Operation Fireball Read Online Free PDF Page B

the holstered gun, then stepped away so he couldn’t reach me with his hard-looking hands. “You made a mistake in not coming alone,” I told him. “Let’s hear the story fast or only one of us is going to walk off this thing.”
    His expression was dangerous-looking as he eyed me. Then he decided to smile. “You’re a cute bastard,” he said. His voice was calm. “You’re right about the face. I’d never have known you.”
    “Never mind the chatter. Who’s your oversized blond friend?”
    “Another cute bastard. The guy who’s goin’ to get us where we need to go on this caper.”
    We couldn’t stay on the elevator forever. I punched the third-floor button. When the doors opened, I motioned to Slater to leave first. “Room 304,” I said. “To the right.”
    He moved down the corridor ahead of me. He had a firm, easy stride. He stood back while I unlocked the door. One hand inside my jacket, I waved him inside. He entered warily, scanning the room for possible hiding places that might conceal an accomplice. He looked into the bathroom, then into the closet. Satisfied that we were alone, he spoke up again. This time his tone was businesslike. “You should have been able to tell by lookin’ at him that he’s no cop,” he said.
    That much was true. In the quick glimpse I’d had of him, the big man seemed to have none of the usual police mannerisms difficult to describe but impossible to overlook. “Where does he fit into the proposition?”
    “A full partner,” Slater said without hesitation.
    “How many partners?”
    “There’ll be five of us all together.”
    “And how big is this walnut we’re supposed to cut up?”
    “Let’s get Erikson up here an’ have him tell you.”
    “Erikson?”
    “The man you sidetracked.”
    “Is he calling the shots on the project?”
    Slater started to answer me and then stopped. “Up to a point,” he said at last. He listened to the sound of his own words and seemed to approve of them. “Up to a point,” he repeated, and grinned at me. He had strong-looking teeth.
    “What’s this man Erikson contributing?”
    “Background and knowhow. He’s an ex-Navy type who got in the grease with the brass. He specialized in communications then.”
    The blond man had the look of an ex-Navy type, but so did a lot of other men who’d never been closer to an ocean than the Mojave Desert. “So evidently we need an ex-Navy type who specialized in communications. What else do we need?”
    Slater ticked them off on blunt fingers. “We need a Spanish-speakin’ type a little rigid in the nostrils. We need a guy who can navigate a forty-footer by dead reckonin'. Erikson says he has men for both slots. We need a guy who’s a specialist with locks, explosives, alarm systems, an’ the art of gettin’ cash out of places it’s not considered possible to get it out. That’s you. An’ we need a guy who knows where the cash is.” Slater grinned again. “That’s me.”
    At least it sounded as though some planning had gone into the project. “A Spanish-speaking type and a boat,” I said. “Is this the place to say I’m allergic to South American prisons?”
    Slater’s stare was level. “If we miss on this one, you’ll never see a prison.”
    “So? A blindfold and a last cigarette?”
    “Correct.”
    No lace panties on that pork chop. I thought it over for a moment. “I’d need to know more about this man Erikson,” I said.
    “I thought you’d think so,” Slater said comfortably. He started to raise his right arm, then paused. “I’m gonna take somethin’ out of my jacket pocket, okay?”
    “Carefully,” I answered him.
    In slow motion he removed a flat, foil-wrapped disc a little larger than a hockey puck. He removed the foil and showed me a reel of tape. “Call the desk an’ ask them if they have a tape recorder,” he said.
    I picked up the phone. “Do you have a tape recorder I can borrow for a few minutes?” I asked the front desk clerk.
    “We