Broken English

CHAPTER 12: SUNDAY, ACT I

4:01 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox drifted awake more slowly than he liked, prodded from a distance by the insistently ringing phone. Finally reaching some rudimentary level of awareness, his desire for alertness turned quickly to annoyance. A glance at the dark window showed him that the time was at least before dawn. Groping toward the nightstand, he found the phone.
         "Kitfox," he said, letting his annoyance show.
         "Leon, Inez." Her voice was maddeningly crisp. "I need you at the Marriott."
         "What's up?"
         "It's a long story. Just get down here and I'll fill you in."
         A dull ache was starting behind his left eye as he levered himself out of bed and switched on the light. That did nothing to make him feel better. Five hours he thought, checking the time. Is this what municipal cops go through on a daily basis? Surely, they have shifts.
         Apparently, Zamora didn't. He washed his face, had a brief encounter with his electric razor, and put on his suit over his shoulder holster. It was a short drive to the center of the tourist district, and he arrived on a scene that could have been seen from space. Red and blue lights flashed from two dozen cars that were drawn up around two sides of the hotel. Yellow tape secured to every conceivable attachment point formed a surreal maze to be negotiated on the way to enlightenment. Even at this hour, a crowd of the curious was gathering.
         He parked down the block and walked up to the tape where a large, no-nonsense officer guarded the inner sanctum. His FBI card got him past that obstacle, though the man couldn't tell him where Zamora was. The lobby was in no way better. Guests milled around in every state of dress from bathrobes to business suits, some being questioned, others waiting their turn. There was no sign of Zamora here, either.
         He spotted a trio of detectives holding a conference in front of the elevators. Walking up behind one of them, he reached over the man's shoulder to hold his FBI credentials in front of his face.
         "Lieutenant Zamora?"
         "Oh, she's waiting for you. Go to the third floor. You'll see her as soon as the doors open."
         Kitfox boarded the elevator, and when the doors opened, he almost stepped out onto a body. A middle-aged man in casual dress lay just outside the elevator, the right side of his head a mass of blood and hair. He lay face-down, his arm outstretched as if he were reaching for the call button. A pool of blood soaked the carpet around his head and shoulders.
         "Jesus!" Kitfox exclaimed, feeling his stomach ball up.
         "Careful!" one of the forensics team barked from a point ten feet away from the body where he knelt over a blood spatter. "Don't touch anything."
         "Bastards ought to warn a person," Kitfox grumbled. "I suppose I compromised the elevator?"
         "No," the man replied, "we did that first."
         "Anything useable?"
         "Don't know yet. I doubt it, though. There's traces of a thousand people right here. It's hard to tell what's a clue in a public execution like this."
         "That's what it was?"
         The blood guy stopped his work to fix Kitfox with a look that expressed volumes.
         "Unless he committed suicide with a baseball bat which he then somehow disposed of, yeah, that's my read."
         "Sorry. Lieutenant Zamora?"
         "She went to take a breather. The command post is in a little lounge down the hall on the left. She's probably in there."
         "Thanks." Kitfox went a hundred feet down the hall and turned in at an open door where a few cops and lab techs were milling around.
         "Leon," Zamora greeted him at once, "glad you could make it. You've met Mr. Ludwig, I assume?"
         "That would be the vic?"
         "Yeah. Michael Charles Ludwig, market analyst with Pfenner and Stein in San Diego. Had a faculty card from UCSD in his wallet. We'll be checking on that, but this being Sunday, we may not get far. Cause of death, crushed skull above the right ear. We have the time narrowed down pretty tight, because a housekeeper told us that the hall was clear fifteen minutes before he was found."
         "Any suspects?"
         "None credible. We've sealed the hotel, but by the time we arrived it was an hour old. The perp could be in San Francisco by now."
         "Yeah, and even if he's not, you know what we're going to hear."
         "Yeah. It's hard to crack somebody when they don't know they've done anything wrong."
         "Well, what stage are you at now?"
         "Detectives are interviewing everyone who's awake, and uniforms are looking for the weapon. It's going to take hours to get statements from these people, and already the organizers are screaming because it's going to interrupt their event schedule."
         "That's normal. How are you handling them?"
         "They'll have to suck it up. Dead bodies have the right of way."
         "Fair enough. Any gut feelings?"
         "Staff. He's waiting for the elevator, maybe wants to catch an early breakfast. Who notices a bellhop or a maintenance man?"
         "Or a colleague. You and I are the only ones who are completely certain about our theory, which means maybe it's wrong, and even if we're right, we're still miles behind on this. We have to find some way to catch up."
         "Good idea, but how?"
         "I'm thinking about that." He glanced at his watch. "It occurs to me that we have a perp in custody who owes his lack of prosecution to my good will. He might be willing to engage in some meaningful dialogue."
         "Mendoza?"
         "Correct."
         "Pierce isn't going to be happy."
         "Pierce can kick rocks. I'm questioning his client as a material witness in a different case in which he is not a suspect."
         "He won't take that lying down."
         "I can always drop the charges. Mendoza's as much a victim in that as I was, and we both know it."
         "Yeah, well, hold that option back as long as you can. It could be useful for leverage."
         "I know. I'll let you know where this goes. If anywhere," he added doubtfully.
         "I'll do the same with Mr. Ludwig. See you for lunch?"
         "Gotta make it to breakfast first." He glanced around the room. "No donuts? And you call yourselves cops!"

