"I have only the most rudimentary facts. But I suspect Jack Matthews is happily antic.i.p.ating providing you with every last detail."

Matt read the telephone number and the extension off the phone to Washington.

"I am sure that you will be hearing from Matthews within minutes," Washington said. "And there is one more thing, Matt."

"What?"

"Peter Wohl is concerned that you might do something foolish. So am I. Allow Mr. Matthews's a.s.sociates to deal with this beyond the limitations of what you were ordered to do."

"Okay."

"If you were to disobey your orders, and Wohl, so to speak, threw the book at you, he would have my complete support."

"You have made your point."

"I devoutly hope so," Washington said, and hung up.

Three minutes later, Dolores, after first knocking, put her head into the door of the office.

"There is a Mr. Rogers of the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society on line three for you, Mr. Payne. Do you want to take it?"

"Thank you," Matt said, and picked up the telephone. "Payne."

"Can you talk?"

"Didn't you just hear me talking?"

"Christ, Matt!"

"What can I do for you, Mr. Rogers? Don't tell me I'm overdrawn again?"

He could hear Matthews sigh.

"The Farmers and Merchants Bank of Clinton, New Jersey, was held up yesterday morning. We just heard about it, and I just talked to our Newark office-they have jurisdiction. Same modus operandi as the Riegelsville job. Same description of the perpetrator. This time, the haul was nearly sixty thousand dollars."

"Hairy legs and all?"

"That wasn't mentioned. But the unattractive, heavy makeup, earrings, et cetera, et cetera. For reasons I can't understand, Newark sent the surveillance-camera film to Washington-to the Anti-Terrorist Group; I suppose they issued a 'Report Similar Events' notice-before they processed it. I called Special Agent Jernigan, and he's promised to send me whatever the camera shows by wire as soon as it's processed. I'll be very surprised if it turns out to be someone else." they processed it. I called Special Agent Jernigan, and he's promised to send me whatever the camera shows by wire as soon as it's processed. I'll be very surprised if it turns out to be someone else."

"Sawed-off shotgun, too?"

"No. That's the one thing that doesn't fit the modus. This time it was a sawed-off carbine."

"Explain that to me, please?"

"One of the witnesses-the bank guard-got a good look at it. The stock had been cut off behind the pistol grip, and then rounded with a file. And the barrel was cut off back to where the forearm whatchamacallit holds it. You understand?"

"What's the purpose?"

"Concealability, obviously. And presumably our friend thinks he now has the latest thing in terrorist machine-pistols. Those were M2-fully automatic carbines-they stole from Indiantown Gap."

" 'Presumably our friend thinks'?" Matt quoted.

"I fired a carbine modified very much like this one on the FBI range at Quantico. They look great, very menacing, but-"

"I've fired one, too," Matt interrupted. "And also at Quantico. But on the Marine Corps' known-distance range."

"Okay. Then, knowing that there's a good deal of recoil in a carbine, you'll understand how hard this 'modifica tion' would be to control, even single shot, without the stock. If he tries to fire it full automatic, he just couldn't control it. The danger here is-"

"If he should try to take a shot at a cop, or one of you guys, he'd be more likely to hit a civilian," Matt finished for him.

"Right."> "What is this clown doing, acting out a fantasy?"

"That bombed building was no fantasy, Matt."

"No," Matt agreed. "Anything else?"

"How did your dinner with the girlfriend go?"

"What do you mean, 'girlfriend'?"

"Chenowith's, not yours, of course."

"I must have missed something. I thought the Ollwood woman was his girlfriend."

"Right. So what?"

"Yes or no?"

"No. I have carefully gone through everything. I have had plenty of time, you see, waiting patiently by my telephone to hear from you-"

"Screw you, Jack," Matt said amiably.

"-and there is nothing to suggest that the Reynolds woman is, or has been, romantically involved with either male."

" 'Either male male?"

"I didn't mean to suggest that. But who knows? These people don't consider themselves bound by the usual conventions of society. If it feels good, do it."

Christ, is that a possibility? There is no boyfriend. Has been no boyfriend . . .

"How did dinner go?" Matthews asked.

Well, pal, we had dinner with Mommy and Daddy, and Daddy taught me how to cook a London broil, and then we went to the country club. En route, the female suspect got pinched for speeding, and I talked a local uniform out of writing the ticket. At the country club, I taught the female suspect to eat Roquefort on crackers with a sip of cabernet sauvignon, and we talked about mutual friends, and then the female suspect kissed me for approximately one-tenth of second, whereupon my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Moments later, my w.a.n.g tried very hard to break through my zipper. And then I tossed and turned most of the night, thinking about it.

