Thin Air (7 page)

Hammond was trying to assemble his thoughts. He stared at the ashtray and then at the coffee table. The cards were arranged in columns, in sequence, and by suit. Fletcher had been having a game of solitaire. He died twelve hours ago; that would have been around two a.m. His friend had left at nine p.m. There were five hours when Fletcher had been totally alone. And he hadn't smoked a single cigarette?

A chain-smoker?

There wasn't even a half-empty drink on the table. Nothing to indicate that poor, nervous, distraught Harold Fletcher had actually spent five hours alone in this room. Hammond thought back to that last peculiar phone call he'd had with the man, when he'd seemed so different, so changed. Was this part of the change? Had he suddenly given up drink and smoke? If so, why?

Had Fletcher met with his psychiatrist? Doctor what's-his-name?
McCarthy.
Could McCarthy have influenced him, caused this improvement in behavior? Hammond didn't know
any
psychiatrist that good.

"All done, Lieutenant," said the photographer as he returned from the bedroom, packing his gear.

"Terrific," drawled Medacre. "Make me some nice blowups. Brody, it's your party."

Brody nodded and his pudgy fingers reached for the phone. He ordered the security desk to send up his ambulance attendants with the stretcher.

"Will you consider the possibility of suicide, Lieutenant?" Hammond asked.

Medacre's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Mr. Fletcher had emotional problems. He was under the care of a Navy psychiatrist."

Medacre opened his coat and thrust his hands on his hips. He looked squarely at Hammond. "What the hell is your interest in thus?"

"I'm a friend."

"You said before it was Navy business."

"It's that, too."

"You're playing close to the vest, Commander. How about turning up a card?"

"I'm only asking one thing. Don't treat this as an open-and-shut case."
 

"I'd need
cause
to treat it otherwise. Have you spoken to the man's shrink?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Haven't located him—yet."

A faint smile creased Medacre's ample jaw. "You're with NIS and you can't find a Navy psychiatrist? Isn't that a little strange?"

"I'll handle that end of it, Lieutenant. Just send me the autopsy report."
      

Medacre turned away, indicating he was through being polite, then turned back suddenly. "Twenty years I've been on the force and I've never heard of anyone committing suicide by heart attack!"

Hammond was expressionless as he pulled a card and gave it to Medacre. 'Thanks for your time, Lieutenant."

By the time Hammond returned to the Pentagon, his anger had subsided. He expected little from Medacre and his coroner, but he still sensed something out of kilter. Maybe it was inside him—an overworked imagination. What he had come to know about Harold Fletcher's life was so odd that his death couldn't possibly be normal. Yet it probably was. Best for everyone if he consigned Harold Fletcher's case to oblivion. With the subject deceased, there was no purpose in continuing. He could investigate that code and the red cards in his spare time. It wouldn't make any difference to Jan now. He tried not to think about her. In one sense, her problems were over. In another, they were just beginning. He didn't want to become the center of them. Get on a plane to Okinawa and get away from her, he told himself.

He checked his watch. Gault would still be at lunch with Miller and the team. He wondered if he had shoved himself into the doghouse over nothing. Certainly, Gault wouldn't let it pass
without a royal chewing-out.

He had hardly stepped into his cubicle when the phone buzzed. "Chief Levering to see you, sir."

"Send him in."

The maintenance chief bustled into the room, a toolbox practically chained to his wrist. "Christ Almighty, Commander. I wish you'd tell me when your equipment goes on the fritz."

"What?"

"Your phone." Hammond looked at it. "Oh, it's all fixed now. They left about ten minutes ago. And I only find out about it by stumbling in here. I'm supposed to be
running
maintenance— What's the matter?"

Hammond was staring at the phone.

"Didn't they get it ri—" Hammond cut him off with a signal. He closed the door to his office and motioned the chief down the hall ahead of him. He crossed to the receptionist and said, "Get Internal Security up here on the double." He ignored the startled expression on the girl's face. "I want a full electronic sweep of my office."

He turned to Levering and saw him blanch.

It took less than fifteen minutes to find the three bugs. One had been placed in his phone, one under the corner of his desk, and the third behind a file cabinet. Hammond watched the four-man security team make one last check. Their little black sensing boxes remained silent.

Ensign Collins, the team leader, nodded to Hammond. "You're clean now, Commander." He held up a metal chip no bigger than the head of a match. "Pretty sophisticated stuff, sir," he said. "I've never even seen this last little gadget before. And whoever planted them was good, too."

Hammond didn't appreciate the assessment. "Send them over to the Naval Research Lab and get a receipt," he ordered. "Tell them I want the name of the manufacturer."

"What about fingerprints?" asked Collins, tossing the bugs in his bare hands. Hammond gave him a dark look. Collins caught the bugs in his palm and gazed sheepishly at Hammond. "Sorry, sir," he said.

"You wouldn't have found anything anyway,"

Hammond watched the four men file out. They stood aside in the doorway to let Admiral Gault charge through under a full head of steam, with Lee Miller and the Okinawa team in tow. Gault listened patiently while Hammond filled him in, then snarled, "What the fuck is going on around here? Who the hell would bug you?"

"Don't know, sir," said Hammond. "But there are some other funny things going on right now." Gault looked at him, barely tolerant. "You recall that business with the altered files?"

Gault sighed. "How could I forget what's-his-name?"

"Harold Fletcher, sir. The
late
Harold Fletcher. He died last night."

Gault regarded Hammond keenly. "Killed?"

"Don't know that either, sir. Everything points to heart attack, but..." He fell silent.

Gault knew right away what he was suggesting. "What's the connection?" he asked.

"I'm not sure if there is one. But I've got the feeling..." He shrugged.

