Ultimate Issue (15 page)

Captain Verago spent a good part of the seven hours of the alert in the officers club and, by the time he was technically reduced to cinders, was already pleasantly drunk.

His greatest achievement, he felt, was being able to somehow persuade the barman to keep serving him

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drinks during the alert. He congratulated himself for having entered into the spirit of the event. If it ever happened for real, that’s the way he wanted to go.

Wednesday, July 5,1961

Laconbury

THEY had cut off Tower from the outside world, no doubt about it.

The place, outwardly, wasn’t as forbidding as other stockades Verago had known, but then he had never been in a lockup on an air base. At first glance Laconbury’s confinement facility merely consisted of a couple of brick buildings adjoining the dog kennels, standing in an open space, surrounded by an innocuous-looking wire fence.

But they were taking no chances. The fence had a little sign fastened to it, with two red lightning flashes and the word “Danger.” And two armed APs with walkietalkies hovered around.

Verago had protested at Tower being locked up, but the AP commander shrugged it off.

“What do you expect? He broke restriction. The book says we’ve to insure the presence of the accused at his trial. That’s all we’re doing. Insuring. Don’t worry, he’s pretty comfortable. And he gets the same chow as everybody.~,

At least they didn’t search Verago when he came to see him. After his run-in with Duval, nothing would have surprised him.

Tower was Iying on his bunk when Verago was let in.

“Well,” Tower said, “l didn’t expect to see you again.”

Slowly he rose from the bunk.

“Make yourself at home, counselor. It isn’t the Ritz, but they keep it clean.” He stretched himself.

“You’re a dumb son of a bitch, you know that?” said Verago irritably. “What was the idea of trying a stunt like that?”

The sun shone brightly through the barred window, and in the light, the man suddenly looked different to him. The mouth was weak, the eyes shifty. Or was he just sick of the guy?

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“I got fed up. Okay?”

“Oh, great. A real smart thing to do. Just calculated to help your case.”

By the pillow on the bunk lay a packet of cheap PX cigars. Tower took one out and lit it with his lighter. It was Russian, Verago remembered.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Tower.

Verago stopped halfway in the act of opening his briefcase.

“Mister, I’m your attorney, remember? You’re supposed to confide in me.” Verago allowed himself a wry smile. “To trust me.”

“I don’t trust anybody. Not anymore. Nothing personal.” Tower’s statement was matter-of-fact, without heat.

Verago snapped shut his briefcase. “I guess that’s it,” he said. He started to go toward the door.

“What’s that for?” demanded Tower.

“You just fired me “

“Oh, for Chrissake, don’t start acting the big lawyer. Just get on with the case. Do your best. With what you’ve got.”

Verago snorted. “Which isn’t much.” He opened the briefcase again, slowly. He pulled out a yellow legal pad. It was covered with notes. He had been doing a lot of work, and he didn’t have good news.

“I’ve studied the Article Thirtytwo hearing and the exhibits and all the rest of the evidence they’ve piled up, and their case is solid. You committed adultery.”

“I never denied it.” Tower blew out a cloud of smoke.

Verago took a deep breath. He felt like throwing his pad in the man’s face. He hated clients who played games.

“So our best line of defenseis that you have commited a purely technical offence.. You and your wife have lived apart for so long now that this is not a case of flagrant adultery, but the natural behavior of a man who is virtually married in name only.” He paused. “You go along with that?”

Tower shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Well, you’re not helping, that’s for sure,” snarled Verago. He controlled himself. “So I’ll try to make my big pitch when it comes to mitigation. I don’t think we

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can stop you being convicted, but maybe I can save your career.”

Tower laughed in his face.

“What’s so funny?’ asked Verago, angry.

“Save my career. I love that. You’re a great trier, Captain.”

The walls started to shake as the thunder of jet planes taxiing on a runway reverberated across the base. The sound grew, until it swept over the buildings like a thunderclap, making it impossible for them to talk.

Tower sat, puffing, avoiding Verago’s eyes.

