Ultimate Issue (22 page)

A man appeared at the other end of the lawn and waved. He came toward them.

“Hi, fellows,” said Major Longman. “And how is the gorgeous Jennifer?”

He kissed her. Then he saw the brandy.

“Guess I’m just in time,” he said amiably. “Start pouring, Jack.”

Welk stood up. “Al, can I just have a quick word?” he asked.

Longman looked surprised. “Sure,” he said. “Now?”

“Yeah. Let’s go in the house.”

Longman winked at Pryor. “Secrets, secrets, all day long.” He laughed. “Don’t drink all the brandy.”

They walked across the lawn and disappeared in the house.

“Oh dear, Jack never stops working.” Jennifer sighed. “Sometimes I hate his job.”

“Yes,” Pryor said thoughtfully.

“More coffee, Joe?”

He nodded, and she poured him another cup.

“Have you had your leave yet?” she asked. ‘~We’re thinking of going to Garmisch.”

She was making hostess talk.

Welk and the major emerged from the house and began coming toward them. Whatever Welk had to discuss so urgently evidently hadn’t taken long.

“So, where’s that drink?” asked Major Longman.

Welk gave him a triple and topped up Pryor’s glass.

The major took a deep swig. “What’s all this crap, Joe?” he asked.

“Come again?”

“Laconbury. What are you after?”

Jennifer rose. “I’ll clear up in the kitchen,” she murmured, excusing herself.

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‘All and help you, honey,” said Welk, following her.

“I’m not after anything, Major,” said Pryor. “I just asked Jack if he knew anything about a courtmartial. What’s so strange about that?”

“That’s not the kind of news your paper wants,” declared Longman. “Don’t waste your time on it. Besides, who says there’s any courtmartial?”

Pryor shrugged. “Just thought I’d ask.”

“And Jack told you. We know nothing about it. I’ll give you some advice for free though. Do some positive stories, Joe. Sports, lots of sports. Travel features, so the guys know where to spend their leave. Hobbies. That kind of stuff.”

The major took another sip of brandy and then leaned forward confidentially.

“A word to the wise, Joe. You’ve got a good berth here. Nobody bothers you. You’re doing a fine job, and we all like you. I’d hate to see you recalled to Darmstadt and put on the rewrite desk. I’m sure you wouldn’t like it either.” He smiled. “Would you?”

“I get the message,” said Pryor, and hated himself for playing along.

“Good,” said the major. “As I told the general, we’re all one big happy team over here. Let’s keep it that way.”

The sun concealed itself behind some clouds. Suddenly it had definitely gotten much colder, decided Pryor.

New York City

Lou Conn returned to his law office on the nineteenth floor of the black skyscraper at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Fifty-second Street from lunch to find an unexpected message.

“You had a call from England,” said the note his secretary had left on his desk. “It was a man called Verago. He said he’d call back.”

In his office he sat down, looking at the piece of paper in his hand.

Tony Veragol It was like turning the clock back. Back to their days in law school and the big plans they had to form a partnership. It had never worked out, and they had gone their separate ways, but they remained good friends. The kind of friends who didn’t see each other

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for years but immediately took up where they had left off when they met again.

The last he had heard of Verago was that he was an army lawyer, somewhere in Germany. He looked at the note again. What was he doing calling from England? It must be something important. Even urgent, if Verago was going to call back.

He wondered how Kathy was. He liked Verago’s wife. She had gone to Germany with him, but he couldn’t quite see the ebullient, bubblinigKathy, a fun-loving madcap of a girl, settling into the staid routine of being an army wife, living in dependent housing, holding bridge parties, spending an afternoon a week on Red Cross work.

Maybe she and Tony, he figured, took advantage of traveling a lot. Rome, Paris, Vienna Kathy would like that, and even on a captain’s pay, they’d be able to afford to.

The phone buzzed, and Conn picked it up.

“Your call from England,” said the switchboard girl.

He recognized the voice immediately.

“Lou,” said Verago, “how are you?”

It was a good, clear line. Verago sounded very close.

“Tony, for heaven’s sake, what a surprise,” called out Conn. He was genuinely delighted. “What are you doing in England? How’s Kathy?”

There was a silence. It seemed a very long silence. Then came Verago’s voice, strangely subdued.

