Pulp Fiction | The Finger in the Sky Affair by Peter Leslie (3 page)

The blonde in the black skirt took Kuryakin into Waverly's office at once. Solo was still there, and the blonde appeared to have some difficulty in deciding which man to look at as she returned to the outer office.

"What we're faced with here, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, after Solo had put Illya in the picture, "is, as usual, a matter of time—time in which to discover how these air crashes occurred; time to see all the persons involved; time to work out some way of preventing a repetition of the disasters. And of course time is what we do not have. If it is indeed THRUSH behind the whole thing, then it must be effectively countered at once. At once—before public confidence drops further."

"It seems to me," Solo said, "assuming the planes
are
being sabotaged, that is—it seems to me we have to find out first of all how this is being done."

"I agree, Napoleon," Illya said. "From what Mr. Waverly has told us, I assume there is no evidence of any tampering with the planes. Is there likely to be any in the near future?"

"I wouldn't count on it," Waverly said morosely. "I've told you the results of the preliminary inquiry. The full investigation—where they gather together every fragment of the wrecked plane and marry it up with its neighbor to try to see what went wrong where—that'll take weeks. And it's not a job that you can rush, by its very nature. If you lean too heavily on the man doing the reconstruction, he may in his haste destroy the very fragment holding the clue to the whole thing!"

"I see. Then it seems our only lead is the survivors. Are there many?"

Waverly sighed. His lined face looked suddenly tired and old in the harsh light streaming through the window from Queens. "From the five crashes," he said, abstracting a sheet of paper from the folder which still lay on his desk, "there are precisely five survivors."

"How do they relate?" Solo asked.

"A stewardess from the second Nice disaster—there were no survivors from the first. This burned fellow from the third crash there. And a steward and two passengers from one of the American crashes."

"Which one, sir?"

"The aircraft that stalled on take-off. A DC-6, it was. At Chicago."

"No survivors from the other?"

"None at all. It was a pressurized 707 that blew up in mid-air, somewhere over California, I believe."

"Do we have any technical data, Mr. Waverly, on the supposed causes of these two American crashes?" Illya asked. "I mean, were they as incomprehensible as the three at Nice?"

"There was no provable hypothesis—nothing in the nature of evidence that would convince an inquiry tribunal. But I understand Maximilian Plant—he's the head of T.C.A., as I expect you know—I understand he has a few ideas on what
may
have happened. I said we'd send somebody over to see him at their H.Q. on Fifth Avenue, right?"

"Right, sir," Solo said. "I'll go over myself. Now, if you can let us have the names and addresses of these survivors, we'll get onto them right away."

Waverly adjusted his spectacles and read from the paper:

"James Lester, steward, suffered from severe burns; now back at his home; 1362 Venice Avenue, Cicero, Illinois. Olive McTaggart, passenger, multiple injuries and severe burns; still in St. Mary's Hospital, Chicago. Enrico Spaggia, passenger, two broken legs and second degree burns; back at home in Worsthorne Course, State Street, Wilmington, Delaware....That's the three in this country. In France, you have the stewardess, Andrea Bergen, and the poor fellow who ran out of the fire the other day—he hasn't recovered consciousness yet."

Solo had been taking notes. He looked up. "Where can we find these two?" he inquired.

"The girl's just come out of the hospital—she was very badly knocked about. You can find out her address in Nice from the T.C.A. bureau at the airport there. The man, Foster Andersen, he's in the Anglo-American hospital between Nice and Villefranche."

"Okay," Solo said. "Illya—will you handle the two at Nice? I'll look after Maximilian Plant and the three here..."

Waverly stared at the row of five enamel buttons inset into the top of his desk. After a moment he jabbed a finger at the yellow one in the middle. There was an amplified click and then the blonde's disembodied voice:

"Yes, sir?"

"Get me General Hartz at the Pentagon," Waverly barked at the invisible microphones. He scowled at the pipe rack while he was waiting for the connection and then, rejecting its entire contents with a shake of his head, hauled an old Meerschaum from the pocket of his baggy tweed jacket and placed it unlit between his teeth. A red indicator light was flashing on the wall.

