Ultimate Issue (30 page)

“Tony, let’s get drunk tonight. Let’s go, you and me, and tie one on. Somewhere disreputable, where no officers and gentlemen should be seen dead. What do you say?”

Verago was tempted, very tempted.

“I’ll have to take a raincheck,” he said instead. ‘A can’t tonight. But any other time….”

“Sure, I understand.” Apollo nodded. “Have a good time and enjoy it. Whatever they’d like to do with you, they can’t charge you with adultery.”

Verago did not smile. “Why did you want to see me?”

“To save us all time.” Apollo paused. “Your case has fallen apart. You hoped your client’s estrangement could be the big get out. Mitigation for having an affair. Well, she’s dead and that puts the skids under you. Frankly, her suicide will alienate the whole court. So what have you got left? You know the answer. A big, fat nothing.”

“You’re telling me to stop fighting City HaU, are you?”

“Well, what other choice have you got?”

Verago stood up. “Thanks for the drink,” he said. “See you in court.”

“You bet.”

Apollo sat and watched Verago cross the lobby and leave the hotel. He seemed amused.

Outside, in Park Lane, Verago felt irritated.

The trouble was the man had hit it on the head. And he knew it.

London

Laurie was high. He hadn’t seen her like this before. They had got drunk together, they had shared hangovers, but this was different. It wasn’t alcohol. Her eyes were bright, her lipstick a little smudged, her voice a shade too loud. Her blouse had four buttons, and three of them were undone. He had seen her naked, but found this half glimpse of the cleavage of her breasts tantalising, disconcertingly erotic.

“You want to do something tonight?” Verago asked, trying to gauge her mood.

“Like what?” she asked, her almond eyes flashing. It came like a challenge: What can you come up with? The thought seemed to amuse her. “I can guess what you want to do.”

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‘Ed like to have dinner,” said Verago. “Let’s go eat.” “How romantic,” mocked Laurie. “You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet. ‘I’d like dinner, let’s go eat.’ How could I resist such a tempting invitation?”

“What’s the matter, Laurie?” he asked her quietly.

“Nothing’s the matter. What should be the matter?” She picked nervously at a loose thread in her slacks. “I’m sorry.” She sighed. ‘ Perhaps we should have a little tally”

“Talk about what?”

“Us,” she replied, not looking at him. “What’s going to happen to us?”

He took off his jacket and hung it across the back of a chair. The windows were open, but he felt hot, uncomfortable.

“Well?”

“One of the things I like about you is that you don’t ask questions,” said Verago.

“You mean, I just asked one too many.”

“Maybe.,’

She nodded, as if that’s what she had expected.

“Would you like a drink?” she offered.

“Please.”

She got up and poured him a scotch, dropping in the ice cubes one by one.

“It can’t go on like this, you know that?” she said, her back still to him.

“Why? Why can’t it?” he asked, low.

“Because it can’t,” she said, swinging around. She handed him his drink.

“I don’t see “

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Tony, stop kidding yourself. You won’t even be in England soon. It’ll be finished. You’ll be stuck back in Germany….”

“I can still get over here. Weekends. Furloughs. I can take my leave “

She laughed. It was a forced, strident laugh, so unlike her.

“A forty-eight-hour screw every three months?” The tone of her voice was bitter, her eyes steely. “If that’s your idea of a relationship, you can save yourself the trouble. There must be plenty of frauleins on the spot.”

“You know that’s not what it’s about,” he interrupted.

He stood up, white-faced, and went over to her. He took hold of her shoulders and his face was close to hers. Those strange eyes glittered.

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“What’s the matter, Laurie?” he asked again. “You’re stoned out of your mind. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” she whispered, and there were tears in her eyes. Suddenly she clung to him. “I don’t want to lose you,” she mumbled, her head against his chest. He could feel the wetness of her tears through his shirt.

“But you’re not going to,” he comforted her. “I’m stickimg around, don’t worry. You’re not rid of me so easily, sweetheart.”

He held her close. Her body felt soft, vulnerable, defenseless.

“It’s all right, Laurie,” he soothed. “Everytinng’s all right. We’ve got each other, no matter what.”

She looked up, her face tearstreaked, and nodded.

