Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 10 (27 page)

“So you’ve recruited him, too.”

“In a word—yes. He’ll help you prepare your reports for Dimity’s Foundation, as if you’d been with the Johnson cruise all the while.”

That got my attention. “What do you mean, as if?”

Miller’s baritone was calm, soothing; he’d missed his calling—he should have been a hypnotist. “You’ll only go partway with Johnson, Nate,” he was saying. “You’ll really be working for us, for the Office of Naval Intelligence, not ‘Dilly-Dally’ Dimity, as we call him…though you can keep the money he pays you, which we intend to match with our funds. This adventure should prove as lucrative as it is interesting.”

“Why do I think I’m going to be signing another contract?”

“Because you are,” Miller said, leaning forward to pat me on the knee. “You see, we’ve arranged a separate expedition for you…to Saipan.”

I sat on a netting-shaded cement verandah, sipping a rum and Coke, outside a Quonset-hut “hotel” rented by the Navy to Pan American Airlines. The naval base on this scruffy, hot, humid island—Guam, the sole U.S. territory in the midst of the Japanese-controlled Mariana Islands—was on Commar Hill, where the evening had turned out surprisingly cool. The floor show consisted of small, cat-eyed, long-tailed lizards chasing flies in the pools of light that spilled here and there from our corrugated-tin Hilton.

“Geckos,” William Miller said.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what those little lizards are called.” Miller, in a white short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers, was stretched out on the deck-style chair next to mine. He was smoking a cigarette and the cool salty breeze was turning the blue smoke into a native girl’s hula.

“I’ve seen bigger lizards,” I said. I was dressed almost identically, except my trousers were a light khaki.

He allowed me a faint smile. “The rest of the
Clipper
passengers will be taking off at four
A.M
. You get to sleep in till five.”

“Are you going on with them to Manila?”

He shook his head, no. “I’ll stay here at the base and wait for your return.”

“I like your optimism.”

“You’ll make it.”

“And if I don’t, the government saves a grand or so.”

He dropped his cigarette to the cement floor, reached out his foot and ground it out. “Is there someone you’d like to see get that money?”

I had given him sarcasm; he’d given me a straight, if sobering, answer.

“No,” I said. And wasn’t that a sad goddamn thing? Didn’t that say something about the state of my affairs? The only person I could think of to bequeath my riches to was somebody who might or might not exist, a child that Amy may or may not have had on an island where she possibly was, or possibly wasn’t.

He glanced at his watch. “Johnson should be here for our little chat, shortly. He and his crew are eating over at the Navy mess.”

We had eaten, and well, on the
Clipper.
The famed flying boat had lived up to its storied reputation. We were served our steam-cooked meals by the steward on tables with white linen cloths, china, silver, and water goblets (no liquor was served) in a lavish, spacious lounge where the ten passengers sat in roomy, well-padded seats facing each other, five abreast. A second passenger compartment, aft, served as a sort of game room, with wicker chairs at tables for cards or checkers. Another cabin, further aft, converted to sleeping berths, but we only used them on the first leg of the flight, from San Francisco to Honolulu.

That first leg had seemed endless. The
China Clipper
had lifted off from the Alameda seaplane base on San Francisco Bay on a beautiful afternoon, accompanied by only the gentlest breeze. Sunshine had glistened off the hull and wings and prop blades of a white, red-trimmed four-engine ship that seemed at once sleek and ungainly, its wing riding atop the fuselage like a perfectly balanced teeter-totter. Once the lines had been cast off, we’d made several circles on the bay, warming the engine up, before surging forward, only barely flying at first, under the heavy burden of fuel, finally gaining altitude, cruising into an afternoon that stubbornly refused to let go of the day.

Many hours later, when darkness finally sheathed the ship, the
Clipper
settled in between layers of cloud and cruised along. My traveling companion, William Miller, wearing a dark suit and dark blue tie, to add a festive touch to our flight to the tropics, pointed out to me that we were flying a route charted by Fred Noonan.

“Isn’t that reassuring,” I said.

Dawn took its time arriving, too, and out a window, at breakfast, I spotted the familiar shape of Diamond Head; the last time had been from the deck of the ocean liner
Malolo.
And after only twenty and a half hours, we were landing at Pearl Harbor to a typically flower-strewn welcome. Meanwhile, the
Clipper
was loaded up with staples of the island Naval bases—crates of fresh fruit and vegetables, mostly—while limos with Pan Am drivers escorted the passengers to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel for a leisurely evening of dining and dancing and the sight of Oahu’s starry purple sky, golden moon, ebony ocean, and white breakers. Then dawn slapped us back to reality and we were soon aboard the
Clipper
for the easiest leg of the trip, the mere 1,380 miles to Midway.

