The Language Of Cannibals

CHAPTER SIX

I was back home by 2:30. The official offices of Frederickson and Frederickson occupy the first two floors of our brownstone, and I went directly to my office on the first floor. I sat down in front of my computer terminal, plugged in my modem, and went to work. We paid out close to three hundred dollars a month for subscriptions to various computer newsletters and services-most of them perfectly legitimate, with only a couple of questionable legality. We'd taken courses, and even had our own hack-on-call, a very young computer whiz who'd barely missed getting a ten-year prison sentence for breaking into a Defense Department network and leaving a series of "Have a nice day" messages in both English and Russian. It was an age of electronic snooping, and Frederickson and Frederickson had taken pains not to get caught with its PCs down. But there was nothing particularly arcane about what I was up to at the moment. As a licensed private investigator, I was legally entitled to use the DMV network. I entered the appropriate code, then punched up the name of Jay Acton. I was in luck; he had a driver's license, and he owned a car. Within a minute I had his Social Security number.

Next, I consulted one of my quasi-legal newsletters, found the appropriate code, and invited myself into a network used by most of the nation's health insurance companies. It turned out that Jay Acton had health insurance provided through a right-wing think tank with which Elysius Culhane was associated. According to his application form, Acton was born on October 23, 1939, in Dayton, Ohio.

Sure.

Curious as to what the FBI might have on Olga Koussevitsky, I tried tapping into a network used for counterintelligence historical files but got nowhere. They'd changed the pass code in Washington, and I was going to have to wait for next week's mail to find out what the new code was. And if I couldn't get into the file, I had contacts in both the FBI and CIA who could get me the data I needed. Given enough time, acting on the information Harry Peal had given me, I was certain I could piece together a scenario of how Harry Peal's son was born in Russia and then smuggled back into the United States with his English-speaking mom to grow up as Jay Acton, All-American Boy. Except that this all-American boy would have a KGB mother to constantly indoctrinate him in communist ideology and fill him with a special sense of purpose and mission-to be a spy.

Or something like that.

I turned off the computer, leaned back in my swivel chair, and considered what I would do next-assuming I wanted to-in order to prove that Jay Acton was a KGB officer. The first step would be to prove that his birth records were phony. There are any number of ways to construct a false identity, and they have grown increasingly sophisticated over the years. Presumably, I would actually have to go to Dayton to check hospital birth records, and then pore over death records and walk through graveyards, to search for a real Jay Acton who might have died at, or soon after, birth, on October 23, 1939. I would try to find out the address or addresses where the "Actons" had lived, look over school records, talk to his teachers, and so on.

The work of proving that Jay Acton was a KGB ringer would be time-consuming but fairly routine. It could also prove to be perilous. I was not exactly an inconspicuous personage, and even if I could go to Dayton and begin traipsing through Jay Acton's past without calling attention to myself it was quite possible that there were "trip wires" embedded in the matrix of false records I would have to untangle; request a certain file, or question the wrong person, and a warning signal could be flashed to Russia or to Cairn. By the time I'd gathered enough information to drive a stake through this particular vampire's heart, he might well have flown from his coffin and be safely ensconced in a dacha on the Black Sea while he tried to become accustomed to Russian culture. I didn't want to take that responsibility.

I knew I already had more than enough to get the attention and help of Mr. Lippitt, our ageless and trusted friend who was the director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. The problem was that this kind of counterintelligence activity was clearly the province of the FBI. Mr. Lippitt would eventually feel constrained to contact Edward J. Hendricks anyway, and then I would have put the man to whom both Garth and I owed our lives in the uncomfortable position of having stepped on some very big, sensitive, and powerful toes. I didn't want to do that, and I didn't feel that I had to. This was, after all, the FBI's job, not mine or Mr. Lippitt's.

In addition, I wanted to make certain that Michael Burana would catch some favorable publicity. He'd taken the heat and suffered disgrace for losing a CIA defector, and now I wanted to see that he received credit for unmasking the man who was most certainly his murderer.

I opened the bottom right drawer in my desk, rummaged around until I found what I was looking for-a manila folder containing a sheaf of papers that had been stapled together. It was a list that was not available from any subscription service, and that money could not buy. In its original form it was called the Green Sheet, a designation that had always mystified me since it was not a sheet, but a half-inch-thick directory, and its cover was not green but beige. It was a classified directory listing the private home numbers of virtually every important politician and bureaucrat in the federal government. My first copy of the directory had been delivered to me two Christmases before, by special messenger, with no information as to who might have sent it. I received an update every three months, hand-delivered in the same manner. Garth and I had a pretty good idea who was responsible for this rather nice gift, and it wasn't Mr. Lippitt, who would never be so vulgar as to send us a copy of a classified document. We were certain that it arrived through the auspices of President Kevin Shannon; a little token of appreciation from the man who knew that his election, and subsequent continuance in office, depended upon our mutual cooperation-a conspiracy of silence about events surrounding his initial choice for secretary of state, a man who had turned out to be a murderous psychopath.