“You got a hanky?” she asked.

He gave her his and she broke away, wiping her eyes. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror by the shelves.

“Jesus, I look a sight,” she muttered, and it was the Laurie he knew. She turned to him. “I’m sorry, Tony. You must need this like a hole in the head.”

“Sit down,” he said, “and tell me what’s bothering

you.”

She came over. “I like you, Tony,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “I like you lots. Trouble is, I think I need you. When you’re stuck out at that damn base, when I don’t see you, I miss you….”

“I’m sure you’ve got other company to pass the time,” he said, and nearly bit his tongue off for sounding so unfeeling and insensitive.

She gazed at him gravely. “I have,” she agreed. “But it isn’t you.”

“I’m sorry,” he began. “I didn’t mean to “

She took his hand. “You know what we should do? Stop apologising to each other. The next guy who says ‘I’m sorry’ gets ten demerits. Okay?”

“Okay,” concurred Verago. It had been a long time since he had been so fond of a woman. Not, an inner voice added, that you’ve ever known such a woman before.

“You still want to eat?” she murmured.

“It can keep.” He smiled and undid the fourth button.

They went into the bedroom and after that, when the light was out, there was very little conversation. But they didn’t need words to say what they meant to each other.

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Outside, in Sloane Avenue, the black Chrysler was back. The two men in it sat silently, watching the apartment block and making a note when the light was switched off in her room.

It wasn’t H-hour yet, but the countdown had begun.

Monday, July 24,1961

-Laconbury

You will be gratified to know that the Senate has re

solved 66 to 0 to ask the Air Force to confer appropriate posthumous decorations on the crewmen, and that the Secretary of the Air Force has sent condolences to their families….

Brigadier General Croxford slowly put down the letter that had arrived from the Pentagon. It was the final epitaph for O for Oboe.

In a way, they were lucky. They were allowed some official recognition. Croxford thought of the others from the wing whose deaths remained as secret as their final missions.

If security had allowed a memorial to be put up for the lost ferrets at Laconbury, already there would be 108 names on it.

Twenty-srx aircraft to date had been shot down over or near Communist territory. Men from Laconbury and sister bases had died over the Black Sea, the Baltic, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, the Adriatic, Armenia, the Ukraine, the Arctic Circle

…

One hundred and eight of them. So far.

Croxford sighed.

For him it was not a cold war.

And Laconbury was not at peace.

The general picked up another piece of paper from his desk. It was a typewritten list of names, the officers who had been selected to form the next day’s courtmartial of Captain John Tower.

He didn’t envy them their job. But he knew they would fulfill their oath.

They had, after all, been very carefully picked.

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Tuesday, July 25,1961 Laconbur’

It was the same dream again.

He was standing in the buffet of the bahnhof wearing civilian clothes with Martin Schneider who was eating a bratwurst, dipping it into the mustard on the cardboard plate.

“It’s too dangerous. Don’t go back,” he pleaded. “Stay on this side.”

“You know that’s not possible,” Martin replied. “I have to be there.” He was unshaved and looked tired. “Somebody has to keep an eye on things.”

“There are others….”

“Who can we trust anymore?” asked Martin. He slapped him on the back. “Come on, Johann, don’t look so worried.”

“Not Johann.”

“Sorry,” apologised Martin, slightly mocking. “I forget sometimes.”

He resented Martin’s apparent carelessness and looked around cautiously. But nobody seemed to be listening, and Martin was amused by his uneasiness.

“I have played the game so long now that it has become second nature,” Martin reassured him. “But I don’t take chances, I promise you. Not when it matters.”

He nodded, but without conviction. For as long as they had worked together, Martin’s coolness had bathed him. It was as if, sometimes, he didn’t care….

“My friend, I intend to come out of this alive,” Martin added, almost reading his thoughts. “When it’s all over, I shall take a good long vacation.”

He finished the bratwurst. “And never eat in railway stations again.”

“Martin,” he said.

“Yes?”

“If it gets too hot …”

“Don’t worry, I have it engraved on my heart. I have the two phone numbers and I know the address. If I’m in trouble, I take the S-bahn into the West sector, and ten minutes later I’m safe and snug in our little hideaway.”

