“And Hershey's been at the Smith how long?
Two years
?”
Peck nodded vigorously. “Which leaves him with six
months to complete a ten-year course study.” He held up his
hand to stay further questions.
“Back to the major,” Peck continued. ‘Try as he might,
the major simply could not get over the resemblance. He
was loath to mention it to anyone official because he didn't
want to discomfit his new jogging buddy. But he did men
tion it to a friend in his apartment building who happens to
work for the IRS. Just for the fun of it, and not really ex
pecting to find anything, the IRS man punched out both
names on a cross-check computer. It turns out that both men do exist and that Roger Hershey's background is legitimate.”
“Except Hershey isn't Hershey.” Harrigan nodded. “Next
he checked the handwriting, right?”
“Very good. Berner's handwriting and Hershey's were
basically the same. There were some differences, believed at first to be an attempt at disguise. But on further study, Her
shey's writing now had all the loops and sweeps that one as
sociates with an extroverted personality. In brief, he's not acting. His personality has been radically altered in an im
possibly short time.”
“Lobotomy?”
“No brain surgery did that. A lobotomy wouldn't turn a military slug into an engaging intellectual. If anything, the
reverse would be true.”
Harrigan shrugged. “So anyway, how did you get into
this?”
“The IRS man used some imagination. He chose not to go to his superiors when he smelled a possible rat, and he knew better than to go to the FBI. He felt that Hershey's
cover was so thorough that he must have been set up by the
Relocation Section at Treasury.”
“What Relocation Section?” Harrigan asked innocently.
“Behave yourself, Connor.”
“What behave? I'm not supposed to know anything about
a—”
“You're not but you do. What's more, our friend at the
IRS had another friend who knew. Happily, he went to that friend and the friend came to me. I looked into it personally.
He's not one of ours, of course, but his cover is, if anything,
better than the best we've done. His personnel file over at
General Services is a thing of beauty. University transcripts,
l
etters of recommendation including one from the associate curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, birth and baptismal certificates, a driver's license—most of which seemed to be genuine Roger Hershey. He had press
clippings from more than three years ago that seem ab
solutely authentic and of course are not. It's Berner in the
photographs and Hershey in the text. What would you con
clude from all this, Connor?”
Harrigan produced an empty pipe and sucked on it for
several yards. “Someone planted him. He's not doing a solo.
Someone good. If Relocation didn't do it, and I gather no
one over at Justice planted him, who did? And why would
they use the Smithsonian for his hole? What's he going to do
there? Steal Orville Wright's blueprints? And anyway,
where's the real Roger Hershey?”
“Excellent, Connor. There was indeed a real Roger Her
shey. Four years ago he had a six-month life expectancy.
Leukemia. Hershey left a note saying that he was going to
try to die usefully and privately. He's certainly dead now.”
“What about the new Roger. You tried wiring the guy, right?”
“Yes, we tapped his phone and the three pay phones clos
est to his home and office. Nothing for several weeks except
a lot of purring between Berner-Hershey and a female re
searcher over at the National Gallery. That's probably a dead end. At one point, however, he received a long-distance call.
An apparent wrong number. But then he promptly began making calls himself to three different numbers around the country, each time asking for a particular person, and each
time being told that he too had dialed a wrong number. The numbers he called, by the way, were all public phones. This
process has been repeated several times since then, some
times to the same numbers. Any observations, Connor?”
“Wrong numbers to pay phones.” Harrigan shrugged.
“That code's older than I am. What you got is probable
cause to suspect a conspiracy. Do I get to hear the
rest of this
in one shot or do I have to get stroked some more first?”
“Patience, Connor.” The older man raised a
nother
staying hand.
But Harrigan was beginning to feel uneasy. He knew
Pec
k was about to tell him that one or two other clones had
popped up. Peck would do it his own way because he was into sequential logic and tidy patterns. He probably also
knew who was pulling the strings. That meant he was about to ask good old Connor Harrigan to dig around the guy and
find out what he was up to. But so far, it didn't sound like
any of the Treasury Department's business. Which meant
Peck was going to ask him to do this on the side. Which
meant unofficial. Which meant it was his ass if he stepped
on the wrong toes.
He wasn't worried about the FBI so much. Hershey
wasn't their plant because they tended to be much more slip
shod about placing people. Not so much that they were in
competent. They just didn't seem to give a good goddamn
about most of the hide-and-seekers in the Witness Protection
Program. Who could? Bums, mostly. Hoods who testified
about mob activities to save their own asses, political activist
informants, communists, Klansmen . .. shit! If you took all
the FBI informants off the KKK and Communist Party ros
ters, they'd lose half their membership.
Anyway, the FBI wasn't Berner's connection. Then who? The CIA, maybe. Not all that likely, considering the Dengler
killings, but possible. They would have worked with him in
Nam, and if they liked his style they would have tagged him for future use. There! That's a connection with the Reloca
tion Service. Relocation was set up to provide deep cover for
defectors and for CIA operatives who either had prices on
their heads or who committed a major crime in the course of
their jobs. Treasury took it over in the late forties because Treasury had access to the IRS, which could create a whole taxpaying past for the new guy. Treasury also had the Doc
uments Section, of course, and a staff of engravers who
could doctor any piece of paper in the world. Plus which, the
guy who set it up was a genius. What was his name? Ivor something. Sounds like blunt. Blount? It doesn't matter.
