scoonts.theminotaur-第54节
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year…old。〃
〃Just because you wear trousers； huh？〃
〃No。 Because when I was growing up my father was the head of his family； and I intend to be the head of mine。 It's a tried and true system with ancient tradition to mend it。 We're going to stick with it。〃
〃You can't issue orders around here； Captain Grafton。 Amy and I don't wear uniforms。〃 She raised a finger； mimicking his gesture。
This evening was also off to a rocky start。
Jake put down his newspaper and examined the vegetable situation。 The child apparently hadn't touched a pea or a carrot。 She was staring fixedly at her plate with a sullen； defiant look。
〃How was school today？〃 Jake asked。
No answer。
〃I asked you a question； Amy。〃
〃Okay。〃
〃Tell me about your teachers。〃
〃What do you want to know？〃
〃Their names； what subjects they teach； what they look tike； whether you like them。 That kind of stuff。〃
〃Wellll；〃 Amy said； her gaze flicking across Jake's face； 〃some of them are nice and some aren't。〃 And away she went on a five…minute exposition that covered the school day from opening to closing bell。 Jake tossed in an occasional question when she paused for air。
When she had exhausted the teacher subject； Jake asked； 〃What subjects do you think you're going to like best？〃
Away she went again； debating the merits of math versus English； social studies versus science。 This…time when she ran down； Jake asked if she had any homework。
〃Some math problems。〃
〃Need any help with them？〃
〃The division ones；〃 she said tentatively。
〃Eat some of those peas and carrots and we'll clear the table and work on the problems。〃
〃How many do I have to eat？〃
〃Two spoonfuls of each。〃
She made a face and did as she was bid。 As he carried the dishes to the sink； Jake asked； 〃Just what vegetables do you like？〃
〃Not any of them。〃
〃Well； do you have some that you don't hate as much as others？〃
〃Corn。 Corn is okay。 But not the creamed kind。〃 She squirmed。 〃And I like lima beans。〃
〃No kidding？ So do I。 Maybe we can have some tomorrow night。 How about it； Callie？〃 His wife was standing by the little desk that served as a paper catchall； looking once again at the diet book。 She turned to Jake and nodded。 She had tears in her eyes。 He winked at her。
〃Amy； better get your school books。 And； Callie； don't we have some sugarless dessert around here for little girls who eat their dinner？〃
17
A woman from the garage called at 10 A。M。 and said his car was ready： 119。26。 Camacho told her he would stop by after work。 She hung up before he could even ask what the problem had been。
Dreyfus gave him a ride and dropped him in front of the showroom。
The new cars gleamed shamelessly and flashed their chrome with wanton abandon as he walked by。 Light； easy…listening music sounded everywhere。 Two salesmen asked if he needed help。
He paid for the repairs at a window where a harried young woman juggled two phones as she pounded numbers into a puter。 He surrendered his driver's license for her scrutiny before she asked。 Without even glancing to see if his pass matched the photo； she copied the number onto the check and slid it back at him。
His six…year…old car sat amid twenty or so others of its vintage on a gravel lot out back。 Dingy and coated with road grime； it hadn't seen wax since。。。 not since he gave his son twenty dollars that Saturday two years ago and the kid let the wax dry like paint all over the car before he tried to wipe it off。
Camacho unlocked the door； rolled down the windows and tossed the yellow card dangling from the rearview…mirror bracket onto the floor。 The car started readily enough and ran sweetly。 He examined the invoice。 Diagnostic test。 Defective spark plug。 Defective lead cable？ Ouch…they got him there！ Labor。 How is it a garage can charge 55 per hour for a mechanic's time？
About two miles from the garage was a shopping center with a large parking lot； most of which was empty except for light poles and a couple of cars that looked as if they had sat in those spots all winter。 One even had two flat tires。
He parked near it and got his jack from the trunk。 The rear end went up first。 He had an old army blanket in the trunk and spread it under the car so he wouldn't get too filthy。
With coat and tie on the back seat； flashlight in hand； Luis Camacho slid gingerly under the car。 He knew exactly what he was looking for； but it might be hard to spot。
Five minutes later he stood beside the car and scratched his head。 If Albright had put a bomb in this thing； where was it？
