Thin Air (19 page)

"Who's Rosie?" asked Hammond.

"Momma," said Yablonski. "We got married in 1961. We were both a little old to have kids, so we didn't. I married her because she got me to talk. I'd been close-mouthed for years. She just dug into me, over and over: What do you love, Cas? What have you ever done with your life that meant something to you?' 'Fishing,' I said. 'Fishing it is, then,' she said."
      

He smiled proudly. "She got me back to the sea again."

"She's a great woman, Cas. And she loves you very much," said Hammond, feeling a twinge of regret at his own emptiness. .

"I know. She's put up with a lot..." He paused and then grew worried. "But if I become like Olively...I don't know."

Hammond excused himself and went to call his office for messages. There were none. He returned to find Yablonski working on his fifth cup of coffee. He drained it, squinted through the window at the line of black clouds rolling in from the east.

"We'd better beat it," he said. "We're in for a hell of a storm."

Dusk settled over Georgetown along with the first raindrops as Hammond looked for a parking place on Jefferson Street. He dashed up to his fiat and dropped off his briefcase. As he hurried with Yablonski up the wet sidewalk toward the inn, a man in a tattered windbreaker crossed the street and fell into step behind them.

Walking with his head down to avoid the rain, Yablonski had finally gotten around to discussing McCarthy. "You know what I can't figure?" he said. "How I ever got suckered by that bastard."

"You weren't the only one," Hammond answered. "He fooled lots of people."

A car drove past them, scooted into an opening along the curb, and parked by a fire hydrant.

"But I always thought I had good judgment," said Yablonski. "I can read the weather, the ocean...and most men. Jesus! Talk about being wrong."

Hammond only half-heard him. He was distracted by movement in the parked car just ahead. A man got out of the passenger side, left the door open, and shambled toward them.

"Commander?" he said.

Hammond squinted at him. "Yes?"

"Help an old Navy man down on his luck?"

Oh, crap, he thought, the panhandlers are getting bolder. He stopped. Then he heard the footsteps coming up behind. He grabbed Yablonski's arm, muttered "Sorry," and made to pass on the inside.

The panhandler blocked their way and pulled something from his sleeve. Hammond heard a click and the switchblade snicked open.

"Guess we'll help ourselves," said a voice behind them. Hammond whirled. Yablonski stopped in confusion. The man in the windbreaker stood about an arm's length away. They heard the click of
his
switchblade.

"Wallets," said the panhandler.
 

"Okay!" Yablonski shouted, startling everyone. Then softly, he repeated, "Okay...just take it easy...don't stick anybody."

Insanity, thought Hammond. He could see the rush-hour traffic on M Street less than a hundred feet away. The Dutch Inn was only yards—

"Now...I don't have a wallet," Yablonski said. "No wallet...just a money belt...."

"Ain't that convenient," said Windbreaker.

"I'll wear it home," said Panhandler.

Hammond felt the movement as Yablonski fumbled with his buckle and started to draw the belt out of his pants. What money belt? wondered Hammond, then got the idea....

"C'mon, Admiral. You, too!" said Panhandler.

Hammond reached into his back pocket slowly, careful not to let his fingers tangle in the cloth.

The knives flashed and both muggers lunged at once. Hammond sidestepped. Windbreaker shot by and Hammond's foot whipped a leg out from under him. He hit the wall.

Yablonski ripped his belt free and flailed away at Panhandler with the buckle end.

"Into the street!" shouted Hammond and pulled Cas with him, then yanked off his uniform jacket and wound it around his forearm.

They stood side by side for a second, Yablonski dangling the belt, scraping the buckle along the blacktop like a rattler threatening his prey. "Come on, you bastards," he muttered.

The muggers erupted at them. Windbreaker jabbed at Hammond and his blade went through the jackets getting tangled as Hammond twisted his arm. Hammond kicked back and they went down in a heap.

