Why Me? (8 page)

They watched the tape to the end, then watched it through a second time, and in the ensuing silence Freedly said, thoughtfully, “Has he blown security, Mac? Do we have a complaint over his head, to the Commissioner?”

Zachary thought about that for a second or two, then reluctantly shook his head. “There was no lid clamped,” he said. “We naturally assumed we were all gentlemen, that's all; we'd agree on a joint announcement at the proper time.” (In fact, Zachary had been planning a unilateral announcement of his own late tomorrow morning—being federal, he naturally thought in terms of the national media, requiring an earlier deadline—and part of his rage was at Mologna having stolen a march on him.) “Let's go back upstairs,” he said, lunging to his feet like an angry FBI man. He thanked the monitor room technicians in a curt but manly way, and they left.

In the elevator Freedly, still casting about for revenge, said, “Well, has he hampered our investigation?”

“Of course he has! The son of a bitch.”

“Well, then.”

The elevator door opened and they headed down the corridor. Harry Cabot said, “If I were Chief Inspector Mologna—” (he pronounced it right) “—and I were charged with hampering your investigation, I would point out that you people are concentrating on foreign nationalist groups. By publicly stating that the investigation is aimed at domestic thieves, I have lulled your actual suspects and therefore
aided
your investigation.”

“Shit,” said Zachary.

“Ditto,” said Freedly.

Back in the office, Zachary sat at his desk while Freedly and Cabot shared the sofa. Zachary said, “When we turn up the ring, Bob, when we rub Mo-log-na's nose in it that it
wasn't
one of his hole-in-corner little burglars, we'll have our own little press conference.”

Freedly made no response. He merely sat there, a very dubious look on his face. Zachary said, “Bob?”

“Yes, Mac?”

“
You
don't think it was just a burglar, do you?”

“Mac,” Freedly said, with obvious reluctance, “I'm not sure.”

“Oh,
Bob
!” Zachary said, in a tone of utter betrayal.

“It wasn't the Greeks,” Freedly said. “According to Harry here, it's looking more and more like it wasn't the dissident Turks. It's pretty surely not the Armenians.”

“There's still the Bulgarians,” Zachary said.

“Ye-ess.”

“And our friends of the KGB. And the Serbo-Croats. And it still
could
be the Turks. Couldn't it, Harry?”

Cabot nodded, more in amusement than agreement. “The Turks are still a possibility,” he said. “Remote, but possible.”

“Hell, Bob,” Zachary said, “there's groups out there we haven't even thought about yet. What about the Kurds?”

Freedly looked astonished. “The Kurds? What've
they
got to do with the Byzantine Fire?”

“They've been in opposition to Turkey a long time.”

Cabot cleared his throat. “For the last thirty years,” he gently pointed out, “the Kurds' main revolt has been against Iran.”

“Well, how about Iran?” Zachary looked around like a hungry bird. “Iran,” he repeated. “They poke their nose into just about everything in that Black Sea area. Particularly with the Shah out and the religious nuts in.”

Freedly said, “Mac, there hasn't been the slightest rumble from Iran. If there was, Harry would know about it.”

“That's true,” Cabot said.

“Irani insurgents, then.”

Agreeably, Cabot said, “Another possibility, of course, though rather remote.” Seeing that Zachary was about to ring in yet another nation or band of dissidents, Cabot raised a restraining hand and said, “Still, the point has been adequately made. We are nowhere near the end of potential foreign suspects. When this unfortunate news in re Inspector Mologna arrived, however, I was just finishing my discussion of the more likely of these groups, and I'd intended to segue to another and perhaps equally important topic.”

Zachary restrained himself with the greatest difficulty. He bubbled with undeclared Kazaks, Circassians, Uzbeks, Albanians, Lebanese, and Cypriot Maronites, all of whom made him mutely fidget and squirm at his desk, picking up pencils and paperweights, then putting them down again.