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“Good. And don’t talk to anybody, except Pech.”

Martin burped. “Sorry, the sausage. No, of course nob You or Pech.” He paused. “One thing. You’ll look after Helga. You’ll make sure she’s all right?”

“You have my word.”

“You know what they’ll do to her if they get hold of her?”

“Martin, I promise you. We owe it to her, after all.”

“You do,” Martin said gravely. “You do indeed.”

There was a pause, then he said, “I may have to be out of Berlin for a little while, Martin.”

“Oh?”

“You can imagine I have many things to do.”

Martin understood. “Of course.” He nodded. “I wish you good luck.”

He gave a thin smile. “Thanks, I’ll need it.”

For a moment they looked at each other silently. Then he went on quietly, “Thank you for everything. I won’t forget you.” He held out his hand. “Bon chance.”

Martin grasped his hand and pressed it firmly. “Auf wiedersehen. In every sense of the word.”

“I’ll always have the souvenir.” He smiled, touching his scar.

Martin dug into his pocket and came out with a lighter.

“Here, this is a better souvenir. Keep it. I’m sorry it’s so cheap, but it’s Russian,” he said wryly. “Anyway, it works. I must leave now. Ciao.” And he was gone.

The last he saw of Martin Schneider was his back disappearing through the swing doors of the railway buffet.

The last he saw of Martin….

Tower woke up with a start. He sat up in the dark. He was sweating. The replay of his last meeting with Schneider had been so vivid that for a moment he wasn’t sure whether it had just happened or was merely a dream.

The nightmare.

Tower reached for the light switch. The lamp’s illumination brought him back to reality. The drab, austere quarters that had become his world. The ceiling, the walls at which he had stared so often he knew every crack, every piece of flaking paint.

His watch said 3:40 A.M.

Beside the lamp were his cigarettes and next to them the lighter. Martin Schneider’s lighter. He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He picked up the lighter, stared at it, then lit his cigarette with it. He held his

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thumb on it and gazed thoughtfully at the flame before extinguishing it. He put the lighter down.

Soon it would be morning and his courtmartial would begin.

He shivered. He was afraid. He was afraid of what was about to happen to him.

Suddenly he realised he had to see Verago. He had to tell him everything before the curtain went up.

London

The oblong piece of paper lay on the table like an overdue bill waiting to be paid. And today the deadline for the settlement had arrived.

In a way, she was almost relieved the time had come. By the end of the day, maybe, at last she’d be rid of the whole, ghastly ordeal.

Serena Howard absentmindedly fingered the silver ring she always wore. It had become a nervous habit, and now, suddenly, she was aware of it. Her mind went back to the evening John Tower had given it to her. She remembered his pulling a little box out of his pocket and saying: “Hope you like it.”

It fit her finger perfectly.

“You shouldn’t have,” she’d said.

“I think it suits you.”

The little box the ring had come in had a jeweler’s name embossed on it: HEINRICH MUELLER. And the ad

dress: REINHOLD ST”SSE 73, STEGLITZ, BERLIN.

“Is that where you got it, Berlin?” she’d asked, a little surprised.

“Yes,” he’d replied. “Souvenir.” But that lead been all.

“It’s very unusual,” she’d observed, studying the curious ornamental face.

“You do like it, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she’d said, meaning it. “Thank you.”

That had been only a few months before, but now it seemed like years ago.

The ring of the doorbell startled her.

When she opened the door, she was faced by a man with dark wavy hair. She knew he was American before he said a word. Everything about him confirmed it, his haircut, his tie, his shirt.

“You all set, Miss Howard?” he asked pleasantly.

She stared at him.

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“Idle come to fetch you,” he explained smoothly. “It’s a hell of a trek to the base, so we thought we’d lay on transportation for you. Are you ready1”

“Transportation?”

“To the trial I’ve got a car downstairs. We should make it in a couple of hours.”

“Who are you?” she asked at last.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He smiled apologetically. “I should have introduced myself. My name’s Duval.”

Laconbury

The trial wasn’t due to start for two hours, but the courtroom was ready.

Seven vacant chairs stood behind a long, raised table, notepads neatly laid out in front of each place.