Ultimate Issue (26 page)

Friday, July 14,1961

London

PRYOR located the man he was looking for in the third pub he tried. He had made the rounds of Fleet Street watering holes because he knew that there, somewhere, at this time of day, he’d find Dawkins.

He finally struck lucky in the Mucky Duck, the irreverent alias of the White Swan. Dawkins was propping up the bar, tie a little askew, eyelids heavy, speech a trifle thick. But it was deceptive. One call from the news desk of the Sketch and he would be alert. The alcoholic haze that often surrounded him could be very misleading.

“Slumming today?” he greeted Pryor jovially. He winked at the barmaid. “He’s a Yank, but he means well.”

Pryor didn’t resent it. He knew Dawkins’s style. He was one of the few Fleet Street types with whom he had made friends.

“What’s your poison?” inquired Dawkins.

“Guinness.”

Dawkins nodded approvingly. “There’s hope for you yet.” He raised his glass. “Cheers.”

Now that he had found his man, Pryor hesitated. What he was about to do was disloyal. If they found out

“You want a good story, Peter?” he asked

The bloodshot eyes turned on him. “What story’s that?”

179

Pryor edged him toward a corner, away from any possible eavesdroppers.

“They’re trying to hush it up,” said Pryor, adding a bit of bait.

“Who is?”

“The military.”

Dawkins did not react. Instead he called to the barmaid: “Same again, love.” Then he focused on Pryor. “What are you on about?”

“You heard of an air base called Laconbury?”

Dawkins burped. “You got so many bloody air bases in this country I can’t keep up with them. What about it?”

“They’re going to courtmartial an officer said Pryor, and instinctively reddened. Now there was no turning back.

“Oh, yes?” Dawkins didn’t appear in the slightest interested. “What’s he done? Flogged PX booze on the black market?” He laughed.

His pint had arrived, and he took a deep drink.

“Adultery.”

“Eh?”

“It’s a courtmartial offence in the American military.”

The newsman’s mind clicked into action. “Is sloe EInglish? The bird, I mean?”

“I think so,” said Pryor.

Dawkins inclined his head. “Not a bad yarn,” he conceded grudgingly.

“It’s all yours.”

Dawkins regarded him reflectively. “Why?” he asked finally.

“Because I can’t use it. The military won’t let me. The paper wouldn’t print it.”

“You’re joking.” Dawkins was genuinely taken aback. “I know it’s a funny paper, but “

“It’s not a news paper,” said Pryor bitterly. It was his declaration of independence. He had burst the straitjacket. Leaking the story was his assertion of rebellion.

Dawkins extricated a piece of paper from his pocket and took out a pencil.

“When is this courtmartial?”

“Soon,” said Pryor. “I don’t know the exact date, but soon.”

“Who can tell me more about it?”

“Why don’t you call the air force? At Ruislip? Say you’ve heard a rumor….”

180

Pryor relished the thought. Welk would turn pale when he got the call from Fleet Street. Major Longman would blow his top. He’d give a lot to be there the moment the shit hit the fan.

“Will they tell me?” asked Dawkins.

Pryor drained his glass. “They’ve got to be careful with you. It’s Dot like Stripes. They haven’t got you at the end of a string. Just push them.”

“You don’t minds” inquired Dawkins, a little anxiously. “I don’t want to land you in the cart.”

“As long as you keep quiet about how you heard, I’m okay You can always say you picked up a rumor, can’t youiIn a pub.” He smiled. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

They had another round. Dawkins paid again, This would certainly go on expenses.

“Much appreciate it, Joe,” he said. “Really do.”

“I met his lawyer,” said Pryor. “That’s strictly between you and me.”

Dawkins didn’t believe in such conventions. For him, anything he heard was fair game. But what he said was “Sure.”

“The lawyer’s come over from Germany. A sharp guy. I think he’d welcome a story. The rest of ‘em are all walking on eggs. I don’t know what the hell’s going on maybe it’s because the base “

He stopped.

Dawkins was very alert now. “Yes? What about the base?”

“Well, don’t say I told you, but I’ve heard it said the U-Two flies from there.”

