Air Force Eagles (60 page)

"When the signal is given, the men will march out, going from house to house, pulling our Negro brothers out into the street. We won't hurt any of the women or children, unless they make us—some of those black bitches can be mean—and we'll do the minimum amount of property damage. We'll march these six blocks"—he tapped them off with his pointer—"where there will be four companies of the Guard, in uniform, to control things, keep them from getting out of hand. Then the Klan will disperse."

"What do you think, Dixon?" Ruddick asked.

He was obviously relieved. "It's a much better plan than before, much simpler. Let's have it look like a civil uprising, the Klan leading it, the citizens following. Exactly when will it happen?"

"The troops and the Klan will be transported in civilian trucks to the area at six-thirty in the morning; they'll move out at seven, and should be finished by eight. The trucks will pick them up here." His pointer tapped a big blue B.

Plainly pleased with himself, Coleman asked, "Any questions? I'll be overhead, in the new airplane"—he turned and smiled at Fitzpatrick—"that my friend has provided for us."

There were no questions, but Ruddick had reservations about the leaders, Josten and Coleman. But it was too late now. No one but Ruddick noticed that Coleman had kept tapping the map with his pointer at the spot where Nathan lived, Marny's house, halfway down the first block the Storm Klanners were going to invade. His eyes met with Coleman's in agreement. This would be the time to silence Nathan for good.

*

Pine Bluff, Arkansas/September 21, 1957

Lyra looked at the hands of the electric clock, sweeping endlessly around. It was past nine, and Helmut had not returned.

She had long since ceased weeping; now she was totally focused on surviving, day by day, waiting until something happened that could free her children, if not herself.

Helmut's planning had been excellent, real German General Staff-caliber work. The bus was as comfortable as a hotel room, but there was not a single thing in it that she could use for a weapon, not a soda bottle to break, not even a pencil to jam in his eye.

She had steeled herself to make him welcome when he came "home," enduring his kisses and the caresses of his scarred hands, which felt like the scales of a fish being scrubbed across her. She felt toward him exactly as she'd felt toward Goebbels so many years before—a sense of utter revulsion that she had to mask, to keep under control. She talked to him constantly about how things were when they were young, trying to instill some sense of remorse in him.

Despite his terrible wounds, she felt no pity for him, this animal who had once been her lover. If she could have killed him with a thought, he would have been long dead. But she knew that keeping up his hopes that she might return to him was essential; the instant he realized that it was impossible would be her death warrant, and the children's, too.

Her days as a prisoner in Germany helped her endure. And it was more comfortable here, with plenty of food and water. He was never brutal with her physically and had brought her to see the children twice. Ulrich was behaving like a champion; he understood the situation perfectly, and he was bearing up. Gracie, at four, was too young to understand; she obviously missed her mother terribly but was taking her stiff-upper-lip cue from Ulrich.

Josten had introduced her as his wife to the slovenly woman, Elsie. She seemed to be in a daze, but was genuinely taken with the children, who did not appear to be frightened of her. Now she seemed to offer the only chance for help. If Elsie became aware that Helmut was going to kill them, she might help them escape, or at least go to the police. But Helmut was always along, and Elsie seemed—or pretended—to believe that Lyra and the children were there voluntarily, trying to work out a domestic problem. In the meantime, she was spoiling the two children dreadfully.

There was a timid scratching at the door. It couldn't be Helmut, who had the only keys. She waited, unable to open the door from the inside, wondering if it were someone who might help.

Slowly a piece of folded white paper threaded itself through the crack at the bottom of the door. She picked it up and read: "This is a friend. I'll try to get help. Knock on the door three times if you are Josten's wife—former wife. Destroy this note."

She read it again, wondering if it could be Helmut trying to trick her. It didn't matter, she had to take the chance. She knocked on the door three times. There was nothing but silence.

An hour later, puffing as he sat in his car, Erich Weissman contemplated his options. If he called in the FBI, he would never get a shot at Josten. And if the FBI was not careful, Josten might shoot the woman before they took him. There was really no need for the FBI; if he killed Josten, no one else would intervene, except perhaps the big man the children were living with.

Yet if he waited too long, he might not get a shot at all, and Josten might kill this woman anyway. There had to be another way—if he could get some help, just one or two persons. He fumbled in his crowded briefcase and pulled out the file he'd brought from Chicago on Josten. He read through it again, looking for a note he'd scribbled in the margin of the paragraph on Josten's former wife. Squinting under the Plymouth's dim dome light he made out "Married to Colonel Bayard Riley. Living at Frederick Air Force Base."

*

Frederick Air Force Base, California/
September 22, 1957

Exhausted, Riley sat on the couch in his living room, desperate with fear, as the team investigators from the OSI and the FBI went over his home. He'd been in the air in his B-47, en route to Sidi Slimane, when the call came through that his wife was missing.

SAC headquarters had done the mission planning, and he'd turned to fly nonstop back to Frederick, refueling three times on the way.

His family had been missing three days before anyone checked on them; he told the investigators that it must have been Helmut Josten. They didn't seem convinced, but assured him that they would find his family.

A young major came in, smooth-cheeked, deferential; he asked Riley if he could come down to the command post to get an important message that needed an immediate response. He left, and in the car the major said, "It's a phone call about your wife, sir, but the caller specifically asked that you be the only one informed."

At the command post, Riley raced down the stairs, past the guards, into the familiar room filled with maps, telephones, and plotting tables. They had the phone ready, a message pad on the desk. The major handed him the receiver, saying, "The guy was calling from a phone booth, and running out of change. We had to call him back, so we know he's in Little Rock. He's on the line, he'll talk only to you, and he told us not to tell anyone else."

"This is Colonel Riley."

