Ultimate Issue (24 page)

“Think about it.” Fokin turned to Dr. Narkowska. “I’ve finished, Doctor. For the time being,” he added, the menace implicit.

They left the room, and she locked the door. “What happens to him now?” she asked.

“He’s going to have a change of scenery,” replied the major, and his smile made her feel cold.

Thursday, July 13,1961

Laconbury

PRYOR drove down to Laconbury, half wondering why he was bothering. Maybe it was to regain a little pride. They were starting to take him for granted. The way Major Longman had warned him off the courtmartial had rankled and made him face a question he had long tried not to ask himself: just wheat kind of newsman had he become.

His Defense Department ID card, one of the privileges of being the military’s tame journalist, got him on the base without difficulty, and as soon as he had parked his maroon car, also supplied by the military, he went to see Ryan in the wing information office.

Ryan, a freckle-faced lieutenant, had one mission: to keep Laconbury out of the news. He had acquired the knack of seemingly helping press people all the way, while making sure, behind their backs, that they got nowhere. When things became tough, he referred them to Ruislip and Major Longman.

He received Pryor genially.

“Hi, old buddy,” he greeted him. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

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Pryor’sunexpected arrival didn’t worry him. Stars and Stripes could be relied on to toe the line.

“You know me,” said Pryor, dumping his lanky frame in a chair, “always looking for the Pulitzer Prize.”

“You won’t find it here, man.” On his wall Ryan had a framed photograph of General Croxford and a replica wing’s emblem. He also favored slogan stickers: “You Needn’t Be Crazy to Work Here, But It Helps” was the latest one. It showed visitors that he was One of the Boys.

“Tea?” he asked Pryor. Among his ancillary duties, he was in charge of Laconbury’s community relations, and he had decided it was fitting to offer callers in his office tea instead of coffee.

“No, thanks.” Then Pryor took the plunge. “What about this courtmartial, Phil?”

“Eh?”

“The guy who’s charged with adultery.”

Ryan’s eyes widened in innocent surprise. “In this outfit?”

“That’s right. What can you tell me about it?”

“First I heard about it, old buddy.”

“He’s an officer,” said Pryor.

“Where did you hear all this?”

Pryor smiled thinly. “Maybe a little bird told me.”

Ryan picked up the phone and dialed the outer office. “Do we know anything about a courtmartial, Sergeant?” he asked his clerk. He listened and then hung up. “You’re out of luck. Nobody knows a thing about it.”

“Quit bullshitting,” Pryor said crisply.

Ryan began to study him warily. Something had needled the guy. He wasn’t his usual amiable, complacent self.

“Have you asked headquarters? The major? Welk?”

“I’m asking you,” said Pryor, beginning to feel like a reporter.

It’s time to be One of the Boys, decided Ryan.

“Look, Joe, this is a big outfit. You got any idea how many men we have here? I don’t know everything that goes on. Things happen, and nobody tells me. I’m in the same position as you, old buddy. Really I am,” he said earnestly.

“You’re the base information officer,” retorted Pryor. “You can ask. Why don’t you start asking, Phil?”

Not since the day a correspondent from The New York Times had come by and begun asking awkward questions

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about the wing’s mission, and whether it was true that the U2 flew from Laconbury, and had the Russians shot down one of their planes, had Ryan experienced this kind of thing.

“Ask who, Joe? I’m just a peon.”

“How about the legal office, for a start? They should know.”

Headquarters would soon deal with this guy, reflected Ryan. As soon as he had gone, he would get on the hot line to Ruislip, and they’d set things in motion. Meanwhile, he said to himself, make it look like you’re cooperating.

file picked up the phone again and asked for an extension. A voice answered.

“Lieutenant Jensen,” said Ryan, “I’d appreciate your cooperation. I have a man here from Stars and Stripes who’s asking about some courtmartial. Do you think you could deal with him? Gee, I’d sure appreciate that.”

He put the receiver down and smiled at Pryor, his sunny, Californian surt-rider smile.

“Jensen is our legal eagle, Joe. He’s a real square shooter too. You’ll like him. If there’s any trials pending, he’ll tell you.”

Pryor was taken slightly aback. It seemed to be getting too easy.

“He’s waiting for you at the officer’s club,” added Ryan. “He’ll give you a straight deal. Just ask him what you want to know.”