Dawkins’s eyes widened. “Jesus, that’s a hell of a story. ‘Secret’ stuff, great.”

“That’s off the record.” Pryor went through the motions. “Only for your guidance. But it sounds sexy, eh?”

“Fabulous.” Dawkins couldn’t believe his luck. A scoop like this handed to him on a plate. So much for the knowalls who said you could never find a real story in a pub He drained his beer glass.

“I got to go. Where can I reach you?”

“Don’t,” said Pryor. “Don’t call me. Don’t phone, don’t get m touch, nothing.”

Already he was having regrets. “if they link me with

Dawkins picked up his change. “I understand, don’t

181

worry.” He held out his hand. “I’m most grateful, mate, I really arn.”

Pryor shook it. “Make the most of it, Peter. It’s too good to be buried.”

“Watch the front page,” Dawkins called out, and then he disappeared through the curtained door.

Pryor ordered himself another drink. A double scotch this time. He wondered if this is what a man felt like who had started the countdown on an H-bomb.

Laconbuq

“The chaplain told me,” Tower said unemotionally.

He looks more stooped, thought Verago, older, like a man with a load.

They were walking in the open yard of the confinement facility, within the wire fence. The APs watched them.

“I’m sorry about it,” said Verago. The air force had lost no time notifying Tower. He wondered who contacted them. The FBI?

“It’s a lousy way to go,” commented Tower. “All alone.”

“How long had you been married?”

“Since Korea.”

Ten years. And four of them apart.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Verago asked gently.

“Nothing to talk about,” said Tower. “It didn’t work out. Pity it had to end like this, though. Trouble is she never could face reality.”

“Is that why there was no divorce?”

“Does it matter now?” asked Tower.

They strolled in silence, a hundred feet one way, a hundred feet the other way. The grass was neat, tidy, cut just right, like the hair of the APs, like the pattern of the wire fence.

“You can ask to attend the funeral,” said Verago.

“What for?” Tower looked away. “Won’t help her one way or the other. It’s all over for her.”

“That’s up to you,” Verago said coldly.

“Don’t sound so god damn disapproving, counselor.” Tower had turned on him fiercely, anger on his face. “I don’t need you to-make moral judgments. It’s my affair, and I’ve got to live with it. That’s the end of it. Hell, what do you know how it feels?”

Verago said nothing.

Finally Tower calmed down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s

182

not your fault. This whole lousy thing is getting me down. I want to get it over. One way or the othen”

“Sure, I understand.”

“It hasn’t helped the case any either, has it?”

“No,” said Verago.

“It won’t be easy now to use your mitigation argument, not after this?”

“Well,” said Verago, “it might not be the smartest thing to do.”

Tower stopped in his tracks. He faced Verago. “Just for the record, between you and me, I don’t believe I’m the reason she did it. She was neurotic, sick. She really was. It could have happened any time. Too much booze, too many pills. I’m not trying to justify anything, but hon. estly, I don’t think for one moment … hell, I knew her. I wasn’t even surprised.”

“I believe you,” said Verago. “But it’s not me we’ve got to convince. In a way, it makes it worse. The court might feel you abandoned your wife just when you should have helped her.”

“So what have we got left?”

‘if don’t know,” said Verago. Then he saw Tower’s expression.

“But don’t worry, John,” he added, “I’ll think of something. The game hasn’t even started.”

He hoped he sounded confident.

The trouble was, he reflected, that all the cards seemed to be marked.

And the guy who appeared to be cheating most of all was his own client.

London

Daventry hailed a cab in Lowndes Square.

“Lincoln’s Inn,” he instructed the driver, as he got in and settled back, his briefcase on the seat next to him. It wasn’t until they had passed Hyde Park Corner that he realized the cab, instead of going straight along Piccadilly, had turned up Park Lane, toward the Dorchester.

Daventry frowned. It didn’t seem the most direct route, but he had learned of old not to argue with London cabbies. They passed the hotel, and in Deanery Street the taxi stopped at the traffic light.

Suddenly the door was flung open and two men got in. One sat beside Daventry and the other opposite on the tip-up seat.