"I knew you long ago in Israel. You were Moshe Niv; I am Erich Weissman."

Bone-tired, head pounding from his sixteen-hour flight, Riley hardly recognized the names at first. Then he said, "Weissman! The mechanic."

"Now Weissman the Assassin, as I promised you. I've located your wife and children. They are alive but in great danger. Your wife's first husband, Josten, has them, and he is crazy."

Riley mumbled, "I knew it."

Weissman's voice was stern, emphatic. "Do not tell anyone else about this; Josten will kill her if the FBI comes. We don't need the FBI, all we need to do is kill Josten."

"What about the children—aren't they
with
Lyra?"

"Yes. They are all being held in a converted bus. But I don't think they will be in danger if we kill Josten. Once he is gone, no one else will care. I don't think many people are even aware that he's kidnapped them."

Riley's eyes blurred as he looked at the big Breitling chronograph on his wrist. He forced himself to think—two hours to get an airplane ready, four hours en route. "I'll be there six hours from now."

"I'll be outside the main gate at Little Rock Air Force Base in a green Plymouth sedan. Bring two sidearms and a big crowbar—really big. We may have to tear the door off the hinges, or go in through the air-conditioning vent. But I hope we can just take the keys after we kill Josten."

Riley turned to his deputy. "Bob, will you get a crew and B-47 prepared to launch as soon as possible? We'll be landing at Little Rock—I'll go in the crawlway and try to get some sleep."

"Boss, you forget, all your B-47s are in England except the one you flew in on, and it's down for parts. But I've got a KC-135 tanker ready to scramble—we can send it."

"Even better. And Bob, don't tell anybody about it, nobody, not the FBI, no one! Lyra's life depends on it. Nobody is to know I'm on board, not even after takeoff!"

The deputy wing commander turned to leave, and Riley caught his arm. "One second. Get a hold of Frank Bandfield—he's somewhere in the South, I think, his wife will know. Get us linked up by phone if you can get him before I go, or by radio to the KC-135. If you can't get us in touch, tell him to go to Little Rock Air Force Base as soon as possible; phone ahead and get him permission to land there."

*

Pine Bluff, Arkansas/May 22, 1957

Helmut sat on the edge of the bed, weeping. Lyra lay at his side, pretending to be asleep. His eyes swept over her lovely body, still young and firm despite all she had been through. To think that that swine Riley had possessed her, that she responded to him, that they had conceived a child! It was an abomination. If she and Riley were reunited ... the thought drove a spike through his heart. It must never happen.

Josten had known all along how improbable it was that she would respond to him, yet he had to take the chance. Now it was over; she had pretended to warm to him yesterday, but he knew her too well.

He'd thought by being gentle with her, playing some records of old German songs, he might create the mood. He even had some Henkell champagne that he'd gotten in New York.

Yet she could not conceal her shudder, her involuntary movement away from him even as he pressed against her. It hurt him deeply. When he kissed her, he felt the withdrawal, the intake of her breath. It ruined things—he could not get an erection, no matter what he did, not even when she pretended, pathetically enough, to respond to him.

So it was over. Tomorrow there would be the showdown in town. He would come back, and they could all have dinner together, Lyra and the children. Then he would end it.

*

Memphis, Tennessee/September 22, 1957

The Beeler Aviation office had the usual fixed-base operator's collection of Salvation Army desks, tattered calendars, and glass cases liberally studded with dead flies. In the part designated as the pilot's lounge, Bandfield sat on the edge of the battered sleep-sofa, an old-fashioned two-piece phone in his hands. He waved for silence. "Go ahead, Patty."

"I got a message from Bear Riley. He's going to Little Rock, thinks that Josten has Lyra and the children somewhere near there. He wants you to meet him there, at the Air Force base. He's got clearance for you to land."

"I'll be there, but what for? Isn't the FBI on the job?"

"I guess he can't tell them for some reason. Anyway, he wants you to be there, and not to tell anyone. But you be careful!"

Roget slipped his arm around Marshall's shoulders. "Bandy here knows Josten from the war; he may be able to figure out what he's thinking."

Marshall rubbed his fist in his palm. "Maybe I'll go into town and see Saundra."

Roget blew up. "See her? See her? You're a damn fool if you don't go into Little Rock, find her, and throw her over your shoulder. That's what the hell she wants; she's running around pretending to be looking for a cause, when all she wants is for you to make her do what she wants to do."

Marshall raised his hands as if to protect himself from the words.

"Listen, boy"—Roget had no idea that the word
boy
was insulting—"I've heard you moaning about not being recognized as an ace. I've heard you bitch about not breaking the sound barrier. Neither one of them two things means a damn! The only important thing for you is your wife, and you ought to get up off your Black ass and go get her."

Marshall spun around and walked out; Roget started to follow but Bandfield grabbed his arm.

"Damn it, Hadley, are you crazy? You got no business talking to him like that."

"I ain't? I ain't? Goddamn it, he's my friend, too, and he knows I'm right. You wait and see, I'll rag his ass till he does what he wants to do!"

Bandfield shook his head. "Hadley, you're incorrigible, and someday somebody's going to slug you for lipping off. Now let's let him take the TBM down, and you and I'll take the Catalina. Give you two hotheads a chance to cool down."

*

Little Rock Air Force Base, Arkansas/
September 22, 1957

The Airdrome Officer parked them in the VIP positions outside the Operations Section, where a crowd of airmen had gathered to watch the TBM and the Catalina being serviced. Navy planes were unusual on the base—obsolete Navy planes, painted bright orange, were worth seeing. Colonel Dick May, the base commander and an old friend from Bandfield's Omaha days, was on hand to greet him.

"Dick, do you have a KC-135 inbound from Frederick?"