Having bludgeoned the previous conversation to death with practiced civility, Cabot said, “Whichever of our Free World allies turns out to be responsible for this theft, if any, the fact is that just about every group we've mentioned, and some we haven't discussed as yet, has become active
since
the theft. So far, we know of the entrance into this country in the last twenty-four hours of a Turkish Secret Police assassination team, a Greek Army counterinsurgency guerrilla squad, members of two separate Cypriot Greek nationalist movements (who may spend all their time here gunning for one another and therefore fail to become a substantive factor from our point of view), two officers of the Bulgarian External Police, a KGB operative with deep connections to the Cypriot Turk nationalist movement, and a Lebanese Christian assassin. There is also the rumored arrival via Montreal of two members of the Smyrna Schism, religious fanatics who broke away from the Russian Orthodox Church in the late seventeen hundreds and live in catacombs under Smyrna. They are rumored to favor the beheading of heretics. In addition, various embassies in Washington—the Turkish, Greek, Russian, Yugoslav, Lebanese, some others—have requested official briefings on the matter. At the UN, the British have called for—”

“The British!” Surprise unsealed Zachary's lips. “What've
they
got to do with it?”

“The British take a proprietary interest in the entire planet,” Cabot told him. “They think of themselves as our landlords, and they have called for a United Nations fact-finding team to assist the rest of us in our investigations. They have also volunteered to lead this fact-finding team themselves.”

“Good of them,” Zachary said.

“But the main problem right now,” Cabot said, “aside from the loss of the ring itself, of course, is all these foreign gunmen running around New York, hunting the ring and one another. This theft is enough of an international incident as it is; Washington would be
very
displeased if New York were turned into another Beirut, with shooting in the streets.”

“New York would be displeased, too,” Freedly said.

“No doubt,” agreed Cabot.

Acidly, Zachary said, “Mo-log-na could give another press conference.”

Unexpectedly, Cabot chuckled. The other two, seeing nothing amusing anywhere in the visible landscape, looked at him with annoyed surprise. “I'm sorry,” Cabot said. “I was just thinking, what if Inspector Mologna were right? What if some passing burglar, uninterested in Cyprus or Turkey or NATO or the Russian Orthodox Church or
any
of it, just happened to pick up the Byzantine Fire in the course of his normal operations? And now the world is filling up with police forces, intelligence agencies, guerrilla bands, assassination teams, religious fanatics, all pointed at that poor bastard's head.” With another chuckle, Cabot said, “I wouldn't want to be him.”

“I wish Mo-log-na was him,” Zachary said.

16

Dortmunder had deliberately taken a subway in the wrong direction from Times Square to get away from a pair of uniformed cops who had been gazing at him with steadily increasing interest, so it was a quarter after ten, fifteen minutes late, before he walked into the O. J. Bar and Grill on Amsterdam Avenue, where three of the regulars were discussing Cyprus—probably because it was in the news in connection with the Byzantine Fire. “All you gotta do is look onna map,” one of the regulars was saying. “Cyprus is right there by Turkey. Greece is way to hell and gone.”

“Oh, yeah?” said the second regular. “You happen to be a Turk, by any chance?”

“I happen,” the first regular said, with a dangerous glint in his eye, “to be Polish and Norwegian. You got any objections?”

“Well,
I
happen,” said the second regular, “to be one hunnerd percent Greek, and I'm here to tell you
you
happen to be fulla shit. Both the Polish part and the Norwegian part. Both parts, fulla shit.”

“Wait a minute, fellas,” said the third regular. “Let's not cast a lotta national aspersions.”

“I'm not casting anything,” said the second regular. “This Norwegian Polack's telling
me
where Greece is.”

“What is this?” demanded the first regular. “You have to be Greek before you know where Greece is?”

“There's something in what he says,” said the third regular, who apparently saw himself as the voice of reason in a world of extremes.

“There's horseshit in what he says,” said the second regular.

Dortmunder approached the bar some distance from the nationalists, where Rollo the bartender, tall, meaty, balding, blue-jawed, wearing a dirty white shirt and a dirty white apron, stood looking up at the color TV set, on which at that moment several very clean people were pretending to look worried in a very clean hospital room. “Whadaya say,” said Dortmunder.

Rollo looked down from the screen. “Now they're rerunning the made-for-TV movies,” he said, “and claiming they're movies. It's Whatsisname's law.”

