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〃I'll make the call。〃
〃Homer；〃 said Nash； 〃maybe…〃
〃I'll make the call。 And you go on home； Prescott。 Thanks for being here this afternoon。 I'll call you。〃
〃Are you sure you…？〃
Wiggins was examining his hands。 Martin Prescott Nash rose from his chair and went out the door。 It swung shut behind him。
〃Smoke； this is Homer Wiggins。〃
〃I told you never to call me…〃
〃Something's e up。 The FBI are here； in Detroit。 They're checking out the chips。 I'm just letting you know。〃
Smoke Judy was silent for several seconds。 〃Have they talked to you？〃
〃Yes。〃
〃What…？〃 His voice fell。 〃Do they know？〃
〃About you？ I don't know。 I think…they might。 Definitely。〃
〃Did you…？〃
〃I've got to go now； Smoke。 I just wanted you to know。〃 Wiggins held the instrument away from his ear； and at a nod from Camacho； Dreyfus simultaneously depressed the buttons on both telephones； severing the connection。
When they were alone in the car on the way back to the airport； Camacho said； 〃I got a little job for you tomorrow； Dreyfus。 We're going to need all our people； and you'll probably have to borrow a bunch。〃
Dreyfus fished out his pipe and tobacco and merely glanced at his boss。
〃I want to keep track of a man。 We'll need discreet surveillance teams； couple of choppers and the electronics boys。〃
〃Anyone I know。〃
〃Nope。 It's my next…door neighbor； guy named Harlan Albright。〃
〃You know； in my fifteen years in the FBI I have never felt more like a mushroom than I have working for you。 You've kept me in the dark and shoveled shit at me for eighteen months now。 If you got croaked tomorrow； I couldn't even tell the old man what the hell you were working on。 I don't know。〃
Camacho； behind the wheel； kept his eyes on the road。 〃The electronics guys already put listening devices in his house； three days ago when his air conditioning went out。 It was too good an opportunity to pass up。〃
Dreyfus got his pipe going strongly and rolled down his window。 The car's air conditioning was going full blast。 〃Think he's screwing your wife？〃
〃Read the security regulations lately； Dreyfus？〃
〃Listen； boss。 And listen good。 You want good solid work from me but you don't want me to know anything。 Now I am just about one day away from submitting my resignation。 I don't need this shit and I'm not gonna keep taking it！ Not for you； not for the old man； not for the Director； not for any of you spook dingdongs。 And you can put that in my final evaluation！〃
Camacho braked the car to a stop at a light。 He just sat there behind the wheel； watching the light； waiting for it to change。 When it did； he glanced left and hesitated。 An old junker car was going to run the red。 As it hurled by； Dreyfus leaned out his window with his middle finger jabbed prominently aloft。 Camacho took his foot off the brake and fed gas。
〃Okay；〃 Luis Camacho said。 〃You want to know what's going on。 I'll tell you。〃 And he did。
25
On Saturday the sun rose into a clean； bright sky； a pleasant change from the haze that had been stalled over the Potomac River basin for a week。 The morning weatherman credited a cold front that had swept through during the night and blessed the metropolitan Washington area with some much…needed showers。
mander Smoke Judy absorbed the weather information while he scraped at his chin。 He had acquired the habit of listening to the morning forecasts during his twenty years in naval aviation； and it was hard to break。 Yet he wasn't paying much attention。 His mind was on other things。
After finishing at the sink and dressing； he poured himself a glass of orange juice and opened the sliding glass door to his apartment balcony。 The view was excellent； considering he was only six floors up。 From out here he could see the gleam of the Potomac and； on the horizon； the jutting spire of the Washington Monument。 As usual； the jets were droning into and out of National Airport。 Even with that cold front last night today would be hot Already the sun had a bite to it。
He sat on the little folding chair in the sun and thought once again about Harold Strong and the flight control data and Homer T。 Wiggins of AeroTech。 Nothing in life ever works out just the way you think it will； he told himself bitterly。 They should put that over the door of every public building in Washington。
Strong had gotten suspicious。 Judy had spent one too many evenings in the office； asked one too many questions about that TRX fly…by…wire system。 So Strong had doctored the data； rendering it worthless unless one knew exactly how and where it had been changed。