"That
feeling, huh?" It was something between them, something they had shared back in the days when they had worked closely together. The feeling was a hunch, an uninformed certainty of intangible foulness. Gault was quiet for a moment, his face impassive except for a small muscle that throbbed in his cheek. When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice with a thin, biting edge to it. He turned to Miller. "Lee, you'll take over the Okinawa investigation. Nick will give you all the background."

Miller nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And you," Gault continued, looking at Hammond, "you'll drop everything and get to the bottom of this bugging crap."

"Can I follow up Fletcher, sir?"

"Yes, but first find the man who did
this!
Because when you do, I am personally going to shove a listening device up his ass and monitor his intestines!" Gault glared at the gaping onlookers, then opened the door and left.

Miller whistled. "Cheese und crackers, Hambone! What have you been up to? How come you rate?"

Hammond felt the tension draining. He waved Miller into his cubicle and spent the next hour briefing him, turning over all the information on the Okinawa case. He had sandwiches sent up and grabbed mouthfuls while they talked. Then he met with Pentagon Security, all of whom were quick to pin the bugging job on outside agents. But Gault had shaken enough trees to make them amenable to Hammond's suggestions. He requested them to button everything up and de-louse the entire building. Access would be tightened, spot, checks made, routines reinforced. Even with all that, Hammond did not expect them to get answers.

When he was alone, Hammond closed the door to his office, sat back in his chair, shut his eyes, and tried to sort everything out. He couldn't be sure the bugging was connected to the Fletcher case, but it was the only thing he was working on at the moment. And what about that computer business at BUPERS? Had he really set off an alarm somewhere? Person or persons unknown at the other end of that red flag had discovered Hammond's interest in Harold Fletcher. And now Fletcher was dead, victim of a heart attack—or murder? Hammond shook his head to clear the cobwebs. The implications seemed to grow but lead nowhere.

And Harold Fletcher wanting to check into his records because of some recurring nightmares. Hammond kept coming back to that. He couldn't make sense of it. Then he remembered the other man with the flag in his file. He too had gone to BUPERS to check on himself.

Hammond rummaged in his briefcase for the copies BUPERS had sent over. There it was: 601 File, C.L. Yablonski, USNR. Hammond pulled out a Xerox of the form Yablonski had filled out, and checked his address. He lived in Cotuit, on Cape Cod. Phone number...it was all there. Cotuit was near Otis. Air Force Base. He could be over and back in an afternoon.

He reached for the phone and dialed long distance. A woman answered and gave him a soft, questioning "Hello?"

"Uh, hello. May I speak with Mr. Yablonski, please?"

"He's not here right now."

"Is this Mrs. Yablonski?"

"Yes?"
      

"My name is Nick Hammond, ma'am. I'm with Naval Intelligence. I'd like to speak with your husband."

She hesitated. "He's out on his boat. I don't expect him before tonight. May I help you?"

Hammond frowned, then decided to proceed. "Yes, ma'am, you can. A routine paper came to my desk....It's a request your husband filled out at BUPERS here in Washington, to see his old Navy files. I'd just like to know if he got everything he wanted."

"I...I'm not sure."

"He was in Washington about three weeks ago and he made a personal visit to the records center. If it's important and there's anything I can do to help..."

"I...frankly, Mr. Hammond, I don't know if he found what he was looking for. We haven't really discussed it."

"I see. Tell me, Mrs. Yablonski, does your husband know anyone named Harold Fletcher?"

"No."

"You're very sure of that."

"We don't have a lot of friends, Mr. Hammond, just the people we know on the Cape."

"Yes, but it's possible your husband might have known this man during his service."

"My husband doesn't keep in touch with
anyone
from the Navy. His service was not very pleasant. He still suffers nightmares because of it...."

Hammond sat up straight. He couldn't believe it. "Nightmares?" he repeated.

Mrs. Yablonski hesitated. "Yes."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but would they have anything to do with a ship...in the Philadelphia Navy Yard?" He heard a sharp intake of breath and knew he had hit the jackpot. "Is he seeing a psychiatrist about this, Mrs. Yablonski?"
      

"Yes..."

"A Navy psychiatrist?"

"Doctor McCarthy, yes".

Hammond felt something curl up in his stomach and flutter around. "How often?"

"Whenever he has to. Mr. Hammond, why are we discussing this? I don't see how my husband's records have anything to do with his..." She broke off.

"Mrs. Yablonski, I think your husband could be of help to me in an investigation. And I would like to come up to Cotuit tonight to see him. It's very important."

There was another pause and Hammond sensed fear. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No, ma'am. Nothing at all. I don't want to upset anyone. I just need to talk to him about something. Would it be all right if I came this evening?"

"I suppose so."

"Thank you, Mrs. Yablonski." He hung up quickly so she wouldn't have time to reconsider. He could hardly contain his excitement as he placed, a call to the NIS Data Center at the Hoffman Building in Alexandria. He got hold of a girl in the personnel division and asked her to track down the names and locations of every Navy psychiatrist named McCarthy and to send him a list as fast as possible.

His second line rang. It was Lieutenant Armbruster, almost violent about 9805CGN-166.

"You mean you can't crack it?" Hammond asked, trying to sound surprised.

"Crack it? Sir, I can't even find it! There's nothing remotely resembling the motherfu—" Armbruster restrained himself. "No source, no originating authority. As far as the Navy's concerned, that code doesn't exist. I'll
keep trying, but I don't know where it will get me?"

One more strange piece of non-information, Hammond thought. He thanked the unhappy lieutenant, made a quick call to the MATS facility at Washington National Airport and ordered them to ready an F4 jet.