Yablonski danced on the balls of his feet, goading Panhandler, who shifted the knife from hand to hand and edged in looking for an opening. Yablonski dodged to the right and, as Panhandler lunged, brought the buckle end of his belt around hard. He tore off a piece of cheek. Panhandler screeched, dropped his knife, and stumbled back. Yablonski swung the belt like a whip, forcing Panhandler back until he stumbled, then Yablonski pounced on him, looped the leather around his neck, and dragged him down.

Hammond rolled on the street with Windbreaker. He still had the knife arm pinned, but felt punches raining down on his side.

Panhandler rammed his elbow into Yablonski's gut and knocked the breath out of him. Yablonski let go and fell back against a parked car. Panhandler dove to the ground, scooped up his knife, and, as Yablonski reached for him again, cut him in the leg.

Cas went down with a pained yell, then rolled under the car.

Panhandler swore and turned to see about Hammond.

They were bathed in light as a car turned off M Street and headed toward them. A squeal of tires. The car stopped. Windbreaker released his knife and jumped back, frightened. Hammond struggled to his feet. The driver flicked on his high beams and held down his horn.

Windbreaker stumbled out of the light. Hammond pulled the knife from his jacket and whirled to confront Panhandler.

Everyone froze, except the man on the horn. They stood there for an eternal second, bathed in light: Hammond hunched over in the street, Yablonski half-emerged from under the car, clutching his knee.

Panhandler whirled to his partner, shielding his face from the light. "Fuck it!" he yelled. "Let's go!"

He raced for their car. Hammond made a move to follow, knowing he couldn't catch up, but prompting the muggers to put on a burst of speed.

Both men jumped into the car. The motor roared to life and they drove off, fishtailing all the way up to M Street.

The horn stopped. The persistent driver got out and rushed over. "You need an ambulance?" he asked, determined to be helpful. The street started to fill with people.

Hammond ignored them and the rain. It was starting to pour. He bent over Yablonski. "How bad is it?"

Yablonski's teeth were clenched. He felt gingerly around his leg and examined the blood on his fingers. "I always bleed when I'm cut."

Hammond helped him up. "You fight dirty."

"Not dirty enough. Nice little city you've got here." Yablonski put his weight on the bad leg and winced. "Jesus. Is it open season for muggers all year long, or just when it rains?"

"Those were not muggers."

Yablonski stared at him in disbelief. Hammond helped him through the crowd. "It's all over, folks," he said. "Give us an address, we'll mail you some blood."

Somebody laughed. The crowd broke up. The man from the car was still looking for recognition. He followed Hammond and Yablonski to the curb. "Thanks for the horn, friend," said Hammond, and shook his hand. The man beamed and walked away.

"What do you mean, they weren't muggers?" growled Yablonski, hobbling painfully.

"Muggers don't attack crowds. They like one victim at a time. For sure, not two big guys. This was a setup; they were pros and they blew it. They must have followed us from my place."

"Who—?" Yablonski stopped, catching on. "McCarthy?"

Hammond nodded.

Now Yablonski got the point. "My wife!" he said. He pushed away from Hammond and stumbled toward the inn entrance. Hammond followed. They ignored startled looks from the desk clerk and bellman. They rode up six floors with their eyes glued to the indicator.

Before the elevator doors were fully open, they burst into the hallway and raced to penthouse nine. Hammond banged on the door. "Mrs. Yablonski, open up!"

Not a sound.

"Outta the way!" snarled Yablonski and braced his shoulder for a charge. Hammond turned the handle and pushed in. The room was dark.

"What's the password, wise guy?" came Menninger's voice from within.

Hammond and Yablonski froze, then Hammond said meekly, "Don't shoot?"

"I'll think about it, sir. Jesus Christ, use your head next time, will ya—otherwise you'll lose it!" Menninger switched on the light and stuffed his .38 back into its shoulder holster. He closed the door behind them.

"Anybody come in?" asked Hammond. Yablonski was already heading for the stairs.

"ROSIE?" he called out.

