Ultimate Issue (11 page)

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“Until when?” But Tower already knew the answer, and Jensen only confirmed it.

“Until after the trial.” He left the rest unsaid.

Tower sat on the bed. It had a wafer-thin mattress.

“You want anything from the PX?” offered Jensen. “Cigarettes! Candy? Booze?”

‘1hat’s okay, Lieutenant. I can get it myself.”

Jensen shook his head. “I guess I didn’t explain, John. You’re restricted to your quarters.”

Tower stood up and advanced on him. Jensen retreated a step. He was reassured by the presence of an AP at the door.

“I’m sorry. General Croxford’s orders,” he added hastily. “The general feels that pending disposition of the charges you should stay in your quarters.”

To Jensen’s relief. Tower sank back on the bed.

“Of course,” he said quietly.

“If you want to go for a walk or something, just call the escort.”

Tower nodded silently.

“Here,” said Jensen, handing him a Stars and Stripes. “Maybe you’d like to catch up on the funnies. I find my day isn’t complete without Li’l Abner.”

“I’d like to see Captain Verago,” said Tower.

“Guess that’ll have to wait, John,” replied Jensen care” fully. “He isn’t around right now.”

“Get hold of him. Please.”

“No can do.” Jensen was enjoying it. “He didn’t tell me where he was going.”

But he was curious.

“Anything I can do?”

Tower started unwrapping a cigar. “No,” he said, ‘I think you’ve done quite enough already, Lieutenant.”

They didn’t lock the door, but that was only for appearances’ sake.

Sunday, June 25,1961

Huntingdon

OLIVER CROMWFLL may have stayed at the George and Dragon, but Verago had never known a more depressing hotel room.

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The ceiling had a big brown stain, where it had been flooded from upstairs. The wallpaper, a faded green, was torn in two places, the bed creaked, and the chintzcovered armchair had a lump in it.

There were two prints to decorate the ghastly walls, both Pickwickian hunting scenes. One showed a redcoated huntsman falling off his horse at a jump, with the inane caption underneath: “Oops what a spill.”

But even more dispiriting was the Article 32 file. Verago read the record of the pretrial investigation twice, and there was no doubt. Captain John Tower had had it. They had got him to rights.

They seemed to know everything. Every time he met the English girl they had known about it. Every time they went out to dinner or a movie. Every time they slept together.

It was almost like reading an itemized itinerary.

20:01 Both arrived at Kettneis restaurant, Romilly Street. Had dinner, left in a cab.

22:51 Both returned to her apartment on Charlotte Street.

23:22 Both seen to embrace.

They must have been watching from the outside, Verago thought with distaste. Somebody must have stood in the street below and, seeing through the window the outline of their bodies as they kissed, reached for his notebook.

23:46 Lights out in the apartment.

06:15 Capt. Tower departed.

And so on, after every tryst, noting the exact minute when they held hands, when the curtains were drawn, when the light was switched off, when they were seen to kiss.

And that wasn’t all.

The OSI had produced a detailed record of their trips together. A weekend on the English channel coast at Brighton, with exact times of arrival and departure, hotel room number, the names under which they registered (Captain and Mrs. Harry Brown). Who did they expect to fool, poor idiotsl thought Verago.

There was sworn testimony by OSI agents about the

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later visits, a trip to Stratford on Avon. They had noted when Tower went into a florist on Berkeley Square and ordered flowers for her.

They had been there when the girl and Tower met in Cambridge, and the pub outside Ipswich where they spent a Saturday night.

There were copies of prosecution exhibits attached to the file.

Photostats of the hotel bills where they had stayed together, and of the hotel registry entries. There were copies of statements by chambermaids, waiters, cab drivers, identifying the couple as being together.

Christ, the OSI had worked hard on it. Verago was almost impressed by the thoroughness. There was even a photostat of Tower’s pocket diary, with the pages on which he’d noted a date with Serena.

And then there were the photographs. Pictures of Tower and the girl laughing together, swimming in a lido, leaving a hotel carrying suitcases; enlarged photographs, taken from a distance, of them kissing, even shopping in Selfridges.