So much for history and Green Sheets. I thumbed through the directory until I found the home telephone number of Edward J. Hendricks, picked up the phone, and dialed it.

Hendricks answered on the fourth ring. "Hello, Jerry," he said in a lazy, Sunday afternoon voice. "What's happening on the-"

"This isn't Jerry, Mr. Hendricks. My name is Dr. Robert Frederickson. I apologize for calling you at home on a Sun-"

"Who is this?" he snapped in a distinctly Monday morning voice.

"Robert Frederickson."

There was a pause, then a tentative, "The dwarf?"

"That's the one. I-"

"How did you get this number, Frederickson?"

"Mr. Hendricks, you've got a KGB officer advising the most influential conservative columnist and television talking head in this country, namely Elysius Culhane. Culhane is having notions whispered in his ear by a Russian spy, who, in turn, is probably privy to all the nation's secrets that we both know are leaked to Culhane by right-wing congressmen and disgruntled generals at the Pentagon. As head of the FBI's counterintelligence unit, I thought you would appreciate getting the information as soon as possible-that's assuming you don't already know about it."

The sound of wheels turning in Edward J. Hendrick's head transcribed as almost a half minute of heavy, rasping breathing. Finally he said, "What are you talking about, Frederickson?"

"Michael Burana wasn't in touch with you concerning a Russian spy operating out of Cairn?"

"No," he replied in the same breathy voice, as if he were out of wind. "Tell me what you're talking about."

"As I'm sure you're aware, Elysius Culhane's top aide and advisor is a man by the name of Jay Acton. That isn't his real name. His mother is, or was, a KGB officer named Olga Koussevitsky, and he was born somewhere in Russia, not Dayton, Ohio, which is what's listed on his American passport. Incidentally, Agent Burana did all the preliminary field work on this. I accidentally found his notes while I was going through his effects for his family, and I came across this information. He must have been planning on getting it all down pat before he filed his report. Anyway, when I saw what he'd uncovered, I knew I should contact you right away. Also, Agent Burana's death wasn't an accident; Acton had to have murdered him. I'll get this information off to you by express mail first thing in the morning, but in the meantime I expect you'll want to put Acton on ice while-"

"Frederickson, have you been doing any investigation of this matter on your own?"

"No," I said, surprised and somewhat taken aback by his tone. The raspiness was gone from his voice, and his tone was firm, decisive. He sounded as if he'd made some kind of decision-one I suspected I wasn't going to like. "I just told you that I'm working from Michael Burana's field notes."

"Have you spoken to anyone else about this matter?"

"No, Mr. Hendricks," I replied evenly. "I immediately recognized that this was a serious matter for the FBI to handle and that you'd want to start working on it immediately. As for arresting Acton, the name of the chief of police in Cairn is-"

"What about your good friend Mr. Lippitt? Have you spoken to him about this?"

"No," I replied tersely. "If you'll check the file I'm sure the FBI keeps on me, I think you'll find I'm-"

"I know all I need to know about you, Frederickson, from reputation and from the company you keep in this liberal administration. I want you to listen to me very, very carefully. The FBI appreciates your cooperation, but as of this moment the matter is entirely out of your jurisdiction. Agent Burana obviously did good work, and you've done good work. We'll handle it from here."

"Sir, Agent Burana was a friend of mine, and he was murdered. May I ask-?"

"You may ask nothing, Frederickson. You will speak to no one else about this matter, and you will do absolutely no further investigation on your own. It could be dangerous; if this man is indeed a KGB operative, we could lose him."

"I'm aware of that, sir."

"Consider everything concerning this matter classified-which it will be as soon as we conclude our conversation. I'm sure you're aware of the penalties that could be involved if you don't handle yourself properly."

Edward J. Hendricks, director of the counterintelligence unit of the FBI, was beginning to try my patience. "You wait a goddamn minute, Hendricks," I said in a less than cheery tone. "Do you have a policy of threatening patriotic citizens who call to provide you with valuable information about Russian spies in this country?"

