Ultimate Issue (4 page)

The girl with the plant pot smiled at Unterberg as he entered.

“Hi, Clyde,” she greeted him. “Good to see you again.”

She came from Arizona and was the wife of an officer stationed across town in the IG Farben Building. Her security clearance was formidable.

“You look great, Jeannie,” said Unterberg. “Is he in?”

“Waiting for you.”

He opened the door marked “Private” without knocking.

The only furniture in the room were three armchairs and a round coffee table. There was another undernourished plant in a pot similar to the one outside. A TWA calendar hung on the wall.

“Make yourself at home,” invited the man already sitting in one of the armchairs. He wore rimless glasses. He had recently returned from Switzerland.

Unterberg, a big six-foot two-inch 240-pounder, eased himself into one of the other armchairs.

“Boy, you must have been cramped in that sub,” the man sympathised.

Unterberg shook his head. “Plenty of space. You’d be surprised how roomy those tin cans are.”

“Rather you than me, friend,” said the man. “Stuck down there, it’s one hell of a way not to see the world.”

“l sent the report to Washington,” said Unterberg. “Including the autopsy findings on the two bodies.”

The man was interested. “Which were?”

“The navy says they didn’t find out much. The poor bastards had burns and exposure.”

“You think they were dead when the Russians fished them out?”

“It looks that way.”

“I hope so,” said the man. “I’d hate to think the Ruskis got hold of anything.”

He might have been talking about chess pieces. It didn’t surprise Unterberg. He knew the man well, even before

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they had joined the company. They were both alumni of Stanford University and had been in the same fraternities, Sigma XI and Phi Beta Kappa.

Then their ways parted until they crossed one another’s paths in OPC, the covert, highly classified Office of Policy Coordination. A beautifully meaningless title. The man had reached OPC’s higher command level; Unterberg worked in the field.

“How was Geneva?” asked Unterberg.

“We reached an … arrangement of convenience,” said the man, “I’m sure the French have a word for it, but I can’t think what. Got you out of a hole, didn’t it?”

“It wasn’t my idea to go fishing in their backyard.” Unterberg snorted. “The navy swore they could do it undetected.”

The man stretched himself. “Sometimes I worry about the military. The air force thinks it can get away with flying its tucking bombers over Russia, the navy thinks it can go for pleasure cruises in their waters, and they’re surprised if people build bomb shelters.”

The end of one of his shoelaces was hanging loose and he started retying it. While he was concentrating on his shoe he said, without looking up, “Got any plans?”

Unterberg became wary. “I’ve got thirty days leave, if that’s what you mean. Starting on Monday.”

“No, you haven’t,” said the man. “Sorry, Clyde.”

“The company’s suddenly short of staff?” Unterberg said sarcastically.

“Very.” The man was not smiling.

Unterberg knew the signals. “Let me guess. Turkey. No, some real asshole of a place. Libya. Iran? No, thanks.”

“England,” said the man.

Unterberg was surprised. That’s where I was going. London.”

“Good,” said the man. “Any particular reason?”

“She’s none of your business.”

A briefcase leaned against the man’s armchair. He picked it up, opened it, and took out an envelope.

Unterberg took the sealed envelope. “Exactly where?”

“Laconbury,” said the man. He indicated the envelope. “It’s all in there. Keep the travel orders. Burn the rest.”

“Now, wait a moment.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t like that. I don’t like off-the-record assignments. The last

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guy who was told to burn his documentation was Brooke. And he never came back.”

“Well,” said the man, “you’d just better make surenothing unpleasant like that happens to you, don’t you thinks”

The man’s smile was famous. If piranha smiled, thought Unterberg, they’d look just like that.

Wednesday, June 21,1961

London

IT was one of those paragraphs The Times publishes as if it was trying to hide it because it was trivial and hardly worth the record.

But the six lines had a big effect on Daventry.

“What’s the matter)” asked his wife, across the breakfast table.

Alex Daventry was an attractive woman, even first thing in the morning. She was also very ambitious for her husband, practical and deeply loyal. Her life revolved around Daventry, and she showed this in her thinking, her helpfulness, and her total consideration of hirn.