When Smoke found out； it was too late。 He had already given the data to AeroTech； to Homer T。 Wiggins。 Oh； even defective it was good for what Homer wanted it for； to check the AeroTech manufacturing capability and cost out the manufacturing process。 Heck； he could have written Homer a purely fictitious report that would have allowed AeroTech to acplish the same thing。 So it wasn't like he had stiffed Homer。 And both he and Homer knew that the preliminary data would be changed； probably many times； during the course of development。 There was no possibility that the erroneous stuff would end up in an airplane that someone was going to try to fly。
And still； it happened！ It happened。 All the checks that were supposed to be done； the fail…safe； zero…defects program； all of it went down the crapper in an unbelievable series of coincidences。 Now TRX was going to fire a couple of clowns who each thought the other guy had done the checks。 So neither did them。
He tossed off the last gulp of orange juice and wiped his mouth with his fingers。 He sat the empty glass on the concrete beside his chair and sat looking at the city。
Nothing he had ever attempted in his whole life had worked out right。 What was it the hippies called it？ Karma？
Funny； killing Harold Strong had been easier than he thought it would be。 Probably too easy。 No doubt someway； somehow； he had fucked that up too。
Looking back； it had been a bad decision。 Strong probably had nothing but a few baseless suspicions that he couldn't prove…
Ah well； what was done was done。 You signed for the plane and flew it as best you could and if today was your day to die； you died。 That was life。
He had wanted something besides a pension； and now he had his savings…about 56；000…and the cash from five little deals…30；000…and some stock he probably couldn't sell。 Plus his pension； a lousy 55 percent of his base pay if he lasted twenty…two years。 Yet if he cut and ran； his pension would evaporate tike a gob of spit on a hot steel deck。 If he didn't run； well。。。 he would have to give his savings and the cash to a lawyer to try to stay out of prison。 FBI agents were probably watching him this very minute。 Sitting somewhere in one of these apartments or in a vehicle down in the lot； watching him。 If Wiggins had been telling the truth。。。 But there was really no reason for him to he。 What did Wiggins have to gain by lying？
Judy had gone to work yesterday； though he had been sorely tempted to call in sick。 That little conversation Thursday evening with Wiggins； just before he walked out of the office； that had shaken him。 He had locked up his papers； bid everyone a pleasant good evening and walked out sweating。
That evening he had convinced himself there really wasn't any hurry。 It might be six months or a year before they got around to arresting him； if they ever did； and he could get out on bail。 And where could he run？ What with？
He pushed himself up； out of the chair； and went inside。 He drew the curtains。 Rummaging through the bottom drawer of his dresser； he found the 。38 he always wore in his flight gear。 He flipped out the cylinder。 Empty。 Did he have any cartridges？ He sat on the bed and tried to remember。 There should be six in the left； radio pocket of his survival vest； which was piled in a corner of the closet。 He had put them there when he emptied the pistol after his last flight in that F…14 at Tonopah。
He found the brass cartridges and dropped them into the cylinder holes。
The pistol was old； with the bluing pletely gone in places。 Nowadays they issued the kids nine…millimeters； but he had always liked the old 。38。 Amazingly enough； this was the one they issued him twenty years ago when he checked into his first fleet squadron。
The money was in a gym bag on the other side of the closet floor。 He spread it on the bed and examined the miserable pile。 Fifteen bundles of a hundred twenties each。 Three weeks' take for a twelve year…old crack salesman。 For this he bad wagered his pension and risked years in prison？
He went into the kitchen and poured himself the last of the bourbon； added some ice and water and went back out onto the balcony。
〃Here's to you； Smoke Judy； you stupid； unlucky bastard。〃
He sipped the liquor and watched the shadows shorten as the sun rose higher into the sky。 Already it was hot。 It was going to be a scorcher。
Twenty miles north of where Smoke Judy sat； Luis Camacho was trying to get his lawn mower started。 He diddled with the choke and jerked the starter rope repeatedly。 The plug fired a few times； then gave up。 He decided he had flooded it。 He could take out the plug a