Full Circle Read Free Page B

we record this, Mr. Bernhardt?”
    The presence of the microphone displayed so prominently had given Bernhardt the time he needed to decide on a response:
    “First, if you’ll just tell me what this is all about…”
    Haigh shifted his gaze to the microphone, let a long, thoughtful moment linger between then. Then he spoke deliberately: “We can forget about the microphone.”
    Bernhardt decided to make no response, give no hint of his reaction. Was Haigh trying to intimidate him? Or was he feeling his way: probing, evaluating, improvising? Just as, yes, Bernhardt was also improvising.
    Now, projecting an executive’s air of dispensing with the preliminaries, Haigh raised his head to stare directly into Bernhardt’s eyes, saying softly, “I’m going to give you a name, Mr. Bernhardt. When I’ve given you the name, I think you’ll know why I’ve asked you to come down here.”
    Bernhardt nodded, then decided to shift his attention to Archer, seated directly across the table. Archer’s expression was unreadable, but, at the corners, his mouth stirred with some faint suggestion of fellowship. Or was this the FBI’s pallid version of the good cop? Or, more probably, was Archer suppressing a smirk at the thought of what was about to follow?
    “The name,” Haigh was saying, “is Raymond DuBois.” He pronounced the words with exquisite precision, timed to perfection.
    Raymond DuBois …
    Instantly the searing images flared in Bernhardt’s consciousness: he and Betty Giles in the darkened cabin, no phone, no protection. No hope. Never had time moved so slowly, yet also raced inexorably ahead, bringing with it the certainty of death. He could still feel the sawed-off in his hands, slick with sweat. He could still feel the hammering of his heart, and the weakness of his legs, and the incredible dryness of his mouth and throat.
    “I take it,” Haigh was saying, “that you know the name.”
    Bernhardt cleared his throat, delivered the only line that came to him: “DuBois. Sure. One of the—” His throat closed momentarily. Then: “One of the world’s richest men.”
    As if he were encouraging a slow student, Haigh nodded as he said, “What else do you know about Raymond DuBois, Mr. Bernhardt?”
    Bernhardt shrugged, raised one hand, let it fall, a disclaimer. The gesture had come easily. He was getting into the part; the lines were there as the game came clear: both of them were probing, trying to discover what the other man knew—and didn’t know.
    “I know what everyone else knows, I suppose. DuBois is old. He’s a recluse. In failing health, I think.”
    “And that’s all you know?”
    Projecting a casual indifference, Bernhardt nodded, but said nothing. It was a gambit. If another microphone were hidden under the table, Haigh would want him to say something, not simply nod.
    Gambit declined.
    “Have you ever had any direct contact with Raymond DuBois?” Haigh asked.
    The question required a frown that projected puzzled innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the purpose of the question.”
    Now Archer spoke, the junior partner, taking his turn, sharply shifting ground. “How about Betty Giles?” Like Haigh, he spoke easily, conversationally. But his eyes were watchful. “Are you acquainted with Betty Giles?”
    Once more the images flashed: in the darkened cabin, Betty, crouching between the bed and the wall as Bernhardt heard the sound of the bathroom screen being cut. With the sawed-off raised, he’d advanced until he stood in the open bathroom door. When the gun fired, as if by its own volition, flame filled the high window over the bathtub.
    Then the screams had begun.
    Then the figure engulfed in flames, running blindly in the darkness. Finally falling to his knees.
    Dying.
    Was his puzzled frown still in place? Yes, incredibly, yes. Permitting him to look from one FBI agent to the other before he said, “I think I’m entitled to know what this is all about.”
    “Just answer the