Ultimate Issue (28 page)

“But what about Laconbury?”

“Forget it,” said McDuff. “It’s dead. I’ve just killed it.”

Wednesday, July 19,1961

-London

“GLAD to meet you, counselor,” said Verago.

“Do come in,” invited Daventry, holding open the door to his office.

Pettifer stood, poker-faced, his disapproval under tight control. This American had been badgering him for days and then arrived, unannounced, at the chambers. When he was firmly told Daventry was out at lunch, he had simply declared that he’d wait.

“I’m sure Mr. Daventry will want to see me,” he’d said,

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and that aggravated Pettifer even more. “And I intend to see him.”

“Could you tell me your business, sir?”

“I’m defense counsel in the Tower case,” explained Verago, and Pettifer bristled. He was praying for the day he’d hear the last of that American courtmartial

“Sit down,” said Daventry.

“I apologize for not making an appointment, counselor,” said Verago. “But I have tried and since I’m not based in London …”

Daventry looked at the card in his hand. ” ‘Captain Anthony C. Verago, Staff Judge Advocate’s Corps, United States Army.’ You’re a legal officer, I take it?”

Daventry’s tone was somewhat skeptical.

“Yes, sir,” replied Verago. “At least, I passed law school.”

He was hot, and Daventry looked remarkably cool and relaxed. He was out of his element, whereas Daventry was very much at home in these musty, funereal chambers with the antiquated furniture and dusty law books. There were piles of old briefs Iying around, neatly tied with red tape, and a couple of faded prints on the wall of legal luminaries, long since dead.

“You see, counselor ” began Verago, but Daventry interrupted him.

“We are not counselors in this country, we are simply barristers,” he said gently, like an understanding teacher correcting a not very bright student. “I am plain ‘mis

“I’m sorry. I don’t know much about English lawyers,” said Verago, nettled at himself for apologising to this cold eel of a man sitting opposite him.

“We’re quite human, I assure you.” Daventry smiled rather dryly.

Verago’s tweed jacket and slacks contrasted sharply with Daventry’s dark, formal suit. Daventry couldn’t recall when somebody in a sports jacket had last entered his chambers. And a lawyer at that.

Verago took the bit between his teeth. “You know of course about this courtmartial at Laconbury, Mr. Daventry, and I think you’ll agree it’s in our mutual interest to get together. We’re absolutely on the same side.”

“Is that so?”

“Sure. After all, I want to get my man off as lightly as

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I can, and I’m sure you want to do the same for your girl.”

“My girl?” Daventry appeared totally detached.

“Miss Howard tells me you’re representing her. I’ve been to see her and “

“I’m afraid, Captain Verago, you have been misinformed,” said Daventry.

Verago sat very still. “Pardon me?”

“I have decided it would be best if Miss Howard had other representation, if she needs any at all,” Daventry said precisely.

“You mean you’re off the case?” gasped Verago.

‘~es. ‘

“Does Miss Howard know that? She told me “

“I will be telling her,” stated Daventry, glancing away. He wished this damn man didn’t look at him so accusingly. “It is unfortunate that you went to see the lady without speaking to me first. I could have put you in the picture. I am convinced that my decision is in no way detrimental to the interests of Miss Howard.”

“Okay.” Verago nodded. “But I have a question?”

Daventry raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Why?”

‘A don’t follow you, Captain Verago.”

“What’s the story? Why are you quitting? Is it some” thing to do with the case? Have you found out something I should know? Hell, I’m defending this guy, and now his girl friend’s lawyer pulls out. I think I’m entitled to know the reason “

He didn;t like Daventry’s thin smile. Even less his answer.

“I don’t need to give any explanation,” said Daventry, his voice hard. “Nevertheless, I will assure you that it has nothing to do with your client.”

Verago looked him straight in the eyes. “Have you been pressured, Mr. Daventry? Has somebody been getting at you?”

‘That, sir, is a highly improper question,” responded Daventry.

Verago stood up. “Listen, counselor, or whatever you call yourself, when people tell me I’m being improper, I know I’m on the right track. And when lawyers tell me that, I know I’ve struck pay dirt. Come on, let’s show ‘em.

Let’s get together. Let’s you and me compare notes and see what we’re up against….”

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Daventry also rose. “There are no notes to compare,” he said. “Miss Howard asked me to Bet the witness summons set aside. I tried and I failed. There’s nothing more I can do. I’m sure that when it comes to the trial, you will be in a much better position to protect her rights than 1 would be.”

“That might get awkward.”

“In what way7”

“Because I’m not sure that she’s the innocent party in this.”

Daventry straightened his waistcoat. “That’s for you to decide.”

“So you’re washing your hands of the whole thing.”

“I’m sorry….”

Verago grunted.

“Can I get you a cup of tea … or perhaps coffee? Instant, I’m afraid,” offered Daventry.