The entire briefing for my mission took place in hotel rooms, along the way, and of course the passenger cabin of the
China Clipper
, over the four days of flying. Only ten passengers were aboard—me, Miller, and four wealthy couples, two from New York, one from Los Angeles, one from Dallas—the little California to Hong Kong six-day jaunt, after all, cost $950, one way, one tickee. The cabin soundproofing was remarkable, allowing conversation in a normal, even hushed, voice.

So Miller and I sat apart from the paying customers and played endless games of checkers—which ended invariably in deadlock—while the government agent filled me in on my distressingly detailed cover story, suggested plans of action and various routes of escape. At no time was anything hand-or typewritten given to me; everything, like a pill, was administered orally.

“That saves us the annoying necessity of having to eat the papers,” Miller said, and I was never sure whether he was kidding. Probably not. A sense of humor didn’t seem to have been among his government-issue materials.

Out the window occasionally I’d spot one of the many little islands that we seemed to be following like bread crumbs to the atolls of Midway, where a beautiful lagoon waited for us to touch down. Waiting too were attentive white-uniformed Pan Am staff at the landing float with its long, pergola-style deplaning dock. A brick walkway led to a sprawling white-pillared hotel, its two wings spread like open arms, gathering us up into a sanctuary of Simmons beds, bathrooms with hot showers, classy lounges with wicker furniture, and tasty exotic meals served by white-uniformed native stewards.

On the spacious verandah that evening my bosom pal Miller sat with me as we watched an unruly surf crash upon the encircling reef, and observed bald-headed, turkey-looking birds that would run crazily along the beach, flapping their wings in takeoff, invariably nosing over in a feathery flurry of a crash landing in the sand. Most of my fellow passengers found this endlessly amusing. Takeoffs that wound up in crash landings were never my idea of a good laugh.

“Gooney birds,” Miller told me. “In fact, some people call Midway itself ‘Gooneyville.’…They’re really Laysan albatrosses.”

“Is that something I have to remember? If so, I’m really glad that one wasn’t written down; I’d hate to have to swallow the definition of a gooney bird.”

“No,” Miller said humorlessly. “You needn’t remember that.”

So of course I did.

The next day’s hotel, at Wake, was almost identical to the one at Midway, but the island itself was a barren, cruelly tropical atoll that had been home to hermit crabs and nasty rats and not humans, until flying boats like the
Clipper
had come along. It was a world with no fresh water, shade or harbor, a wind-blown bevy of scrubby sand dunes. For recreation we were offered air rifles and the chance to go rat hunting. I passed.

The cliff-bordered harbor at Guam had been arrayed with Navy warships and a few freighters. A small yellow bus with a small yellow driver had taken us along a scenic coastal road, dotted with big beautiful poinciana trees bursting with red blossoms. It was almost enough to make me forget about Wake; but my stomach was unsettled, and scenery, barren or bountiful, had nothing to do with it.

My
Clipper
cruise among millionaire tourists was coming to an end; I wouldn’t even have my warm and wonderful friend William Miller at my side, before long. I would be embarking on what might charitably be called an adventure, what more realistically might be termed a fool’s errand, and what most likely was a suicide mission. Two thousand dollars, give or take a buck, half from the Foundation, half from Uncle Sam, was all I would haul to shore; good money, in these Depression days, but only if I lived to spend it.

Why the hell was I doing this?

It was a question I had asked myself over and over again, on the various legs of this journey; and the answer was Amy. Amy and what she had told her flighty secretary, in confidence, about a possible child on the way. Whenever I had looked out a
Clipper
window at shimmering Pacific waters, I knew why I’d come. It was waters like these she’d disappeared over.

Now, on a verandah in Guam, outside a Navy Quonset hut, I took a last swig of my drink and looked out toward the ocean. By
Clipper,
Saipan was only an hour or so away. But I wasn’t going by seaplane.

Miller was on his feet and so was I. We had been joined by a singular physical specimen in a light-blue denim shirt with rolled-up sleeves, darker denim trousers, and white rubber-soled shoes. Leathery tan, his sunlightened brown hair cropped short, he regarded us through the narrow slits his eyes hid behind, the strength of a slenderly hawkish nose offset by a shyly boyish smile. His bull neck led naturally into a massive upper torso, then tapered to a wasp waist; his wrists were small but his hands were big, blunt, and powerful—he extended one to Miller and they shook.

