she’s been more sensitive than … well, I don’t know what.’

  ‘It might have something to do with the death threats and the house being shot up,’ I offered dryly. He shot me a look and I thought he was going to want to have a fistfight over it, but instead he drank his drink.

  ‘Whatever the deal is, you’ll work it out,’ I said. I wasn’t sure I believed it, but I said it with all the confidence I could muster. I was only lying a little less than your average used-car salesman. ‘I’m going to grab a smoke outside.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ he said, lost in his thoughts. He had a lot to worry about, and I couldn’t blame him. It would just be easier if he was less of a prick about it all.

  I went upstairs and poked my head in the kitchen. Frieda gave me a nod, which, given her demeanor after my invasion of her kitchen the other morning, could be regarded as considerable warming. In the living room I found Maureen and Bradley standing over the card table. They were discussing a passage from the Ambassador’s memoirs.

  ‘Andy, you’re back,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Roark,’ Bradley said, with considerably less enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes, couldn’t keep me away.’

  ‘Have there been any developments?’ Bradley seemed to have no interest in my witty repartee. His loss.

  ‘The FBI searched Kovach’s apartment. He’s gone, his car too. Also, he took a semi-automatic rifle and a revolver with him. He left the typewriter behind, though.’

  ‘Well, that’s hardly a surprise, he did shoot up the place with something,’ Bradley said sarcastically.

  I shrugged. My desire to talk to Bradley was a hell of a lot less than my desire for a cigarette. I nodded to Maureen. I would have loved a few minutes alone with her, but went outside instead.

  Jones was still walking circuits around the patio with his carbine slung across his chest. I could see Smith walking along the edge of the field by the road a few hundred yards away. He also carried his Mac-10-meets-sheet-metal-ray-gun carbine slung across his chest. I wondered what passing motorists thought of that. On the other hand, maybe that didn’t raise eyebrows in Vermont. I dug a Lucky out of the pack and lit it with my battered Zippo lighter.

  I walked down the steps and away from Jones. I didn’t really want to talk to Smith or the state trooper, so I headed to the garage. I hadn’t looked inside it yet. I wasn’t doing my due diligence with Baz and the hired guns around. There was a side door and, high up, centered on the wall, was a single horizontal window with a matching one on the opposite wall. I opted for the door, which was locked. Under the watchful eye of the trooper, I took out my old Diners Club card and jimmied the lock.

  I was in a small room with shelves on the wall to my right, a door immediately in front of me, and one to my left. The shelves held things like potting soil, pots and gardening supplies. The door in front of me led to a smallish room that held two lawn mowers and various landscaping tools. There was a three-gallon gas can on the floor and a couple of sharp-toothed handsaws on the wall.

  I doubled back, and the last door opened into the garage itself. Stevenson’s Mercedes was on one side and an older Ford Bronco on the other. It was small, metallic green, with a white hard top, stubby and boxy but good off-road. The garage was well-appointed with hand tools, a couple of five-ton jacks, and a chain lift for engine work. There was a worktable with all sorts of hand tools, not just automotive ones, on it. There were cans of motor oil, brake fluid, transmission fluid, and boxes of spark plugs. I would never have figured Stevenson for a shade tree mechanic. Two sets of mechanics’ coveralls were hanging from pegs on the wall.

  I checked in the cars. Under the cars. Under the worktable. Kovach wasn’t hiding anywhere in the garage. He wasn’t hanging out in the rafters. Satisfied that Kovach wasn’t lurking, I went outside, locking the door behind me. I wanted to take a walk through the woods, but with Smith and Jones out and about, I wasn’t eager to find out if they startled easy. Part of my self-improvement plan included not getting shot by hired guns with shitty 9mm carbines. I was setting the bar pretty low, but I was trying.

  SIXTEEN

  I spent some time walking around the property and checking the other outbuilding, but nothing leapt out at me. The only vulnerable point I could see was the one that Kovach had already used, the tree line at the back of the house. Smith and Jones, with their patrolling, were certainly a deterrent. It was obvious from the way they carried themselves that they were ex-military.

  To my surprise, dinner that night was a sit-down affair at the dining-room table. Stevenson’s influence or money had been enough to get the windows replaced while I was in Boston. This provided a view of either Smith, Jones or Baz roaming around the terrace. I wondered if they were patrolling through the woods at the base of the hill at night as well, or were they just sticking close to the house?