5:19 AM, Monterey

         "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mendoza. I'm not here to cause you any more grief, but it's imperative that I speak with your son as soon as possible."
         "Haven't you done enough? Now you have to come to his hospital bed to do more?"
         "Mrs. Mendoza, this is important."
         "Not important enough for you to bother Mr. Pierce, I see."
         "There is no time. There's been another murder."
         "Dios! My Filipe has been in this bed where you put him!"
         "Yes, I know that. As I explained to you before, I don't believe Filipe is a killer. I think someone of great skill coerced him, tricked him into attacking me, and that's who I want to put in jail, not Filipe. If I can't produce that person, though, a jury will probably convict Filipe based on the evidence. He can help me find out what happened to him, and who did it."
         "I don't know..."
         "It's okay, ma," Filipe called from the bed.
         "Be quiet, hijo," she snapped.
         "No, ma. He wants to help me. Come in, Mr. Kitfox."
         "I don;t like it."
         "I don't care, ma. Go get some coffee. Come in, please. How can I help you?"
         "Filipe, there's been another murder. I know I told you that if you remembered anything else, to call me. Cops always say that to witnesses, and you probably thought nothing else of it."
         "No, I've thought about it. I don't have much to do here."
         "And?"
         "I'm sorry. I just can't think of anything."
         "Maybe you can. Just take it a step at a time. Now, you stayed at Casa de la Playa, right?"
         "Yes."
         "Where was it? On the beach?"
         "No, it was six blocks away."
         "Was it modern?"
         "Sort of. It wasn't real old, but it had, how you say, seen better days."
         "From the sixties, maybe?"
         "Yes, maybe the sixties."
         "So, did the rooms have kitchens and bedrooms, or were they all in one?"
         "You walked in, and the bed was in the living room. It formed the couch. There was a little kitchen where you could warm something up, but you couldn't make a meal in there."
         "Pool, game room, anything like that?"
         "There was a little square pool with no lifeguard. I don't think anybody used it. There was no other rooms, no games or books or nothing."
         "Did you meet anyone named Uberoth?"
         "Uberoth, Uberoth... I could have, I guess. The place was full the whole time I was there."
         "No, this Uberoth worked at the hotel."
         "Oh. Well, I didn't meet nobody like that."
         "Take your time. Be sure."
         "I'm sure. Everybody who worked there was Mexicans. I spoke Spanish the whole time. A guy with a name like that, I would remember."
         "Something happened to you during your stay, Filipe, and we think this Uberoth guy did it. Did you receive a blow to the head while you were there?"
         "No."
         Kitfox looked down and rubbed his temples.
         "Did you attend any shows that featured a hypnotist?"
         "A hypnotist?"
         "I'm reaching here. Someone convinced you that attacking an FBI agent would be a good idea. They also convinced at least three other people, and I don't think for a minute that's all. I want this guy."
         "Please, Mr. Kitfox," the mother said, "he doesn't remember."
         "He needs to, Mrs. Mendoza. It's vitally important. Why did you choose this particular hotel?"
         "Because I could afford it," he said with a self-deprecating smile. "I don't exactly make the biggest salary."
         "I see. How cheap was it?"
         "Half price for Cabo."
         "Okay. I have to get back to the Marriott. I want you to keep thinking about this, Filipe. Anything out of the ordinary may be the clue we need. If you had to do something extra before you could flush the toilet, I want to know what it was. If your shoes were moved when you woke up one morning, that could be important. Do you understand?"
         "I understand. I just don't remember."
         "Try. Everything depends on it. Here's my card. I know I gave you one before, but if you remember anything, call me anytime, day or night."
         "I will, Mr. Kitfox."
         "Thanks for talking to me."