He's dead. But the bastard was good. He could hide one per
son or a whole bureaucracy. Maybe fifteen other people in
Washington know that Relocation is anything more than an administrative section that finds apartments and moves f
u
r
niture for transferred Treasury personnel. Anyway, back to
Roger Hershey and his phone calls ...
“So let's hear it.” He tapped Duncan Peck on the arm.
“Hershey called his wrong numbers and your tap told you which numbers. Who was on the other end?”
“That's one step ahead, Connor.”
Harrigan's eyes rolled skyward.
“First I must tell you I already had his wrong number list,
although I couldn't be sure until he actually made the calls.” Peck waited for Harrigan to be either curious or impressed.
He showed neither reaction and Peck continued.
“Our people visited Hershey's apartment during one of
his Saturday five-mile runs. They examined and pho
tographed virtually every item there, including the contents
of his wallet. We found nothing enlightening until I came
upon one of those cards on which you list credit card num
bers in the event of loss or theft. Hershey's list, however, contained not credit card numbers but coded telephone numbers. The code consisted of fourteen digits. The two on
either end were random numbers. The middle ten were the
area code and the number written backward.”
“How the hell would you know that just looking at it?”
“I'd seen the device before. No connection with this mat
ter. The real giveaway was the fact that he carried such a list
in his wallet at all.”
Where it would be lost or stolen, thought Harrigan, right
along with the credit cards. Dumb! So we know Hershey's
not perfect. “Okay, you had a bunch of numbers. I keep ask
ing who owned them.”
“Five were public telephones. A sixth was the home
phone of his sponsor at the Metropolitan, a man named
Poindexter. A seventh was a private residence in New York's
Westchester County, but we'll come back to that. Of the five
public phones, four were outdoors in busy locations. A dif
ficult surveillance problem with my limited staff. The fifth,
however, was inside a tavern in Dayton, Ohio. We concen
trated on that number for want of a better choice. The man I
sent established another wiretap and took some routine pho
tographs of the tavern, its owner, and a few of the regular pa
trons. The owner, by the way, is a very pleasant black fellow
named Howard Twilley. Would you like to hear about him?”
“I'm breathless.” Peck's delivery could be exhausting.
But it was getting interesting.
“Four years ago, Howard moved from Waycross, Georgia
to Dayton. He quickly found a job in a tavern that had, inci
dentally, an all-white factory worker clientele. Over time, he purchased the tavern from its absentee owner. An attorney named Benjamin Meister.”
“Meister? It rings a bell.”
“He's been in the papers. A Bronx grocer who decided
late in life he'd rather be Melvin Belli. Passed the bar exams of several states within a year. Some with record grades. No
established office or practice, however.”
“Sounds like he and Hershey played for the same coach.”
“But back to Howard. Howard Twilley lives in an apart
ment above the bar and keeps much to himself. His only hobbies seem to be the hermetic pursuits of woodworking and fishing. Vanishes for days at a time in quest of brook
trout.”
“Duncan.” Harrigan made a time-out signal with his
hands. His lips moved as he groped for yet another way to
ask Peck to stop the bullshit and get on with it. “Listen,” he said finally, “you're waiting for me to notice that both Her
shey and Twilley are into carpentry and fishing. I notice.
Sooner or later, you're going to tell me that Twilley isn't
Twilley either. Why can't it be right now?”
“You're no fun, Connor.”
“Come on,” he insisted, ignoring the other man's pout.
“You connected Notre Dame with this black guy who runs a
redneck bloody knuckle in Ohio. Notre Dame is a very nice
and very talented guy who used to be a shit. Howard Twil
ley, you told me now, is also a very nice guy. You're about to
tell me that there's something freaky about him too and probably that he used to be an even bigger shit.”
“He's Benjamin Coffey.” Duncan Peck dropped the other
shoe with a thud.
Harrigan gaped. He stopped on the running track and
stared after Duncan Peck. “Jesus!” was all he could manage.
“Bad Ben,” Peck repeated. His expression betrayed his
satisfaction at Harrigan's loss for words.
“You're sure?” Harrigan asked.
“As sure as I can be from a photograph and a voice print.
I couldn't very well run a fingerprint check or the FBI would
be all over this.”
Harrigan took a long breath and whistled. He could see
the old headlines in his mind. Ben Coffey. Bad Ben. Black
activist. Sometime Panther. Their minister of defense. Long
history of juvenile crime and random violence. Then
straightened out, after a fashion, under Cleaver's tutelage.
One subsequent bust on a drug charge and another on
weapons. Both possibly rigged. Broke out of the Alameda
County Jail, killing a guard in the process. Went under
ground, what... five years ago?