“I’m sorry. I never told you, did I? Kathy and I were divorced last year.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It was for the best, believe me. Anyway, listen, Lou, the reason I called you is I need a favor,” Verago said, and his tone made it clear that Kathy as a topic of conversation was over. “Can you help me out?”

“Sure,” agreed Lou.

“I got myself a courtmartial over here, and it’s a bitch. The guy I’m trying to defend committed adultery. I need the wife to say it was all over between them, it doesn’t maker to her, she doesn’t feel sore. Could you fix it for me?”

“Fix it?” asked Conn. Sometimes Verago was difficult to keep up with. Just like the old days.

“She lives on your side. West Thirtieth Street. Number one, apartment six D.”

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Almost automatically, Conn jotted it down. It came of long habit.

“Could you be a pal, go and see her, get her affidavit the way I’ve suggested, and find out if she’s willing to come to England to testify for him?”

“Is that all?” Conn inquired dryly.

“That’s it, Lou. I really appreciate it.”

“You might tell me her name,” said Conn.

“Mrs. Marion Tower. Her husband is a Captain John Tower. He’s with the air force over here. They’re trying to shaft him, Lou. But if you can get her to say the right thing, maybe I can do something….”

Trust Verago. He made it sound so simple. Just get her to say the right things.

“I’ll try, Tony,” said Conn. “But what makes you think she’ll play?”

“Don’t see why not” came Verago’s voice. “They’ve not made it together since ‘fifty-seven or ‘fifty-eight. She doesn’t hate him. I think she’ll play along. You tell her it’s the only thing that will keep him out of Leavenworth.”

Verago heard Conn’s intake of breath.

“It’s that serious?” said Conn. “Just because he’s been playing around?”

“It’s that serious, Lou. They got the rope ready for him.”

“Okay,” said Conn. “You picked a hell of a time, I’m up to here in work, but okay. I’ll try….”

He could sense Verago’s relief.

“You’ve got no idea how I appreciate this, Lou. If there’s anything I can do this end….”

Conn smiled. “I’ll let you know,” he said. “Send me some fish and chips.”

“You got it.” Verago laughed. “Here. This is where you can reach me.”

Conn made more notes.

“You’ll hear,” he promised.

The last thing Verago said was: “Lou, I hope it works out with her. It’s the guy’s only chance. Without her, I’m sunk. I’ve got nothing. You’re my only hope.”

After he had hung up, Conn sat reflecting for a little while. He had a feeling that there was a great deal Verago hadn’t told him.

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Windsor

After dinner Mr. Justice Daventry led his son to the library, leaving Alex and Lady Daventry to themselves in the lounge.

The seventy-four-year-old judge, twenty years a member of the High Court, was a firm believer that the kind of things men discussed were of no interest to women, who didn’t understand them anyway.

Indeed, Sir Frederick had never made any secret in his courts that simply because i woman passed certain exams, put on a gown, and wore a wig didn’t automatically make her a barrister. Not a proper one.

“Cigar?” offered the judge, opening the big oak humid don

“Thanks,” said Daventry.

He sat down in one of the two leather armchairs by the fireplace. Although it was July, a fire was burning in the hearth. The old judge felt cold very easily.

“Well, my boy, how is life treating you?” asked his father, from the armchair opposite. Daventry might be a successful and distinguished counsel in his late thirties, but his father tended to address him like a schoolboy just up for the summer vac.

“All right,” replied Daventry. “Everything’s fine.”

“You look tired,” grunted the judge. Old he might be, but he was still very alert.

Daventry shrugged. “I’ve got a lot of work on.”

Sir Frederick exhaled some Havana smoke. “The right kind of work, I trust?”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

The judge cleared his throat, as if he was about to give a ruling. “I saw Pinnemore at the club the other day. He tells me that your application for silk looks like being favorably received. Despite your youth.”

“WelL that’s good to hear.”

The judge raised a hand slightly. “But it’s not in the bag, Gerry. You must never forget that, in a manner of speaking, you’re on probation at this time. Getting silk is a high honor, it’s not only recognition of your legal prowess, it confirms your impeccable standing in the profession.”

“I know that.” Daventry was trying to work out what the old boy was getting at.