"I'm not the only person in Washington who has questions about your loyalty, Frederickson. But your patriotism, or lack of it, is irrelevant. What's important is that this is a matter of national security, and some things are just more important than the fact that Agent Burana may have been murdered. If what you say is true, then we may possibly want to try and turn this Acton, or use him to try to unmask his controller. Those decisions will be made in due time, and we certainly don't need a private citizen looking over our shoulders."

"You're not going to jail him while you do a preliminary investigation?"

"Let me make myself clear, Frederickson, so that there won't be any misunderstanding in the future. If it's determined that you've shared this information with anyone else or if you pursue the matter in any way, shape, or form on your own, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."

"One mistake, even a little one, on your part, and he could be gone. There are ways you can hold him."

"Mind your own business, Frederickson, and bear in mind what I just told you."

"I can't believe you're threatening me, pal. I hand you a KGB agent on a silver platter, and you treat me like I'm the enemy. Are you aware that this kind of behavior could lead someone like me to have less than total confidence in some of our public servants?

You've been spending all your time glowering at your left flank, and a nasty old Red menace slipped under the bedcovers on your right. Isn't that a howler? He killed one of your agents, Hendricks. Put the son-of-a-bitch away."

"You have a reputation for being a disrespectful wise-ass, Frederickson, and I can see that it's deserved. Your sarcasm is wasted on me. But you also have a reputation as a loose cannon. Before you do anything that may not be in the best interests of this country, consider the prosecution I mentioned-and, of course, the fact that you would almost certainly lose your license. This conversation is the end of your involvement in this matter, Frederickson. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," I said. "Have a nice day."

I hung up, then immediately picked up the phone again and called our travel agent to make arrangements to get me on the first available flight that would take me to Dayton, Ohio.

Then I dialed the number of the Cairn Town Hall.

I understood, all right. Best interests of the country, indeed. Hendricks, I thought, was too accustomed to talking to freshly minted graduates of the FBI academy. If it was possible to be outraged but not surprised by someone's behavior, that was how I felt. I didn't regret calling Edward J. Hendricks, because it had been essentially a forced move. I'd hoped for a different reception and outcome from the one I'd gotten, but I wasn't really surprised by what had happened. Elysius Culhane and Edward J. Hendricks-two hard-liners who listed so far to the right that it was a wonder they didn't fall over when they walked-were undoubtedly the best of buddies, and Hendricks was undoubtedly one of Culhane's government sources. Asses and reputations had to be protected, and there was no doubt in my mind that at that very moment orders were going out to all sorts of people with different interests but a common ideology to begin circling their wagons. This was one little Indian who was determined to find a way to sneak into their camp before all the wagons were in place.

Dan Mosely was off duty. I told the dispatcher who I was and strongly suggested that Chief Mosely get back on duty and in his office, because that was where I was going to be in approximately one hour and ten minutes.

Garth wouldn't be home for hours. I considered leaving him another message, then decided that the first would suffice. Then, without really knowing why, I took my Beretta out of the safe, where it had sat for close to a year. I quickly cleaned and oiled it, loaded up, strapped it on, and headed down to the garage.

Dan Mosely was behind his desk in the police headquarters at Cairn Town Hall. He was not in uniform, but he looked freshly showered and shaved. He wore a white cotton polo shirt over pale blue sailcloth slacks, and weathered docksiders worn without socks. Draped over his desk was a navy-blue windbreaker with the Cairn Yacht Club logo emblazoned over the left breast. He rose when I entered his office, but did not extend his hand. His steel-colored eyes and manner reflected more than a hint of annoyance.

"You didn't tell the dispatcher why you wanted to see me, Frederickson," he said brusquely as he motioned for me to sit in the chair beside his desk. "I hope it's important. I race on Sundays, and I was just about to go out when Officer McAlpin came around to tell me you'd called and were on your way. What is it?"

"I thought you'd want to know who killed Michael Burana," I said evenly, "so I'm here to tell you."

Mosely slowly eased his six-foot frame down into his leather swivel chair, absently touched the scars around his neck. "Explain."

"Jay Acton, Elysius Culhane's right-hand man, as it were, good buddy and key advisor, is a KGB officer. He would have had a strong motive for killing Michael, because Michael had found out about him. Michael found out that the man who calls himself Jay Acton was born in Russia to an English-speaking mother who was a hard-line communist ideologue and a KGB officer. Michael must have confronted Acton with the information; I'm not sure why he'd do that, but after all the shit he caught after the CIA defector thing, he may have wanted to bag himself a KGB operative on his own. Acton must have gotten the drop on him. He knocked Michael unconscious, drowned him in the river, then stole one of the Community's canoes and set it adrift so that the death would look like a boating accident."