“It's what?”

“You know,” Rollo said. “That law. Where the bad shit drives out the good.”

“The good shit?” It occurred to Dortmunder that Rollo was beginning to sound like one of his own customers. Maybe he'd been in this job too long.

“Just a minute,” Rollo said, and walked away to where the nationalists were beginning to threaten incursions into one another's territory. “You boys wanna fight,” Rollo said, “you go home and fight with your wives. You wanna drink beer, you come here.”

The pro-Turk Norwegian Pole said, “Exactly. That's what I come here for. I'm disinterested. I'm not even Turkish.”

“Listen,” Rollo said. “The law where it says bad shit drives out the good, which law is that?”

“The unwritten law,” said the Greek.

The former mediator looked at him. “What are you, crazy? The unwritten law's when you catch your wife in bed with some guy.”

“There's a law says some guy goes to bed with my wife?”

“No, no. The
unwritten
law.”

“Well,” said the Greek, “it better stay unwritten.”

“That's not what I mean,” said Rollo. “Hold it a second.” He called to Dortmunder, “You still a double bourbon on the rocks?”

“Absolutely,” said Dortmunder.

Reaching for a glass, Rollo told the nationalists, “I'm talking about the law where bad drives out good. I think it starts with G.”

With obvious hesitance, the non-Turk said, “The law of gravity?”

“No, no, no,” said Rollo, putting ice cubes in the glass.

“Common law,” said the mediator, with absolute assurance. “That's what you're looking for.”

The Greek said, “Another clown. Common law is where you aren't married to your wife, but you really are.”

“That's impossible,” said the mediator. “Either you're married or you're not married.”

“They're both impossible,” said the non-Turk.

Reaching for a bottle labeled “Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon—Our Own Brand,” Rollo said, “That's not it. It's something else.”

“Murphy's law,” suggested the Greek.

Rollo hesitated, about to pour bourbon into the glass. Frowning, he said, “You sure?”

“I
think
so,” said the Greek.

Neither the mediator nor the non-Turk had any comment at all. Shaking his head in continuing doubt, Rollo brought Dortmunder his drink, gesturing at the TV screen and saying, “Murphy's law.”

“Sure,” said Dortmunder. “The others back there?”

“The vodka-and-red-wine,” Rollo said, “and a new fella to me, a rye-and-water.”

That would be Ralph Winslow. Dortmunder said, “Not the beer-and-salt?”

“Not yet.”

“He's late. He must have taken a wrong route.”

“Maybe so,” said Rollo.

Dortmunder picked up his drink and walked toward the rear of the place, past the regulars, who were now discussing Salic's law of averages. Continuing on beyond the end of the bar, Dortmunder went by the two doors marked with dog silhouettes (
POINTERS
and
SETTERS
) and past the phone booth and through the battered green door at the end into a small room with a concrete floor. The walls all around were hidden behind beer and liquor cases stacked ceiling high, leaving barely enough space in the middle for several chairs and a round wooden table covered with green felt. From a black wire over the table hung a bare bulb with a round tin reflector. Seated at the table at the moment were two people, one of them a hearty heavyset man with a wide mouth and a big round nose like the bulb of an airhorn, the other a huge mean-looking monster who seemed to have been constructed out of old truck-engine parts. The hearty man was holding a tall glass of amber liquid, clinking the ice cubes in it and looking dubiously at the monster, who brooded at a half-full glass of what appeared to be flat cherry soda. Both men raised their heads at Dortmunder's entrance, the hearty man as though in search of an ally, the monster as though wondering if this new arrival were edible.

“Dortmunder!” said the hearty man, more heartily than necessary, emphatically tinkling his ice cubes. “Haven't seen you in a coon's age!” He had a loud but gravelly voice and the permanent air of being about to slap somebody on the back.

“Hello, Ralph,” Dortmunder said. Nodding at the monster, he said, “Whadaya say, Tiny?”

“I say our host is late,” Tiny said. His voice was deep and not loud, like the sound emanating from a cavern in which a dragon is alleged to sleep.