“I am sure you do,” the judge went on, darting a keen

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look at him. “But there are times when it needs restating. You mustn’t put a foot wrong. Not at this time.”

“I don’t intend to,” said Daventry, a little uneasily.

“Good,” said the judge.

“You’re trying to tell me something, aren’t you?”

“I’ve read you my little homily.” His third lips smiled. “Here endeth the first lesson.”

“No, Dad,” pressed Daventry. “You’ve got a reason for mentioning it.”

The judge sniffed, the way he did when a barrister started arguing law with him in court.

“I have a reason for everything I say,” said Sir Frederick. “I have seen, in my time, a few ambitious advocates fall at the last fence. I don’t want it to happen to you.”

Daventry had to laugh at his solemnity.

“Don’t worry, Dad, I don’t intend to get drunk in Piccadilly, or run away with the Lord Mayor’s wife.”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped the judge. He was irritated. “I simply want to emphasise that, for example, the kind of cases you appear in might well be taken into consideration. There’s nothing wrong with defending villains, but some cases “

“Such as?”

The judge waved his cigar. “Borderline. You know what I mean.”

“Is there something you’ve heard? That worries you?”

“Of course not,” said the judge. “But …”

“Yes?”

“Are you involved in some stupid proceedings in some American case?”

“I tried to get a witness summons set aside. What of it?”

The judge peered at him. “I should think it’s hardly likely to advance your career.”

“Who told you about it?” Daventry asked quietly.

“Never mind that,” said the judge. “The point is that I don’t see why you should get mixed up in some sordid little American courtmartial. Leave it to the Americans. I’m surprised your clerk let you take the brief. Normally Pettifer’s judgment is sound. Very sound.”

“It’s got nothing to do with Pettifer.” He put his cigar in the marble ashtray. “Somebody’s been getting at you, Dad.”

“Of course not. But ours is a small world, Gerald. One

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hears things. And, as I said, people are keeping tabs on you.”

“I’m sure,” Daventry remarked bitterly.

The judge stood up.

“I think it’s time we joined the ladies,” he announced, leading the way to the door. Then he turned and looked straight into Daventry’s eyes.

“All I’m saying, my boy, is to think twice. Affairs of state, security, diplomatic considerations, all kinds of things like that can come our way. It behooves the wise man to step warily. Or if I may put it more bluntly, in the modern style, mind your own business.”

The judge was renowned for his sharp, succinct summings up. And Daventry was left wondering where the next threat would come from.

Wednesday, July 12,1961

London

“DBAR comrade,” said the assistant stage manager of the Leningrad State Kirov Ballet Company, clasping the hand of Yevgenni Ivanov.

Ivanov rose with a smile when Grigorovich entered the Monmouth Street coffee shop. But his cordiality was tinged with just the right degree of respect, seeing that Grigorovich was a senior member of Glavnoye Razvedyvatelooya Upravleniye, the Chief Intelligence Directorate.

Grigorovich, whose passport gave him another name, and his department found the Kirov’s tour of the West exceedingly useful. He had suddenly been appointed assistant stage manager on the eve of the company’s departure and, as a mere face in the ensemble, could travel throughout England and the United States to see certain things for himself without raising the slightest suspicion.

The Operations Department had decided before he left Moscow that Ivanov would be his only direct contact while the Kirov appeared at Covent Garden. They had further instructed that such meetings as they did have should be in out-of-the-way places and after insuring that neither of them had been followed.

“Are you enjoying your stay?” asked Ivanov as they were served their coffee.

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‘tremendously,” GAgorovich. ‘~You should see the audiences. Every seat sold, and the enthusiasm! Who said the English are cold-blooded?”

He pulled out an envelope. “Here,” he said, offering it to Ivanov. “I know the embassy has its quota, but I thought perhaps you would like a couple of extra tickets. For the gala program. I gather they’re worth their weight in gold.”

“How kind of you, Sergei,” said Ivanov, allowing himself great informality because they both liked each other, despite Grigorovich’s seniority. “And I have a little present for you.”

He also handed over an envelope. Inside was a roll of thirty-five-millimeter film that, when it was developed, would provide the Russians with their first really good photographs of the new American nuclear submarine base just established in Holy Loch.