After a thorough scrutiny of the engine partment and the trunk cavity； he attacked the door panels and rockers with a Phillips…head screwdriver。 How many possible places were there？ The backseats？ Could he get them loose and look under them？ The odds of a bomb being there were small； of course； but there was a chance。 Just how big a chance； Camacho didn't know。 Peter Aleksandrovich Chistyakov was not a man to take unnecessary risks。 That double…agent discussion yesterday had frightened Camacho； ing as it did from a man who owned an assassin's pistol and had enough gadgets in his attic to blow up half the cops in Washington。
To assess just how likely it was that good ol' Harlan Albright had decided to eliminate a possible threat； one would need to know just what it was that was being threatened。 How many other agents was he running？ What kind of information were they getting？
Of course； Albright could slip a bomb under the car any night while Camacho snored in his own bed。 Risky； but feasible。 But perhaps he had planted a bomb with a radio…actuated device as insurance； hoping he wouldn't have to use it； but with it already in place should the need arise。 A careful man might do something like that； right？
Apparently Albright was a careful man。 The bomb was in the driver's door； behind the panel； below the window glass when it was rolled pletely down。 It had been carefully taped in place so it wouldn't rattle。
At a glance it appeared to contain a couple pounds of plastique。 One fuse stuck out of the oblong mass。 A wire ran from the fuse to a servo and from the servo to a six…volt battery。 A little receiver was wired to the servo and four AA batteries were hooked up to power it。 A tiny wire attached to the receiver was routed all along the inside of the door。 It was a simple； radio…actuated bomb。 Simple and effective。
Luis Camacho pulled the ruse from the bomb and used a penknife to cut the wire。 The plastique and the rest of it he left in place。
Sweating in spite of the fifty…five…degree weather and fifteen…mile…per…hour wind； he replaced the jack in the trunk。 The door panel he put in the backseat。
Had he figured it right？ Was this merely insurance？ Or had Albright…Chistyakov already decided to push the button？
Standing there beside the car； he looked around slowly； checking。 A lot of good that will do you； Luis。 Cursing under his breath； be got behind the wheel and started the car。
There was a little hardware store in the shopping center； right between a gourmet food store and a factory fabric outlet。 Inside Camacho bought a small flashlight； a coil of insulated wire； and some black electrician's tape。
Out in the parking lot he used the knife and screwdriver to disassemble the flashlight。 The bulb he mounted with tape on a bole he carved in the door panel。 Fifteen minutes later he had the last screw back in place and the crank for the window reinstalled。
There！ Now if Albright pushes the button； instead of a big bang； this flashlight bulb will illuminate and burn continuously until that sis…volt ni…cad battery in the door is pletely discharged。 Assuming he sees the illuminated bulb…and the unsoldered wire connections don't vibrate loose…our saintly hero Luis Camacho； FBI ace spy catcher； will then have time to bend over and kiss his ass goodbye before the bullets from the silenced Ruger 。22 send him to a kinder； more gentle world。
What more could any man ask？
He sat behind the wheel staring at the storefronts。 After a moment he got out of the car and walked back across the parking lot to the gourmet store； the Bon Vivant。 The place smelled of herb and flower leaf sachets。 The clerk； a woman in her forties with king； ironed hair； was too engrossed in a book to even nod at him。 He wandered through the aisles； looking at cans and jars of stuff imported from all over the world。 Nothing from Iowa here。 If it's green or purple and packed in a jar from Europe or the Orient； with an outrageous price； you know it's got to be good。
He selected a jar of blue French jam； 〃Bilberry〃 the label said； paid 4。32 plus tax to the refugee from Berkeley； and walked back across the empty； gray parking lot to his car。
The flight surgeon at the China Lake dispensary pronounced Rita fit to fly on Friday afternoon。 Jake Grafton spent Saturday in the hangar with Samuel Dodgers and Helmut Fritsche going over the puter program and modifications to Athena that were needed。
As he worked Jake became even more impressed with Dodgers' technological achievement and even more disenchanted with Dodgers the human being。 Like every fanatic； Dodgers thought in absolutes which left no room for tolerance or dissen