Mosely pursed his lips, narrowed his eyelids as he stared at me. Finally he said, "My God, you're serious, aren't you?"

"Oh, good. You noticed."

"You left Cairn not much more than twenty-four hours ago, and it's a weekend. What happened between yesterday and today to bring you to this conclusion of yours?"

"I got a tip."

"From whom?"

"I can't tell you that yet."

"Are you claiming this is some kind of privileged information?"

"I'm saying I can't tell you yet."

"You mean you won't."

"As you like. As long as Acton is walking around free, my informant's life is in danger."

"Don't play games with me, Frederickson. You can come all the way back to Cairn to accuse a man of murder, but you won't say how you got your information. Maybe you're not so serious after all. Where's your proof?"

"I don't have proof that Acton is a murderer, and I may never have; he certainly isn't likely to confess. I doubt I'll even be able to prove that he's working for the KGB."

"Then what the hell-?!"

"I intend to prove beyond any doubt that he can't be who and what he says he is. I intend to prove that his birth records are phony, which means that every ID and document he has, from his Social Security card to his passport, is also phony. Then I'll produce a witness who'll tie Acton to a Russian mother who came to the United States with her baby, or young son, because the KGB ordered her to. When I do that, it may be enough to make a murder charge stick. It will certainly show motive. Maybe things will just fall into place."

"If you think Jay Acton is a spy, you should have reported it to the FBI."

"I did report it to the FBI. I spoke to Edward J. Hendricks, the head of their counterintelligence division."

"What did he say?"

"He takes me seriously."

"Then let the FBI handle it."

"Listen to me, Chief, because I'm going to tell you the drill. Edward J. Hendricks and Elysius Culhane are the best of friends and ideological soulmates. Hendricks is going to feel it's not only his personal but his patriotic duty to protect the reputation and career of his friend and to save the harebrained political faction they represent from some serious embarrassment. If it ever comes out that the principal spokesman for the radical right wing in this country has spent upwards of the past ten years speaking and acting on the advice of a KGB agent, said American right wing will end up a laughingstock around the world. Hendricks isn't going to allow that to happen, not if he can help it. If you and I leave Mr. Hendricks to his own devices, I guarantee you that word will somehow leak to Acton, and he'll split. The fact of who and what he was will be clamped under a tight lid of secrecy in the name of national security. It's called a cover-up."

"In your opinion, that's what will happen."

"You've got it."

"You're a hell of a cynic, Frederickson. Even if what you say about Acton is true, and I find it almost impossible to believe, I find it almost equally impossible to believe that your FBI friend would have compromised a matter of national security by unnecessarily exposing himself to danger. And I find it impossible to believe that a high-ranking FBI official would compromise national security for reasons of personal friendship or political expediency."

I sighed, shook my head. "I get this shit from a man who spent twenty years in the NYPD? You must have been permanently assigned to pooper-scooper detail."

Mosely flushed. "You've got a bad mouth, Frederickson."

"Do I? Let me tell you something about national security and cover-ups, Chief. During the course of my somewhat problematic career, I've had occasion to rub shoulders with a number of your spy types. My experiences have convinced me that about ten percent of our nation's so-called secrets are really secret, and should be. The only people who don't know the other ninety percent are Americans, because if American citizens ever found out the truth about some of the jokers we allow to run our lives and the incredible mistakes they've made, a whole hell of a lot of politicians, generals, and bureaucrats would be thrown out on the street. Most of what these people like to call national security is really political damage control; they don't want to lose their jobs. You may recall that the whole Iran-Contra farce was originally reported in a Lebanese newspaper. Right now, Hendricks is checking out Acton, employing hundreds of times the resources I have, and it isn't going to take him very long at all to discover that I'm right, that Acton is a KGB plant. Hendricks may or may not tip off Culhane, but he'll sure as hell find a way to make sure that Acton hightails it back home to Russia before he's caught and newspaper and television reporters can have at him. That's how your vaunted FBI is going to handle it-at least that's how Hendricks is going to handle it. I wouldn't give a shit, and would probably find it all highly amusing, if not for the fact that Acton almost certainly killed a good friend of mine. That I don't find amusing. I want Acton nailed publicly for what he is, and I want Michael Burana to get the credit for nailing him. That's probably the best I can hope for, but it's better than nothing. And I'll take some comfort in the fact that I don't think Mr. Acton is going to much like life in Russia after spending most of his life here."

Dan Mosely crossed, then uncrossed, his legs. He picked up a pencil and started to doodle on a pad, realized what he was doing, and stopped. Despite his obvious nervousness, his voice was steady, low. "Frederickson, that reputation of yours that we discussed doesn't begin to do you justice. You're a wild man. You're crazy. You just can't do whatever it is you think you want to do."

