Lockington’s telephone blew its top at eight-fifteen in the morning. Ohio sunlight was rollicking into the little gray room, staining its walls bright yellow. He corralled the offending instrument, grunting something unintelligible into its mouthpiece. Natasha Gorky said, “A happy Sunday morning to you!”
Lockington said, “There ain’t never been a happy Sunday morning.”
Natasha said, “I should get out of Chicago sometime late this afternoon—in the meantime, you must be very, very careful.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“A restaurant on North Michigan Avenue.”
“Are you still drawing a crowd?”
“The CIA’s with me, yes—parked right out front. Did you hear what I said? Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Then be doubly so. You’re in trouble with LAON—there’s a price on your head. LAON believes that you killed Billy Mac Davis.”
Lockington thought that one over. He said, “Yeah, judging from appearances, it could have been me. LAON knows where I am?”
“It knows that you’re in Youngstown—it may not know where in Youngstown.”
“How did you get this?”
“We have people in Memphis—LAON’s headquarters is there.”
“The KGB has penetrated LAON?”
“Just its fringes, but deeply enough. It’ll be the Copperhead, you can depend on that—you’re worth fifty thousand dollars.”
Lockington made a swishing sound between his lips. “Two hundred fifty a pound.”
“This isn’t funny!”
“So who’s laughing?”
“I should make it to Youngstown by midnight, Eastern Time—after that you’ll have an extra pair of eyes. What have you learned?”
“I made the contact indicated by the matchbook—the girl who was with Rufe in Chicago. She told me that I’ll be getting the whole picture tonight.”
“From whom?”
“She didn’t say—I assume that it’ll be from her. She lived with Rufe. She’s to pick me up at the New Delhi, twelve-thirty or so.”
“Listen, damn you—stay out of bed until I get there!”
“Okay.”
“You’re slahduhk!” She hung up.
That’d been her second slahduhk. Lockington didn’t understand Russian. It was probably just as well. Great oaks from little slahduhks grow.