Matlock. “They
killed
him!”
“
Someone
killed him. It’s unlikely that it’s any part of Nimrod. Other factions, maybe. No cover’s absolutely foolproof, even Loring’s. But his was the closest.”
“I don’t understand you.”
Greenberg leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his large, sad eyes reflective. “Ralph’s field cover was the best at Justice. For damn near fifteen years.” The agent looked down at the floor. His voice was deep, with faint bitterness. “The kind of goddamn cover that works best when it doesn’t matter to a man anymore. When it’s finally used, it throws everyone off balance. And insults his family.”
Greenberg looked up and tried to smile, but no smile would come.
“I still don’t understand you.”
“It’s not necessary. The main point is that you simply stumbled on the scene, went into panic, and had the scare of your life. You’re dismissible, Mr. Matlock.… So?”
Before Matlock could respond, the door swung open and Sam Kressel entered, his expression nervous and frightened.
“Oh, Christ! This is terrible! Simply terrible. You’re Greenberg?”
“And you’re Mr. Kressel.”
“Yes. What’s going to happen?” Kressel turned to Matlock, speaking in the same breath. “Are you all right, Jim?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Greenberg, what’s
happening!?
They toldme in Washington that you’d let us know.”
“I’ve been talking to Mr. Matlock and …”
“Listen to me,” interrupted Kressel suddenly. “I called Sealfont and we’re of the same opinion. What happened was terrible … tragic. We express our sympathies to the man’s family, but we’re most anxious that any use of the Carlyle name be cleared with us. We assume this puts everything in a different light and, therefore, we insist we be kept out of it. I think that’s understandable.”
Greenberg’s face betrayed his distaste. “You race in here, ask me what’s happening, and before you give me a chance to answer, you tell me what
must
happen. Now, how do you want it? Do I call Washington and let them have
your
version or do you want to listen first? Doesn’t make a particle of difference to me.”
“There’s no reason for antagonism. We never asked to be involved.”
“Nobody does.” Greenberg smiled. “Just please let me finish. I’ve offered Matlock his out. He hasn’t given me his answer, so I can’t give you mine. However, if he says what I think he’s going to say, Loring’s cover will be activated immediately. It’ll be activated anyway, but if the professor’s in, we’ll blow it up a bit.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Kressel stared at the agent.
“For years Ralph was a partner in just about the most disreputable law firm in Washington. Its clients read like a cross section of a Mafia index.… Early this morning, there was the first of two vehicle transfers. It took place in a Hartford suburb, Elmwood. Loring’s car with the D.C. plates was left near the home of a well-advertised capo. A rented automobilewas waiting for him a couple of blocks away. He used that to drive to Carlyle and parked it in front of 217 Crescent Street, five blocks from Sealfont’s place. 217 Crescent is the residence of a Dr. Ralston.…”
“I’ve met him,” interjected Matlock. “I’ve heard he’s …”
“… an abortionist,” completed Greenberg.
“He’s in no way associated with this university!” said Kressel emphatically.
“You’ve had worse,” countered Greenberg quietly. “And the doctor is still a Mafia referral. At any rate, Ralph positioned the car and walked into town for the second transfer. I covered him; this briefcase is prime material. He was picked up by a Bell Telephone truck which made routine stops—including one at a restaurant called the Cheshire Cat—and finally delivered him to Sealfont’s. No one could have known he was there. If they had, they would have intercepted him outside; they were watching the car on
killed
him!”
“
Someone
killed him. It’s unlikely that it’s any part of Nimrod. Other factions, maybe. No cover’s absolutely foolproof, even Loring’s. But his was the closest.”
“I don’t understand you.”
Greenberg leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his large, sad eyes reflective. “Ralph’s field cover was the best at Justice. For damn near fifteen years.” The agent looked down at the floor. His voice was deep, with faint bitterness. “The kind of goddamn cover that works best when it doesn’t matter to a man anymore. When it’s finally used, it throws everyone off balance. And insults his family.”
Greenberg looked up and tried to smile, but no smile would come.
“I still don’t understand you.”
“It’s not necessary. The main point is that you simply stumbled on the scene, went into panic, and had the scare of your life. You’re dismissible, Mr. Matlock.… So?”
Before Matlock could respond, the door swung open and Sam Kressel entered, his expression nervous and frightened.
“Oh, Christ! This is terrible! Simply terrible. You’re Greenberg?”
“And you’re Mr. Kressel.”
“Yes. What’s going to happen?” Kressel turned to Matlock, speaking in the same breath. “Are you all right, Jim?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Greenberg, what’s
happening!?
They toldme in Washington that you’d let us know.”
“I’ve been talking to Mr. Matlock and …”
“Listen to me,” interrupted Kressel suddenly. “I called Sealfont and we’re of the same opinion. What happened was terrible … tragic. We express our sympathies to the man’s family, but we’re most anxious that any use of the Carlyle name be cleared with us. We assume this puts everything in a different light and, therefore, we insist we be kept out of it. I think that’s understandable.”
Greenberg’s face betrayed his distaste. “You race in here, ask me what’s happening, and before you give me a chance to answer, you tell me what
must
happen. Now, how do you want it? Do I call Washington and let them have
your
version or do you want to listen first? Doesn’t make a particle of difference to me.”
“There’s no reason for antagonism. We never asked to be involved.”
“Nobody does.” Greenberg smiled. “Just please let me finish. I’ve offered Matlock his out. He hasn’t given me his answer, so I can’t give you mine. However, if he says what I think he’s going to say, Loring’s cover will be activated immediately. It’ll be activated anyway, but if the professor’s in, we’ll blow it up a bit.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Kressel stared at the agent.
“For years Ralph was a partner in just about the most disreputable law firm in Washington. Its clients read like a cross section of a Mafia index.… Early this morning, there was the first of two vehicle transfers. It took place in a Hartford suburb, Elmwood. Loring’s car with the D.C. plates was left near the home of a well-advertised capo. A rented automobilewas waiting for him a couple of blocks away. He used that to drive to Carlyle and parked it in front of 217 Crescent Street, five blocks from Sealfont’s place. 217 Crescent is the residence of a Dr. Ralston.…”
“I’ve met him,” interjected Matlock. “I’ve heard he’s …”
“… an abortionist,” completed Greenberg.
“He’s in no way associated with this university!” said Kressel emphatically.
“You’ve had worse,” countered Greenberg quietly. “And the doctor is still a Mafia referral. At any rate, Ralph positioned the car and walked into town for the second transfer. I covered him; this briefcase is prime material. He was picked up by a Bell Telephone truck which made routine stops—including one at a restaurant called the Cheshire Cat—and finally delivered him to Sealfont’s. No one could have known he was there. If they had, they would have intercepted him outside; they were watching the car on
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