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His skin had a bluish cast and was stretched to the point of translucence over high cheekbones and a patrician nose. He was very thin and his brown pinstriped suit, beautifully cut, made him look emaciated. He carried a shiny brown leather briefcase with a gold clasp.
    â€œMr. Burlingame.” He extended a spidery hand at the end of a bony wrist, which the FBI man clasped briefly and released. “And this would be Mr. Chilson of the Secret Service.”
    The bald man recovered himself in time to shake the old hand, which was strung with wire. Klegg uncovered perfect dentures in a self-deprecating smile. “The people I represent haven’t the imagination for code names and ciphers and countersigns, but their intelligence compares favorably with that of you gentlemen in law enforcement.”
    They sat down, Klegg drawing up a chair upholstered in blue leather and placing his briefcase on his knees.
    â€œWhat is it, Klegg?” Burlingame demanded. “I haven’t seen you since your client’s trial for narcotics smuggling. That was what, two years ago?”
    â€œEighteen and a half months. Mr. Boniface has counted every day, I can assure you.” The lawyer glanced pointedly at the pipe in the ashtray, whose smoke was worming past his nose. Burlingame left it where it was.
    Klegg shrugged and waved away the smoke. “I’ll make this brief. My client and his people are aware of the situation, of the demand made by the terrorists, and of their threat in the event it isn’t carried out by midnight Monday. We know also that Carol Turnbull is aboard, and we know who her father is, naturally.”
    â€œWe don’t know that much,” Chilson said. “That she’s aboard, I mean. Is this new intelligence?”
    â€œIt’s an assumption based on information available to us.”
    â€œI’d be interested in knowing who made it available.”
    Klegg’s dentures shone. “Ethics, Mr. Chilson.”
    â€œI heard something about being brief,” grumped Burlingame.
    â€œJust so. Getting to the heart of the matter, Mr. Boniface is prepared to place his not inconsiderable resources at the service of the authorities in expediting this situation.”
    The FBI man said, “Again. In English.”
    â€œI believe it’s standard practice in these cases to attempt to trace the criminals involved through underworld contacts. I submit that my client is in a position to do this with results more satisfactory.”
    â€œIn return for which,” said Burlingame, “what?”
    â€œEarly parole.”
    â€œYou know that’s out of my hands even if I agreed.”
    â€œI also know that a recommendation for leniency from the man who convicted my client can influence the parole board. Mind you,” Klegg added, “I’m not requesting a full pardon. Only the opportunity for Mr. Boniface to return to society and begin picking up the pieces of his life.”
    â€œYour client is scum, counselor. I spent a good part of my career putting him where he is and I’ll need a lot more than a foggy promise of cooperation before turning him loose.”
    The lawyer’s paper-thin eyelids drooped. “And if I said we could identify one of the terrorists?”
    Burlingame laughed nastily.
    â€œLet’s hear what he has to say,” said Chilson.
    â€œHe’s blowing smoke.”
    â€œYou can check this out,” said Klegg. “Last week, the Detroit police pulled a charred corpse out of a car found torched in an empty lot off Eight Mile Road twenty hours after the car was reported stolen. The dead man had been shot in the head.”
    The FBI man nodded. “I read about it. He’s a John Doe.”
    â€œThe car answered a witness’ description of the vehicle in which a man claiming to be with the musicians’ union picked up Jack DeGrew, who played bass viol with Chester Crane and his Whoopers, the previous