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know has made you my responsibility until I'm relieved, since I'm senior in the office. Shouldn
long."
Everett squinted, then smiled back. "Dave Engels," he said flatly.
A shrug. "A minute ago you were curious about something that I can tell you. Yesterday we
some information from a gent we can deport at any time. Jersey City fella; as long as he ge
touch now and then, he doesn't have to chase goats up hillsides in Sicily, or whatever the hell
do there.
"There are a hell of a lot of thorny types in the FLQ that's the Front de Liberation
Quebec who funnel arms to the Irish Provi-sionals. Some of the stuff is American, and some
the little Vzor comes from Eastern Europe through Libya and Syria to Canada. Long way aro
but some countries are very sloppy about checking imports. Those are the same ones where
Customs people live on tips, like wait-ers.
"So the FLQ is well-placed to be middleman for terrorists. And that's where you came in
rather, didn't come in."
"You've lost me," said Everett. "Can I borrow a cigar?"
"Long as you don't light it," Fulton grinned, fishing out another stogie. "They stink. Well, e
this week the FLQ offered three hit contracts, a matched set, to ah--certain undesirable elem
all with names ending in vowels, in the Big Apple area. That territory includes Philly and Jersey C
Ordinarily I suppose the contracts would've been fulfilled and we'd have three more unsolved sn
on our hands, proba-bly from twenty-two pistols they're using these days and don't ask me why
"But when the local banditti learned the names of the marks people they were to hit
turned the FLQ down flat." Fulton cocked his head; one side of his mouth twitched. "I like
even the Mafia has scruples. You'll be in-terested in the marks," Fulton continued, hold-ing up t
fingers. "A script writer named Althouse," he turned down his ring finger; "an artsy-fartsy sw
named D'Este, and " he turned down his forefinger, leaving the middle finger thrusting u
emulation of a familiar TV logo.
"And Charlie George," Everett supplied.
"You got it. Our informant says it was of Charlie who queered the whole job. It was sudd
obvious that this was a political thing, and believe it or not Charlie G. is a favorite of the Mafia b
Who knows, they may own a piece of him."
"Nobody owns much of Charlie," Everett replied, wondering how accurate he was. "But
beginning to get your drift."
"Well, even your corrupt, stodgy old small-minded FBI can add the fourth name that belo
there."
"Mine."
"Only it wasn't. Why not? Then we got the call from the Colorado Highway Patrol a
lunch-time, and somebody was awake in Washington, and now we think we know why not.
FLQ knew there was already a group setting you up. They must've taken that contract from ano
bunch, and had the money, and why waste dough they could use to buy more plastique? You w
already spoken for."
Everett stared out the window, squinting as headlights swept the roadhouse in the evening m
"What does the FLQ do now? What do I do? I mean, do they just give up, or is there
underworld all-points bulletin out for the four of us?"
Fulton almost laughed. "Nicely put. We don't know who the FLQ finally set it up with, but t
must've been somebody. Which brings me to some very unpleasant news. But first, I think what
should do is take a new ID. That's unofficial, man-to-man, Mr. Everett. But I think you should le
tell the media you did a long yoo-hoo-hoo over the cliff in the BMW. Flaherty won't tell on you
can put him on more ice than Admiral Byrd."
Headlights swung toward them as a Pontiac Firebird slithered into the parking lot. Everett slap
the table. "That'll be Dave Engels."
"I doubt it," said Fulton, studying his cigar, "unless he's had a recent sex change."
The dark hair that emerged from the Firebird was unfamiliar, but the shoulder bag and the s
could not be forgotten. Everett began to smile as Gina Vercours hurried through the snow.
Her greeting was offhand, unhurried, anodyne for Everett's twanging nerves. Fulton stood u
thumb tucked under the ornate buckle beneath his vest. "Good thing I remembered about
weather," she said, stamping her feet as she tossed her wrap over a booth. "It was eighty-se
degrees in Phoenix today. And don't tell me what that is in celsius, Maury," she grinned.
"Gina; still old-fashioned," he said, taking her hand in his.
"And you still don't believe me," she coun-tered, then turned to the other man. "Are you a
Fulton?"
Fulton nodded as she said, "I'm Gina Ver-cours, which Maury will verify, and in lieu of a
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