"Yes?" the Head of Section One said into the air.

"General Hartz on the line, Mr. Waverly."

"Put him on."

Another click; a faint, high, singing noise. And then:

"Alex? How's tricks, you old rascal! What can I do for you?"

"I want an army jet, Number One Priority, to ferry an operative to Nice, France, as soon as possible, David."

"Can do, as it's for you. How soon is 'as soon as possible'?"

"Leaving here as of now."

"Okay. Where are we gonna pick him up?"

"I'll fly him to you by helicopter from the roof of this building. Can you have the plane ready by the time he gets to you?"

"Sure thing, Alex. He'll carry the usual identification?"

"Naturally. His name is Kuryakin—and thanks, David."

"Be my guest...Oh, and Alex—golf on Sunday?"

"Golf on Sunday," Waverly said. "As usual."

Illya was on his feet, ready to go. "I'll draw some equipment from the armory, arrange a cover with Personnel, and indent fo some funds at the cashier's office," he said.

Waverly nodded. "I'll have the aircraft on the roof in ten minutes," he said. "You'll keep in touch with Mr. Solo through Station M?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I ask them to try to get me a wavelength?"

"No. Not at first, anyway. Not worth it. Let them transmit."

It was the agent's turn to nod. "There is just one other thing," he added diffidently. "Forgive me for mentioning the obvious, but —"

"What is it, Illya?" Solo asked, sensing the Russian's reluctance.

"Well, it's just—I'm sure it has been checked—but...I suppose we do know the enemy here
is
THRUSH?...I mean, there isn't a chance that the sabotage was
personally
directed? There weren't passengers on those planes whose deaths would benefit people? There have been men mad enough to destroy a whole plane-load of innocent people to get one individual before now."

"I'm glad you asked that question, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said without in any way revealing that he knew the remark was a cliché. "In truth, I should have remembered to tell you: both the F.B.I., in the case of the two domestic crashes, and the C.I.A., in the case of the others, have made the most exhaustive inquiries along the lines you mention. And in every case they have drawn a blank. I think you can rule the idea out for all practical purposes..."

"Thank you, sir. It was just that I wished to make sure —"

"Quite, quite, quite. You did quite right to ask...And now off you go, the two of you. I suggest that you leave Plant to the last, Mr. Solo; I should like to have some facts about that Chicago crash on my desk as soon as possible...Mr. Kuryakin—question these two people in Nice as closely as you can about
every
recollection of the crashes they have. No matter how insignificant it may seem —"

He broke off as the blonde entered with a word of apology and laid on his desk an envelope with the
Urgent—Top Secret
seal in red. He slit the flp with a paper knife and drew out the single sheet of paper it contained.

"Correction, please, gentlemen," he said in an expressionless voice a moment later. "For 'question these two people' read 'question that person'. I have just heard that Foster Andersen has died without regaining consciousness."

"
This is the last call for passengers on Air France Flight A.F./951—the Caravelle departing at 1410 hours for London. Passengers who have checked in with their baggage please assemble at Exit No. 3 in the Departure Lounge...This is the last call for passengers...
"

The boxy, amplified voice echoed around the concourse of the modernistic
Aéroport Nice-Côte d'Azur
. Illya Kuryakin stood beside a huge concrete circle ablaze with begonias, zinnias and salvia, looking at the row of airline offices, flower shops and confectionery kiosks which lined the vast hall. Around him, shrill with anxiety or indecision, the high-season holiday crowd milled. Transcontinental Airways housed their bureau between B.E.A. and the stairway to the cloakrooms—under a gallery leading past counters of cashmere cardigans and bottles of scent to the restaurant. The agent strolled across to quiz the girl behind the
guichet
.

"Andrea Bergen?" she repeated. "Yes, of course I can give you her address. It's in an apartment block just off the Avenue Malausséna—but I'm afraid you won't find her there."

"Oh. Why not? I thought she had come out of the hospital."

"She has, poor dear. But she's still in a wheelchair—completely crippled. She can't do a thing for herself, so she's being looked after by a friend."

"Do you know how I can get in touch with the friend? It's rather important."

