Charlie knelt over Pitman and jostled him back into consciousness. Pitman’s eyes opened and he appeared to regain focus. Charlie flashed the Colt. “What happened to my father?”
“I don’t know. How long have I been unconscious?”
“Like, ten seconds.”
Pitman inched a hand toward his waistband.
“While you were out, I put that SIG Sauer P two-two-eight of yours in a safe place,” Charlie said. “Now, where’d they take him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“You memorized the number on the Sears card, didn’t you?”
“Is the number your price for information?”
“It could be.”
“Why would I trust you?”
“What choice do you have?”
Charlie eyed the Colt.
Pitman laughed. “If you fire that in here, either half the neighborhood will hear it and call the cops, or the cops will hear it themselves, and after I identify myself and explain the situation to them, you and I will go somewhere else and take our sweet time on your recollection of the account number.”
“All right. I’ll use this then.” Charlie uncradled the telephone on the desk.
“For what?”
“I’ll say you came here to apprehend my father’s retirement fund, rather than apprehend me-I’ll bet you didn’t even tell anyone you’d heard me with your bug.”
“Who can you call?”
“Anybody. Your colleagues will hear me whoever I call.”
“Then they’ll know you’re here.”
“Then they’ll know we’re here, you mean. And they’ll put you in jail for a long time. If you’re lucky.”
Pitman rolled his eyes.
Charlie dialed the number of a second-rate bookmaking service in Vegas, listened to the menu, then hit 0 to speak with a live operator. As usual, Muzak kicked in. The first-rate places were staffed with operators who answered straightaway. Charlie clung to the hope that he could sway Pitman without having to say another word-if the Cavalry were to learn Charlie’s location, his plan was dead. Him too, in all likelihood.
Pitman sat against the desk, blase as ever. Obviously the spook had let it get to this point because he saw the bluff.
Charlie decided: Better to cede the round and hang up before it was too late.
“Fine, fine,” grumbled Pitman. “Fine.” He rubbed his jaw.
With manufactured nonchalance, Charlie dropped the handset into its cradle.
“They took your father for a debrief,” Pitman said.
“Is that a euphemism?”
“No. They do intend to neutralize him, but they need information first. They’re worried that in the time since he figured out what was going on, he secretly spread out a security blanket. They’re jetting an ace interrogator up from the Caribbean.”
“What do you mean by a ‘security blanket’?”
“Like, a timed drop.”
“And what do you mean by a ‘timed drop’?”
“A dead drop that will be cleared after a set time period unless he’s around to put a stop to it. Then the contents go to, say, the Washington Post.”
While such a measure was practical, Charlie suspected that Drummond’s patriotism would have precluded it. “Where did they take him?” he asked.
“I heard Cuba,” Pitman said, rubbing his jaw again.
“Not the island?”
“No, it’s someplace around here. That’s all I can tell you.”
“How can I get more information?”
“Call four one one,” Pitman said. His hand shot from his jaw to Charlie’s stomach.
It caught Charlie off guard and felt like a blow from a heavyweight. Pitman sprang up, tackling him hard about the rib cage. Charlie tumbled backward. His right wrist smacked into the thick steel trunk of the gumball machine lamp, costing him his hold on the Colt. It fell onto the desktop and slid to within inches of Pitman.
Snaring it, Pitman said, “On second thought, you may want to call nine one one.” He curled a finger around the trigger and aimed the gun at Charlie.
The odds were that a professional like Pitman would reclaim the Colt. Charlie had bet on that beforehand. And been right. Accordingly it was with gusto that he yanked the lamp’s power cord, plunging the room into total darkness. Then he whisked Pitman’s silenced SIG Sauer P228 from the back of his own waistband, leveled it, and pulled the trigger. The gun nearly kicked out of his hand. The plume of flame lit the office, showing Pitman lifted by the shoulder and thrust into the wall. He slid to the floor and lay still, apparently unconscious again, blood darkening his shirtfront.
Another time, Charlie would be in shock. Now, all he thought about was getting to Drummond. He recognized it was a long shot. Which buoyed him: For once he had relevant experience.