Verago contemplated Serena’s photo. This particular one showed the sun on her face, it was in her eyes, and she was making a grimace, but it caught her freshness, her good looks.

Poor kid, thought Verago.

He stretched out his legs and rested his socked feet on the bed. The maid who wafted garlic and had the makings of a moustache on her upper lip had turned back the covers, but Verago wasn’t tired yet.

The only thing they needed to hammer the final nail in was an admission from Serena herself that she had indeed slept with Tower. They had everything else they needed, all the circumstantial evidence, witness statements, documentary proof. But to lock the door finally she’d be useful to them.

Well, baby, said Verago to himself, I hope they don’t get you. But whether they got hold of the girl or not the evidence was absolute. He would hardly be able to argue that on all those nights alone together in hotels and her flat, all they did was play chess.

Almost irresistibly, he was drawn back to the file. The Article 32 officers, whom they had so conveniently shifted elsewhere, had, of course, recommended courtmartial proceedings, Brigadier General Croxford con

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firmed and approved, and Third Air Force ratified. It had all been done very quickly, very neatly.

He rubbed his chin. It had been a long day and his face felt bristly. He wasn’t even aware of it at that moment though, because the obvious suddenly struck him.

God damn it, it was all too neat. Why go to all the trouble? Why mobilise an army of air force spooks to do nothing but keep on the tail of a cheating husband? What the hell did it matter that Captain Tower was screwing somebody?

The file gave Mrs. Tower’s address as New York City; she wasn’t even in Europe with her husband. She wasn’t even living with him there. So she wasn’t running around raising hell.

They were all so damn keen to hang Captain Tower it seemed a shame to cheat the hangman. Verago grinned savagely. But cheat the son of a bitch he was going to.

London

All weekend he’d wondered whether he should tell A1exandra. Perhaps he ought to keep it to himself, but then again, the mere fact that he wondered about it really made it necessary to tell her. He didn’t like having secrets from his wife, and turning Serena Howard into one would be absurd.

“Alex,” he said, when the moment came, ‘Y think I’d like a little advice.”

She was reading the Tatler, but she put it down and looked up at him, a little astonished. They shared confidences, and occasionally he used her as a kind of sounding board, noting her reaction, but seldom indicating whether he would take heed of it. This approach she had not known before.

“Yes?” she said and waited.

“It’s the Howards’ daughter.” He paused. “She’s got herself into a pickle.”

“And she wants you to help?”

He was grateful to her for making it easier.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s the snag. I mean, you know the position…”

“Professional etiquette?” She was absolutely matter-offact.

“In a way, yes. I don’t know quite what to do. She asked me not to tell anybody. She’s desperately anxious

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that her family doesn’t find out. It’s really a bit awkward.”

“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” said Alex.

“No, I’d like to know what you think. She’s been having an affair with an American officer. He’s married, and they’re going to courtmartial him for committing adultery.

“I don’t believe it.” She gasped.

“I know, but it’s their law. Bloody medieval. The point is she’s afraid they’re going to subpoena her and make her give evidence before the courtmartial. Make her tell how it all took place.”

She was appalled. “That’s barbaric. Why should she?”

“That’s why she’s asked me to help her,” said Daventry.

Alex frowned. “Can they make her?”

“They can, take it from me. I checked on it.”

“Well,” said Alex, i’I think you should try and help her as much as possible.”

He waited a moment.

“You sure?” he asked finally, very quietly.

“Of course,” Alex said firmly. “You can’t stand by and watch the girl being hounded.”

“It’s a little irregular. I’ve checked with Boulton and the other authorities. I’m on thin ice, but the rules say I can give advice, up to a point, to a friend.”

“Then do it,” said Alex. “Do what you can. But be careful.”

“I don’t think she’s got any money,” added Daventry. Not that he cared, but his legal mind insisted he raise the issue.

“I think you can afford to give a little charity,” smiled Alex. “We won’t starve.”

“Pettifer disapproves wildly.”

“Be very nice to him and he’ll get over it.”

She stood up. “I’m going to put on some coffee,” she said.

He embraced her. The kiss left her a little breathless.

“Wow,” she gasped, and her pleasure was evident.