"You're wrong; I can, and I will. The reason I came here was to tell you that. You've treated me with respect and courtesy up to this point, and I figured I owed it to you to make sure you were kept fully informed-by me, at least-of what's likely to be going down on your turf. I didn't, don't, want you to be embarrassed in any way. Also, quite frankly, there's something I want you to do; it's something I think you should do."

Mosely abruptly swiveled around in his chair, turning his back to me, and eased back in the chair. It was the equivalent of a roll-your-eyes-toward-the-ceiling gesture, but his tone remained even when he spoke. "And just what would that be, Frederick-son?"

"I'm on my way to Dayton, Ohio. That's where Jay Acton was supposedly born; for openers, I'm going to gather evidence to prove otherwise. But the danger is that I may unknowingly set off some built-in warning signals when I start to snoop around, and these would serve to warn Acton that somebody else is on to him. I don't want to do Hendricks any favors; Acton has to be frozen in place. What I want you to do is jail the bastard right now and find a way to keep him in jail while I go to work on him."

Mosely slowly swiveled around to face me, then raised his eyebrows. "You'd like me to put a man in jail, and keep him in jail, so that you won't end up in jail. Is that right?"

"If you like. I don't want him to get away."

"What do you suggest I charge him with?"

"Start off with suspicion of murder. Then trot out your best prosecutor to argue against bail on the grounds that very serious espionage charges may be pending against Mr. Acton. Make sure the local press hears about that. Believe me, once he's canned and the press starts to sniff around him, you'll have lots of help. Once it looks to Hendricks like the commie is out of the bag, it will look and feel as if you're holding an FBI convention in Cairn. They'll want to grab the credit. But the first move has to be made, and then the rest will follow."

"You say."

"I say."

"Somehow, I can imagine a number of different scenarios as to how things could turn out, and I don't like any of them."

"Give me two days. That's all I'll need to get the ball rolling-and the FBI will be taking him off your hands long before that, if you'll do the other things I suggested."

"I'm not sure you're aware of what you're asking me to do, Frederickson, or what this could cost me. I'm not sure you're fully aware of what it could cost you. Not only is what you want to do of questionable legality, but you propose to duke it out with some very, very heavy people."

"Look, Mosely, I appreciate your feeling that I'm putting you in a box, but that's Jay Acton's fault, not mine. You're the chief of police in Cairn, and a man was murdered here."

"That hasn't been determined yet."

"You're not listening to me, Chief. The fact that the murderer is most probably a KGB agent is really beside the point, but it complicates matters in this case. I'm just trying to simplify things. The way I see it, you have a chance to be a hero; you're going to be the small-town cop who bagged a KGB operative. This is going to be a very big story, and you're going to be a part of it one way or another. It's Hendricks and the FBI you'll have to fight for credit, not me. You'll have to take my word for it when I tell you I've had enough publicity bullshit to last me a lifetime. My only interest is in nailing the man who murdered my friend."

"Damned if I don't believe you, Frederickson," Mosely said drily as he rocked slightly in his chair. "The problem is that in all the scenarios I can imagine, I get flushed right down the toilet along with you. In effect, you're asking me to aid and abet you in violating a man's legal rights, and possibly jeopardizing national security interests, while you pursue a personal vendetta."

"You've got it ass-backward, Chief, which is exactly how Hendricks-and Culhane, if he knew about it-would like you to have it. I'm trying to bag a murderer, and in doing so, I'll be removing a possible threat to national security."

"You're insane."

"That may well be, but bear in mind that if you don't do something to freeze Acton in place, and he skips, you could end up getting some decidedly negative publicity. If I do Hendricks's work for him and scare Acton away, the FBI is going to need a scapegoat. They may not stop with me. So help me, Chief. Be a hero. No gain without pain. Go for it."

Mosely's response was to grunt, abruptly rise from his chair, and head for the door. "Wait here for me, Frederickson."

"Where are you going, Chief?" I asked, half rising from my chair. "If you're going to pick up Acton now, you'd better take some men with you. He's probably armed."

