Shock Waves(35)

Sally toweled herself dry, and donned a stylish jump suit, then carefully and soundlessly found her handbag and let herself out of the bungalow.

Dusk was perhaps an hour off. The coming darkness was an unknown quantity, and Sally wondered if the Executioner was traveling in it, bearing down upon her, on the enemy.

Angry at herself, she shook the moment off. She had a job to do. Never mind what Bolan might be thinking, doing, out there somewhere in the city. He was on a different track, pursuing different game, and if their paths should intersect, it would be chance, not fate, that made it happen.

From the side of her eye she noticed a gunner moving in a parallel course to hers toward the house. His stride was casual, unhurried, and she might have shrugged it off, except...

The lady Fed was no believer in coincidence. It was entirely possible that all things considered — an unfamiliar woman at a major sit-down, the morning's violence almost on his doorstep, the suspicion and distrust that hung over the compound like choking smog — Don Minelli had detailed a man to watch her.

It would be strange if he had not assigned a tail, she realized.

If it was a casual watch, he might not hang too close. She might evade his scrutiny if he was satisfied to know which room she occupied, for instance, rather than observing her firsthand at every moment. She might reach a telephone, if there was one inside a study, say, or...

She crossed the flagstone patio, conscious of the tail, and entered through a set of sliding glass doors into a sunken living room that could have easily contained a standard four-room tract house. Across the room, three gunners lounged on chairs and sofas, talking among themselves.

She heard the tail come in behind her.

Sally traveled on her instincts, seeking out the kitchen first to give her visit the appearance of a logical motive. If nothing else, she hoped that she could duck her shadow there and find a telephone without him hanging on behind her.

The kitchen was restaurant size. Half a dozen workers dressed in spotless whites were already well into the dinner preparations. Sally smelled roast beef, spaghetti, sauces that she could not identify offhand. A youngish woman in a maid's costume brushed past and Sally buttonholed her, got directions to the washroom.

Her tail was with her as she left the kitchen, hanging back but making no attempt to mask his mission as he followed her along a well-lighted corridor with doors on either side. Sally reached her destination, ducked inside and closed the door without a backward glance.

Befitting Don Minelli's style, the washroom was equipped with plush velvet sofas, a wall-length mirror — and a telephone.

The lady Fed wondered briefly what might have possessed the man to put one here, decided finally that his sense of propriety tended toward extravagance at every level. Still, she did not plan to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She lifted the receiver, marginally encouraged by the humming of the dial tone, wondering if there was any code required to reach an outside line. No time to worry now, and with her eyes fixed on the door, she swiftly dialed Brognola's office number, waiting through the rings until his private secretary picked it up.

"Hello?"

"It's Flasher. Is my uncle hi?"

"I'm sorry, no. He's in New York."

Sally's heart leaped into her throat.

"Is there a local number I can call?"

The secretary stalled, put off by Sally's flagrant breach of regular procedures. When she finally answered, there was caution in her voice.

"Again, who is this, please?"

"It's Flasher," she repeated, reining in her temper with an effort. "And it's top priority."

"I see."

Another pause, with the background noise of fingers riffling through a Rollodex. It seemed to take forever for the secretary to respond.

"I have the hotel's number. It's the best I can do."

'That's fine," Sally replied, committing it to memory, repeating it for confirmation.

"If he calls..."

Sally thought about it, frowned.

"There isn't any message. If I can't get through at this end, I'll take care of it myself."

The secretary rung off with apologies, and Sally was about to cradle the receiver when she heard a soft, distinctive click on her end of the line.

Someone had been listening on an extension somewhere in the rambling house.

It had been a calculated risk to call Brognola from Minelli's phone at all. The lady Fed had gambled, drawn a loser, and the only question now concerned the nature of the price that she would have to pay.

Excluding the domestic help, she seemed to be the only woman on the grounds, and there would be no problem in determining who placed the call.

If they were searching for her, Sally did not wish to have them find her in the washroom. She would go on about her business as if everything was normal, head back for the bungalow and hope that Patriarcca would be more receptive to her explanation than Minelli's men would likely be.