Without a word Daventry passed the paper over to her, indicating the story, tucked away insignificantly.

PADDINGTON MURDER read the tiny heading.

Miss Mary Donovan, aged 26, received fatal stab

wounds when she was attacked by an unknown assail

ant outside her basement flat in St. Stephens Gardens,

W. She was recently a witness at an Old Bailey trial

Alex gave the paper back to him. “One of yours?” she asked.

“She gave evidence for the prosecution in the Connors case.” His mind’s eye replayed the sight of the girl after the verdict had come in, fearstruck, terrified of what lay in store for her. “She turned informer.”

“Well, couldn’t the police look after her?” demanded Alex.

“Apparently not.” He read the story again.

“You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Daventry.

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“Well, then …”

“But if those bastards hadn’t got off, she might still be around. They couldn’t wait to pay her back once they had the chance.”

“You can’t help that,” said Alex firmly.

“I put them back in circulation.”

She was getting annoyed. “For God’s sake, don’t talk rubbish. It’s your job, isn’t it? You’ve always said you’d rather get people off than send them to prison. And hsten….”

He looked up at her.

“I’d rather be married to a man who wants to help people no matter what they’ve done than some sort of avenging prig.”

The grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck nine, its sonorous tones echoing.

“I’d better get going,” said Daventry. He took a hasty sip of tea and got up.

Alex rose too and went over to his side of the table.

“Promise me?” she said.

“What?”

“Promise you’re not going to go around blaming yourself for what happened to that girl?”

“I’ll try,” he said.

She kissed him lightly. “What would your father say?” She smiled.

Ah, yes. The old judge. Daventry knew perfectly well what he’d say. He would peer at him over his half moon glasses, snort, and growl, “Twaddle. Absolute twaddle. I’ve hanged eleven men and never lost a night’s sleep. Can’t afford this kind of rubbish, damned self-indulgence. Forget about it, and get on with the next case.”

“Have a good day, darling,” said Alex at the door of their house, just off the King’s Road.

At his chambers, when his clerk, Pettifer, put a bundle of red-tape-tied documents on his desk, Daventry said to him, “Have you read about the Donovan girl?”

“Indeed.” Pettifer sniffed. Few things escaped him. “Sad case. But then, she was no better than she should be, was she, sir?”

He shut the door, and Daventry wished he had never heard of Mary Donovan and what had happened to her.

But what really annoyed him was that he felt sorry for the girl. Mr. Justice Rodman would disapprove wildly.

He reached over for one of the briefs and slowly started

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to untie the red tape. It was perfectly true. There was nothing he could do about it. No one could help her anymore.

Pettifer knocked and came in diffidently.

“I had Mr. Rippon on the phone, sir,” he said. “He wondered if you would care to have lunch with him next Friday? At the Wig and Pen perhaps?”

His tone indicated that it was advisable to accept. Rippon channeled a continuous stream of cases to Daventry’s chambers. Like the Connors case.

“Tell him I’m busy,” said Daventry curtly.

“Perhaps I can suggest a convenient date?” Pettifer offered hopefully.

“Not at the moment, I’m afraid,” said Daventry.

He had other things on his mind.

Thursday, June 22,1961

-Northolt

THERE were only two passengers on the air force shuttle plane from Lindsey base at Wiesbaden to Northolt. One was an armed air force courier, the other Verago.

The courier was a captain who was paying for a weekend in London by carrying some classified documents for the air force that could only be transported in the custody of an officer. To protect them he had a holstered .45 strapped around his waist.

The courier eyed the crossed sword and pen insignia on Verago’s lapel. Army lawyers were unusual passengers on air force planes.

“Going on leave, Captain?” asked the courier.

“No,” said Verago. He had been wondering what kind of man he was going to defend. And something nagged him Colonel Ochs and his warning about the hostility he would encounter.

“You going over for a trial?” inquired the courier.

Verago didn’t feel like small talk. He had a lot to think about.

“Yes,” he said curtly.

The courier looked surprised. “Didn’t know we had any army courts in the UK.”

“It’s not an army trial,” said Verago. He reached for

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the copy of Stars and Stripes he had picked up at Lindsey.

