“These deals start small. They don’t stay small. Only two types come sniffing after the docs anymore. Tabloid journos or troublemakers. You ain’t a journo. Fuck knows if you can even read.”

“Some guys are following me,” I said. “Green sedan; unknown number of occupants. The people who sent these guys might also be friends with the doctors.”

“Sounds like a personal problem. The docs aren’t in contact with anybody from . . . before.”

“I’m thinking there’s enough trouble for everyone.”

“People in the green sedan been on you since when?”

“The flight from New York.”

“The opposition has a solid idea where you’re headed then,” he said. “One or two tails. A second unit could be in any woodpile between here and San Francisco.”

“They could be watching the restaurant.”

“Hope they enjoyed me stuffing my piehole.”

“You’re surprisingly cool for someone who might be in the crosshairs of a sniper as we sit here digesting supper.”

While we ate, he’d scanned every patron who’d walked in. As had I, albeit with more tact. My comment caused him to glare around, a klieg light sweeping for infiltrators.

“Doesn’t help to whine,” he said. “Ain’t like I’m ready to throw a party, though. The docs are in seclusion. Boring as hell. Perfect, in other words. I’d rather beachcomb than brawl with ne’er-do-wells or hunt for ninjas around the house. Yeah, they hired me to deal with the goons, but cripes, I thought it was finished.”

“You thought wrong.”

“I’ve had a good look at you. Christ, this is serious, huh?” He pushed back from the table and went to pay the lady at the counter. We walked out to his car. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll get your bags and go to HQ. See what happens in the morning.”

“I’m fine at the motel.”

“You ain’t fine at the motel.” He clunked the Cherokee into reverse. “Place is a death trap.”

“But you suggested it,” I said.

“I changed my mind for now.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Per my research, Campbell and Ryoko had spent a few years in New England conducting a mysterious research project. When that ended, they returned to California and permanently retired from the world. The world didn’t miss them. Their cliffside residence north of Mendocino was a loaner from the cinematographer who’d gotten his break filming the Bangladesh documentary. The cinematographer was a Hollywood wheel; unless my memory for celebrity trivia failed me, he too had made himself scarce.

“The dude has five or six houses scattered across the globe,” Beasley said. “He’s true-blue. When the situation in New England fell apart, he said we could camp here until Howard and Toshi kick the bucket. Haven’t heard from him in a while. The lights stay on, so everything must be hunky-dory.”

I mentioned that Campbell’s name appeared in connection with the Jeffers Project. Campbell and Ryoko consulted on a million projects, Beasley said. I asked what sort of research had they pursued in New England. He turned on the radio and adjusted the dial until Jimmy Buffett started blaming a woman for a lost shaker of salt. He pushed in the dash lighter and lit a cigarette when it popped. Pall Malls. He confided that he scored them in bulk from the reservation.