8:09 AM, Monterey

         Lieutenant Zamora slouched in a reasonably comfortable executive-model chair, feet on the square table, idly finger-combing her short black hair. An uncomfortably puffy fullness had settled behind her eyes, and the taste in her mouth was pretty close to that of week-old coffee. She had had, what, three hours sleep, and had then been yanked out of bed to deal with another murdered financier. That had been a good five hours ago; she should just be waking up about now.
         At least she had her people going door-to-door taking statements. Once they reported back, she would have to dive into the next phase, correlating the information they had gathered. Until then, she could close her eyes and rub her temples.
         She had barely begun when one of the housekeeping staff stepped into the room.
         "Lieutenant Zamora?"
         "Yes."
         "There's a phone call for you, ma'am. Just pick up that handset and dial three. You'll be connected immediately."
         "Thank you." She picked it up and punched 3. "Lieutenant Zamora. This better be good."
         "Sergeant Peters, Lieutenant. I think it's good. That fax from Mexico you're waiting for is coming in now."
         "That is good," she conceded as her feet hit the floor. "Is the picture any good?"
         "Portrait quality so far."
         "Any vitals?"
         "No text yet. Cover sheet says there'll be three more pages, so probably."
         "Excellent. Leave it on my desk, would you?"
         "It will be done."
         "Thanks, Peters. I'll see you make chief for this."
         She cut him off in the middle of his laugh and, following the directions on the plate beside the phone, punched 1 for the front desk.
         "Reception."
         "This is Lieutenant Zamora. Can I get an outside line on this handset?"
         "Certainly. Just listen for the dial tone."
         There followed a series of clicks then the warm hum of the dial tone. She punched in the number of Kitfox's motel. She got the switchboard, found that he wasn't in, and asked to leave a message.
         "Certainly. Go ahead."
         "This is Inez. Call me at the Merriott immediately upon receiving this."
         "Thank you. He'll get it the moment he comes in."
         "Thank you." She hung up.
         Damn it, Leon, where the hell are you?
         Zamora stood up, frustrated. She strolled to the door and looked out into the hall, hoping he had returned, and she would see him right outside. Only a single tech was left finishing up the crime scene processing.
         "Nick, have you seen Agent Kitfox?"
         "The FBI guy?"
         "Yeah."
         "Sorry, Lieutenant. Saw him early, right after all this started. Nothing since, though."
         "Thanks."
         She stepped aside to make room for a young man in a hotel uniform to enter their makeshift headquarters. He started emptying ashtrays into one of the wastecans.
         "Are you with the police?" he asked as she came back in.
         "Yes."
         "Thought so. You look a little stressed."
         "Thanks. What a lovely thing to say."
         "I didn't mean anything. It's just, our workroom's at the far end of this hall. If you'd like some coffee, help yourself. If anybody's there, just tell them Jimmy sent you."
         "That's decent of you. I just might."
         "Would you like some food?"
         "I'm not a guest."
         He gave a dismissive hiss. "There's a thousand snack trays out this morning. I'm sure nobody'd miss a small one."
         "Jimmy, you're a prince."
         "I know what it's like to be stuck on the job and hungry. Just let me empty these baskets, and I'll round something up for you. Excuse me," he added as the wall phone chimed. "Station 36, Walsh speaking. I'll ask. Are you Lieutenant Zamora?"
         "Yes."
         "It's for you." He passed her the handset.
         "Zamora."
         "Inez, Leon. Just got your message. What's up?"
         "Where the hell have you been? Never mind. That fax from Mexico is coming into my office. The sooner we can get your people working on it, the better. This guy had Casa de la Playa in the palm of his hand for six months. Anybody who went there is at risk."
         "I couldn't agree with you more. You know what a pain in the ass it is to try to get my office moving on a Sunday, though."
         "We have to try."
         "All right, I'll meet you there. I can be there in fifteen minutes."
         "Good. I'm on the way." She hung up.
         "Excuse me," the kid with the wastebaskets said. "I couldn't help overhearing. Miss Benson stayed at Casa de la Playa."
         "Who's Miss Benson?
         "The hotel's social coordinator."
         "Oh my God!" She snatched the phone off the wall and punched 1.
         "Reception."
         "This is Lieutenant Zamora. Can I get an outside line, please?"
         "Certainly. One moment."
         Time seemed to fly by as she waited for the dial tone.
         Finally!
         She punched in the direct number to Kitfox's room.
         "Hello, Leon Kitfox."
         "Leon, thank God I caught you. Change of plan."

