scoonts.theminotaur-第87部分

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　He　sat　on　the　little　folding　chair　in　the　sun　and　thought　once　again　about　Harold　Strong　and　the　flight　control　data　and　Homer　T。　Wiggins　of　AeroTech。　Nothing　in　life　ever　works　out　just　the　way　you　think　it　will；　he　told　himself　bitterly。　They　should　put　that　over　the　door　of　every　public　building　in　Washington。
　Strong　had　gotten　suspicious。　Judy　had　spent　one　too　many　evenings　in　the　office；　asked　one　too　many　questions　about　that　TRX　fly…by…wire　system。　So　Strong　had　doctored　the　data；　rendering　it　worthless　unless　one　knew　exactly　how　and　where　it　had　been　changed。
　When　Smoke　found　out；　it　was　too　late。　He　had　already　given　the　data　to　AeroTech；　to　Homer　T。　Wiggins。　Oh；　even　defective　it　was　good　for　what　Homer　wanted　it　for；　to　check　the　AeroTech　manufacturing　capability　and　cost　out　the　manufacturing　process。　Heck；　he　could　have　written　Homer　a　purely　fictitious　report　that　would　have　allowed　AeroTech　to　acplish　the　same　thing。　So　it　wasn't　like　he　had　stiffed　Homer。　And　both　he　and　Homer　knew　that　the　preliminary　data　would　be　changed；　probably　many　times；　during　the　course　of　development。　There　was　no　possibility　that　the　erroneous　stuff　would　end　up　in　an　airplane　that　someone　was　going　to　try　to　fly。
　And　still；　it　happened！　It　happened。　All　the　checks　that　were　supposed　to　be　done；　the　fail…safe；　zero…defects　program；　all　of　it　went　down　the　crapper　in　an　unbelievable　series　of　coincidences。　Now　TRX　was　going　to　fire　a　couple　of　clowns　who　each　thought　the　other　guy　had　done　the　checks。　So　neither　did　them。
　He　tossed　off　the　last　gulp　of　orange　juice　and　wiped　his　mouth　with　his　fingers。　He　sat　the　empty　glass　on　the　concrete　beside　his　chair　and　sat　looking　at　the　city。
　Nothing　he　had　ever　attempted　in　his　whole　life　had　worked　out　right。　What　was　it　the　hippies　called　it？　Karma？
　Funny；　killing　Harold　Strong　had　been　easier　than　he　thought　it　would　be。　Probably　too　easy。　No　doubt　someway；　somehow；　he　had　fucked　that　up　too。
　Looking　back；　it　had　been　a　bad　decision。　Strong　probably　had　nothing　but　a　few　baseless　suspicions　that　he　couldn't　prove…
　Ah　well；　what　was　done　was　done。　You　signed　for　the　plane　and　flew　it　as　best　you　could　and　if　today　was　your　day　to　die；　you　died。　That　was　life。
　He　had　wanted　something　besides　a　pension；　and　now　he　had　his　savings…about　56；000…and　the　cash　from　five　little　deals…30；000…and　some　stock　he　probably　couldn't　sell。　Plus　his　pension；　a　lousy　55　percent　of　his　base　pay　if　he　lasted　twenty…two　years。　Yet　if　he　cut　and　ran；　his　pension　would　evaporate　tike　a　gob　of　spit　on　a　hot　steel　deck。　If　he　didn't　run；　well。。。　he　would　have　to　give　his　savings　and　the　cash　to　a　lawyer　to　try　to　stay　out　of　prison。　FBI　agents　were　probably　watching　him　this　very　minute。　Sitting　somewhere　in　one　of　these　apartments　or　in　a　vehicle　down　in　the　lot；　watching　him。　If　Wiggins　had　been　telling　the　truth。。。　But　there　was　really　no　reason　for　him　to　he。　What　did　Wiggins　have　to　gain　by　lying？
　Judy　had　gone　to　work　yesterday；　though　he　had　been　sorely　tempted　to　call　in　sick。　That　little　conversation　Thursday　evening　with　Wiggins；　just　before　he　walked　out　of　the　office；　that　had　shaken　him。　He　had　locked　up　his　papers；　bid　everyone　a　pleasant　good　evening　and　walked　out　sweating。
　That　evening　he　had　convinced　himself　there　really　wasn't　any　hurry。　It　might　be　six　months　or　a　year　before　they　got　around　to　arresting　him；　if　they　ever　did；　and　he　could　get　out　on　bail。　And　where　could　he　run？　What　with？
　He　pushed　himself　up；　out　of　the　chair；　and　went　inside。　He　drew　the　curtains。　Rummaging　through　the　bottom　drawer　of　his　dresser；　he　found　the　。38　he　always　wore　in　his　flight　gear。　He　flipped　out　the　cylinder。　Empty。　Did　he　have　any　cartridges？　He　sat　on　the　bed　and　tried　to　remember。　There　should　be　six　in　the　left；　radio　pocket　of　his　survival　vest；　which　was　piled　in　a　corner　of　the　closet。　He　had　put　them　there　when　he　emptied　the　pistol　after　his　last　flight　in　that　F…14　at　Tonopah。
　He　found　the　brass　cartridges　and　dropped　them　into　the　cylinder　holes。