Pryor slowly untwined his lanky frame. “Thanks,” he said a little awkwardly. Maybe he’d got Ryan all wrong.

Ryan rose from behind his desk and put his arm around Pryor’s shoulder as he led him to the door.

“You come and see me any time, old buddy.” He beamed. “It gets kind of stuffy in here, and it’s nice to see a friendly face. And remember, Joe, you’re always welcome. We got no secrets from you.”

Then, as soon as Pryor had left, he called General Croxford.

Frankfurt

“To me he is a soldier who died on the field of battle,” said Pech solemnly. “Like your airmen shot down over Czechoslovakia, or the Baltic.”

“Er, yes,” agreed Unterberg, a little reluctantly.

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He had arrived in Frankfurt to confer with Pech after Herr Unruh’s demise.

“Of course, coming at this time, with so much at stake, it is rather worrying,” added Pech. “But the machine is running so smoothly that I don’t see anything can go wrong.”

“It had better not,” Unterberg said irritably. He had flown in at short notice and had had little sleep the previous night.

“Even such a sad occasion has its compensations,” rurninated Pech. “It has brought you over, Clyde, and you know how much I like to see you.”

“Yeah.”

“But nevertheless, it is a tragedy. Such men are hard to replace.”

“Who takes over B-One?” asked Unterberg. There were a few things he wanted to get settled.

Pech spread his hands. “Ask Bonn. I have no idea I just do my job. Marienfelde keeps me busy. The refugees. The border crossings. Internal security.”

“Will you?”

“Oh no, Clyde, I am a field man. I go out and do things. I leave others to give the orders.” He smiled deprecatingly.

“Don’t blame you.”

“How long are you staying?” asked Pech.

“Just for the day. I’m taking the last plane back.”

Pech nodded. “They need you in London, I’m sure.” He stood up. “Come, it’s time for lunch.”

He took Unterberg to a seafood restaurant. Fishnets were draped round the walls, and huge lobsters decorated the counter that ran the length of the dining room.

“I couldn’t even try and compete with the fantastic roast beef you gave me in London,” said Pech. “So I thought we’d eat fish.”

As was ritual, the important things were left to the end. Over coffee, Unterberg asked, “How’s the investigation going?”

“The minister is keeping it to himself. Not that they seem to have much.”

“What do you think?” Unterberg inquired quietly.

“Inexplicable. That’s the only word, Clyde. Why should he do it? A nervous breakdown maybe? Overwork? I don’t understand it.”

Unterberg’s eyes narrowed. “Helmut, you don’t buy

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that suicide theory, surely? A lefthanded man doesn’t shoot himself in the right temple with his right hand.”

Pech’s eyes were slits. “Maybe not,” he said thoughtfully. “But who’d murder him?” He paused. “Who’d want to?”

“Who’d need to?” asked Unterberg. He toyed absentmindedly with the salt shaker. “We heard something big had come up.” Now he moved the pepper shaker like a chess piece. “Maybe somebody had to move fast.”

In the nearby Kiserstrasse, a two-tone police horn sounded. After all this time in Europe, it still made Unterberg nostalgic for American sirens.

“Herr Unrnh was a most loyal man,” Pech said stiffly. “If you’re suggesting “

‘Y’m suggesting nothing,” murmured Unterberg. “I’m trying to figure it out, that’s all.”

“Go back to London and relax,” said Pech. “Make sure your air force captain is safely locked away, and leave the rest to us. Herr Unruh’s sad death does not affect anything.”

“How is Helga?”

“She ” Pech stopped. “How should she be?”

“Still in your good care?”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” said Unterberg. “I’ll get off your back. They’ll be glad to know there’s no panic over here.”

They parted outside the Intercontinental, on the banks of the Main.

“Take care of yourself” were Unterberg’s final words. “We don’t want anything to happen to you too, Helmut.”

“Don’t worry.” Pech laughed. “Why should it?”

But on his way to his car, he looked back twice to see if anyone was following him.

Laconbury

In the lobby of the officer’s club, the wives were having a whist drive, but the bar was empty except for a trio of pilots. They wore flight suits, with the Cyclops emblem of the wing stitched to their chests. They didn’t even glance up when Pryor entered.

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Jensen,” said Pryor to the barman.

The man shook his head. “Haven’t seen him today.”

