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ed what？〃
'Nothing。 He had a talent for moving in and out of difficult situations without being seen。 That's all I meant。
'Wait a minute。' Marie approached the army man； her eyes suddenly riveted on his again。 'You say we have to reach Jason； but there's a better way。 Let him e to us！ To me。 Put me on the steps of that house！ He'll see me； get word to me！' 'Giving whoever's out there two targets？' 'You don't know your own man； General。 I said 〃get word to me〃。 He'll send someone； pay a man or a woman on the street to give me a message。 I know him。 He'll do it！ It's the surest way！' 'I can't permit it。'
'Why not？ You've done everything else stupidly！ Blindly！ Do one thing intelligently！'
'I can't It might even solve problems you're not aware of； but I can't do it。' 'Give me a reason！'
'If Delta's right； if Carlos has e after him and is in the street； the risk is too great。 Carlos knows you by sight。 He'll kill you。'
'I'm willing to take that risk。'
'I'm not I'd like to think I'm speaking for my government when I say that' 'I don't think you are； frankly。〃 'Leave it to others。 May we go； please？〃
'General Services Administration；〃 intoned a disinterested switchboard operator。 'Mr。 J。 Petrocelli； please；' said Alexander Conklin； his voice tense； his fingers wiping the sweat from his forehead as he stood by the window； the telephone in his hand。 'Quickly； please！'
'Everybody's in a hurry。。。' The words were shorted out； replaced by the hum of a ring。
'Petrocelli； Reclamation Invoice Division。'
'What are you people doing！' exploded the C。I。A。 man； the shock calculated； a weapon。
The pause was brief。 'Right now； listening to some nut ask a stupid question。'
'Well； listen further。 My name's Conklin； Central Intelligence Agency； Four…Zero clearance。 You do know what that means？'
'I haven't understood anything you people've said in the past ten years。'
'You'd better understand this。 It took me damn near an hour； but I just reached the dispatcher for a removal pany up here in New York； He said he had an invoice signed by you to remove all the furniture from a brownstone on Seventy…first Street。 One…Forty； to be exact。
'Yeah； I remember that one。 What about it？'
'Who gave you the order？ That's our territory。 We removed our equipment last week； but we did not … repeat； did not …request any further activity。'
'Just hold it；' said the bureaucrat。 'I saw that invoice。 I mean I read it before I signed it； you guys make me curious。 The order came directly from Langley on a priority sheet。'
'Who in Langley？'
'Give me a moment and I'll tell you。 I've got a copy in my out file； it's here on my desk。' The crackling of paper could be heard on the line。 It stopped and Petrocelli returned。 'Here it is； Conklin。 Take up your beef with your own people in Administrative Controls。〃
〃They didn't know what they were doing。 Cancel the order。 Call up the removal pany and tell them to clear out！ Now！'
'Blow smoke； spook。'
'What？'
'Get a written priority requisition on my desk before three o'clock this afternoon； and it may … just may … get processed tomorrow。 Then we'll put everything back。'
'Put everything back？'
That's right You tell us to take it out we take it out You tell us to put it back； we put it back。 We have methods and procedures to follow just like you。'
'That equipment … everything … was on loan！ It wasn't； isn't an agency operation。'
'Then why are you calling me？ What have you got to do with it？'
'I don't have time to explain。 lust get those people out of there。 Call New York and get them out！ Those are Four…Zero orders。'
'Make them a hundred and four and you can still blow smoke。。。 Look； Conklin； we both know you can get what you want if I get what I need。 Do it right。 Make it legitimate。'
'I can't involve the agency！'
'You're not going to involve me； either。' 〃Those people have got to get out！ I'm telling you。。。' Conklin stopped； his eyes on the brownstone below and across the street； his thoughts suddenly paralysed。 A tall man in a black overcoat had walked up the concrete steps； he turned and stood motionless in front of the open door。 It was Crawford。 What was he doing？ What was he doing here？ He had lost his senses； he was out of his mind！ He was a stationary target； he could break the trap！
'Conklin？ Conklin。。。？' The voice floated up out of the phone as the C。I。A。 man hung up。
Conklin turned to a stocky man six feet away at an adjacent window。 In the man's large hand was a rifle； a telescopic sight secured to the barrel。 Alex did not know the man's name and he did not want to know it； he had paid enough not to be burdened。
'Do you see that man down there in the black overcoat standing by the door？' he asked。
'I see him。 He's not the one we're looking for。 He's too old。'
'Get over there and tell him there's a cripple across the street who wants to see him；'
Bourne walked out of the second…hand clothing shop on Third Avenue； pausing in front of the filthy glass window to appraise what he saw。 It would do； everything was co…ordinated。 The black woollen hat covered his head to the middle of his forehead； the wrinkled； patched army field jacket was several sizes too large； the red checked flannel shirt； the wide bulging khaki trousers and the heavy work shoes with thick rubber soles and huge rounded toes were all of a piece。 He only had to find a walk to match the clothing。 The walk of a strong； slow…witted man whose body had begun to show the effects of a lifetime of physical strain； whose mind accepted the daily inevitability of hard labour； reward found in a pack of beer at the end of the drudgery。
He would find that walk； he had used it before。 Somewhere。 But before he searched his imagination； there was a phone call to make； he saw a telephone box up the block； a mangled directory hanging from a chain beneath the metal shelf。 He started walking； his legs automatically more rigid； his feet pressing weight on the pavement； his arms heavy in their sockets； the fingers of his hands slightly spaced； curved from years of abuse。 A set； dull expression on his face would e later。 Not now。
'Belkins Moving and Storage；〃 announced an operator somewhere in the Bronx。
'My name is Johnson；' said Jason impatiently but kindly。 'I'm afraid I have a problem； and I hope you might be able to help me。'
'I'll try； sir。 What is it？'
'I was on my way over to a friend's house on Seventy…first Street … a friend who died recently； I'm sorry to say … to pick up something I'd lent him。 When I got there your van was in front of the house。 It's most embarrassing； but I think your men may remove my property。 Is there someone I might speak to？'
That would be a dispatcher； sir。'
'Might I have his name； please？'
'What？'
'His name。〃
'Sure。 Murray。 Murray Schumach。 I'll connect you。'
Two clicks preceded a long hum over the line。
'Schumach。'
'Mr。 Schumach？'
'That's right。'
Bourne repeated his embarrassing tale。 'Of course； I can easily obtain a letter from my attorney； but the item in question has little or no value。。。'
'What is it？'
'A fishing rod。 Not an expensive one； but with an old fashioned casting reel； the kind