The Martian Pendant (11 page)

Diana politely acknowledged the compliment with a smile and a nod, but still couldn’t warm to him despite his British credentials, thinking,
How did he know I was in the landing pattern?
There must be a number of other light planes of this type around, and they all look alike.
She decided then to change the frequency used by the camp.
Of course,
she thought,
anyone would be able to listen in on the band that had to be used when talking to the control tower
.

He ordered coffee just as she asked the waiter for her check. Looking imploringly at her, he said, “Please don’t go. We have much to talk about, you and I. About your connection to the American oil establishment, and their operations that come under the jurisdiction of my office.”

Diana replied, “I’m sorry, but I must get back. Anyway, I’m only an assistant. You should speak to the people who are running the exploration.”

“Oh, come now, Miss Howard,” he said, “I have it officially that you’re in charge of the mineral portion of the exploration.”

Diana detected a note of sarcasm as he pronounced the word “mineral.” What could he know about their first discovery? She tried to hide her surprise, saying, “I’m on loan to the oil companies, but minerals aren’t my department.”

He smiled enigmatically at that, replying, “Oil exploration, minerals, it’s all the same.” With that, as she picked up her check, her hand was stayed by his. Insisting on paying, he said, “Here, allow me.”

Again, she shuddered a little, this time at his touch. He seemed so taken with her that she was more than a little frightened. She excused herself, saying, “I’ll pay my own tariff.” Then she beat a hasty retreat to the plane. As she turned the aircraft into the wind and shoved the throttle forward, she wondered, how did he happen to be there? She was somewhat reassured by the logical explanation. His radio had been tuned to the air communications band. But what was that reference to minerals all about?

Dragunov hurried back to his office at the quayside. He would have some interesting information for his superiors in the Kremlin. Could there possibly be a new element for the Periodic Table? He wondered about that, thinking,
they even have a name for it, “Impervium.”

Diana’s return flight took longer than planned, due to headwinds; her fuel gauge indicated nearly empty on landing. She made a mental note about not cutting it so closely in the future. After all, the L-5 had a range of only 375 air miles.

CIA Security

Dan Stuart had no trouble going through customs when he landed at Croyden Airport in London. He planned to spend a few days at a CIA safe house there, just across from MI6, a branch of British Intelligence. The CIA had actually planted bugs in some of the offices there at a cocktail party. It was more of a training drill than actually spying on an ally. Dan had been eager to learn the new techniques involved, and was anticipating the second phase of his overseas mission, that of observing and reporting on the East African Operation. After a week in London, using the latest CIA bugging techniques, he found himself wishing he’d had that expertise to begin with. But now he would be in Africa, where it would probably be useless.

He recalled Diana telling him of her parents, who lived in London with her young son, Bobby. His love for her made visiting them while there important to him. It was with some nervous anticipation that he called their home.

Hughes, the butler, answered. “Hello, Howard residence, how may I help you?”

“Is either Sir Robert or Lady Sylvia in? This is Daniel Stuart. They don’t know me, but I’m a close friend of Diana’s, in London for a few days.”

Hughes, identifying the voice as American, answered, “From the States? Her letters have served to introduce you quite nicely, sir. From what I’m told, they do, in fact, seem to know you quite well. Lady Sylvia is in. Please wait whilst I put her on.”

The voice over the phone was excited. “You’re Diana’s Danny, and you’re in London? You must come to dinner with us here. We’re all three dying to meet you after reading all about you in her letters. Young Bobby has even been referring to you as Uncle Dan. You must have won her heart, the way she writes. But Sir Robert won’t be back until tomorrow. Will you be available then, say, around six?”

His anxiety left him then, and he found himself happily looking forward to meeting them. The following afternoon, alighting from the Underground, flowers in hand, he anticipated with pleasure a personal look at that part of her life he could previously only imagine. The stately Howard mansion impressed him even more as Hughes answered the bell and showed him into the Great Hall that was the library.

“Please make yourself comfortable, sir. Diana’s parents will be along presently. Pour yourself whatever you wish from among the bottles on the little table. There’s ice and soda water if you choose a mixed drink.”

As Dan made his way over to where several bottles and glasses were arrayed, his eye became fixed on a display of photographs there. Foremost was a lovely one of Diana in a gown, probably a graduation portrait. Another was of her holding a toddler, and yet another standing in her wartime uniform with an American Eighth Air Force officer, obviously young Bobby’s father. Closely inspecting it, he saw in the man’s face features reminding him of his own. He poured himself a glass of port; after taking a sip, he wondered if that similarity was one of the reasons Diana had been drawn to him. After taking a look at the label on the bottle, boldly imprinted with the Taylor name, he thought about being in love with a woman with such memories of the past. He’d have to build wonderful experiences with her in the present, so that the memories of the future would overshadow those in her memory.

Just then Diana’s parents entered the room, with young Bobby between them. Both adults were smiling, slim and erect. Their white hair was still thick, and the blue of their eyes was reminiscent of that lovely combination often seen in Delft porcelain. Bobby was no longer the toddler of the photograph, of course; but while his gangly gait and face betrayed his thirteen years, he was nearly as tall as his father had been.

The boy was first to speak, rushing forward with a greeting delivered with a typical adolescent squeakiness. “Welcome, Uncle Dan!” Then he hesitated as he smilingly shook hands, adding, “It
is
okay to call you uncle, isn’t it?”