“Give me a Schlitz,” said Pryor. That was one of the things that he loved about the job, that he could get real

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American beer, properly cooled, on a base, anywhere in Europe.

He was having his second one when Jensen finally arrived.

“Gee, I’m sorry I kept you’” he said. “Long-distance call.”

There hadn’t been one at all. But Jensen wasn’t about to tell Pryor that he had received certain specific instructions following Ryan’s warning call to General Croxford.

“Want a beer?” offered Pryor.

“I can do with it,” said Jensen. After he was served, he drank deep and then said, “Let’s sit down.”

They walked over to a table, far away from the pilots.

I don’t like this man, decided Pryor. He tended to classify people as various kinds of animals and insects. This one was a slug.

“You want to know about the trial?” asked Jensen. His directness surprised Pryor.

“So there is a trial?”

“Sure there is.”

“Man, you’d never believe it,” said Pryor. “You’re the first guy who talks straight. The PR shop at Third throws flak in my face, and your information man here “

“Phil Ryan’s a good guy,” said Jensen. “Listen, Pryor, can we talk off the record?”

Pryor hesitated.

“It’s the only way,” insisted Jensen. “Otherwise it’s got to be hello and good-bye. I’m sorry.”

Pryor tried to get his long legs under the table into a more comfortable position. “Why the hell all the mystery?” he said, annoyed. “There are guys being courtmartialed all over Europe every day. What’s so so special about this one?”

Two more officers came in and went up to the bar. Jensen waited until they had been served and found a seat in an alcove before he answered.

“All I can tell you is that an officer is going to face trial under articles One thirty-three and One thirty-four.”

“Catchalls,” Pryor said contemptuously. He had been around the military a long time.

Jensen shrugged. “They cover adultery.”

“And the brass make all that fuss for that?” Pryor shook his head. “I don’t believe it.” He signaled the barman. “Another two beers,” he called out.

Jensen eyed him pensively. It was a shrewd piece of

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acting, strictly by the orders. It intended to convey that he was about to take a big decision. He was about to trust Pryor.

“You’re right, of course,” he said, after the new round had come. “You’ve been around this man’s air force long enough. You guessed it. They’re trying to keep this whole thing under wraps.”

“Why?”

4’A good reason.’,

They were taking him for granted again. They assumed Pryon would jump whenever they lifted a finger.

“Now wait,” said Pryor. “That’s for me to judge. My job is to get the news.”

“Okay,” said Jensen. “I’ll tell you. But remember the deal. Off the record.”

“All right.”

“This thing is messy. It can have repercussions. NATO. All kinds of nasty repercussions. It’s very sensitive.”

“A guy screwing a dame?” sneered Pryor. “Come on, NATO couldn’t care a shit.”

“This outfit is a hot potato,” Jensen said earnestly. “We’ve got a mission here we can’t talk about. It’s a fine outfit, doing a hell of a job. But we’ve got problems. Community relations. Aircraft noise. Those ban-the-bomb idiots. We have to walk softly. We don’t like to attract attention to ourselves. And we don’t want to wash our dirty linen in public. That’s why we don’t want a word printed.”

You’re earning your pay, thought Pryor. “What’s so dirty about this case?” he asked.

Jensen lowered his voice. “It’s a real bitch. This guy’s been shacking up with an English girl. Cheating on his wife. Can’t you see the headlines? ‘Yank at secret base commits adultery with local girl.’”

“That’s a bad headline,” said Pryor, needling him.

“Listen, you get the point. We don’t want this outfit dragged into the mud, we don’t want scandal stories about our wing.”

“Does it involve security?” asked Pryor.

“What do you mean?”

“Is there something classified about it? The way all you guys are flapping about you’d think the man had the bomb in his bedroom.”

Jensen’s laugh was nervous. “nor Pete’s sake, I told you what it’s about. And why we don’t want it reported. You

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don’t want to feed Commie propaganda, do you? No, sir, we don’t need that.”

“You can’t censor it,” Pryor said defiantly. “No matter how embarrassing a story is. It’s public property.”

Jensen smiled. “Have another beer,” he suggested. Then he saw the army officer come in. A captain, somewhat untidy, with JAG insignia. Jensen looked at his watch. “Oh, hell,” he gasped, “I forgot it was so late.”

“I’m in no hurry,” drawled Pryor. The officer seemed to have a curious effect on Jensen. “What’s the army doing on an air base?”