"I'll only be a few minutes," he said over his shoulder as he walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

It was thirty-two minutes, to be exact, and Mosely got back just as I was preparing to get up and leave. He opened the door and entered the office looking tense, decidedly sheepish, and more than a little embarrassed. The reason for his discomfort stormed into the office right on his heels, fairly flew across the room toward me, and stopped barely inches away, hovering over me and trembling with fury. He was dressed in a pair of floral-pattern Bermuda shorts with matching short-sleeve shirt. He'd apparently dressed in a pretty big hurry, because the cordovan shoes he was wearing were untied. The tremor in his right hand was now especially pronounced. His close-set black eyes gleamed with rage-but also, I thought, with fear. His graying black hair was uncombed and stuck out from the sides of his head. Sweat ran down both sides of his crooked nose. Elysius Culhane no longer looked like a well-dressed thug, but merely a sweaty, extremely upset thug.

"What are you doing, Frederickson?!" Culhane screamed as he pounded the desk beside me. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"It looks like you got the bad news, Mr. Culhane," I said as I glanced across the room at Mosely, who was standing stiffly with his back to us as he pretended to study a painting of a sailboat. The scarred flesh of his neck around his collar was very red.

"You can't do this to me, Frederickson!" Culhane shouted, pounding his fist on the desk again for emphasis.

I was getting a lot of Culhane's saliva in my face. I rose from my chair, stepped behind it. "Do this to you, Mr. Culhane? Nobody's doing anything to you."

"You're irresponsible!"

"Irresponsible? I'm not the one who hired himself a KGB agent just because his rhetoric put him to the right of Genghis Khan. How many of this nation's secrets have been leaked to you, Culhane, secrets that the Russians are now privy to?"

Culhane's jaw muscles worked, and for a moment I thought he was going to spit in my face. He didn't. Instead, he clenched his trembling hands to his sides, took a step backward, and drew himself up very straight. "You've made some very serious accusations, Frederickson," he said thickly, his rage making him slur his words together.

"I'd call them shocking. But you're not accused of anything but poor judgment and gullibility. My only interest is in nailing the KGB agent on your staff."

"This is none of your business, Frederickson! I want you to know I've already spoken to a very high-ranking FBI official, and he informs me that you're endangering national security! He's considering issuing a warrant for your arrest!"

"It'll be a cold day in hell before Edward J. Hendricks issues a warrant for my arrest, Culhane. It was never a possibility. Would you like to see me on trial? You'd be my first witness. I'm sure there are no fewer than five thousand reporters in this country who'd love to hear the story of the spokesman for the far right who, for years, has been using a KGB officer as an advisor."

"Think about the country, Frederickson! Do you really think it's in the best interests of the United States to have a story like that made public? It will make the whole nation look foolish!"

"Spare me, Culhane. It's not hard to figure out who's going to look foolish."

"I'm warning you, Frederickson!"

"Don't waste your time, Culhane; I've been threatened by really scary people. Let's talk about the real issue here. I note that you haven't tried to defend Acton; you haven't even suggested that I could be wrong. After your talk with your buddy Hendricks, I think you know better. With nothing more than your aide's Social Security number, which I have, I can prove he isn't who he says he is and that he wasn't born where and when he says he was. I have evidence he was born in Russia. I told all this to Hendricks, and it looks like he told you. All you're concerned about right now is your own ass. If you want to minimize any damage to your reputation as a fire-breathing, clear-thinking, hard-nosed movement conservative who would never let the Russians pull the wool over his eyes, I suggest you get with my program. Tell your employee over there to slap the cuffs on Acton and haul him into one of the cells he's got here. And then tell your friend Hendricks that you will not stand for any cover-up, and you insist that justice be done. I want to see a little patriotic fervor on your part regarding this matter. Acton may have made a fool of you, but you'll have the last laugh by helping to get him locked up and brought to justice. How about it, Culhane? Want to help me catch a commie spy?"

Elysius Culhane's response was to change colors like a traffic light-red to yellow to green-and retch. He got his hands over his mouth just in time to stop the initial flow of vomit, which oozed out through his fingers. Then he spun around and dashed from the office. I heard the door to the men's room out in the corridor open, and slam shut.

"I can't believe you did what you did, Mosely," I said in a low, tense voice as I came out from behind the protective barrier of the chair and started across the room toward Cairn's chief of police. Contempt tasted sour in my mouth, and I wanted to make sure there was no doubt in the other man's mind just what I thought of him. "Did you think this would be like fixing a traffic ticket? Where the fuck are your brains?"