"All right," Matt said, "Are you gaining her confidence? Do you think she suspects you're in Harrisburg for any reason but the cover story?"

"Yes and no. That was two questions."

"Are you sure she's not suspicious? That's a clever female, Matt. She might be able to conceal her suspicions from you, to see what you're really up to."

"Hey, I was told to liaise-whatever the h.e.l.l that means-with you, not have you question my conclusions."

"What's the matter with you?" Matthews asked, sounding shocked.

"Nothing. Why should there be?"

There was a pause, then Matthews asked, "What happens next? Are you going to see her again?"

"Dinner, tonight."

"You haven't picked up on anything?"

"Our relationship is not yet at the point where I can ask, 'Hey, Susie, by the way, what do you hear from your friend, the bomber and bank robber?' But I'm working on it."

"You will, of course, call me if you do pick up on anything? I mean, presuming you got out of the right side of bed that morning?"

"Yeah. Of course I will. But for Christ's sake, don't expect miracles."

"Be careful, buddy."

"I will."

Matthews hung up.

Ten minutes after her conversation with Matt Payne-while part of her mind was still occupied with wondering why she somehow just hadn't been able to tell him that not only would she not have dinner with him tonight, but that the fun and games was over, period, don't call me anymore, period-Susan Reynolds received a telephone call from Jennifer Ollwood.

"Hi," Jennie began.

Susan gave her a telephone number and hung up. She rose from her desk and put her head in the door of Appeals Officer, Grade IV, Veronica Haynes.

"Cover for me, will you, Veronica? I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

"Make it half an hour," Veronica replied. "Fifteen minutes isn't really long enough for an early-morning quickie, is it?"

"Is that all you ever have on your mind?"

"Yeah," Veronica said, after appearing to have given the question serious thought. "What's more important?"

"I can think of some things."

"Some things that are as much fun?"

"Yeah," Susan said, after appearing to give Veronica's question as much serious thought as Veronica had given hers.

"Have fun," Veronica said. "Keeping one eye on the clock, of course."

Susan rode the elevator to the lobby and left the Department of Social Services Building. She walked to a car wash three blocks away. That morning, on her way to work, knowing Jennie-or less likely, Eloise Anne Fitzgerald-was going to call, she had had her Porsche washed.

While it had been going through-she hadn't liked to think what the brushes and felt washing pads were going to do to the Porsche's paint job, but doing this seemed necessary-she had walked to the corner, where there was a pay telephone booth, and written down-and later memorized-the number.

She entered the phone booth, took the handset off its hook, held the hook down with her finger, and pretended to be having a conversation until the phone rang.

"Hi," Jennie said again.

"Hi, yourself. How are you?"

"Well, you know. Fine. Why shouldn't I be?"

Being a fugitive from justice, wanted for murder, and that son of a b.i.t.c.h you're living with comes immediately to mind.

"And the baby?"

"He's just wonderful!"

And what's going to happen to him when Mommy and Daddy are hauled away in handcuffs?

"Jennie, is something wrong? I don't think these telephone calls, so many of them, are really smart."

"Why don't you come see the baby?" Jennie asked cheerfully.

"First of all, I don't think-I was just there-that's such a smart idea. As much as I'd like to, Jennie."

"Bryan has something he wants you to keep for us," Jennie said.

What? Another bag full of money he stole from a bank?

"Really?"

"Like the last package, only a little bigger," Jennie said. There was a touch of pride in her voice.

My G.o.d, don't tell me he actually did rob another bank!

I'll have to get a larger safe-deposit box. The one I have is nearly full of money he stole.

"Jennie, I really don't think coming there so soon again makes sense."

"Bryan wants you to," Jennie said. "He says you know why."

If he's arrested-when he's arrested-he doesn't want to be found in possession of money the cops will suspect came from one or more so far unsolved-or is the word "successful"?-bank robberies. He wants the money to pay for his defense.

I sometimes think that Bryan really would like to be caught, and put on trial. He thinks that with a good lawyer-and himself skillfully playing the role of n.o.ble young intellectual courageously standing up for moral principle-he will not only walk out of the courtroom a free man, but into a role as Hero of the New Order.

And, of course, Jennie has been mesmerized into going along with his fantasies. She thinks the father of her baby is the Scarlet Pimpernel.