It worked, too. The man stood aside. “Do what you’re gonna do.” He spat in front of Jerry’s feet, but that was all he did.

Vic eyed Jerry with a curiosity not far removed from Major Bronstein’s. He asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You still have the fake license and credit card and everything I gave you when I came back to the mainland?”

“Even if I do, what do you care? And how come I should give a shit about what you care?”

“It may be handy not to be Jerry Stieglitz for a while, and to be able to show people I’m not him. And you should give a shit because you bastards owe me one. You murdered a friend of mine like you were squashing a tin can with a tank. Only reason you didn’t get me, too, is that I bailed before you could. I haven’t talked to the Times or anybody about that yet, but I can.”

“Not if you have an accident first,” the CIA man with the thick arms said from behind him.

“Forget it, Zach,” Vic said. “He’ll have some kind of dead-man setup so it all comes out if anything happens to him. He wouldn’t show up here if he didn’t.” He sounded cynically revolted.

Jerry didn’t, not unless the Russians would take care of it for him. He said, “Damn straight,” anyway. Zach muttered something that wasn’t an endearment.

Vic said, “Okay, kid. You got a deal. The plastic’ll even work.” He dug out the envelope with Jerry’s false documents and handed it to him. “Now get the hell outa here.”

Outa there the hell Jerry got. As he drove away, he checked the rearview mirror to see if anyone was tailing him. He hadn’t done that in Washington, but he was trying to learn. He didn’t spot anybody before he swung on to the Long Beach Freeway again and headed north.

He got back to the apartment a little before five. The King of Siam seemed to recognize him, which was a pleasant surprise. Then he stopped in his tracks and said, “Fuck!” He’d missed teaching his first spring quarter section. He scribbled a note on a scrap of paper—Call Krikorian—and stuck it by the phone. Tomorrow morning. His boss wouldn’t be in the office now.

His father would. April 15 was only a couple of weeks away. This was the time of year when Dad went bonkers, only to have his business go into hibernation after the deadline passed.

Jerry made the call. The answer was quick: “Stieglitz Accounting and Tax Preparation.”

“Hi, Dad. It’s me.”

“Hi, Jerry. Let me call you back in five minutes. I’m with a client.”

“Sure. ’Bye.”