Ultimate Issue (8 page)

“I’d like that very much, Laurie,” Verago said, and meant it.

“I know,” she said. She got up and opened the door to the other room. The bedroom.

There were twin beds in it. But only one was used that night.

Friday, June 23,1961

London

LAURIE woke him up with a cup of instant coffee. They looked at one another and smiled. It had been a good night.

Then she nearly spoiled it all.

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“Here,” she said, and handed him a razor and a halfused tube of shaving cream.

In the small bathroom, he scowled at the mirror as he shaved. He didn’t know which aggravated him more: that she had a man’s shaving things in her apartment, or that she didn’t care if he knew.

He realized that what he felt was a pang of raw, primitive jealousy, and that annoyed him too. It was an emotion he detested.

You stupid bastard, said his inner voice. You sleep with a woman you haven’t known for more than twentyfour hours, and you get screwed up because another guy’s stayed in her apartment.

But all the misgivings were swept aside when he was ready to go.

“You think you’ll get back to London soon?” she asked.

“Of course. The base is only a couple of hours away, isn’t it?” The robe she wore seemed to accentuate her naked body underneath. The dormant desire for her was beginning again. “Try stopping me,” he added, his voice husky.

“That’s good,” she said simply.

“I’ll call you,” he promised.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, she pressed her body to his and kissed him hard on the mouth.

“See you,” she said a little breathlessly, pushing him out the front door.

“Sure thing, Laurie.”

She stood in the doorway, watching him go to the lift. He turned and she gave him a little wave before shutting the door.

He rode down from the third floor and reflected how little he knew about her. Sure he knew her body, the way she made love, her laugh, those curious eyes, that she had a Polish surname, came from Chicago, and was an air force employee. But that was all.

Yet he didn’t care. He wanted to see her again, he wanted to hold her once, more.

You’re making a big deal out of a one-night stand, his inner voice cautioned coldly.

“Shut up,” said Verago aloud.

Outside the early-June morning smelled good. A cab cruised toward him, its “For Hire” sign illuminated. Verago flagged it down.

“Columbia Club,” he instructed.

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The cab drove off.

The two men in a black Chrysler parked opposite the block of flats didn’t follow. One of them merely made an entry in a notebook:

“06:20 furs: Left the apartment.”

London

“Here you are, sir,” said Pettifer acidly.

He put a copy of the Visiting Forces Act 1952 in front of Daventry. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Not at the moment, thank you,” said Daventry.

Pettifer sniffed and went out of the study, leaving Daventry surrounded by Orders in Council and Crown Statutes, volumes of International Law and now the Visiting Forces Act for which he had asked urgently.

No case that Pettifer had on his list for Daventry required those legal authorities. He was evidently reading up on something Pettifer did not know about, which meant that he was putting in valuable time … to do somebody a favor? And being wily and shrewd, Pettifer immediately suspected it had something to do with that curious visit Daventry had received from the Howard girl.

She had preyed on Pettifer’s mind. It wasn’t social, he was sure. And it couldn’t have been business because he didn’t know about it. There had been no preliminaries, no solicitors. And yet

…

He had spent agonizing hours wondering whether he should challenge Daventry about it outright. As clerk of the chambers, he was not only entitled to know what was going on, it was his duty. Daventry’s time was valuable. A morning’s deviling on a case was worth a handsome fee.

Not that Pettifer believed Daventry had taken on a case without his knowledge. Accepting a brief direct was the ultimate professional crime. It would mean disbarment and disgrace. It would be suicide, and he knew Daventry would never do that.

Pettifer sighed. He was indeed a worried man, and he only hoped that Daventry knew what he was doing.

In his study Daventry read through the thin 1952 act a second time. He glanced at the notes he had made.

It was bad news. Very bad news.

52

Essex

The airman first class who drove the staff car to Laconbury was not talkative. Verago sat in the back watching the flat, monotonous least Anglian countryside roll past, wondering why he had a growing sense of foreboding.

Kincaid’s curious interest in his security clearance, for instance. It had never happened to Verago before. All because he was to defend a guy who had cheated on his wife.