"Yes, I do. She works for T.C.A. too. I don't have her address in Nice right here—could you hang on a moment?" The girl disappeared into the back room and he heard her talking to someone behind the frosted glass partition. A moment later she was back, her face covered in smiles. "You're in luck," she said. "Sherry's actually here. She's on a short lay-off between shifts and it wasn't worth going home. You'll find her having a coffee on the terrace outside the restaurant upstairs."

"Is she a stewardess too?"

"No. She's Ground Staff Liaison, but the uniform's the same. It'll probably be the only T.C.A. uniform up there. Her name's Rogers—Sheridan Rogers."

Illya thanked the girl for her help and walked away past the lines of passengers waiting to put their baggage on the weighing machines by the check-in desks. At the top of the wide, shallow staircase he paused for a moment to look back at the ant-like complexities of the crowd below. Between Arrivals and Departures they flooded the post office and
bureau de change
, besieged the semicircular information desk, overflowed the seats, summoned porters with an imperious finger, or merely stood about in disconsolate groups centered on piles of luggage. From the glass doors of the Customs hall a file of pale-faced arrivals emerged hesitantly to submit themselves to the greetings of tanned men in espadrilles and dark glasses. Up here beneath the geometric planes of the great roof, the acoustics of the place muted the babble of voices and amplified the sound of feet.

The warm air of the restaurant was redolent of cigars, roast meats and garlic. On the wide terrace outside, Illya found Sheridan Rogers, sitting over a tiny cup of coffee and a large cognac. She had wide, wide blue eyes and a smile that wrinkled her nose and creased the flesh at each side of her face. Above the white T.C.A. uniform with its navy piping, her
gamine
-cut hair looked exceptionally dark.

The Russian introduced himself as a Federal accident investigation officer. He drew a chair up to her table and gave her an edited account of the difficulties facing them in establishing what had caused the accidents. "And so you see, Miss Rogers," he concluded, "how very important it is for us to have at first hand the recollections of all survivors—however painful they may be, however unimportant the things they remember may seem."

The girl stared out across the apron, the runway and the strip of dusty turf beyond which the sea stretched sparkling from Cap Ferrat to Cap d'Antibes. A group of racing dinghies heeled white sails over to a breeze drifting in from the west.

"To be honest," she said at last, screwing up her eyes against the glare of the lunch-time sun, "I'd much prefer for her not to be troubled. She's still pretty ill. And of course profoundly shocked. To be the only survivor...If she hadn't gotten it into her head to check something in the baggage compartment...But I understand you have your duty to carry out."

"It's not only that," Illya said, pressing his advantage. "The crashes
may
be due to sabotage. If so, we have to stop the same thing happening to other people...don't we?"

"I guess so. I tell you what I'll do: I'll give you the phone number of my apartment and you can call Andrea. If she agrees to see you, I'll wheel her out onto the Promenade des Anglais early this evening—it's only a block from my place in the Rue Masséna. Then you can talk to her for a moment, and afterwards we'll let you buy us a cocktail at one of the sidewalk cafés. Okay?"

"Splendid," the agent said warmly. "Let me buy you another cognac now, before you give me the number..."

"
Air France announces the departure of their Flight A.F./951 for London
," the voice of the girl announcer twanged from the P.A. speaker above their heads.

Together, they watched the slim, long-nosed Caravelle, with its twin tail-jets, trundle to the end of the runway, swing around, and then surge forward for the take-off with a scream of power. Once off the ground, the elegant machine roared into the sky in a steep climbing turn which left a double plume of black exhaust smoke hanging in the air over the beaches of Nice.

"My goodness," Illya said, "they take them up like an elevator, don't they?"

They watched the superb plane turn out at sea and fly back parallel to the coast—a silver dart winking in the bright sun. Almost before it had reached operational height, an aircraft precisely similar was sinking to the runway from the sky over Cagnes.

Before they had finished their drinks, Illya had learned that Sheridan Rogers was twenty-five years old, that she had been born in Seattle and brought up in Paris, where her father was a consular official, and that she had been working for T.C.A. in Nice for nearly two years. He had also written down on a piece of paper the telephone number of her apartment. Presently, he excused himself and went to make the call.