Then, as the roar receded, and the planes were airborne, Verago added, “That way Miss Howard shouldn’t have a tough time on the stand. We’ll concede that that you two had a relationship. It should be over pretty quick for her.”

“Good” was all Tower said. Verago shot a hard glance to him. Didn’t he care more than that?

“Of course, you’re being optimistic,” added Tower. “Mighty optimistic.”

“What about?” He was getting under Verago’s skin. In his anger, he broke the point of his pencil. “Shit.”

“I’m going to get put inside, you want to take a bet?”

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Verago.

“I’m sorry.” He leaned over and offered Verago one of his cheap cigars, as if to make amends. “Here.”

“Thanks,” growled Verago, as Tower lit it. Then he asked, “Can I see that?”

Verago turned the lighter over in his hand.

“Russian, you said?”

Tower nodded.

“How did you get it?”

“A present,” said Tower. “Not much to look at, but it’s pretty tough. Never lets me down.”

“Souvenir?”

Tower had a curious smile. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I guess you could call it that.”

He took the lighter back and looked at it.

“Yes” he nodded- “a souvenir. Not worth a damn.”

Except to you, thought Verago.

L:aconbur,

Verago had just come out of the Class VI store clutching his forty-ounce bottle of duty-free whisky that would console his night when Jensen pounced on him.

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“Ah, counselor,” he said, his thick lips curled into a sluggish smile. He eyed the brown paper bag Verago was carrying; its contents were not concealed.

That’s right, Verago felt like saying to him, I’m a solitary drinker, a lush. I keep the stuff in the lampshade and the drawer and under the bed, bottles all over the place, and the idiot would believe every word.

“I hear you’ve had a session with our client,” Jensen continued, falling into step with him. “Don’t you think both counsel should be present?”

Maybe Verago was mistaken, but Jensen’s lips were greasy. As if he had been eating something and then forgotten to wipe his mouth. In such a hurry, perhaps, to catch up with him.

“We were talking about cigarette lighters,” said Verago.

“Is that all?” The sarcasm was heavy.

“Oh, and a few routine matters. Nothing special.”

“And?”

“What else did you expect, Cy?” inquired Verago arn~-ably.

“Well,” said Jensen, a little nervously, “I think we ought to work very closely together on this case. A team. You and me.”

“But I thought we were already.” Verago smiled.

“Of course, of course.” He was wary of Verago. He cleared his throat.

“I had a run-in with the OSI about you,” he announced.

“Really?”

“Yes. After our client tried to go AWOL. They started asking me questions. About you.”

“You’re kidding.” Verago made a good job of sounding astonished.

“Yes,” said Jensen with mock indignation. “And I gave them a real blast. I’m not going to be interrogated about a colleague.”

“Good for you,” Verago said approvingly. He was keeping his face very straight. “And what did they want to know about me?”

‘~They were working on some crazy theory that Tower had a car waiting for him outside the base, and the whole thing was some kind of … well, I don’t know what.”

“And how did I figure in that?” Verago asked innocently.

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“Well, they wondered if you were around, and if you could know something….”

He was perspiring a little.

“And you said?”

“I told them to go jump in a lake,” Jensen said virtuously, “and that in any case, they had the wrong guy, because you weren’t around here at all, you were in London.”

“That was a swell thing to do.” Verago could have fooled a lot of people.

“We’ve got to stick together, haven’t we?” said Jensen.

It was a good try, thought Verago, after the man had gone. Trouble was the OSI hadn’t worked out the script with Jensen too well.

Because at no time had he told Jensen about being in London.

New York Cite’

The two men, wearing grey suits, button-down collar shirts, and sober ties, looked almost like identical twins. They had neatly cut short hair and both smelled of aftershave.

They entered the brownstone on West Thirtieth Street, near the junction with Fifth Avenue, and took the elevator to the sixth floor. Neither spoke as they slowly rode upward.

When they got out, they walked along the corridor, past several doors, until they got to apartment 6D. They pressed the doorbell.

From inside the chamber music ceased abruptly. Then the door opened to the maximum possible on a safety chain. A woman peered out through the gap.

“Mrs. Tower?” inquired one of the men politely.

