Binary - Michael Crichton [14]
A black Lincoln limousine pulled up in front of the apartment building. The chauffeur, George Marks, got out, buttoned his uniform jacket, and stood by the door of the passenger side.
Graves had never picked George up for questioning. It had seemed too risky. Now he wondered if that had been a mistake. But he could think of a hundred possible mistakes he had made, especially today. Especially when Wright was being arrested.
'Why are they going to arrest Wright?' Lewis asked. He hadn't got an answer on his previous question, so he was trying another.
Graves lit a cigarette. 'Phelps is nervous.'
'But this computer-tapping business isn't enough -'
'Phelps is running scared just now. There's talk of closing down his division of Intelligence. In fact, the new Secretary is thinking of closing down all State Intelligence work.'
Lewis raised his eyebrows. 'Where'd you hear that?'
Graves smiled. 'I'm in Intelligence myself.'
Lewis glanced at him a moment, then looked back out the window. A man emerged from the apartment building - stocky, neatly dressed, moving purposefully.
'There's Wright,' Lewis said and started the engine of his car.
Graves had watched John Wright get into his limousine every morning for sixty-six days. He knew the routine well: George opened the door and tipped his cap; Wright nodded to him, bent over at the waist, and slipped quickly into the back seat. George closed the door, paused to tug at his leather gloves, and walked around to the driver's side. In the back seat Wright stared straight ahead or opened his newspaper to read.
But this time John Wright stared across the street directly at Graves. And he continued to stare until the limousine moved off in the hot San Diego morning.
Lewis was now very good at following in San Diego traffic; he kept pace - three cars back. After a time Lewis said, 'He was looking at you.'
'He certainly was.' .
'Do you think he's on to us?'
'Impossible,' Graves said. He thought of the closet in his apartment. He had five distinctly different suits in that closet, and he rotated them on different days. He thought of the three sedans and the four delivery trucks that the Department used for surveillance work. Different manufacturers, different colours, and a new licence plate every week. He had never parked in the same place, never waited for Wright in the same way. He had never presented Wright with a recognizable pattern.
'Impossible,' he said again.
And then Graves thought of himself. If he were Wright, would he discover that he was being followed? Even with all the precautions, the safeguards, the changes? He liked to think that he would.
And if he would, why not Wright?
'He's deviating,' Lewis said, nodding at the limousine. Graves saw that it was true. Normally on Wednesday mornings Wright went to Balboa Park, where he walked in the gardens, fed the pigeons, and relaxed. But he wasn't doing that today. He was going downtown. 'Where's our other car?' Graves said.
Lewis picked up the car radio receiver. '701 to 702. Where are you?' There was a hiss of static. "701, we're at Third and B, going downtown.' Lewis glanced at Graves, who nodded.
'Very good, 702,' Lewis said, and clicked off.
The second car, the dry cleaning van, was running in advance of the limousine. That was standard procedure - one car tailing from the front, one from behind. In cities on really big jobs, they sometimes used four cars, working all around the suspect car. That made it impossible to lose the suspect. But Graves didn't want a four-car tail, and in any case Phelps would never have approved the expense.
The limousine went down Third to Avenue A, then turned left going west.
'702, you have him?'
'We still have him.'
Lewis followed the limousine as it went crosstown on A and stopped, pulling up in front of a warehouse. Lewis pulled to the kerb half a block behind. They watched as Wright got out and went inside.
Graves lit a cigarette, and they waited. But after only a minute or so, Wright reappeared