“Are you stationed at Laconbury?” Verago asked the driver.

The airman turned his head slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“What’s it like?”

The airman didn’t take his eyes off the country road.

II right, I guess.”

“What do they fly there? Bombers? Fighters?”

Usir?~,

“I’m army,” explained Verago hastily. “We know nothing about you people over here.”

“Yes, sir,” said the airman, and left it at that.

It was like questioning a piece of wood. Yet the airman was intelligent, alert.

Verago decided to try again. “You know a Captain Tower?” he asked.

He saw the airman’s back visibly stiffen.

“Sir?” The same damn reaction.

“I just wondered if you’d heard of him.”

The airman kept his eyes straight in front. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

Verago sighed. “What’s your name?”

“Flynn, sir.”

“Your first name?”

The airman frowned. Was this visiting fireman going to make trouble? “Teddy, sir.”

“Well, Teddy, what does a fellow do for fun around here?” Maybe, thought Verago, that’s the way to break the ice.

“Not much, sir. Most of the guys go to London. Or Cambridge. That’s about it.”

His tone was final.

They drove through some small villages, followed a bumpy minor road, then past acres of farmland. They had left London two hours earlier.

Suddenly a sharp-nosed jet streaked past over a wood.

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“We’re nearly there, sir,” said the airman. It was the only time he had volunteered anything. They passed a tiny hamlet and a twelfth-century, ivy-covered church.

“There’s the base, sir,” said Teddy.

Verago didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this, Just hedgerows. A long line of them, blocking the view of what lay beyond them. He saw, in the distance, a couple of tall radio masts and a high wire fence.

“Welcome to Laconbury” proclaimed a notice board at the entrance to the base. It had an emblem, the head of a Cyclops, with one huge staring eye in the middle of his forehead. And there was a motto underneath: “Ever Vigilant.”

The car slid to a halt at the guardhouse. The APs were smart, really smart. They had razor creases, and their white-laced boots shone like mirrors. Their cap covers were snow white, like the lanyards of their pistols.

They waved down the car. One AP came over, the other two stood watching.

Teddy handed the AP a slip of paper. The guard peered at Verago and gave him a copy-book salute. Verago had rolled down the window and, awkwardly, saluted back.

“You will proceed to headquarters, sir,” the AP said respectfully, very correctly, and yet giving a firm order.

The car entered the base, and Verago saw a lot of anonymous buildings. And several of those radio masts. The only sign that it was an air base were a couple of men in flying suits. The flight lines, the hangars, the planes, the runways, Verago guessed, were at the other end, out of sight.

In front of the headquarters building were two flagpoles. One flew the Stars and Stripes, the other an RAF ensign. A lieutenant was already waiting in front of the building, and when the car stopped, he came forward and stood watching while Teddy got out of the driver’s seat and opened the door for Verago.

“Thank you,” said Verago.

“Good morning, sir,” said the lieutenant. “This way, please. The general is waiting for you.”

“The general?” repeated Verago.

“General Croxford, sir,” said the lieutenant. “Our commander.”

He made it sound like their privilege. He was Klein commander, nobody else’s. He belonged to them.

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An airman walked behind them, carrying Verago’s carryall.

They turned into a carpeted corridor, to a outer office. The lighting was soft, subdued. Here there was air conditioning and silence. The airman placed Verago’s bag near a desk, then left.

The lieutenant knocked on a door.

“Yes,” came a voice.

The lieutenant went inside, came out after a moment, and said, “Please go in, Captain Verago.”

Brigadier General Croxford did not get up. He sat behind his desk in his smart, tailor-made blue uniform, the single silver star gleaming on his shoulder. He had four rows of medal ribbons under the command pilot’s wings.

Behind him on the wall was a giant replica of the Cyclops crest, and the lone eye seemed to be staring straight at Verago. The flags were there, standing by the desk, a Stars and Stripes and a blue-and-yellow air force flag.

