IN THE MIDDLE of making my installation the nanny comes back with Beagle’s son. Hawk and then Dennis both warn me—whispers in my ear.
I decide to stay and do what I came to do. I’ve walked into hooches in Vietnam in the middle of the night, killed everyone inside, walked out without waking a soul.
There are five separate tape recorders. Fortunately, they’re labeled. Bedroom, living room, dining room, reading room, bedroom 2. While I’m there, one of them comes on briefly. The living room. The nanny is passing through with Dylan. She tells him that it’s a nice bottle and he will have a nice little nap, yes he will. She sounds like she knows what she’s doing.
I tap into three of the lines. I put in broadcast units. Maggie’s house is close enough to be the listening post. When I’m done, I use the directional microphone again. I can hear Dylan sucking on his bottle and the nanny murmuring to him. Then her breathing gets heavy and I think she’s napping too.
I get out without any problem. Then the three of us make our way back. It’s six miles as the crow flies, nine miles by road, about the same cutting cross-country if you don’t want to be seen. We cross the road onto Maggie’s land below a curve that hides us from U. Sec.’s watchers.
I send Dennis back to L.A. He has some business there. I don’t need him for the moment. I keep Hawk, Steve, and Martin. I’m going to spend my time with headsets on. I won’t delegate that to anyone except Maggie. I don’t even tell the three guys what I’m doing or what I want. If they can guess, that’s fine. If they can’t, that’s fine. Their job is to patrol the perimeter. To make sure Taylor’s people don’t get in. To protect Maggie. We have sufficient firepower for almost any nonmili-tary situation. Not that I expect anything to happen. The way I figure it, it’s my move.