8:33 AM, Monterey

         Zamora paced back and forth in front of the taped-off side entrance the police had commandeered for their own use. She glanced at her watch again; a minute later than last time.
         "At last," she muttered as his unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up at the end of the line of police vehicles and he got out and started toward her. She trotted down the steps and met him at the police line, holding the tape for him before the uniform could even ask for his ID.
         "Glad you're here," she greeted him.
         "You said it was important. What's all this about a witness before the fact, or whatever it was you said?"
         "The social director, coordinator, whatever, for the hotel stayed at Casa de la Playa," she said, trying to hurry him a little by taking the steps two at a time. "she just came on duty."
         "And what do you think we'll accomplish by interviewing her? Even if she is a ticking time bomb, there's no way she can know it."
         "True. But if she is, and how could this guy Uberoth resist the social director of the main venue, we have a chance to pick the brain of someone who stayed there before she goes off. This is a gift beyond price."
         "Slow down." He actually took her by the arm and stopped her. "Have you given any thought to what you're going to say to her?"
         "Not specifically."
         "Generally, then?"
         "Generally, I'm going to ask her about the situation there, who she met, what they talked about, all the usual stuff, you know."
         "She isn't going to know what was done to her, even if anything was done."
         "Well, what do you think we should do, wait for her to go off and then deal with the aftermath?"
         "No, I didn't say that. Just don't hold out too much hope for this to be the case breaker. Where is she?"
         "I haven't brought up her name yet. We'll want to surprise her."
         "Now, that I agree with. Lead on."
         Zamora angled across the lobby and approached a young housekeeper who was fluffing pillows."
         "Excuse me," she said, flashing her badge, "could you tell me where to find a Miss Kathy Benson?"
         "She was just at the front desk, ma'am."
         "Thank you."
         They walked toward the desk, finding three young women pleasantly and efficiently moving a short line of guests, never quite allowing it to form as the guests stopped by to finalize arrangements for the day to come.
         "You do the talking," Zamora said as they stepped up to the rich walnut counter.
         "Me? This is your project."
         "A man with FBI credentials? She won't dare try to stonewall you. Plus, you just made me realize that I'm too invested in it."
         "I'll take a shot," he said. "Feel free to jump in whenever it suits you. Kathy Benson?"
         All three women swung their heads toward the man holding up the FBI card.
         "I'm Kathy Benson," a slender girl of medium height replied.