Mosely spun around on his heels. His face was even redder, and continued embarrassment swam in his eyes along with an uneasy mix of anger and shame. But there was nothing apologetic about his tone. "Where the fuck are yours, Frederickson?!" he snapped. "You're in way, way over your head on this, and you refuse to see it! What want just isn't as important as you seem to think it is! Maybe you're not as important as you think you are! You're just one big, fucking headache. It's not the business of this police department to help you carry out a personal vendetta. There are other issues involved here, big issues involving the reputations of important people as well as the good of the country. I'm no right-winger, Frederickson, but I'm not an ideological neuter, a man without a country, like you, either. I care about this country, and I've heard enough from you to know that you don't really give a rat's ass about the United States. Maybe you don't really give a rat's ass about anything except what you want, which in this case is revenge. If Jay Acton is a spy, then it's going to be taken care of. What fucking right do you have to say that you're right, and Elysius Culhane and the whole FBI are wrong? What right do you have to ask me to put my career on the line just so you can go off sharpshooting on your own? You have no right, Frederickson! So fuck off!"

I took a deep breath and backed away a few steps, retreating from my own anger as well as from Chief of Police Dan Mosely. I knew now that I had wasted my time in returning to Cairn and certainly wasted my energy by getting angry at Mosely.

"Do you think Culhane is going to respect you for this?" I asked quietly. "Do you think he's going to reward you or that your job is safer now? Forget it. If he and his right-wing buddies can engineer a scoot by Acton before he's caught, you're just going to be a continuing embarrassment to Culhane. You're making a big mistake, and by the time you realize it, it will be too late. I suspect you're not going to be feeling too good about it."

Mosely shook his head. "The leaders of this country aren't as corrupt or incompetent as you think they are, Frederickson. I'm keeping you from making a big mistake. There'll come a time when you'll thank me for this."

"Did you call Culhane or go and pick him up?"

Mosely stared at me for a time, and I didn't think he was going to answer. But he finally said, "I called him."

"Was Acton there when you spoke to him?"

"He's out sailing."

"I guess we have to learn to be thankful for small favors."

"Get out of here, Frederickson. If you want to end up with your ass in a federal prison, do it on your own time. I don't want to see or hear from you again."

I was trying to select an appropriate response from my reservoir of witty repartee when Elysius Culhane, now looking merely very pale, came back into the office. His hair was wet, matted down and combed straight back. He'd done a fairly good job of cleaning himself up, but there was still a strand of moist vomit that he apparently wasn't aware of staining die front of his shirt. He walked to the middle of the room, stopped a few paces away from me.

"You listen to me, Frederickson," he said, calmer now, but still slurring his words together slightly. "I'm not going to waste any more time arguing with you. I will not allow you to trash my reputation and career, and I will not allow you to use this unfortunate matter to subject the good, God-fearing, and patriotic people of this great nation to ridicule-which is certainly what you would like to do. As you know, I have very powerful friends in Washington. So do you. But I suspect that I have more than you do, and if it starts making the rounds that you're a traitor, that left-wing, candy-ass Shannon is going to run from you like a stuck pig. A traitor's what you'd be, because damaging my reputation would be a victory for the communists, something they sorely need right now. The Russians would have the whole world laughing at us. You're perfectly willing to be used as a propaganda tool by this nation's enemies."

"Jesus Christ, Culhane, would you believe that you actually have the capacity to make me feel sorry for you? You really do believe all that shit you say you believe, don't you? You can actually make yourself believe anything you want, and reason has nothing to do with it. Elysius Culhane in Wonderland. And here I thought you were just a hypocritical con man who'd learned to make a good living spouting garbage and waving the flag."

"That's the communist in you talking, Frederickson; that's Russian propaganda. People like you are what's wrong with this country. And don't count on your friend, Mr. Lippitt, who everyone knows dotes on the Frederickson brothers like sons. The Defense Intelligence Agency is small potatoes compared with the FBI and CIA. If Jay Acton is a KGB spy like you say he is, then the proper authorities will take care of the matter. But if you try to interfere any longer in any way, if you dare to even whisper a word to anyone about a KGB agent on my staff, I will sue you for slander and libel for everything you and your big creep of a brother have. And those powerful friends of mine will make sure I win. Cross me on this, Frederickson, and I will see that you lose your licenses, as well as all your possessions. You and your brother will be ruined. You are definitely to take this as a threat. If you try to use the information you have to harm this country that I love, I will crush you. Do I make myself perfectly-?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Culhane," I said mildly. "You've got throw-up on the front of your shirt. It's really disgusting."

"Huh-?"

That seemed as good an exit line as any, and as Elysius Culhane looked down at the front of his shirt, I walked around him and out of the office. I gave the door at the entrance to the town hall a good kick on my way out, but only managed to hurt my toe. Still seething, I walked quickly to where Beloved Too was parked on the street, got in, started the motor, and popped the clutch. Beloved Too's tires spun, and I left twin swaths of rubber behind as I shot away from the curb.

