Sarah shook her head. She knew the caller, one of Crawford’s cronies at Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Beverly got him off in a hurry and stopped the trace. Everyone in the FBI building knew to keep the line clear.
Crawford went over the details of the mail drop again. They were bored and tense at the same time. Lloyd Bowman came around to show them how the number pairs in Lecter’s Scriptures fit page 100 of the softcover Joy of Cooking. Sarah passed around coffee in paper cups.
The telephone was ringing.
The tone generator took over and at ESS the trace began. Four rings. The technician hit the switch. Beverly picked up.
“Special Agent Crawford’s office.”
Sarah was nodding her head. Big nods.
Graham went into his booth and closed the door. He could see Beverly’s lips moving. She punched “Hold” and watched the second hand on the wall clock.
Graham could see his face in the polished receiver. Two bloated faces in the earpiece and mouthpiece. He could smell cordite from the firing range in his shirt. Don’t hang up. Sweet Jesus, don’t hang up. Forty seconds had elapsed. The telephone moved slightly on his table when it rang. Let it ring. Once more. Forty-five seconds. Now.
“This is Will Graham, can I help you?”
Low laughter. A muffled voice: “I expect you can.”
“Could I ask who’s calling please?”
“Didn’t your secretary tell you?”
“No, but she did call me out of a meeting, sir, and—”
“If you tell me you won’t talk to Mr. Pilgrim, I’ll hang up right now. Yes or no?”
“Mr. Pilgrim, if you have some problem I’m equipped to deal with, I’ll be glad to talk with you.”
“I think you have the problem, Mr. Graham.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you.”
The second hand crawled toward one minute.
“You’ve been a busy boy, haven’t you?” the caller said.
“Too busy to stay on the phone unless you state your business.”
“My business is in the same place yours is. Atlanta and Birmingham.”
“Do you know something about that?”
Soft laughter. “Know something about it? Are you interested in Mr. Pilgrim? Yes or no. I’ll hang up if you lie.”
Graham could see Crawford through the glass. He had a telephone receiver in each hand.
“Yes. But, see, I get a lot of calls, and most of them are from people who say they know things.” One minute.
Crawford put one receiver down and scrawled on a piece of paper.
“You’d be surprised how many pretenders there are,” Graham said. “Talk to them a few minutes and you can tell they don’t have the capacity to even understand what’s going on. Do you?”
Sarah held a sheet of paper to the glass for Graham to see. It said, “Chicago phone booth. PD scrambling.”
“I’ll tell you what, you tell me one thing you know about Mr. Pilgrim and maybe I’ll tell you whether you’re right or not,” the muffled voice said.
“Let’s get straight who we’re talking about,” Graham said.