8:37 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox made a quick appraisal of the young woman who answered to the name of Kathy Benson. Her fresh-scrubbed good looks would have been at home in an Ivory soap commercial, and her medium-length auburn hair, gathered into a ponytail by a barrette, lay in a well-behaved fan at the back of her neck.
         "Special Agent Leon Kitfox of the San Franciso office," he told her. "This is Lieutenant Inez Zamora of the Monterey Police Department. Is there somewhere we can talk?"
         "Of course, but I'm on duty here."
         "Go ahead, Kathy," one of the other women said. "We can handle it here."
         "Thanks. Right this way," she said, coming out from behind the counter and leading them down one of the side corridors.
         The hotel uniform of blue blazer and tan pleated skirt couldn't hide the girl's athletic grace as she walked, sure-footed on her two-inch platforms. She was a powerful tool in the hotel's quest for business.
         She led them along the hallway to a bellhop station, or so Kitfox assumed, a tiny alcove fronted by a podium holding a phone, a stapler, a paper spike with a dozen or so invoices already pinned to it, and a roll of cellophane tape.
         "Take five, Tommy," she said to the teenage boy lounging against the wall in the alcove.
         "Yes, ma'am."
         "I'm too young for that," she muttered as the kid headed for the soda machines. "How can I help you?"
         "Miss Benson, we're investigating the murder that took place here this morning, as well as several others, and my colleague was recently given information that you vacationed in Cabo San Lucas, is that correct?"
         "Yes, it is."
         "May we ask where you stayed?"
         "Of course. It was a little out of the way place that my travel agent found for me. Casa de la Playa was the name of it. Why?"
         "We don't want to upset you, Miss Benson, but there have been three murders, plus one unsuccessful attempt, and the common denominator is that all the perpetrators stayed at Casa de la Playa during the last six months."
         "Dear God! And you think I'm connected with them... how?"
         "We aren't sure you are at all," he hastened to assure her. "I'm sure thousands of people vacationed there, and the vast majority will have no connection whatsoever. What we were hoping was that you may have noticed something out of the ordinary for a small resort."
         "Like what?"
         "I'm afraid that if we knew, we wouldn't be having this conversation. We're looking for anything that might have made you say, "Now, that's weird.'"
         She studied the desktop for moment, lips pursed, making little "hmm, hmm, hmm" sounds
         "I can't think of anything," she said finally. It would certainly help if you could give me some idea of what you're looking for."
         "Anything, anything at all. Was there a Coke machine in your room? That would be unusual. Were your shoes repaired and cleaned while you slept? Did the toilet play Beethoven?"
         "No," she said with a smile playing around her lips. "It sounds almost like you think something drove your killers to become killers while they were there."
         "That's the gist of it. We need to find out what the trigger was, and we don't know what to ask."
         "All right, now you're scaring me."
         "We don't mean to."
         "No? You're telling me that people were turned into killers while they sat around the pool or something, and if that's the case, it could very well have happened to me."
         "Are you a violent person, Miss Benson?" Zamora asked.
         "No."
         "Then you're probably safe. If somebody was making killers down there, it's likely they'd want subjects with a prior familiarity with violent activities."
         "I certainly hope you're right!"
         She hadn't seen Kitfox look sharply at Zamora's blatant lie.
         "I'm sure we are," Zamora said, reaching for her wallet. "We need anything you can think of, no matter how odd or insignificant it might seem. I'm going to give you my card, and I want you to call my office the instant you think of anything. Don't be embarrassed. The weirder a thing is, the more likely it is to help us."
         "All right," Benson said tentatively, reaching for Zamora's card as if it had venomous spines. She still wore her look of confusion, but that suddenly disappeared, replaced by raised eyebrows and open mouth. "You know, this wasn't in Cabo, but a few nights ago I nodded off at the library. When I woke up I had a book open on the table about some Japanese fighting art... or something like that."
         "Is that something you'd normally read?" Kitfox asked.
         "No, it didn't interest me at all. I almost thought the librarian had put it there for a joke. She woke me up when it was time to close, but they don't play jokes like that, do they?"
         "Not as a rule."
         "I'm one of the killers, aren't I?"
         "Not unless you killed Mr. Ludwig this morning. Did you?"
         "Of course not!"
         "Can you prove it? To yourself, I mean."
         "My alarm woke me at six-thirty, and I got here just before eight."
         "Well, you're probably not a killer, then."
         "Not yet. What should I do?"
         "Just be aware of yourself, your surroundings. Keep your cool. I'm sure you'll be all right."
         "But that book, Mr. Kitfox. I never would have chosen a book like that to read."
         "Yes. Okay, I'm going to lay everything on the table." He looked around to verify that no one was standing nearby to overhear, by design or chance, what he was about to say.
         "Are you sure about this, Leon?" Zamora asked.
         "All I'm sure about is that we're in way over our heads. This could help, and I don't see any way it could hurt."
         "Okay, I'm with you, for better or worse."
         "All right. Miss Benson, this goes no further, do you understand?"
         "Yes, of course."
         "Over the past few weeks four people have been attacked, three of them killed, and all of them were involved with this economic conference that's going on. The three that died, including the one this morning, were scheduled to attend. I was the fourth, and I was attacked after I became involved with the investigation."
         "My God, that's terrible!"
         "Indeed it is. There were four different attackers, three of whom are in custody. They were easy to catch because they made no effort to hide or escape. They were all perfectly normal people, productive members of society with no police history until they struck, and after they had committed their crimes, they lapsed into amnesia. They couldn't remember what they'd done, or why, and the common thread that runs between them is that they all vacationed at Casa de la Playa during the last six months. That's why we're interested in anything you may have seen or heard while you were there."
         "This can't be happening," she said, making it a plea to the two law enforcement professionals. "There's the book, plus the very fact that I work at this hotel would make me a natural target. What should I do?"
         "We aren't supposed to offer that kind of advice, Miss Benson, but in this case, if you really think you might have been programmed, you might want to take some time off, get out of town until the conference ends."
         "I've just done that. I won't have more days to take for months."
         "What about your office, Inez? Could you take her into protective custody?"
         "Possibly, but against what? If we can't show a credible outside threat, the brass will just kick her again."
         "I'm not sure that would go down well with management, anyway," Benson said.
         "Well, if you can't get out of here, it's hard to offer many other suggestions. Just try to monitor yourself, your mood, whatever, and if you start feeling strange, seek out some coworkers. How have you been feeling, by the way, since you got back?"
         "Generally, quite well," she said, visibly running a self-diagnostic as she spoke. "I do get these headaches, though. Almost crippling sometimes."
         "Does anything make them better?"
         "Exercise."
         "That's almost a standard remedy these days," Zamora said.
         "Yeah. Did you happen to meet a staff member, a male named Uberoth while you were down there?"
         "Uberoth. No. Everyone was Mexican."
         "That's too bad. Well, one or the other of us will be around here most of the day because of that murder. Don't hesitate to have us paged if you feel the need. You're on our A list now."
         "Thank you."
         "It's not a problem," Zamora said. "And get hold of me if you think of anything. I don't care how weird it is."
         "I will."
         "All right. Why don't we go get that fax?" Kitfox asked Zamora as they stepped away from the alcove. "I'll get my office moving on it if I have to drive it up there myself. i can do it in an hour if you'll loan me a marked car."
         "Well, it is Sunday, It's notoriously hard to get hold of bosses on Sunday, especially if you don't look too hard."
         "Mr Kitfox," Benson called from the alcove, "I just remembered something."
         As the two unlikely partners started back toward her, she said, "The headboards had speakers. I could dial up anything from a tropical thunderstorm to ocean surf. I slept like a baby."

