scoonts.theminotaur-第54部分

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year…old。〃
　〃Just　because　you　wear　trousers；　huh？〃
　〃No。　Because　when　I　was　growing　up　my　father　was　the　head　of　his　family；　and　I　intend　to　be　the　head　of　mine。　It's　a　tried　and　true　system　with　ancient　tradition　to　mend　it。　We're　going　to　stick　with　it。〃
　〃You　can't　issue　orders　around　here；　Captain　Grafton。　Amy　and　I　don't　wear　uniforms。〃　She　raised　a　finger；　mimicking　his　gesture。
　This　evening　was　also　off　to　a　rocky　start。
　Jake　put　down　his　newspaper　and　examined　the　vegetable　situation。　The　child　apparently　hadn't　touched　a　pea　or　a　carrot。　She　was　staring　fixedly　at　her　plate　with　a　sullen；　defiant　look。
　〃How　was　school　today？〃　Jake　asked。
　No　answer。
　〃I　asked　you　a　question；　Amy。〃
　〃Okay。〃
　〃Tell　me　about　your　teachers。〃
　〃What　do　you　want　to　know？〃
　〃Their　names；　what　subjects　they　teach；　what　they　look　tike；　whether　you　like　them。　That　kind　of　stuff。〃
　〃Wellll；〃　Amy　said；　her　gaze　flicking　across　Jake's　face；　〃some　of　them　are　nice　and　some　aren't。〃　And　away　she　went　on　a　five…minute　exposition　that　covered　the　school　day　from　opening　to　closing　bell。　Jake　tossed　in　an　occasional　question　when　she　paused　for　air。
　When　she　had　exhausted　the　teacher　subject；　Jake　asked；　〃What　subjects　do　you　think　you're　going　to　like　best？〃
　Away　she　went　again；　debating　the　merits　of　math　versus　English；　social　studies　versus　science。　This…time　when　she　ran　down；　Jake　asked　if　she　had　any　homework。
　〃Some　math　problems。〃
　〃Need　any　help　with　them？〃
　〃The　division　ones；〃　she　said　tentatively。
　〃Eat　some　of　those　peas　and　carrots　and　we'll　clear　the　table　and　work　on　the　problems。〃
　〃How　many　do　I　have　to　eat？〃
　〃Two　spoonfuls　of　each。〃
　She　made　a　face　and　did　as　she　was　bid。　As　he　carried　the　dishes　to　the　sink；　Jake　asked；　〃Just　what　vegetables　do　you　like？〃
　〃Not　any　of　them。〃
　〃Well；　do　you　have　some　that　you　don't　hate　as　much　as　others？〃
　〃Corn。　Corn　is　okay。　But　not　the　creamed　kind。〃　She　squirmed。　〃And　I　like　lima　beans。〃
　〃No　kidding？　So　do　I。　Maybe　we　can　have　some　tomorrow　night。　How　about　it；　Callie？〃　His　wife　was　standing　by　the　little　desk　that　served　as　a　paper　catchall；　looking　once　again　at　the　diet　book。　She　turned　to　Jake　and　nodded。　She　had　tears　in　her　eyes。　He　winked　at　her。
　〃Amy；　better　get　your　school　books。　And；　Callie；　don't　we　have　some　sugarless　dessert　around　here　for　little　girls　who　eat　their　dinner？〃
　
　17
　
　A　woman　from　the　garage　called　at　10　A。M。　and　said　his　car　was　ready：　119。26。　Camacho　told　her　he　would　stop　by　after　work。　She　hung　up　before　he　could　even　ask　what　the　problem　had　been。
　Dreyfus　gave　him　a　ride　and　dropped　him　in　front　of　the　showroom。
　The　new　cars　gleamed　shamelessly　and　flashed　their　chrome　with　wanton　abandon　as　he　walked　by。　Light；　easy…listening　music　sounded　everywhere。　Two　salesmen　asked　if　he　needed　help。
　He　paid　for　the　repairs　at　a　window　where　a　harried　young　woman　juggled　two　phones　as　she　pounded　numbers　into　a　puter。　He　surrendered　his　driver's　license　for　her　scrutiny　before　she　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　dissen