“Yes,” she said warily. She kept the door on the chain.

“FBI,” said the man. He and his companion produced wallets and held up their identification at her eye leveL

“What do you want?” she asked.

“We’d like to come in,” the man said courteously. “It’s about your husband.”

Momentarily she hesitated. Then the chain was slipped, and the door opened wider.

The two men stepped inside the entrance hall of the small apartment. A cat quickly scuttled out of their way.

“Is he all right? Has anything happened?” the woman asked a little nervously. She must once have been very

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good-looking, but she had put on weight, her eyes were puffy, and her chin was now too fleshy.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Tower,” said the FBI man. “I’m Special Agent Sullivan, and this is Agent Mattingly. We have a few questions we’d like to ask you. It won’t take long,” he added, like a dentist before a tooth extraction.

“You’d better sit down,” she said, indicating the living room. It was untidy, a newspaper on the floor, a shopping bag on the table, a coat flung over the back of a chair.

“I’m sorry, it’s not ” she began, but didn’t finish. She appeared tense. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I only just got in from work.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Sullivan. “May I?”

She nodded and he sat down in one of the armchairs Mattingly sat on the couch.

Mrs. Tower perched on the edge of a chair by the dining table.

“You’re FBI?” she repeated, as if she had only just realized who they were. “What does the FBI want with me?”

Mattingly took out a notebook and a ballpoint pen. He sat at the ready, like a stenographer about to take dictation.

“It’s routine,” Sullivan said crisply. Everything about him was crisp.

“You’re Mrs. Marion Louisa Tower, and you’re married to Captain John Herman Tower?”

“Yes,” she said, puzzled. Then she thought. “At least ” She stopped.

“Yes?”

“My husband and I, we … well, we’ve been separated since fifty-seven.”

“But you are still married to him?” Sullivan asked sharply.

“We’re not divorced,” she said. “Not yet.”

`‘You are married?” he repeated insistently.

“I told you.” She was getting annoyed. “What’s this about? Why these questions?”

fAnd you are receiving a marriage allotment from the

“Of course.”

Mattingly was making careful notes. He wrote shorthand.

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‘5No children?”

“No,” she said curtly.

The cat crept into the room and eyed the two strangers suspiciously.

“How often do you hear from your husband?” asked Sullivan.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m sorry,” said Sullivan. “It would help if you just answered the questions. I don’t have many.”

“John is stationed in England. He goes where he is sent. Germany, France, what do I know?”

“But you keep in touch?”

She raised her head, and there was anger in her look.

“Sometimes,” she said in a low voice. “Not often. Like I’ve said, we are separated.”

“He writes to you?”

She nodded. “Now and then.”

“When did you last hear from him?”

“Oh, months ago. I don’t know. March. April, I don’t know. Just a short letter.”

“Have you still got it?”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“What’s it got to do with the FBI?” she demanded.

“Captain Tower is currently facing courtmartial proceedings. The air force has asked us to make some routine inquiries.”

She sat frozen. “Courtmartial? I don’t understand. What for?”

Sullivan glanced at Mattingly. He was getting it all down.

“Adultery,” he said at last.

“No, it can’t be,” she cried. “It’s crazy. We’ve split up. We lead our own lives.”

“Mrs. Tower, he is married to you.”

She was flushed with indignation.

“Don’t you understand?” she almost shouted. “We’ve split up. We … reached an arrangement. I do my thing, he does his.”

“But you are married,” insisted Sullivan.

“Whose god damn business is it?” Her fists clenched. “It’s private between him and me.”

“You are not divorced,” said Sullivan, almost accusingly. Mattingly made the note.

‘`That’s our business.” She stood up. “I think you ought to leave.”

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He remained seated.

“I’m going to raise hell about this,” she added. “What’s our relationship got to do with the air force, with Washington, with the FBI? Who brought the charges? Why is he being tried?”

“It is an offence for an officer who is legally married to commit adultery with another woman,” said Sullivan. “That’s the law, ma’am.”

“And the FBI gets involved?” She was breathing heavily. “I want to know why. After all, if I don’t care what he does, why should anybody else?”