Watchers

stopped after only a few steps and scanned the seaward end of the park and the beach beyond. His gaze did not appear to rest even momentarily on the date palms behind which Garrison hid.
    “You damn crazy old bastard,” Johnson said, then hurried back toward his car.
    Crouched in shadows behind the palms, Garrison grinned because he knew whom the NSA man was talking about. Suddenly, the attorney did not mind the chill wind sweeping off the night sea behind him.
    Damn crazy old bastard or geriatric James Bond—take your pick. Either way, he was still a man to be reckoned with.
     
     
    In the basement switching room of the telephone company, Agents Rick Olbier and Denny Jones were tending the NSA’s electronic tapping and tracing equipment, monitoring Garrison Dilworth’s office and home lines. It was dull duty, and they played cards to make the time pass: two-hand pinochle and five-hundred rummy, neither of which was a good game, but the very idea of two-hand poker repelled them.
    When a call came through to Dilworth’s home number at fourteen minutes past eight o’clock, Olbier and Jones reacted with far more excitement than
    the situation warranted because they were desperate for action. Olbier dropped his cards on the floor, and Jones threw his on the table, and they reached for the two headsets as if this was World War II and they were expecting to overhear a top-secret conversation between Hitler and Goring.
    Their equipment was set to open the line and lock in a tracer pulse if Dilworth did not answer by the sixth ring. Because he knew the attorney was not at home and that the phone would not be answered, Olbier overrode the program and opened the line after the second ring.
    On the computer screen, green letters announced: NOW TRACING.
    And on the open line, a man said, “Hello?”
    “Hello,” Jones said into the mike on his headset.
    The caller’s number and his local Santa Barbara address appeared on the screen. This system worked much like the 911 police emergency computer, providing instant identification of the caller. But now, above the address on the screen, a company’s rather than an individual’s name appeared: TELEPHONE SOLICITATIONS, INC.
    On the line, responding to Denny Jones, the caller said, “Sir, I’m pleased to tell you that you have been selected to receive a free eight-by-ten photograph and ten free pocket prints of any—”
    Jones said, “Who is this?”
    The computer was now searching data banks of Santa Barbara street addresses to cross-check the ID of the caller.
    The voice on the phone said, “Well, I’m calling in behalf of Olin Mills, sir, the photography studio, where the finest quality—”
    “Wait a sec,” Jones said.
    The computer verified the identity of the telephone subscriber who placed the call: Dilworth was getting a sales pitch, nothing more.
    “I don’t want any!” Jones said sharply, and disconnected.
    “Shit,” Olbier said.
    “Pinochle?” Jones said.
     
     
    In addition to the six men who had been at the harbor, Lem called in four more from the temporary HQ at the courthouse.
    He stationed five along the perimeter of the Oceanside park, a few hundred yards apart. Their job was to watch the wide avenue that separated the park from a business district, where there were a lot of motels but also restaurants, Yogurt shops, gift shops, and other retail enterprises. All of the businesses had phones, of course, and even some of the motels would have pay phones in their front offices; using any of them, the attorney could alert Travis and Nora Cornell. At this hour on a Saturday evening, some stores were closed, but some of them—and all of the restaurants—were open. Dilworth must not be permitted to cross the street.
    The sea wind was stiffening and growing chillier. The men stood with their hands in their jackets, heads tucked down, shivering.
    Palm fronds were rattled by sudden gusts. Tree-roosting birds shrilled in alarm, then resettled.
    Lem sent another agent to the southwest corner of the park, out by the base of the breakwater that separated the public beach from the harbor on the other side. His job was to prevent Dilworth from returning to the breakwater, climbing it, and sneaking back across the harbor to phones in another part of the city.
    A seventh man was dispatched to the northwest corner of the park, down by the water line, to be sure Dilworth did not proceed north onto private beaches and into residential areas where he might