Ultimate Issue (21 page)

“And this is the right moment?” murmured Laurie.

He sighed. “The two things are separate. In our official capacities, we can establish a useful line of communication. These days it is very important that there is direct contact through all kinds of channels, in our mutual interest. You and I, we can be a link between our people.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong party,” said Laurie. “You need somebody pretty high-powered.”

“And I think you’re just the right party,” Ivanov retorted quietly.

“I’m just a secretary.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly.

“You’re crazy, Gene, you know that.”

“Humor me,” he said. Then he reached across the blue tablecloth and took her hand. “So much for the official business. But I mean what the note says. I desire you very much.”

Laurie withdrew her hand slowly. “I am sure you know your reputation, Captain Ivanov,” she said lightly. “Why don’t we leave it at that?”

He wasn’t put out.

“For the moment, why not?” He shrugged. “We will meet again, and then we will see. I think tonight is the start of a beautiful relationship. I am very excited.”

“Business and pleasure?”

“That is up to you, Laurie. But I think we should both be very grateful to Stephen. Afer all, if it wasn’t for his party, we might never have met.”

“Yes,” said Laurie. “Wasn’t that a coincidence.”

He didn’t even blink.

“I hope you’ll come to the next one he gives,” said

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Ivanov. “You might have some fun. Something unexpected always happens at Stephen’s parties.”

He signaled for the bill.

“Now what would you like to do, Laurie? A little jazz at Ronnie Scott’s maybe? A night club?” He paused. “A drink at my place, perhaps?”

“The next stop is over there,” said Laurie, nodding at the door marked “Ladies.”

She was lucky. In the powder room was a phone box. She put in her two pennies, dialed, and pushed the button.

She came out of the powder room with fresh lipstick and a whiff of the perfume Verago liked so much around her.

“Why don’t we listen to a little jazz?” she said.

Ivanov smiled.

She never mentioned the phone call she had just made.

I Tuesday, July 11,1961

London

TWICE Verago pushed the bell marked “Howard” but nothing happened. The front door next to the Marxist bookshop remained closed.

He knew from the OSI reports that Serena Howard lived on the first floor, over the bookshop, and he stepped back, looking upward to see if he could spot anyone in. But no activity was visible.

Verago stood undecided in Charlotte Street. He liked the neighborhood. First appearances pleased him. The Greek restaurants were a tempting sight. Verago’s ancestry was dormant in all but his tastebuds, and he would go far for a good moussaka or a well-done steftilia. But nationalism aside, even the Turkish restaurant looked like a place Laurie might like. He made a mental note to get to know this part of London better.

He had been hanging around now for about ten minutes, wondering why he had taken it for granted that the Howard girl would be in. The surveillance reports described her as a part-time model, and he realized he didn’t really know much about her. But he had assumed for some reason or other, that she might be at home if he showed up.

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Verago looked at his watch, chewing his lip. Then he made up his mind. He went into the bookshop.

A serious-looking girl with glasses and no makeup was just hanging up a poster declaiming “No U.S. Bases.” It didn’t surprise Verago. He had seen Mao in the window and the array of Marxist literature.

He wasn’t in uniform, but he looked American. He felt slightly embarrassed.

“Excuse me,” said Verago.

“Yeah?” The girl was just climbing on to some steps to get the poster in position. She wore shapeless trousers.

“Do you know Miss Howard? The lady who lives upstairs?” asked Verago.

“Ron7” yelled the girl. Her nose was shiny. Hanging the poster was also giving her trouble.

The man who appeared from behind a bookshelf had shoulder-length hair, wore denims, and sprouted three badges. One said “No H Bomb,” another “Workers Solidarity,” and the third “Yanks Out.” “Yanks Out” was a big, round badge, and Verago was very conscious of it.

“What is it?” asked Ron, shuffling forward.

“Bloke asking about upstairs,” said the girl.

Ron regarded him balefully. “What do you want?”

“Is the lady usually in during the day? Do you know if she’ll be back soon?”

Ron sniffed with disdain. “Yank, are you?” he asked.

“When would be the best time to find Miss Howard in?” said Verago.

