scoonts.theminotaur-第61部分

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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　dissent。　On　technical　matters　his　mind　was　open；　inquiring；　incisive；　leaping　to　new　insights　regardless　of　where　the　leap　took　him　or　the　hoary　precedents　shattered　by　the　jump。　On　everything　else；　however；　every　aspect　of　the　human　condition；　Dodgers　was　bigoted；　voluble；　and　usually　wrong。　It　was　as　if　his　maker　had　increased　his　scientific　talents　at　the　expense　of　all　the　others；　thus　creating　a　mean　little　genius　who　viewed　the　world　as　a　collection　of　wicked　conspiracies　hatched　by　evil；　godless　agents　of　the　devil。　His　opinion　of　most　of　his　less　gifted　fellow　men　was　equally　bleak。　And　he　did　believe　in　the　devil。　He　waxed　long　and　loud　on　Satan　and　his　works　whenever　he　had　a　half　minute　that　was　not　devoted　to　the　task　at　hand。　How　Fritsche　tolerated　these　diatribes　Jake　couldn't　fathom。　He　found　himself　increasingly　irritated；　and　retreated　to　the　head　or　the　outside　of　the　building　when　he　had　had　all　he　could　stomach。
　〃How　can　you　listen　to　that　asshole　without　choking　him？〃　Jake　asked　during　a　brief　interlude　when　nature　called　Dodgers　to　the　head。
　〃Whatszat？〃　Fritsche　asked；　raising　his　eyebrows　curiously。
　These　endless　scatterbrained　rantings；〃　Jake　explained　patiently。　〃In　the　last　hour　he's　slandered　every　racial　and　ethnic　group　on　the　planet　and　denounced　everyone　in　government　as　thieves　and　liars　and　worse。　How　can　you　listen　to　this？〃
　〃Oh。　That。　I　never　listen。　I'm　too　busy　thinking　about　Athena。　I　shut　out　all　that　other　stuff。〃
　〃Wish　I　could。〃
　〃Hmmm；〃　said　Fritsche；　obviously　not　paying　much　attention　to　Jake　either。
　〃If　he　doesn't　cool　it　some；　I'll　probably　strangle　him　by　dinnertime。　Better　learn　all　you　can　this　afternoon。〃
　〃Uh…huh；〃　said　Fritsche；　who　was　bending　and　reexamining　the　cooling　unit　that　kept　the　puter　temperature　down。　It　was　certainly　a　marvel　of　miniaturization　and　engineering。　〃How　this　man　made　this　in　a　backyard　workshop　just　boggles　the　mind。　Look　here；　the　craftsmanship　of　these　welds；　the　way　he　polished　this　forging　with　acid　to　minimize　heat