"How would I know which bag?" he asked, finally.

"Jesus, Carlo," Mr. Cassandro said to Mr. Rosselli as they left the apartment building. "I got to hand it to you. You played him like a fucking violin!"

"That did go pretty well, didn't it?" Mr. Rosselli replied. "And he wants in. That's a lot better than having to show him the photographs and the Xeroxes and all that shit."

"Yeah," Mr. Cassandro agreed.

"It's always better," Mr. Rosselli observed philosophically, "to talk people into doing something. If it's their idea, they don't change their minds."

Neither Mr. Rosselli nor Mr. Cassandro noticed that the four-yearold Pontiac was still parked halfway down the block on the other side of the street.

TWENTY-FOUR

Special Agent C.V. Glynes woke at seven a.m., which, considering how far they had lowered the level in the bottle of Seagram's 7-Crown before they went to bed, was surprising.

He went down the corridor to the bathroom and made as much noise as possible voiding his bladder, flushing twice, and dropping the toilet seat back into the horizontal position as loudly as he could manage.

He heard the creak of bed springs and other sounds of activity in the Springs's bedroom, and went back to his room to finish dressing and to wait for the Springs's announcement that breakfast was ready.

Logic told him that he was not likely to find anything at all, much less anything of interest to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms when he got Deputy Dan Springs out into the Pine Barrens. And that meant that this whole business would have been a waste of time, and moreover would cause some minor difficulty with H. Howard Samm, Jr., the special agent in charge of the Atlantic City office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms

"Sam Junior," as he was known by his not-too-admiring staff, liked to have what he called "his team" present each morning for an eightthirty conference, aka "the pep talk," and Glynes knew he wasn't going to make that.

On the other hand, finding a chunk of three-eighth-inch steel with a link of chain imbedded in it by the force of high explosives was not an everyday occurrence, and Glynes had a hunch he was onto something. Sometimes his hunches worked, and sometimes they didn't-more often than not they didn't-but they had over the years worked often enough so that he knew that he shouldn't ignore them.

Sam Junior's pontifical pronouncements vis-a-vis scientific crime detection to the contrary, Glynes believed what really did the bad guys in was almost always sweat, experience, luck, and following hunches, in just about that order.

In other words, Glynes felt, he just might find something of professional interest to ATF out in the Pine Barrens. He was either right or wrong, but in either case, the sooner he got out in the Pine Barrens the better.

Overnight, Marion Claude Wheatley had given a good deal of thought to the Lord having directed him to the Divine Lorraine Hotel.

There had to be a reason, of course. The Lord was not whimsical. One possibility was that the Lord knew that once the Vice President had been disintegrated the Secret Service and the FBI would learn that Marion had been responsible, and come looking for him. If he was not in his office, or at the house, but rather in the Divine Lorraine Hotel, obviously they would not be able to find him.

If that scenario were true, the Lord would certainly furnish him additional information and assistance once the disintegration had been accomplished.

But after more reflection, Marion came to believe that the Lord was concerned that the Secret Service was already, somehow- they were not stupid, quite the contrary-aware of Marion's existence and intentions. And that they would somehow keep him from carrying out the disintegration.

Before or after the disintegration, the last place, obviously, except perhaps the cells in the Police Administration Building, that the authorities would think to look for Marion Claude Wheatley would be in the Divine Lorraine Hotel.

At eight A.M. Marion got out the telephone book, and laid it on his desk. He took a paper clip from the desk drawer, and straightened one end. He held the clip in his left hand, then closed his eyes and opened the telephone book with his right hand. He stabbed it with the paper clip and then opened his eyes. The paper clip indicated EDMONDS,

RICHARD 8201 HENRY AVENUE, 438-1299.

Marion thought about that for a moment, and then, being careful not to disturb the position of the paper clip, took a notebook and a ballpoint from the desk and began to write:

Richard H. Edmonds

Henry R. Edmonds

Edmund R. Henry

Henry E. Richards

Then he looked elsewhere in the telephone book until he found the number, and then telephoned to the Divine Lorraine Hotel.

"Divine Lorraine Hotel. Praise Jesus!"

That, Marion decided, is a colored lady.

He had a mental image of a large colored lady wearing one of those white whatever-they-were-called on her head.

"I'm calling with regard to finding accommodations for the next few days."

"Excuse me, sir, but do you know about the Divine Lorraine Hotel?"

"Yes, of course, I do," Marion said.

What an odd question, Marion thought. And then he understood: As I heard in her voice that she's colored, she heard in mine that I am white.

"This is a Christian hotel, you understand," the woman pursued. " No drinking, no smoking, nothing that violates the Ten Commandments and the teachings of Father Divine."

"I understand," Marion said, and then added, "I am about the Lord' s work."

"Well, we can put you up. No credit cards."

"I'm prepared to pay cash."

"When was you thinking of coming?"

"This morning, if that would be convenient."

"We can put you up," the woman said. "What did you say your name was?"

"Henry E. Richards," Marion said.

"We'll be expecting you, Brother Richard. Praise Jesus!"

"That's 'Richards,'" Marion said. "With an 'S.' Praise the Lord."

At half past eight, Captain Michael Sabara picked up the private line in his office in the Schoolhouse.

"Captain Sabara."

"Peter Wohl, Mike."

"Good morning, sir."

"Something's come up, Mike. When I get off, call Swede Olsen in Internal Affairs. I just got off from talking to him. He'll bring you up-to-date on what's going on. I don't think anything's going to happen this morning, but if it does, just use your own good judgment."

"Yes, sir. I guess you're not coming in?"

"No."

"Is there anyplace I can reach you?"

Wohl hesitated.

"For your ears only, Mike," he said, finally. "I'm in the Roundhouse. I made inspector. My dad and my mother are here. We're waiting for the mayor."

"Jesus, Peter, that's good news. Congratulations!"

"Thank you, Mike. I'll call in when I'm through. But if anyone asks, I'm at the dentist's."

"Yes, sir, Inspector!"

"Thanks," Wohl said, and hung up.

At five minutes to nine, Special Agent Glynes placed a collect call, he would speak with anyone, to the Atlantic City office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms from a pay telephone in a Shell gasoline station in Hammonton, N.J.

"Odd that you should call, Glynes," Special Agent Tommy Thomas, an old pal, said, "Mr. Samm has been wondering where you are. He at first presumed that you had fallen ill, and had simply forgotten to telephone, but whenhe telephoned your residence, there was no answer, so he knew that couldn't be it."