“What do you want her for?” inquired Ron.

Puck community relations, thought Verago. Aloud he said; “None of your business, buddy. You want to help or

“Not particularly, mate,” said Ron, and grinned. One of his front teeth, noted Verago with satisfaction, was black.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Pleasure,” Ron said sarcastically.

Verago turned his back, walking out past the glowering images of La Passionara, Che Guevara, Lenin, and thought he’d like to buy a couple of the posters and stick them in Jensen’s office.

But instead he stepped into the street just as a cab drew up. He immediately recognized the girl who paid off the driver. The OSI photographs had been very good.

“Miss Howard,” said Verago.

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She turned, startled. She was carrying a shopping bag, and when she heard his accent and saw him, her eyes opened wide. He didn’t know if it was surprise or fear.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Captain Tower’s counsel,” he said, sensing her hostility. “I would like to talk to you.”

“Are you from the air force?” she demanded suspiciously.

“I’m an army lawyer,” he said, and threw in for good measure: “I’m nothing to do with the air force. My job is to defend Captain Tower.”

She put down the shopping bag on the pavement. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want anything to do with the Americans.”

Ron had come to the door of the shop and was watching with interest.

“Listen, Miss Howard,” said Verago. “I’m sure we’re on the same side. You can help me a lot. But we can’t talk on the sidewalk. Can I come up to your apartment?”

He bent down and picked up her shopping bag, and smiled.

“Please,” he added.

She hesitated.

“I won’t keep you long,” he assured her.

She got out her keys, unlocked the door, and led the way upstairs into the flat.

“Sit down,” she said coldly, as he placed the shopping bag on a table.

“What do you want with me?” she inquired tersely.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” replied Verago. “I think they’re going to call you as a witness, and we ought to get a few things straight.”

She sat down opposite him, perching on the edge of the sofa.

“What is your name?”

“Captain Verago.”

“You say you are defending John?”

“I’m trying to.”

“What exactly do you want to know?” she asked without warmth. Her enmity came across to him in waves.

“Did you know that you and he were being watched? That you were under surveillance when you were together?”

“I know now.” She was bitter, hard.

“Have you any idea when it began?”

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“No.’,

“Have you any idea why they were watching you?”

“Yes, Captain Verago,” said Serena acidly. “Because in your armed services it is apparently a crime for a man and woman to have a relationship.”

- He cleared his throat. “Er … not exactly like that.” She glowered at him. “Look, believe me, I hate this kind of case as much as you do. My sole object is to get him off as lightly as possible.”

“I see,” she said. It was so unforthcoming it disconcerted him.

He tried again. “Have you any idea what his job was?”

“No.”

“Did he ever talk about his trips? What he did? Berlin?”

‘`I think you’d better leave, Captain Verago,” she said.

He remained seated. “I haven’t even started yet, Miss Howard,” he said gently.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “If you want to know anything else, talk to my lawyer. Mr. Gerald Daventry, of Lincoln’s Inn.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” protested Verago. “I’m working against time. There’s a lot I “

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to discuss it. Good-bye.”

Slowly he got to his feet. “I wish you’d listen, Miss Howard,” he said. “Captain Tower isn’t exactly helping me, and now you….”

“Good-bye, Captain Verago,” she said again.

She watched him from the landing as he walked down the stairs and let himself out.

In the street, he took out his little memo pad and noted Daventry’s name and address. Then he got a cab.

Ron, leaning against the door of the bookshop, watched him until the cab turned into Percy Street.

Chobham

Joe Pryor stretched his long legs and settled his lanky frame more comfortably into the deck chair. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

He was sitting on the lawn of Welk’s house, half shaded by a big elm tree. The only irritation was the buying of an insect, and once or twice he opened his eyes to see if the enemy was in sight. But the wasp was more interested in raiding the flowers.

It was an impressive, mock-Tudor-style residence with

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a large rose bushes, flowerbeds, and a little foun-tain with a thin trickle of water. Sometimes Pryor wondered how Welk could afford it, and the Daimler in the garage, on his civil service salary. Air force information officers were hardly overpaid.