“I think, Alex, you’re a very wonderful woman,” said Daventry.

“I’m obliged, your honor.” She laughed.

Later, in bed, he lay staring into the darkness. He was still nervous about the whole business. He still had the uneasy feeling that he was getting himself into something that held many unknown hazards for him.

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And perhaps the biggest one was Serena.

But his gratitude to Alexandra for understanding that he had to go through with this was overwhelming. She felt his sense of outrage at what they were doing. Maybe she sensed the risks as much as he, but she had given him the strength to do what he had to do.

He turned toward her in the bed, and she was waiting for him, warm, sensual, and very abandoned.

Alex Daventry was a very shrewd woman.

Tuesday, June 27,1961

London

PECH’S superior in department B1 had given him strict instructions.

“This cheese shop is in Jermyn Street, Helmut, Picton’s or Paxon’s, something like that. Marvelous cheeses. Bring me back a Stilton, a little Cheddar, some Wensleydale, a little collection of English cheeses. You’ll have time to do that, won’t you?”

“Of course, Herr Unrnh,” Pech replied respectfully.

But he had only a day in London, and cheese shipping was not the primary object of his mission. In the morning, after he landed from Tempelhof, he made a courtesy call to the West German embassy, then took a cab to an anonymous building behind Artillery Mansions in Victoria where he spent half an hour talking to a tweed-clad man who until recently had been head of the Foreign Office’s intelligence section in West Berlin.

He and Pech had worked together, at Marienfelde and elsewhere in Berlin, and had established an easy professional relationship. Pech felt that the man, for an English blimp, was a useful ally, and the man had to admit that Pech, considering he was a German, was a decent enough cove.

The only reason Pech went to call on him was that if the man found out that B1 had had somebody in London, however briefly, without getting in touch, he would have resented it. It was the man’s personal pride that while in Berlin he had sewn up B1 and that they wouldn’t make a move without telling him or keeping in touch.

Pech was not about to disillusion him.

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The man invited him to lunch at his club, but that was reserved for the real purpose of the trip. To see Unterberg.

By unspoken agreement, the German and the AmeAcan had decided it would have to be a very English restaurant. Pech wanted a change from rouladen, rostbraten, and ragouts.

“How’s Berlin?” asked Unterberg after they had settled themselves into Stone’s and waited for the roast beef trolley.

“Beautiful, in the sunshine.” Pech beamed. He was enjoying his day in London.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Unterberg.

“Oh, that.” Pech shrugged. He was a thin man, with bony shoulders. “Status quo. I think that describes it.”

The carver arrived, pushing his trolley.

‘~The mutton’s excellent today,” he promised, sliding back the big lid.

“We ordered roast beef,” said Unterberg.

The carver was quite put out. “I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized. “I’ll get the beef over.”

“Typical, is it not?” commented Pech, who did not like the BAtish. “You ask for beef, and you get mutton.”

“It’s not the end of the world,” said Unterberg. He broke his roll. And he decided now was as good a moment as any.

“What’s brought you over, Helmut?” he asked cautiously. The classified TWX had not explained anything.

“To see you of course, my friend,” said Pech. “And to buy some cheese for my boss.”

Unterberg’s chair creaked as he shifted his big frame in it. “The real reason,” he pressed.

“Well,” said Pech slowly. “You know how it is when one is separated. Face to face, nothing is a problem. One discusses everything, one reads each other’s minds. But from a distance … I think you could say, B1 needs a little reassurance.”

Unterberg frowned. “Whets wrong?”

The roast beef trolley arrived, and after they were served Unterberg tipped the carver.

“But he is not the waiter.” Pech was quite startled.

“It’s a tradition,” said Unterberg, and felt pleasantly smug.

“Excellent,” said Pech, munching his food.

“You still haven’t told me what’s bugging you people.”

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‘nothing said Pech. ‘Eve only want to know from your side that the Tower business is fully under control.” He picked something out of his tooth. “A reassurance, as I say.”

“You’ve got it,” said Unterberg.

“Good.” Pech nodded. “Not that I had any doubts. But you know what Karlsrnhe is like.”