The only pictures on the wall were black-framed photographs. One of President Kennedy. Another of a B29, and it was only later that Verago found out it was a picture of the plane that dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima

The general had three aircraft models on his desk. One was a silver RB-47, another an RB-66. Verago didn’t know what kind the third was, a needlelike, sharppointed plane with curious wings that looked out of proportion.

“Sit down, Captain,” invited the general. He was softspoken and had dark-brown eyes. His complexion had a pasty pallor, as if he spent a long time indoors, or underground. He looked like a man who could do with a good vacation in the sun.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m sorry about this affair,” said the general, without preliminaries. “I hope we can get it over as quickly as possible.”

Verago felt it wise to stay silent.

“You will of course be given every facility to defend this officer, and we’ll try to make your stay comfortable.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The general contemplated Verago for a moment. His brown eyes were quite unashamed in their curiosity.

“I believe you don’t know Captain Tower, is that

55

“No, sir. Not yet.”

Verago tried to recall if he had ever heard of an air base commanded by a general. He didn’t know much about the air force, but this place seemed heavy on top brass.

“It’s an unpleasant business,” went on the general. “I dislike this kind of case in my command.”

Verago led with his chin. “I am not sure we should discuss the case, sir,” he said.

“I see.” The general was poker faced. “In that case, Captain, we won’t discuss it.”

Verago waited.

“But I think I ought to tell you that this installation has a classified mission.”

“I understand, sir.”

“This is a tactical reconnaissance wing, and we don’t talk about our activities, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Verago. The old unease started up again.

“Good. So neither of us will discuss certain sensitive areas. Agreed?” The general allowed himself a cold smile.

“Very well, General.”

“You’ll find Lieutenant Jensen has done an excellent )ob.”

“Who is Lieutenant Jensen, sir?” asked Verago.

“1 thought you knew. Captain Tower’s defense counsel, of course. The one we appointed.” The hint of impatience was not disguised. “He’s done all the groundwork. A good lawyer. I guess you won’t find much to do around here.”

Was it a hint? Or a warning?

“I look forward to working with him,” Verago said carefully. “But first I’m going to see Captain Tower. I think it’s about time I met my client.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Croxford. He shifted the model of the RB-47. It had not been in straight alignment with the other two planes. “As soon as we can fix it.”

“What’s the difficulty?” asked Verago, very quietly.

“Captain Tower isn’t available right now.”

Of course. He should have expected something like this.

“I don’t get it, General,” said Verago. He sat up very straight. “What’s the problem?”

- General Croxford frowned. He was not used to being

cross-examined.

“Your client is in the base hospital. I believe he’s had

56

some kind of nervous breakdown.” The general shook his head. “I’m sorry, but the doctors have given orders he’s not to see anybody.”

He paused, but Verago just stared at him.

“Obviously, we mustn’t allow anything to happen that could harm him. Like pressurising him. I’m sure you concur with that, Captain.”

The ear-splitting roar of a jet plane flying low shook the office. The noise made Verago wince, but General Croxford tilted his head and listened to it like a conductor appraising his orchestra.

“You’ll get used to that, Captain,” he said when the sound faded. “Leastways, I hope so.”

He brushed an invisible spot off his immaculate uniform. “Hell, we don’t want you to have a nervous breakdown too.”

Verago wasn’t smiling. “I don’t think that’s likely, General. But I’d appreciate knowing how long he’ll be in there.”

“Captain, I’m no psychiatrist. How do I know?”

“What about the trial?”

“That’s for you to sort out. Anything else?”

“Not now, General.”

Croxford gave him a sharp look. He leaned forward. His voice was softer.

“Say, Verago, what’s your handicap?”

“Sir?” Verago was baffled.

“Don’t you play golf?”

“No, sir.”

The general leaned back in his chair. “Pity,” he said coldly. “That’s a great pity. Well, if you’ll excuse me now.”

Verago stood up and saluted.

The general saluted back, but he had pulled a file in front of him, and he was no longer looking at Verago.

Only the baleful eye of the Cyclops on the wall glowered at him. It was a cold, cruel eye.