But right now he couldn’t care less. The warm July sun, the fragrance of the garden, the summer stillness were much too pleasant to worry about Welk’s bank balance.

That was Pryor’s trouble. He was too lazy. Working for Stars and Stripes was a cozy niche. The paper had a huge circulation, from Norway to Turkey, and was read by virtually every American serviceman and dependent in Europe. But it never carried an editorial, and all controversy was taboo. What cam you expect, Pryor sometimes asked himself wrily, from a newspaper edited by a colonel?

The barbeque started to sizzle and Pryor half opened an eye. Welk, a blue-striped apron tied around him, was broiling the steaks.

On his way down to Chobham, Pryor tried to work out why Welk had actually invited him for dinner. They saw a lot of each other, but not socially. He didn’t really like Welk, but the man was the air force mouthpiece at headquarters in South Ruislip, and Pryor played along.

“Come and get it,” called Welk, just as Pryor started to doze off again.

Jennifer, Welk’s English wife, had set the table on the portico that overlooked the lawn.

Pryor shambled over. He lived a bachelor existence, and any meal eaten outside a restaurant was an attractive proposition.

“I’ve put you here, Joe,” said Jensifer, indicating his chair. “You don’t mind eating strictly al fresco, do you?”

It was a typical English remark. The table was well laid, with side plates, napkins, wine glasses, and even a vase of flowers. Jennifer, though she had been married to Welk for more than four years, had never stopped being strictly suburban London. It was remarkable how she didn’t seem to have assimilated any American touches.

“I think I missed my vocation,” said Welk, when they sat down. “I should have been a short-order cook. Maybe I’ll quit when we go home and open a diner.”

“Oh, Jack,” protested Jennifer. Even as a joke, she felt it was in bad taste.

Pryor was enjoying his air force commissary steak, twice the size of anything he could buy in England. The

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charcoal flavorbrought back memories of beach parties at San Diego.

Then Welk spoiled it.

“Al is coming round later,” he announced. “Just for a drink.”

“That’s nice,” lied Pryor. Al was Major Longman, the air force chief of information at South Ruislip. He was Welk’s boss, and a time server. His ambition was to go to the Directorate of Information at the Pentagon, and he intended his UK tour to be the steppingstone.

“He couldn’t come for dinner, because he’s over at the general’s,” explained Welk. His tone indicated that, to an extent, the kudos of being in the general’s favor extended to himself, because the general’s guest was coming straight to his house.

Pryor couldn’t resist it. “I hear the general’s wife is a lousy cook,” he said.

Welk looked pained and Jennifer hastily intervened: “Some more wine, Joe? ‘

After the meal, they returned to the deck chairs on the lawn and had coffee. One thing Pryor did have to admit, Jennifer had learned to make decent coffee.

“Well,” Welk said contentedly, “this is the life, oh?” He glanced around the lawn. “I guess I must have been a feudal baron in another existence. You want some French brandy the real stuff?”

Jennifer got up at once. “I’ll get it,” she said and went into the house.

This was as good a moment as any, decided Pryor.

“You heard anything about a courtmartial at Laconbury, Jack?” he asked casually.

Welk took a long drink of coffee. Then he put the cup down. “Can’t say I have.”

“Some officer being tried. For adultery.”

Welk frowned. “Who says that?”

“Oh, just scuttlebutt,” said Pryor.

“Haven’t heard a thing,” replied Welk. “Anyway, what’s your interest? Siripes would never run a thing like that.”

“I like to know what’s going,” said Pryor. Almost defiantly he added, “It is my job.”

“Joe, you don’t want to bother yourself with scandal stories.” Airily he continued, “Anyway, you know latrine rumors. Nobody told me about any guy being tried for

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hanky panky. And we get to know it all. Believe me, buddy.”

“You checked with Colonel Kincaid?”

“Don’t have to check,” Welk said curtly. “We get the SJA’s list of trials every week.”

Jennifer appeared with a tray. On it were balloon glasses and two very expensive bottles of antique brandy.

Welk poured them all triples.

“Salut,” he toasted.

“You got good stuff here,” said Pryor, the Armagnac warming him.