I started calming down and feeling considerably better by the time I reached the Cairn town limits. It was close to 5:00, but my flight out of LaGuardia wasn't until 9:15. Figuring I had plenty of time to pack and brief Garth on what I was up to before leaving for the airport, I stopped in Nyack-in my opinion the finest, and certainly the funkiest, of the riverfront towns-to get a liquor-laced ice-cream cone at a small ice-cream shop called Temptations. Then I sat on one of the two wood-and-iron benches outside to eat my cone and watch the weekend day-trippers from the city wandering by while I considered my position. All in all, I decided, things were not going all that badly.

I had been outraged by what I considered a lack of professionalism, cowardice, and a betrayal of my trust on the part of Dan Mosely. But on reflection, I decided that the policeman had probably done me a favor, albeit unwittingly; he'd certainly done Elysius Culhane no favor by informing him that his top aide was probably a KGB agent. In effect, Mosely's phone call had made Culhane a conscious, responsible player, and then Culhane, by confronting and threatening me, had dealt himself even deeper into the game. He now shared responsibility for what happened to Jay Acton. Despite all his bluster and self-delusion, I was fairly certain he knew that I was going to proceed apace. I was also fairly certain that Culhane, by the time he paused long enough to change his shirt, would realize that, under the circumstances, he really had no choice but to help catch the spy he had hired, and then try to capture as much of the credit as he could in order to defend himself against the ridicule and other hits he was certain to take. If anyone could pull strings to keep Acton safely behind bars for two or three days, it was Elysius Culhane; in the end Culhane, for his own reasons, could end up my strongest ally.

I finished my cone, climbed back into Beloved Too, and went south on Broadway to 9W, then headed for Exit 4 of the Palisades Parkway. To my left, the Tappan Zee Bridge bisected the Hudson River, which appeared unusually blue and sparkling in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. Farther on, the grand earthen dam that had given Piermont its name jutted halfway across the river, a relic of World War II. It had been a busy weekend, and I was starting to feel tired, lazy. That feeling didn't last long. I perked up considerably when I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a bulky pickup truck with a heavy steel plate welded to its front end come zipping up behind me to settle in only inches from my rear bumper. The man behind the wheel was wearing a ski mask-a bright red one, with Ho Ho Ho embroidered in green across the forehead.

Tailgating truck drivers wearing ski masks in August tend to make me jittery. I snapped on my seat belt and shoulder harness, tightened the straps as far as they would go, then took my Beretta from the glove department and laid it on the seat beside my thigh before tromping on the accelerator. My abrupt acceleration saved me from the full force of impact as the steel plate welded to the truck's front end struck me in the rear, but it was still enough to send me into a slight power skid. I straightened out, floored the accelerator again. The man behind me obviously had a few horses under his hood, because he immediately started gaining on me again.

Route 9W along this section was two-laned, winding and very narrow, with virtually no shoulders; trees lined the highway to my right, and to my left was all steep, tree-covered embankment with small houses nestled in alcoves all the way down to the river. There just wasn't that much room to maneuver. The next town was perhaps five or six miles ahead; there I could power slide off the highway into the parking lot of a restaurant or service station. But I was going to have to get there first, before I was shoved off the road into a tree.

Hoping to give my oversized partner in bumper tag something else to think about besides the fun of ramming me, I picked up my Beretta, switched it to my left hand, reached around, and winged a shot over my right shoulder. The rear window shattered, but when I looked into my rearview mirror I could see that I had missed the truck's windshield entirely. The driver was once again coming up on me fast.

There was a car coming the other way. I furiously honked my horn and flashed my headlights; the driver of the other car, apparently thinking that I was warning him of a speed trap ahead of him, honked and flashed back, waved cheerily as he sped past. I fired again, this time half turning in my seat and taking my eyes off the road for an instant in an effort to get off a better shot.

I turned back just in time to see the armored front end of a huge semi-trailer cab easing out into my lane from a side road. The driver of the second truck wore no ski mask, either because it would have hurt his heavily bandaged face or because he saw no need to hide his features from the man he intended to see dead. The grimly leering, bruised and bandaged, but clearly recognizable face of Gregory Trex was visible in the truck cab's side window. Crashing into the cab meant certain death for me and probably wouldn't do more than slightly addle the granite-headed Trex. My options were the ultimate in slim pickings.

I whipped the steering wheel to the left, then released my grip on the wheel and locked my hands behind my neck, bracing as the car hit the slight shoulder on the left and went airborne. This, I thought as I waited for the impending crash and darkness, was the last car I was going to name Beloved.

I didn't have long to wait.