“Skipper,” Miller said, “good to see you again. This is your passenger.”

“We don’t normally take on passengers, Mr. Heller,” he said, without having to be told my name; his voice was a New England drawl. The boyish smile was still alive as he held his hand out.

“This is Captain Irving Johnson,” Miller said, as Johnson and I shook. His grip was firm but not obnoxious. “Pull up a chair, Skipper. Can I get you something to drink?”

Easing into a wicker settee, he said, “Maybe a lemonade.” I must have reacted to that, because Johnson said, “I run a dry ship, Mr. Heller. No drinking, no smoking, either…hope that won’t be a problem.”

“Not at all, Captain. I understand your crew pays
you.
That’s a neat trick.”

Miller had stepped away to summon a steward to get Johnson his lemonade.

Johnson’s shy smile settled on the left side of his face, as he said, “My bride and I’ve come up with an interesting way of living…. We go out for a year and a half, sail around the world having the time of our life, with a crew of young people who pay us for the privilege.”

“If I’m not out of line asking, what do you charge these amateur adventurers to play Barnacle Bill?”

“Three thousand dollars per.”

I let out a slow whistle. “You turn rich boys into slightly less rich men.”

He shrugged. “We make sailors out of them. Standing watch day and night, steering, handling sail, rigging, even sailmaking. Everybody works, which is why you’ll be an exception.”

“Hey, I’m just thumbin’ a ride—and I appreciate the favor, though it seems like an awful risk for you.”

Miller was back, joining Johnson on the settee. “The skipper here is generally regarded as the best all-around schooner master on the seas.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “But sailing into Japanese waters…”

Johnson leaned back, a knee locked in his palms. “We’ll drop anchor outside Saipan, beyond the three-mile territorial zone.”

“Who’s going to take me in?”

“I will. And Hayden, my first mate…he’s no rich kid, he’s a real sailor.”

I glanced at Miller. “Who am I on this ship?”

“You’re Nate Heller,” Miller said. “The skipper has told his boys that, should anyone ask, you were along for the full four-week cruise of the Gilbert and Ellice Islands.”

“Captain,” I asked, “is your crew aware this is a government mission?”

“They are,” Johnson said, nodding. “They know none of the particulars, just that we’re doing the red-white-and-blue a favor. They’re good kids, obviously from good backgrounds, and can be trusted.”

I looked at Miller again. “This sounds a little freewheeling to me.”

Miller’s shrug was barely perceptible. “We’ll have a talk with the boys at the first available moment.”

A native steward brought Johnson his lemonade. The skipper nodded his thanks to the man, and sipped at the tall cool glass. “You can have them briefed at Nauru,” Johnson said to Miller.

“Frankly, Captain,” I said, “I’m surprised you’re out in these waters with your boatload of silver spoons, considering what’s going on in this world.”

Geckos were chasing flies; catching and eating them, too, in those spilled circles of light.

“I was worried the war might dog our tracks out on the high seas,” he admitted. “And I have my wife and two young sons with me, after all…. Maybe the time has passed for carefree sailing into the world’s faraway places.”

Or maybe, like Amy, he was a well-known civilian with a handy, credible cover for reconnaissance.

I tossed a nod back toward the tin-hut hotel behind us. “It certainly hasn’t stopped millionaires from taking pleasure cruises.”

“My schooner is not the
China Clipper
, Mr. Heller,” Johnson said, the smile turning wry. “You’re stepping into the past when you set foot on my deck. The
Yankee
was sailing the North Sea before any of us were born.”

And in the Guam harbor the next morning, anchored among the warships and freighters, the
Yankee
indeed looked as if she had sailed out of the past into a harsher, less pleasing present, this majestic white-hulled schooner, nearly a hundred feet long, like a pirate ship of good guys, as the American flag painted on her bow attested.

My travel bag in one hand, with the other I shook hands with Miller, dockside, and he asked, “Any final questions?”

“Yeah. What do you mean, ‘final’?”

And he actually laughed. “Good luck, Nate.”

“Thank you, Bill,” I said, and meant it. He had worked hard, preparing me for this mission. He was one cold son of a bitch, but then I was a smartass bastard, so who was I to talk?