183

Daventry was too astounded to say anything at first, The driver took no notice at all. When the light turned green, the cab accelerated across South Audley Street, into Hill Street.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” gasped Daventry, leaning forward and rapping on the driver’s glass partition. “Stop,” he ordered. “Driver, stop this cab.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Daventry,” said the man opposite. “Nothing to get worried about.”

Daventry gaped at him, then made a dive for the cab door. But the man next to him leaned forward and blocked him.

The cab drove on, turning corners, making a twisting, confusing journey around the maze of Mayfair back streets.

“I said stopl” Daventry shouted again.

But the cab just turned another corner. Daventry looked out frantically, hoping to see a policeman, anybody he could yell to, but he knew the men would stop him.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“We’re almost there, Mr. Daventry,” the man opposite said soothingly.

The taxi came to a halt halfway down a mews. They were near Berkeley Square, Daventry felt sure, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where. It was a quiet, secluded mews, with dignified, impressive front doors. A shining Bentley was parked in front of one of them.

“Here we are,” announced the man facing him. He opened the door and was the first to get out of the cab.

“This way, sir,” he indicated respectfully.

“I’m not getting out,” Daventry declared firmly. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not “

“Please, Mr. Daventry,” pressed the man.

He wasn’t being menacing, but he spoke with the authority of a person who knows he is in control of things.

“I’m going to call the police, you know,” said Daventry.

“Yes, sir,” replied the man.

Daventry got out reluctantly, followed by the other man. The cab drove off immediately. Nobody had paid the fare.

One of the men pressed a bell on the ornate front door, which had a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.

The door was opened by a third man who could have been a twin brother to the others. They all wore business

184

suits and dull ties. They had the same short haircuts and expressionless faces.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said.

Daventry was ushered into the richly carpeted entrance hall. It reminded him of a wealthy Harley Street doctor’s consulting rooms. He half expected to be shown into a waiting room, with copies of Punch and The Tattler neatly laid out on a polished table.

Instead he was escorted along the hall, to a small elevator. Only one of the men went in with him. He pressed the second-floor button. There were only five. One basement and four floors.

I can find this place again, thought Daventry, I swear I can. If I have to take Mayfair apart, I’ll trace where this is. And then he realised weren’t really trying to conceal anything from him. It was as if they didn’t care if he identified the address.

The elevator stopped and the gates slid open automatically.

“The first door on the left,” the man said politely, standing aside for Daventry. “If you like, I’ll take that until you leave.”

He held out his hand for Daventry’s briefcase.

“No,” Daventry said curtly.

The man went back into the elevator, and Daventry heard it purr its way down below again.

He stood, hesitant. The corridor was like the entrance hall, richly carpeted and with a couple of oil paintings on the wall.

Then the first door on the left opened.

“My dear Gerald, how good to see you again,” said the man who greeted him with a smile.

“Good Godl” exclaimed Daventry. “Brian!”

“Come in, old man,” invited Grierson.

The pretence that this was an aristocratic town house in the heart of Mayfair stopped once he stepped inside the room. It was an office, comfortable, modern, but utilitarian. A plain desk, a couple of leather armchairs, a telephone, a globe on a side table. The Financial Times lay on the desk.

“What a way for two school chums to meet up again, eh?” Grierson smiled. “I was often going to call you and suggest a little reunion, but you know how it is.”

“I think you owe me one hell of an explanation,” Daventry said grimly.

18S “Of course. Sit down.”

Daventry sat in one of the armchairs. Grierson, as if to emphasise respective positions, sat behind his desk.

He doesn’t look all that different, thought Daventry. He carries his years well. He was wearing the old school tie. He even had the school colors on his cufflinks.

“You’ve done very well for yourself, Gerry, haven’t you? Quite the legal luminary. Following in the old man’s footsteps, eh? Future Lord Chief, maybe? Congratulations, old man.”

Daventry was aware of how silent the house was. He might be alone with Grierson in a tomb. No clock ticked, no typewriters clattered, no telephones rang. There wasn’t even the sound of traffic..

“What exactly is this place?” asked Daventry.

“It belongs to you, Gerry.”

“Eh?”

“Well, you’re a taxpayer, aren’t you?”

“This this is a government office?”