“What kind of court is its”

“One of yours,” grunted Verago. “Air force.”

It left the courier even more puzzled. “Kind of unusual, isn’t it, army lawyers at an air force trial?”

Verago shrugged and turned to the comics page. He was a keen follower of Terry and the Pirates.

The courier gave up.

Verago finished the comics. He wished there was a crossword. He couldn’t understand why Stripes didn’t carry one. Maybe the army doesn’t approve of crosswords, he thought sarcastically. Maybe there’s some general who considers they undermine discipline.

Verago gazed out the window. He was looking forward to England. It would make a change. And it would give him some satisfaction to defend a man stuck with an adultery charge. All he knew was that the man who had asked for him was a Captain John Tower. He didn’t even know his outfit, other than he was stationed at Laconbury. And he had never heard of Laconbury.

It was about two hours from London, Colonel Ochs had told him. A staff car would meet him at Northolt and drive him straight there.

Verago considered it an abomination that in 1961 a man could still face a criminal charge because he had slept with a woman who was not his wife. He had looked up the penalty. Dishonourable discharge and confinement at hard labor for twelve months.

“Here we are,” said the courier.

They were touching down. Compared to some of the airfields he had seen in Germany, Northolt was quite small. As the plane slid to a halt on the runway, Verago caught a glimpse of a Battle of Britain memorial, an old Spitfire.

In the arrival hall an air force sergeant looked at Verago’s travel orders.

“I’m going straight on to Laconbury,” explained Verago. “There’s a staff car meeting me.”

The sergeant looked at a clipboard. “Captain Verago?” he said. He sounded bewildered.

“What’s the problem, Sergeant?” asked Verago. The courier had already passed through. Nobody questioned his orders.

“Just a moment, sir,” said the sergeant. He went over to a lieutenant standing by a door and spoke to him.

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The lieutenant looked across at Verago and then came to the counter.

“Did you say you were being met here, Captain?” he asked.

“I told the sergeant. There’s a staff car from Laconbury for me. I’m going straight there.”

“No, sir,” said the lieutenant. “There’s no car for you.”

Verago took a deep breath. “Well, Lieutenant, you’d better start calllingsomebody,” he said. “I need transportation.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the lieutenant.

Verago knew the familiar feeling. He was starting to get mad. “What does that mean?” he asked very quietly.

“Well, sir, I guess it means that there’s no transportation.”

“Who’s in charge?” said Verago.

“I am, Captain.” The lieutenant smiled. It was a selfassured, confident smile. “And I guess you’re all on your own.”

But Verago had already gotten the message. They knew damn well he was coming, and that was why there was no car for him.

London

Feliks Petrov, staff officer of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye at the Soviet Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, was pleased with himself.

He was one of the six GRU men in London under Deriabin, the head of the detachment. Deriabin insisted that his GRU outfit kept its distance from the vastly larger KGB section at the London Embassy. The GRU’s job was strictly espionage, collecting military intelligence. He was happy to leave the dirty stuff to the KGB, with whom he worked closely, even sitting in on their staff meetings. Deriabin also had the ambassador’s ear and was privy to the most secret activities in the rambling Victorian houses adjoining Kensington Gardens.

Petrov’s speciality was the American services in England, especially the air force units. In his safe he now had files with data on all the bases Sculthrope, Wethersfield, Bentwaters, Mildenhall, Woodbridge, Brize Norton, Greenham Common, and the others.

He had also started a little archive on other American installations, from which no planes flew but whose activities were of equal interest.

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Petrov, a charming, pleasant man, found his sources of information everywhere. He avidly read the local papers from the districts where the bases lay. He kept himself abreast of the activities of the CND, the nuclear disarmers, whose demonstrations and sitdowns at military installations provided him with a marvelous cover for studying them more closely. And he had his private informants.

On his way to Deriabin’s office, Petrov bumped into Ivanov, one of the naval attaches. The two men liked each other. They both enjoyed London, lived in apartments near each other in Bayswater, had even joined forces taking out current girl friends. Ivanov knew a man who laid on parties attended by gorgeous women and sometimes took Petrov along.