The Last President. Michael Kurland

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Schuster said, taking her arm, “is the word.”

      “We mustn’t leave together,” she said. “Go out the side door and walk toward the Circle. My car’s in back. I’ll pick you up.”

      “I hate this!” Schuster said. “Couldn’t we—”

      ”Later,” she told him. “Right now, this. Later, your more direct approach, perhaps.”

      “All right,” he said. “We can’t talk about it here. Besides, that’s just one of the things we can’t do here. Pick me up. I’ll be the man with the chattering teeth and the blue thumb.”

      Curtis glanced up as a man came out of the side entrance to the Embassy, but he headed off in the wrong direction, and he wasn’t wearing a camel’s-hair overcoat. A minute later an old MG, driven by a woman with a light-blue scarf around her head, came from around the building and headed after the man, who was already out of sight. Curtis sank further down into his seat and turned on the engine again to blow some warm air into the car.

      “That man is crazy,” St. Yves said, taking off his earphones. “But the phone tap works fine.” He rewound the tape on the voice-activated recorder.

      Kit had his chair up against the window and was leaning forward, resting his forehead against the frame and peering out at the building across the street. “How’s that?” he asked.

      “He called up the Suicide Prevention Center for the phone check.”

      “Maybe he knows something we don’t,” Kit commented.

      “Damn, the batteries on this tape recorder are low. I don’t know if I have replacements.”

      “Plug it in.”

      “It doesn’t plug in. Yes, here. No, damn, they’re the wrong size.”

      Kit watched the empty street while St. Yves struggled with the equipment. In the Company, he reflected, they checked out equipment before they used it, but he decided it would be more politic not to mention it. “Say,” Kit said, “there’s a sports car pulling up in front of the building. Parking by the red line at the curb.”

      “Diplomat,” St. Yves said, uninterested. “Those bastards park on the sidewalk when they want to. Why diplomatic immunity should extend to parking tickets is something—”

      ”That’s him!” Kit said. “Getting out of the car—that’s Schuster!”

      “You sure?” St. Yves shouldered Kit aside and pulled two venetian-blind slats apart. “Son of a bitch!!” He grabbed for one of the walkie-talkies, then realized that he had pulled the batteries to see if they fit in the tape recorder. Dropping it, he ran across the room to his little canvas case and pulled out another. “Red Bear, Red Bear—quick!”

      “Yes?”

      “Get the fuck out of there. Hibernation is over—repeat, over. Head for roof. Subject is going in front door now, repeat now.”

      “Right.”

      St. Yves put the instrument down. “Now, how the hell did that happen?”

      “Your man is somewhere right now, guarding an empty car,” Kit said. “What now?”

      “Go get the license number of that MG,” St. Yves said.

      “Okay.” Kit went outside and strolled over to the car, then strolled back.

      “They made it out okay,” St. Yves said. “Let them stay on the roof for a couple of minutes, then we’ll bring them down and split. Peterson thinks Schuster won’t notice anything disturbed, but he’s not sure. At least he retrieved all the equipment. Wouldn’t do to give Schuster another camera to find. What about the car?”

      “License number DPL one-four-five-three.”

      “Good!” St. Yves grabbed for the phone. “If it was a regular plate, we’d have to wait for DMV to open in the morning, but I think we have a list of DPL plates somewhere in the office.” He talked on the phone earnestly for about five minutes, and when he hung up there was a gleam in his eyes. “The car is registered to the wife of a Canadian cultural attaché,” he said. “Cultural attaché. How nice. ‘Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.’

      “Mr. Schuster doesn’t know it now, in the position he’s in, or will shortly be in, but I think we have him by the short hairs. By the very short hairs, indeed. Come on, get those people off the roof. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      THE OVAL OFFICE, Tuesday, June 26, 1973 (10:15-11:05 a.m.)

      MEETING: The President, Vandermeer, Ober, and St. Yves.

      AUTHORIZED TRANSCRIPTION

      FROM THE EXECUTIVE ARCHIVES

      Following a discussion about new staff appointments with Vandermeer. Ober and St. Yves enter.

      P. Hi, Charlie, Ed. (unintelligible) are you?

      O. Yes, sir.

      P. I saw the press coverage on the opening of the institute.

      O. Right, sir. The Institute for an Informed America is on line, and going ahead.

      P. I don’t think we got enough mileage out of that. Put a couple of our Jew-intellectual writers on it—get articles out to the great silent majority out there. Something about how the Democrats will ruin the country if we can’t get a majority in Congress in ’74. You know, how the Democrats put people on welfare instead of creating jobs for them. A projection, with dates and all.

      O. Great idea, sir.

      P. How’s it coming with your boys, Ed? The institute working for you?

      St. Y. Great cover, sir. Gets most of the operations out of the White House. We’ve still got our office in the basement of the EOB of course, but—

      P. It sure simplifies the money thing. No more Mexican banks, or any of that crap. We put the word out that anyone wants to help us, he donates a little bread directly to the institute.

      V. What about that leak? You got a handle on that?

      St. Y. I think so. This reporter, Schuster, we’ve been running a security check on him. He has a, um, contact that might prove helpful to us. That is, we may be able to hold it against him.

      P. Contact? You mean (unintelligible) friends? Like Cubans or Communists? The Washington Post has a Commie reporter?

      St. Y. No, sir. Not that sort of contact. This is a lady.

      V. So he’s not a fag, so what?

      St. Y. We’re having a psychological profile done on Schuster. but I think, if my experience is any good for judgment, that Schuster cares about his lady friend. She’s the wife of the Canadian cultural attaché.

      P. We’ve got him, huh? Between a rock and a hard place? What’s the game plan?

СКАЧАТЬ