"I'm okay, Cas." She appeared on the upper landing, frightened but in perfect shape. Then she saw the blood. "Your leg!" She came down the stairs fast and took him to a chair.

Hammond explained what had happened, then asked Menninger to call a doctor. While he went to the phone, Hammond checked his arm for damage and discovered no cuts, only one large bruise. He smelled a roast cooking in the kitchen and wondered how any of them could eat after all this.

Hammond turned at the sound of a muffled sob. Mrs. Yablonski had sunk onto her husband's chest to stifle a burst
of crying. Hammond felt awkward; Yablonski eyed him darkly.

"I hate to admit it," said Hammond, "but there's no way we can make a firm connection between what just happened and this Dr. McCarthy business.
We
know it, but nobody else will believe it."

Yablonski brooded a long moment, then nodded in resignation. His wife was looking from one to the other. "What are you talking about?" she said, getting to her feet and facing Hammond. "My God, you've been playing with his life! What are you going to do about it?
Write a report?!"

"Momma—" said Cas, reaching for her hand.

She pulled away. "No! He's perfectly willing to put you through hell, but if somebody else tries, he should be willing to stop it!"

"Momma, he's doing his best."

"Cas...he's trying, to tell you that they could kill you and get away with it!"

Yablonski stared at his wife, then looked at Hammond searchingly.

"Mrs. Yablonski," said Hammond. "They were after
me"
Her anger subsided and she looked confused. Yablonski got hold of her hand and this time she didn't pull away. She was close to tears again. "You're right, though," added Hammond, "they could get rid of all of us. So we have to get you out of Washington, right now."

"Doctor's on his way," reported Menninger, returning from the phone. "How's the leg?" He bent over Yablonski and peered at the wound. He sent Mrs. Yablonski for cold water and a cloth.

Hammond went to the phone and called Jack Pohl at home. "Jack, I want that safe house and I want it tonight! Don't give me any more crap! Whoever's out there now, you tell them to make room or clear out! I'm putting my people in there now and that's that!"

He hung up immediately and smiled to himself. He hadn't told Jack Pohh where to reach him, which meant Pohl had no choice. He returned to the couch. Mrs. Yablonski was hovering in Menninger's way.

"He's going to be okay," said Hammond. "And he's going to be hungry."

She looked up from Cas and nodded. She forced herself back into the kitchen. Hammond sat down with Yablonski and watched Menninger cleanse the wound with cold water, then wrap a dry towel around it. "Didn't go too deep," he said. "Should be walking on it in a couple of days."
 

Menninger finished and went to call for transport. Hammond sat in silence until Yablonski voiced the question going through both their minds:

"Who the hell is behind all this?"

"I have no idea," said Hammond, "but they've just raised the stakes. I'm in to the finish."

Michaelson and Andrews came out in the NIS camouflage van with the doctor, picked up the Yablonskis and Menninger, and hauled them off to the safe house in Herndon. The last thing Yablonski said to Hammond as he was helped into the back of the van was, "Don't forget about me, buddy."

Hammond promised he wouldn't. He knew what Yablonski meant: he wanted to be included when Hammond got McCarthy cornered. He was fully committed now.

Hammond went home, daring the lone walk down the street to his flat, eagerly peering into empty cars and doorways, itching for another go, but no one showed. He arrived home safely, but he felt even less safe behind closed doors. The attackers must have known his address: they'd been lying in wait for him.

The hell with it, he decided, and plowed under the covers. Tomorrow the track-down would start in earnest. If they could get his address, then by God he could get theirs. His eyes were just locking shut when he saw the little calling card Jan Fletcher had left behind. A single scarf, dropped or placed under his easy chair by the bedroom window. Hammond snaked over the side of the bed and plucked it from the carpet. He brought it to his nose. Her perfume. He wriggled back under the covers and played with the silk between his fingers. This time he let himself go, summoning up images that he had long ago forced deep into the recesses of memory: her body, her face soft and radiant, flesh warm and rippling, hair in his fingers...