　The　pistol　was　old；　with　the　bluing　pletely　gone　in　places。　Nowadays　they　issued　the　kids　nine…millimeters；　but　he　had　always　liked　the　old　。38。　Amazingly　enough；　this　was　the　one　they　issued　him　twenty　years　ago　when　he　checked　into　his　first　fleet　squadron。
　The　money　was　in　a　gym　bag　on　the　other　side　of　the　closet　floor。　He　spread　it　on　the　bed　and　examined　the　miserable　pile。　Fifteen　bundles　of　a　hundred　twenties　each。　Three　weeks'　take　for　a　twelve　year…old　crack　salesman。　For　this　he　bad　wagered　his　pension　and　risked　years　in　prison？
　He　went　into　the　kitchen　and　poured　himself　the　last　of　the　bourbon；　added　some　ice　and　water　and　went　back　out　onto　the　balcony。
　〃Here's　to　you；　Smoke　Judy；　you　stupid；　unlucky　bastard。〃
　He　sipped　the　liquor　and　watched　the　shadows　shorten　as　the　sun　rose　higher　into　the　sky。　Already　it　was　hot。　It　was　going　to　be　a　scorcher。
　
　Twenty　miles　north　of　where　Smoke　Judy　sat；　Luis　Camacho　was　trying　to　get　his　lawn　mower　started。　He　diddled　with　the　choke　and　jerked　the　starter　rope　repeatedly。　The　plug　fired　a　few　times；　then　gave　up。　He　decided　he　had　flooded　it。　He　could　take　out　the　plug　and　pull　it　through　a　few　times；　but　no。
　He　sat　in　the　shade　on　the　concrete　of　his　driveway；　with　his　back　against　the　wall；　and　waited　for　the　recalcitrant　device　to　purify　itself。　He　was　trying　to　work　up　the　energy　to　stand　and　again　assault　the　machine　when　Harlan　Albright　came　out　of　his　house；　saw　him；　and　crossed　the　grass　toward　him。
　〃Hey；〃　Albright　said。
　〃Hey　yourself。　Know　anything　about　lawn　mowers？〃
　〃Cars　are　my　bag。　I　pay　a　kid　to　cut　mine。〃
　〃Why　didn't　you　hire　my　kid？〃
　〃You　must　be　kidding！　He　doesn't　even　cut　your　grass。〃
　〃He　needs　a　better　offer　than　I　can　make。〃　Camacho　stood；　flexed　his　arms　a　few　times　experimentally；　then　grasped　the　rope。　Choke　off。〃　He　yanked。　The　engine　spluttered。
　Albright　bent　and　adjusted　the　needle　valve。　〃Now　try　it。〃
　It　started　on　the　next　jerk　of　the　lanyard。　Albright　played　with　the　needle　valve　until　the　engine　ran　smoothly。
　When　Luis　finished　the　front　and　back　yards　and　put　the　machine　back　in　the　garage；　Albright　had　a　beer　waiting。　Ten　o'clock。　〃What　the　heck；　it's　Saturday。〃
　They　sat　on　Albright's　front　steps；　in　the　shade　of　the　big　maple。
　〃What's　new　in　the　glamorous；　dazzling　world　of　counterespionage？〃
　〃Our　people　visiting　the　gourmet　food　stores　had　a　nibble。　A　store　over　in　Reston。　Not　much　of　anything；　but　it　was　all　we　got。　One　of　the　clerks　got　to　talking　about　how　many　famous　people　buy　their　stuff　at　that　store。　She　had　a　name；　but　she　couldn't　remember　if　he　had　ever　bought　any　jam。　She　said　he　or　his　secretary　e　in　there　once　a　month　or　so。〃
　〃Who？〃
　〃It　isn't　evidence。　The　clerk　was　a　dingbat。　The　agent　said　she　looked　like　she　had　terminal　anorexia。　Didn't　took　like　she　weighed　ninety　pounds。　Obviously　been　eating　her　own　stuff。〃
　〃Who？〃
　〃Royce　Caplinger。〃
　Albright's　eyebrows　rose　once；　then　fell　back　into　place。　〃She　sure？〃
　〃I　told　you；　she　was　bragging。　She　also　said　she　had　three　senators；　five　congressmen；　two　ex…congressmen；　a　dozen　flag　officers　from　all　services；　and　three　high…class　hookers　that　buy　stuff　from　her　on　a　regular　basis。〃
　〃Hookers；　huh？　What's　the　name　of　the　store？〃
　〃The　Gourmet　Market。〃
　〃You　going　to　follow　up？〃
　〃Yeah。　Sure。　I've　got　a　SWAT　team　sitting　on　the　place　twenty…four　hours　a　day。　A　cockroach　couldn't　get　in　or　out　without　us　knowing　it。　If　Caplinger　ever　shows　up　again　and　buys　French　blueberry　jam；　we'll　bust　him　on　the　spot。〃　He　drained　the　beer　can　and　stood。　〃Still；　it's　a　lead。　Someplace　to　look。〃
　〃How's　the　ATA　crash　investigation　going？〃
　〃So…so。　The　usual。　Dazzle。　Glamour。〃
　〃Why　are　you　in　that　investigation　anyway？〃
　〃The　admiral　in　charge　is　scared　to　death　of　the　Minotaur。　And　he　knows　I'm　the　best；　he　won't　talk　to　anybody　else。　No　shit。〃　He　tossed　the　empty　can　at　Albright　〃I　gotta　go。　Taking　Sally　to　the　mall。　Thanks　for　the　beer。〃
　When　he　held　the　door　open　for　Sally；　Camacho　automatically　glanced　across　the　car　at　the　little　bulb　he　had　inset　in　the　driver's　door。　It　was　dark。