Free Deep Cover by Brian Garfield Page A

said, not looking at him. ‘‘I’ll have to think about that. In the meantime before you go out there and let them stand you up against the wall, you need to know this—they’re going to hit you with questions about the primary campaign. Have you got an answer for them?”
    â€œId est, am I ready to announce my candidacy. No. I’m not.”
    â€œBecause you’re not sure if the Phaeton thing will turn into a banana peel?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œThe mood of the press,” she said deadpan, “is such that they’re assuming if you don’t declare for office now it’s because you’re scared the party will scuttle you over the Phaeton issue. One of them asked me if you intended to run as an Independent. Have you thought about it?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe funny thing is, I believe you. But they won’t.”
    â€œThey wouldn’t anyway. Candidates always deny they’re going to be candidates. That’s rule one of the great American game.”
    â€œThen what will you tell them?”
    â€œThat I haven’t made up my mind.”
    â€œThey’ll call it a cop-out.”
    â€œLet them,” he said. “We’d better go.”
    He took her arm but she disengaged herself. “It wouldn’t look right, would it? You’d better go out alone and let them take your picture on the stairs. I’ll creep out afterward and collect your luggage and meet you out front with the car. Will you be staying at the ranch?”
    â€œNot for a few days. I had Les call the Pioneer for a reservation.”
    â€œI could have somebody drop your bags at the hotel if you want to stop by the office first.”
    â€œGood. I’ll want to get on the phone before dinner.” He walked toward the door, and stopped. “Dinner. Are you busy tonight?”
    â€œIs it important?”
    â€œSometimes I’m not sure what’s important,” he said, and elaborated it with a lie: “There’s a lot we’ll have to discuss and there may not be time at the office. I’m going to work you hard for the next week or two.”
    â€œIn that case I’ll break my date.” Her eyes were dark with a sort of reserve he couldn’t place. She had been married once, but her husband had been dead ten or twelve years. Still, it was possible she felt his presence, as Forrester felt Angie’s, a memory which crowded out the desire for further affinities.
    She was watching him with a soft wide expression, her lips slightly parted and her head tipped to one side. He gave her a quick smile and stepped out into the warm blaze of sunlight.
    He sat back with a huge yawn and a slow two-handed combing back of his hair. Through the doorway he saw Ronnie with a telephone receiver on her shoulder, head tilted against it to free her hands, listening to the phone and jotting on a brass-framed calendar pad. She had lovely eyes.
    She cradled the phone and ripped the top page off the pad and came into his office talking briskly:
    â€œI tracked down Frank Shattuck at the Mountain Oyster Club. He’ll be on the golf course in the morning but he said he’d be home by three if you’d care to drop in then.” Her voice was dry with irony. “Easy enough to see how the windblows, isn’t it? He won’t come to you—you have to go to him.”
    â€œAfter all,” he said, “tomorrow’s Sunday.” Frank Shattuck was board chairman of Shattuck Industries, which manufactured ICBM components in its plant two miles from the gate of Davis Monthan Air Force Base.
    She poked the note into his breast pocket. “Don’t miss the appointment.” But the gesture contained an intimacy she evidently hadn’t intended and she stepped back quickly.
    He spoke to fill the silence. “We’ll have to take a raincheck on that dinner-for-two. I just talked to Colonel Ryan. He’ll skin me if I