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On the other side of the car someone was pleading； 〃Don't shoot； don't shoot。〃
〃You even hiccup； I'm gonna blow your brains out。〃 Camacho felt the man for a weapon as he stared into his wide eyes。 There was an automatic in his waistband。 The agent extracted it and turned the man so he could look over his shoulder at the house。
Dreyfus was checking the man on the sidewalk and the police lieutenant was cuffing the third one。
Camacho pulled the barrel of the revolver clear of his man's lips。 〃Is there a back way outta there？〃
The lips contorted。 Camacho cocked the revolver and placed the barrel right between his eyes。 〃Answer me； or so help me God。。。〃
〃Yeah。 The alley。〃
Camacho pulled the man from the sidewalk and shoved him behind the Cad。 〃Quick； on your belly； hands behind your back。 Assume the position； nicker； right now。〃 As the man obeyed； Camacho tossed his cuffs to the lieutenant； then began to run for the corner。
He rounded the corner at a run just as a car was ing out of the alley in the middle of the block； its engine howling。 He dived onto his face。 An automatic weapon roared as the rear of the car slewed and smoke poured from the tires。 Scrambling behind a parked car； Camacho managed to fire one shot at the fleeing car； although he knew that the hollow…point ＋P。38 slug had no chance of penetrating the body of the car。 Someone leaning out a rear passenger window hosed another burst in his general direction as the car ran the stop sign at the next corner。 The bullets slapped the concrete and parked cars。 Luis Camacho huddled behind a car and listened to the engine noise fade away。
When he walked back to the Cadillac； Dreyfus was watching the cuffed men lying in the street and lighting his pipe while the police lieutenant used his car radio。 Camacho looked at the man who had been shot。 He was dead； with two holes in his chest about four inches apart。 A cocked nine…millimeter Beretta automatic lay on the street near him。
〃Was it you that got this guy？〃 Camacho asked Dreyfus。
〃Yeah。 After he took a shot at you。〃
〃No shit。〃
〃You are a goddamn hopeless romantic； Luis。〃
The lieutenant came over at a trot。 His face was livid。 〃You fucking idiot！ Are you tired of living？ You almost got one of us killed！ We're the good guys； or haven't you keyhole peepers heard？〃
〃I'm sorry。 I just didn't think it through。〃
〃The FBI； the fearless band of idiots。〃 The lieutenant said the words softly； a benediction； a sublime pronouncement of irrefutable truth。 He looked up and down the street； breathing deeply。 The red tinge in his cheeks subsided slowly。 Finally he said； 〃Okay； Rambo。 How do you want this to read？〃
〃Hell； just tell it straight。 This car came along and parked in front of a crime scene。 I approached them and identified myself and one of them pulled a weapon。〃 He shrugged。
The police officer nudged one of the prone men with his foot。 〃A real smart bunch of punks。 Drive right up and park across the street from two cars with government plates。 You shitheads deserve to be in jail。 Just in case you haven't figured it out； you're under arrest。〃
The wail of an approaching siren caromed from the fronts of the dilapidated houses。
〃See you around； Lieutenant；〃 Camacho said。
〃Leaving？ Some congressman fucking his secretary tonight？〃
〃You city guys can handle this。 Mrs。 Jackson's my problem。〃
〃The old lady can cool off without you； Rambo。 I'm gonna go get a search warrant for this house； and you're gonna have to sign an affidavit。 A couple of them。 You and your sidekick here； J。 Edgar Earp； are gonna be working with me for the next eighteen hours。 Now get your cute little ass over here and start searching this car。 Let's see what these hot shooters were driving around。〃 The lieutenant was right。 It did take eighteen hours。
Terry Franklin never knew how long he stayed in the bathroom。 The flowers on the wallpaper formed a curious pattern。 Each had a petal that joined to an offset flower； all of them； it was very curious how they did that。 He thought about how the flowers joined and about nothing at all for a long； long time。
When he came out of the bathroom the house was dark and silent。 He flipped on the kitchen light and drank milk from the carton in the refrigerator。 He was very tired。 He climbed the stairs and lay down on the bed。
The sun was shining in the windows when he awoke。 He was still dressed。 He used the toilet； then went downstairs and found something to eat in the refrigerator。 Cold pizza。 He ate it cold。 It was left over from a week or more ago when he had taken the whole family to Pizza Hut。 He thought about that for a while； trying to recall just when it had been； remembering the crowd and the kids with the cheese strings dangling from their mouths and hands。 The memory was fresh； as if it had happened just a short while ago； yet it was all wrong。 The memory was from the wrong perspective； like when you remember a scene from your childhood。 You remember it as you saw it as a child； with everything large and the adults tall and the other children just your size。 That's the way he remembered Pizza Hut。
He sat the empty plate in the sink and ran some water into it； then went into the living room and lay down on the couch。 He was tired again。 He slept most of the day。
12
At four o'clock Saturday afternoon an exhausted Luis Camacho arrived home with a raging headache and went straight to bed。 When he awoke the house was quiet and dark and his wife was asleep beside him。 He checked the luminous display on the clock…radio on the bedside stand： 12：47。 Slipping on his robe； he padded downstairs to the kitchen； where he raided the refrigerator。 He got a plate from the dishwasher and helped himself to some leftover meat loaf and a couple of big spoonfuls of tuna casserole。 He nuked it for a minute in the microwave while he poured a glass of milk。
From the kitchen table he could see Albright's bedroom window across the waist…high cedar fence； just twenty feet or so away。 The window was dark。 Good ol' Harlan Albright…Peter Aleksandrovich Chistyakov。 Yuri。
Matilda Jackson had unlocked her front door and opened it for her killer； then turned her back on him。 So it was someone she thought she had no reason to fear。 A small…caliber automatic with a good silencer； the point…blank coup de grace； the methodical search of the house for possible witnesses and the turning off of the lights and appliances； certainly he was no thief or teenage drug guard…turned…gunman。 No； Mrs。 Jackson had been the victim of a trained； experienced assassin who convinced her it was safe to admit him into her house。 Perhaps he told her he was with the FBI？ Then he put two bullets into her brain。
Not to protect Pochinkov； who had diplomatic immunity and could not be arrested or prosecuted。 The Americans needed no testimony from Mrs。 Jackson or anyone else should they decide to declare Pochinkov persona non grata。 Camacho thought about the picture of Terry Franklin in his jacket pocket； which he had hoped Mrs。 Jackson might recognize。 He had discussed the possibility of Mrs。 Jackson identifying Franklin with Harlan Albright。
And Albright had lost no time。 Why take