8:38 AM, Monterey

         Ikhelevich had followed them unobtrusively from the moment the FBI man and his puppet, the city cop, had allowed Benson to lead them away from the reception desk. It was child's play for a man of his skill.
         When they stopped at the alcove, he turned quickly up the stairs, crossed above them, and reemerged at the far end of the hall. Engrossed as they were in their conversation, they hardly noticed one more guest studying one of the Federally mandated floor plans.
         He had complete faith in Benson's programming. She couldn't tell them anything because she didn't know anything, not in the brightly lit conscious mind where it mattered. After he activated her and she played whatever part he assigned, she would know even less.
         That was the beauty of it. These fools in the west firmly believed that no one would do anything under hypnosis that they wouldn't do while they were fully conscious. The KGB knew better and had proven it beyond any question decades ago. He, Dr. Uschi Ikhelivich, had demonstrated the ease with which the conscious filters could be bypassed by someone with the knowledge of what drugs to use, always surreptitiously, what sounds, masking subtle, barely detectable instructions breaking the job down into its component pieces, none of which would trigger a protest. He had sent occasional tourists back to their decadent countries to become killers who no one could figure out, and then he began to send agents of CIA, MI6, the Mossad, to wreak havoc on their controllers. Once their work was done, the portions of their minds that held the knowledge of what had been done to them emptied out like formatting a hard disk. It was all frighteningly easy.
         So he had no worries about Benson telling them anything. His motive for watching was more curiosity than anything else. What would they do when yet another promising road ran to a dead end?
They had talked for a long time. The police, fishing. These two were good, he grudgingly admitted, but there was nothing to find. He enjoyed the frustration written all over their faces as they asked question after question, only to meet with confused looks and incoherent answers. The woman gave Benson her card. He could almost hear her say, "Call me if you remember anything." He enjoyed their agitated gestures as they walked away talking.
         But then Benson had called them back, and as they turned, she unwisely began talking to them before they reached her, and in the half-shouted sentence he caught the word "speakers," and doubt set in.
         Doubt, but not indecision. Valuable a tool as Benson was, the overall operation was more valuable still. He didn't know what she might have remembered, or what those two pesky cops might do with it, but nothing was going to interfere with the payment Dave would give him when this conference was ruined.
         Slipping out of sight around the corner of an intersecting corridor, he took what looked like a telephone handset from his pocket and screwed an stubby antenna into the top. Switching it on, he waited for the clicks to stop and the dial tone to sound. Consulting an index card from his pocket, he punched in a number. There was another short hesitation while the signal flew through space and activated a satellite's circuitry, then the phone on the alcove desk began to ring. He saw Benson excuse herself, saw her pick it up, and waited for the click as it connected.
         "Station twelve, this is Kathy Benson. How may I assist you?"
         "Fish ride bicycles in long lines of curvature."