Free Flashpoint by Dan J. Marlowe Page B

Erikson.
        He smiled.
        "Admit it," I said. "You're putting me on."
        "Nary a put," he insisted. He patted the machine as he replaced the cover. "Maxine here is getting more sophisticated all the time. It's getting harder to fool her now, although a year ago she registered a man with a 37 mm rocket launcher entering the office. Turned out to be the maintenance man with a file cabinet on a hand truck. And another time Maxine blew it was when I had a visit from a CIA man who had been a polio victim. Maxine interpreted his leg braces as a bulletproof vest. At that time she couldn't distinguish the placement of metal except between the shoulders and feet. Now she can."
        We left the room.
        I couldn't help thinking that if banks were half as well equipped as Erikson's office, my former career wouldn't have lasted nearly as long.
        Back at his desk, Erikson lit a cigarette. "It's interesting that the Israelis feel that the fedayeen are buying up high-priced scientific talent. And they really touched a sore spot with Shariyk. We'd like to know what's become of him, too. A couple of years ago he was a contender for a Nobel in physics. His specialty was mesons and antimatter. You know, digging into the guts of the atom."
        "With that name, what was his nationality?"
        "American born, of Armenian stock. He spent the three years prior to the Six-Day War teaching at Beirut in the American University. What do you suppose Bergman would have said if I'd told him that?"
        "Bolt the doors before you lose any more." The thought of bolted doors reminded me. "Who's your next-door neighbor on this side?" I waved in the direction of the photographer's studio.
        "A girly-magazine publisher's office. Why?"
        "Just curious. Well, what comes next?"
        "I want you back at the Alhambra to try to get a line on the hijacker, Hawk," Erikson frowned. "You'll have to get yourself a place to stay, too, so I can reach you when I need you."
        "Okay. I'll call you when I have a phone number."
        
***
        
        I rode down sixteen floors to the street and caught a cab to within a block of the Alhambra. I stood on the sidewalk on Lexington Avenue, running my eyes up and down the street in the direction of lighted hotel marquees, wondering where to come to roost. Then on a hunch I decided to try the Alhambra again first, to see if Hawk had made an appearance.
        There were fewer people under the billowing canopy when I entered the cocktail lounge, and I was able to corral a corner booth for myself. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting before I began what I hoped was an unobtrusive inspection of the bar customers. Then I examined the occupants of the booths. There were plenty of dark faces-even no shortage of hooked noses-but there was no Hawk. It came to me again, as it had in Tucson when Erikson first proposed it, that this search was really far out.
        "Hello, again," a little-girl voice said beside my booth.
        I looked up to see Chryssie, the flower child. Her blond hair was in a tangled mass, and her burnt-orange sari looked dirtier and more wrinkled than before. "Sit down and have a beer," I invited her. She was evidently a regular in the place, and I would attract less attention if I sat with her.
        She floated down into the booth across from me as if she were boneless. She propped her chin in both hands and studied my face. Her eyes had the same glazed look I'd seen before, and one corner of her soft-looking mouth twitched occasionally. I caught a waitress' eye and placed my order. When the beer and the Jim Beam arrived, Chryssie picked up her glass, held it to her lips, then set it down again without drinking. After a moment, though, she picked it up again and took two long swallows. "What have you been doing while I was gone?" I broke the silence.
        "Nothing."
        "Did you eat?" It reminded me I was