  People get weird about being in the woods in the dark; they feel the tug of some old childhood fear, some bit of fairy tale told to them to keep them in line. In most cases, the only boogeyman in the woods is man; all it takes is an enemy who is more comfortable in them than you are. For those who can get beyond it, the woods at night, in the dark, confers a huge advantage. It offers a place to hide, to observe and provides comparative safety.

  Part of me wanted to be out there with them, protecting the family with my shitty carbine, using the skills I had learned in the Army and had refined in Vietnam. Gliding quietly on jungle-booted feet through the woods, ignoring the bugs and listening intently for anything out of the ordinary. I was good in the woods. I knew, no matter how motivated he was, Kovach was no match for me out there. But that wasn’t where I was being paid to be.

  Instead, I was at Stevenson’s table, sitting close enough to Maureen to feel the heat from her shapely thigh. Frieda had made Jaegerschnitzel, basically a pork chop, pounded thin, breaded, and pan fried with a mushroom sauce to go on top. She made spaetzle, and by made, I mean handmade. Lastly, she had made braised cabbage with sour apples. I was beginning to think that she owned stock in a cabbage farm somewhere.

  It was fantastic in the way that only homemade meals can be. The German food complemented the chill of the fall night in New England. Stevenson had opened yet another bottle of good wine. This one was a very dry white from some part of France that I couldn’t properly pronounce on my best day. Conversation that night was sparse. Most of them had never been in any real danger before. It was odd to think that Stevenson and I were the only ones at the table who had been.

  We were rewarded by a dessert of poached pears with a dollop of hand-beaten whipped cream. Stevenson also brought out a bottle of apple schnapps to complement dessert. Afterwards everyone went their separate ways. Honey had started it by excusing herself. The rest followed quickly.

  Downstairs, I opened my bag and took out my notes and went over them. It still shook out the same. Someone, most likely Kovach, was threatening and trying to extort the Ambassador. I didn’t like that the typewriter came from a shop near Dartmouth where Bradley had, by all accounts, met Gordon Junior and weaseled his way into a job with the old man. Now the Ambassador had to come up with a cool half a million. I just didn’t like it. Didn’t like any of it.

  I heard Stevenson’s heavy tread on the stairs. He looked tired, and much of the bluster seemed to have left him for the night.

  ‘Roark, fancy a bourbon?’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t say no to one.’

  He poured us each one on the rocks, but these were double Sinatra’s. He held out his glass. ‘Here’s how.’

  ‘And how.’ We touched glasses.

  ‘You think I am a fool to pay the money.’

  ‘No, no, sir, I don’t. I can see where it makes sense.’

  ‘But you don’t think it is a good idea.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘I can see the appeal, but it doesn’t guarantee he’ll stop or that he won’t come back again when the money runs out.’

  ‘But he might be satisfied with the money?’

  ‘Sure. He might get hit by a bus too. He has planned a lot, has built this up a lot. This is personal, very personal. This doesn’t strike me as an average shakedown. I don’t think he will be satisfied with the money.’ I didn’t like Stevenson, but someone had to be straight with him.

  ‘For god’s sakes, I don’t even remember this … this Kovach!’ Stevenson bellowed angrily. ‘How in the hell can he do this to me?’

  ‘I don’t know. But somehow, he feels you’ve wronged him. Wronged him enough that he wants you to pay financially, to suffer as well.’

  ‘I don’t care. It’s not important. I’ll pay him, I’ll do anything to keep my family safe.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said placatingly.

  ‘No, you don’t understand.’

  ‘It isn’t that hard, sir. You want to keep your family safe, and this seems the best way.’

  ‘You don’t get it. Honey is pregnant.’ He sat there looking at me like I was the slow kid in class.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Maureen had come quietly down the stairs – not that it would have been hard with Stevenson’s going on, ‘that is excellent news.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Maureen.’ Her presence seemed to take a lot of wind out of his sails.

  ‘We should have a congratulatory drink. Can you spare a gal a splash of bourbon? I am pretty sure Roark wouldn’t say no to another.’

  ‘No, Roark wouldn’t,’ I assured them.

  Stevenson got Maureen a glass and offered her ice, which she declined by saying in her prim English way, ‘No thank you. I prefer my whiskey neither cold nor diluted,’ instantly making us question our tough guy standing. Stevenson poured her a bourbon, and she raised her glass. Maureen said, ‘To fatherhood.’ We echoed her and we all clinked glasses.

  ‘Do you have any children, Andy?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Roark, are there little commandos running around out there that look like you?’

  ‘No,’ I laughed at the thought. ‘I have a cat. It is all I can do to take care of him.’

 

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