A line was to have been kept open for him all evening. It would be an insecure line, but what it lacked in privacy it made up for in availability. No one could secure a random pay phone.
The booth smelled more like a urinal than a phone booth. Remo dialed the 800 area code number. That meant that a dime from anywhere could reach it. It rang four times. Remo hung up and dialed again. With the phone system working the way it was, it was possible to get a wrong number. He dialed again. Again it rang and Remo counted to five rings.
He hung up and dialed "O."
"Operator, there's some trouble with the lines. I must be getting a wrong number. It just rings."
Remo gave her the number with the 800 area code.
"It's ringing, sir," said the operator.
"It's got to be answered," Remo said.
"I'm sorry, sir. Would you like me to try it again?"
"Yes, thank you."
Again the number rang and no one answered.
"It's ringing, sir."
"I fucking hear you," said Remo. He threw the receiver across the street and the metal-wrapped line popped like a dried-out rubber band.
The cab driver waiting at the curb saw this and said that he had suddenly gotten an emergency phone call. Since he had to leave so abruptly there would be no charge.
Remo wouldn't hear of it. He gave the driver the address of the house which probably still had the fifty-five kilos. The heroin could fly at the first warning and once it was broken down into nickel packs, it could never be destroyed. Remo would just have to hope that the IDC programmer would wait. Besides, Dr. Smith must be miscalculating if Remo had to make so many hits in the IDC thing, whatever it was. A well-thought-out operation should have only one elimination in it, two at the most.
Remo got into the cab, but the driver stood by the door.
"That house you're talking about, buddy, is in a black neighborhood."
"That's nice," said Remo.
Remo's mind wandered. Was it possible that the phone had rung in Smith's office in Folcroft and no one was there to answer it? No. If Dr. Harold Smith said he would be at a certain place at a certain time, Dr. Harold Smith was at that place at that time with disgusting regularity.
Maybe Smitty had had a heart attack and died? Probably not. Remo hadn't had any good luck all evening. Why start now? The cab still wasn't moving. The driver stood by the door.
"C'mon, c'mon," said Remo.
"I ain't driving to a black neighborhood at this hour of night."
"I see your point," Remo said. "But I've got to get there and you're the only way."
"No way, mister."
Remo felt in his pocket for some bills. He took out five of them. Three were tens and two were twenties.
"What good's money to a corpse?" asked the driver.
Remo did a very funny thing with the bulletproof shield which was supposed to separate driver from passenger. Applying pressure to the weak bolt points, he snapped it off. This impressed the driver, who suddenly thought a person should be driven anywhere if he had the fare. Remo insisted the driver take the money and even some extra for the shield. The driver noted how glad he was that his passenger tended to vent most of his hostility on property, not people.
A "protected" house is a relatively new innovation of the heroin trade. Instead of sending pushers out into the warring streets, where they can be ripped off by junkies, the junkies go to these houses to get a fix on the premises or to take out if they desire.
The houses are well supplied with weapons and even with what is called a hot needle—a syringe containing poison—should a buyer be suspected of being a narco cop. They have many fine locks, very thick doors and barred windows. In this respect they are not unlike the liquor stores in the same general neighborhoods.
For the fifty-five kilos, special precautions were taken. No small time customers were allowed; extra men with guns were placed inside the window openings. The front door was reinforced by plywood panels and two-by-fours that moved away so customers could be admitted. All the windows were nailed shut and the basement doors boarded and nailed.
It was the perfect defense. Against just about anything but a penny book of matches and a gallon of gasoline.
As Remo watched the front of the house flame up to become a funeral pyre for its inhabitants and an incinerator for the fifty-five kilos hidden inside the front door, he thought he heard the cab driver crying. But when he asked him, the driver said he was not crying. He was happy. He was happy because he loved his passenger with all his heart and soul.
"Lucky we're dealing with a slum neighborhood; although sometimes you get some good structures here that won't burn," said Remo.
Boy, did the cab driver think his passenger was right. Absolutely. Always thought that himself. Yes, sir. Was the passenger happy? Because the only thing the driver wanted was to keep his passenger happy. To the airport? Absolutely, sir.
At the airport, Remo discovered the IDC programmer was still waiting. Remo apologized for being late, said he would talk to the man in the men's lavatory. Remo left him in a pay toilet to be discovered only when the janitors realized the same still legs had been in the booth too long for even the most severe constipation.
"Rush, rush," muttered Remo as he quickly left the airport in another cab. If things had been properly assigned, he would not have had to run from an assignment so carelessly.
But strange things were coming from upstairs and Remo did not want to think about what they might mean. For as much as he often hated the parsimonious, bitter-faced, unredeemed-by-any-human-warmth Dr. Harold Smith, he did not want to have to exercise the final option against him.
CHAPTER THREE
The report was wrong. The old man had not broken in forty-eight hours. Oh, it looked like it, but all Corbish got was a very clever cover story about a gigantic undercover operation. A waste of precious time.
Why hadn't the report on interrogation told how hard it was to torture someone? Corbish felt the perspiration drip down the small of his back and the stethoscope was wet to his touch as he placed it over the white-haired chest and listened to the heartbeat. Good. The heartbeat was still good. Did this old fool wish to die? Corbish checked his watch again. He was well into the second day. The lead-lined cellar of the house near Bolinas had suffered a breakdown in one of the air ducts, so now it was not only incredibly hot but oxygen was getting scant. He removed the stethoscope from the chest and saw that the chest was now swelling in massive red welts where he had placed the electrodes. He had thought torture would be so easy, and now he realized he was outside the proper time projection for reasonable project success. Everything had worked so well until he had strapped Dr. Smith onto the table of the lead-lined room.
The meeting at Folcroft three days ago had gone perfectly. Corbish had set himself up as an informer who wished not to be seen lest he lose his job at IDC. Dr. Smith had gone for the story, agreeing to the late night meeting. Corbish had limited his externally observable acts to the time between his first contact with Smith, pretending to be an informer, and the night meeting. Like the Japanese beginning peace meetings with America before its fleet set off for Pearl Harbor to find the American navy berthed fat and lazy that sleepy Sunday morning.
Smith had greeted him somewhat cautiously that night, but not cautiously enough. He had kept the desk between them, and Corbish guessed that the office had a scanner at the door that would not have allowed him to bring in a weapon. At least, not a metal weapon. Thus, Smith considered himself safe.
"I suppose you're wondering why I, as a vice president of IDC, want to leave my job and work for you?" said Corbish.
"It had crossed my mind," said Smith, "especially since this is a social research center."
"Well, I know it isn't," Corbish said. He sat across the desk, more than an arm's length away from Smith. All the trinkets on the desk that could be used as weapons, the sharp-edged calendar, the heavy telephone, the pen set, were all on Smith's side of the desk. Even the picture of his wife, an incredibly unattractive woman, was on Smith's side instead of the visitor's, where it would ordinarily be placed so that Smith could see it better.
"You know Folcroft isn't a social research institute?" said Smith smiling, "Well, I know it isn't also. It's a country club for scientists, but I hope to change that."
"It's not that either," said Corbish, "and before I get into that I'd like to explain why I want to join."
Dr. Smith looked puzzled. Perfect acting, thought Corbish.
"Well, you're already here," said Smith. "I think you might be confusing us with someone else. But go ahead. I don't know what I can do for you though."
"I know what I can do for you, sir, and I think you'll agree with me when I outline these five points about what the International Data Corporation is doing."