Glancing at the two adults and finding their even broader smiles encouraging, he looked the boy in the eye, and returned
his firm handshake. At that moment he mused, “Lad, you may even call me dad, if you like.” The grandparents were close behind their grandson, Sir Robert with a warm handshake and sincere welcome, closely followed by Diana’s demonstrative mother, who, on her tiptoes, gave him a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Very unusual for a Brit
, he thought,
but then he recalled that she was from Milwaukee.

The evening was spent in conversation, mostly about Diana, over a nice dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, accompanied by an excellent Bordeaux
, followed by fruit and cheeses. Bobby was enthusiastic about going to the U.S., a trip apparently promised by his mother when the African dig was finished, and asked numerous questions, especially about California. Dan answered his questions as to where in the States it would be best to visit, all the while thinking of Diana.

“Anyplace would be best, Bobby, as long as your mother is there.”

He longed to be reunited with her in Africa, but it was his fervent hope that she wouldn’t take offense at his worming his way into the expedition. It would be easy for her to be hurt and outraged if it occurred to her that she was being used as part of his CIA ambitions. After all, it was his relationship with her that had facilitated his insinuating himself into Security with the Buell Corporation, and being given the task of protecting the department handling the GeoSat project. But it was his love for her that had led him to initially stumble into her project; the windfall for the CIA was incidental.

On the morning of his flight to Cairo, London was grey and cold, the drizzle compounded by the sooty darkness. As he waited to board,
he wondered how long it would take the British to clean up the flues and chimneys that contributed so much to the legendary London fog.
Probably
, he thought,
much longer than the Egyptians have taken to air-condition their buildings.
He shivered in his tropical clothes as he waited in the cold wind for the boarding stairs to be wheeled into place.
London! A great place to visit and a wonderful city, but it takes some getting used to,
he said to himself.

He slept most of the way to Egypt, landing at the airport in the midday desert heat, thankful he was wearing the light clothing. The smog reminded him of L.A., as did the traffic, although on a smaller scale. In the streets it was almost anarchy. It seemed as if the driver who could honk the loudest and longest had the right of way. After an overnight stay, he was more than happy to board his Egyptian Airlines plane for Dar-es-Salaam. A twin-engine Martin 202, it could, and did, land at every postage-stamp strip along the way.

When he finally arrived at Dar, he got a cabled message off to his chief at Langley, and another to the exploration base. He knew that added Security was always welcome, and the way had been prepared for him by the people at Buell, just as it had been with Diana, arranging the loan of an employee for the year.

Max had received Dan’s message from the camp radio operator, volunteering Diana to fly him there, although he failed to give her any other information aside from her passenger being someone in Security. Although eager to get started on the dig, she had planned their weekly mail-run for the next day, but without the extra weight in the rear seat, and his baggage. She complained that because of the usual headwinds, she would need extra cash for fuel to fill the tank for the 300-mile return flight from Dar to their camp near the Kenyan border.

The first leg was again uneventful, as she flew southeast to the coast. She occasionally reported her position to the camp, a habit that might prove useful should she be forced down. She had no problems with the tower at her destination, permission to land given without comment. Again, she saw that she was being watched by that tall, so-called Afrikaaner. What did he call himself, Willem Krueger? Hastily heading for the post office with the little bag of mail, she saw he was following her progress from his table in the café.
Where was her passenger, anyway
, she thought irritably
. I should have figured that when I needed Security the most, he wouldn’t be around.

Just then, her mail sack was almost pulled out of her hand, with a familiar voice saying, “Here, let me help you with that.”

As she turned, ready to defend her mail, she saw Dan’s smiling face. Relieved, she laughed, “Danny! Not the CIA again. You do turn up in the most unlikely places!”

He couldn’t help an even broader smile, “The pot calls the kettle black. I may be CIA, but I’m also that security agent you’re supposed to pick up. And now you’re a mail and commuter plane pilot?”

She wanted to kiss him then, but seeing they were being watched, she cautioned him. “The walls have ears around here. And somebody’s watching, someone I don’t trust.”

“Oh, that tall towhead over there? He introduced himself to me as a British official of some sort. I don’t trust him, either.”

She added, “He gives me what you Yanks call the creeps. He’s supposed to be from Johannesburg, but his accent, in fact, is all wrong.”

Dan replied, “These days, accents can be miles off. He probably went to Oxford or Cambridge, just as you did, losing his South African accent in the process.”

After posting the mail and nervously eyeing the watching Dragunov, she said quietly, “Come on, get your things and let’s get out of here. We have over 300 miles to go in our little plane, and I still have to tank up with petrol.”

Grabbing the suitcase that had been chained to a table with a lock, Dan replied, “Just lead the way, lady.”

On the return flight, the engine noise kept their conversation to a minimum, there being no intercom. Behind her in the passenger seat, Dan seemed elated in discovering her, but she could make out only a few words he shouted. One sounded like “Date.” She wanted so much to be alone with him, but shook her head, thinking of the crowded campsite. But still, he would be a good man to have around. Someone she could trust.

A Closer Look

That night the Soviet agent reported to his superiors in Moscow. “Another agent is being flown to the American base. He says he is in Security, but I think he is with one of their intelligence services. Military, or even CIA. I’m mailing a couple of photos I took of him. Check your files and give me his identity if you’re able, as soon as possible.”

Nervously drumming his fingers on his desk, the Soviet agent reflected on his work to that point. He had established a South African identity by falsifying his papers by having the good fortune to fall in with a somewhat needy young woman in the Ministry of Mines in Johannesburg. Through a subterfuge of switching assignment papers for the Minister’s signature, Dragunov, a.k.a. Willem Krueger, was assigned as Deputy Minister for Oil and Mineral Exploration. This was an “at large” office of the Ministry, allowing him freedom as to where he might work.