“Carlo?”
“The van is plenty. Give me a deputy to drive.”
“I’ve got something else for you,” Krendler said. “Can we have some light?”
Margot moved the rheostat and Krendler put his backpack on the table beside the bowl of fruit. He put on cotton gloves and took out what appeared to be a small monitor with an antenna and a mounting bracket, along with an external hard drive and a rechargeable battery pack.
“It’s awkward covering Starling because she lives in a cul-de-sac with no place to lurk. But she has to come out—Starling’s an exercise freak,” Krendler said. “She’s had to join a private gym since she can’t use the FBI stuff anymore. We caught her parked at the gym Thursday and put a beacon under her car. It’s Ni-Cad and recharges when the motor’s running so she won’t find it from a battery drain. The software covers these five contiguous states. Who’s going to work this thing?”
“Cordell, come in here,” Mason said.
Cordell and Margot knelt beside Krendler and Carlo stood over them, his hat held at the height of their nostrils.
“Look here.” Krendler switched his monitor on. “It’s like a car navigation system except it shows where Starling’s car is.” An overview of metropolitan Washington appeared on the screen. “Zoom here, move the area with the arrows, got it? Okay, it’s not showing any acquisition. A signal from Starling’s beacon will light this, and you’ll hear a beep. Then you can pick up the source on overview and zoom in. The beep gets faster as you get closer. Here’s Starling’s neighborhood in street-map scale. You’re not getting any blip from her car because we’re out of range. Anywhere in metro Washington or Arlington you would. I picked it up from the helicopter coming out. Here’s the converter for the AC plug in your van. One thing. You have to guarantee me this thing never gets in the wrong hands. I could get heat from this, it’s not in the spy shops yet. Either it’s back in my hands or it’s in the bottom of the Potomac. You got it?”
“You understand that, Margot?” Mason said. “You, Cordell? Get Mogli to drive and brief him.”
V
A POUND OF FLESH
CHAPTER
77
THE BEAUTY of the pneumatic rifle was that it could be fired with the muzzle inside the van without deafening everyone around it—there was no need to stick the muzzle out the window where the public could see it.
The mirrored window would open a few inches and the small hypodermic projectile would fly, carrying a major load of acepromazine into the muscle mass of Dr. Lecter’s back or buttocks.
There would be only the crack of the gun’s muzzle signature, like a green branch breaking, no bang and no ballistic report from the subsonic missile to draw attention.
The way they had rehearsed it, when Dr. Lecter started to collapse, Piero and Tommaso, dressed in white, would “assist” him into the van, assuring any bystanders they were taking him to the hospital. Tommaso’s English was best, as he had studied it in the seminary, but the h in hospital was giving him a fit.
Mason was right in giving the Italians the prime dates for catching Dr. Lecter. Despite their failure in Florence, they were by far the most capable at physical man-catching and the most likely to take Dr. Lecter alive.
Mason allowed only one gun on the mission other than the tranquilizer rifle—that of the driver, Deputy Johnny Mogli, an off-duty sheriff’s deputy from Illinois and long a creature of the Vergers. Mogli grew up speaking Italian at home. He was a person who agreed with everything his victim said before he killed him.
Carlo and the brothers Piero and Tommaso had their net, beanbag gun, Mace, and a variety of restraints. It would be plenty.
They were in position at daylight, five blocks from Starling’s house in Arlington, parked in a handicap spot on a commercial street.
The van today was marked with adhesive signs, SENIOR CITIZEN MEDICAL TRANSPORT. It had a handicap tag hanging from the mirror and a false handicap license plate on the bumper. In the glove compartment was a receipt from a body shop for recent replacement of the bumper—they could claim a mix-up at the garage and confuse the issue for the time being if the tag number were questioned. The vehicle identification numbers and registration were legitimate. So were the hundred-dollar bills folded inside them for a bribe.
The monitor, Velcroed to the dashboard and running off the cigarette lighter socket, glowed with a street map of Starling’s neighborhood. The same Global Positioning Satellite that now plotted the position of the van also showed Starling’s vehicle, a bright dot in front of her house.
At 9:00 A.M., Carlo allowed Piero to eat something. At l0:30 Tommaso could eat. He did not want them both full at the same time, in the event of a long chase on foot. Afternoon meals were staggered too. Tommaso was rummaging in the cooler for a sandwich at midafternoon when they heard the beep.
Carlo’s malodorous head swung to the monitor.
“She’s moving,” Mogli said. He started the van.
Tommaso put the lid back on the cooler.
“Here we go. Here we go … Here she goes up Tindal toward the main road.” Mogli swung into traffic. He had the great luxury of lying back three blocks where Starling could not possibly see him.
Nor could Mogli see the old gray pickup pull into traffic a block behind Starling, a Christmas tree hanging over the tailgate.
Driving the Mustang was one of the few pleasures Starling could count on. The powerful car, with no ABS and no traction control, was a handful on slick streets for much of the winter. While the roads were clear it was pleasant to wind the V8 out a little in second gear and listen to the pipes.