“I’ve got to get going,” said Verago.

Daventry opened the door for him. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, of course….”

“I think you’ve done enough, counselor,” replied Verago, his eyes glinting. “I guess you’ve got your own priorities. I hope they pay you well.”

After Verago had left, Daventry sat at his desk, staring straight ahead. He would have given a lot to avoid that encounter.

And now he felt, as that American would probably have put it, a complete heel.

Thursday, July 20,1961

Serebryany Bor

tIkB stocky, squat man with the piercing blue eyes studied his appearance in the long mirror.

Ivan Koniev, Marshal of the Soviet Union, was wearing his gold-braided walking-out uniform for the first time in twelve months. It felt good to be back in harness.

He surveyed himself as critically as if he were a new recruit about to go on parade, and he was satisfied.

Both sides of his chest were covered with all his decorations. He had special affection for one of them, the American Legion of Merit, presented to him in the war

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by Omar Bradley. Not many Red Army Marshals could boast of having been decorated by the United States. He still warmly remembered the day he had received the medal; what had made it so memorable was that he had also acquired Bradley’s jeep in exchange for his white charger.

But of all his medals and decorations, the one closest to his heart was the simple one with the black-and-yellow ribbon that millions of veterans wore: the one that commemorated victory over Germany.

Sergeant Vasilly, his batman, came up with the clothes brush and whisked some invisible speck off the marshal’s sleeve. Vasilly had been brushing invisible specks off Koniev’s uniform for twenty years, through many campaigns and on many battlefields.

“Will I pass?” Koniev asked jovially.

“Of course, Comrade Marshal,” Vasilly replied proudly, still examining his master from the top of his round, Ukrainian peasant head to the tip of his brilliantly polished shoes. “As always.”

Koniev nodded. It was important that he should look right. Outside his dacha, the black staff car with the big red ensign was already waiting to take him to Moscow and his meeting with Nikita Khrushchev at the Kremlin. There he would be told what it was all about.

Koniev had handed over his command in June 1960, and for the past thirteen months had lived a life of leisure. Of course a Marshal of the Soviet Union never retired, and he was only sixty-two, but it had looked like the end of his military life.

Now they needed him. Urgently. Something was about to happen and Koniev, the former Commander in Chief of the Warsaw Treaty Porces, was the only man to handle t.

“Does the marshal have any idea where we might be going?” Vasilly inquired delicately.

“Bored, are you, old soldier?” asked Koniev.

“Rural life can be dull,” said Vasilly. On his chest too there were campaign decorations. Only three rows of medal ribbons, but they told enough.

“We will soon know,” said Koniev. “Do you wish to come with me?”

Vasilly looked stricken at the very question. “The marshal knows …” he stuttered.

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“Very well,” said Koniev. “I merely wondered how your wife would feel. You are officially retired.”

Vasilly stroked his flowing moustache. “As long as the marshal is in uniform,” he began.

Koniev clicked his fingers. “Cap.”

Vasilly handed him his peaked cap with the gold cockade of oak leaves.

“Gloves.”

Vasilly passed them over. This was better. This was like old times.

“I imagine I won’t be in Moscow very long,” said Koniev. “You will be hearing.”

Vasilly came to attention. “At your service, Comrade Marshal.”

A warrant officer was standing ready by the staff car, and as soon as Koniev came out, he saluted and opened the car door.

A warrant officer for a driver, thought Koniev; the trappings of a Commander in Chief.

He got into the car and settled back. He noticed it was equipped with a two-way radio telephone. Yes, he was back in active service all right.

Darmstadt

Pryor’s reception in Darmstadt was as cool as the telex message ordering him over from London.

“Here comes the bad boy,” said Haynes, on the copy desk when Pryor entered the Stars and Stripes newsroom. Haynes had never liked Pryor, and his glee was undisguised.

Barnhart, the red-haired photographer who had often worked on assignments with him, seemed anxious not to catch his eye.

And the rest of the crew sat at their desks, apparently engrossed in the wireservice copy they were editing. The prodigal SOD wasn’t coming home.

“Where’s the old man?” asked Pryor.

“In his office, and can’t wait to see you,” said Haynes, his bad teeth showing.

As usual, there was a lot of noise, teleprinters chattering, phones ringing, typewriters being thumped by twofinger nontypists, but Pryor knew that, as he walked across to the colonel’s inner sanctum, behind his back every eye was following him.

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Colonel Steinmetz, Stripes’s editor, regarded him gloomily.

“Close the door, Joe,” he said, and started filling his pipe. It was a well-known signal. When Steinmetz didn’t quite know how to handle something, he gave himself breathing space by ramming tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

“Sit down,” Steinmetz invited. He wasn’t alone. A big, burly man sat in the other visitor’s chair.

“This is Mr. Unterberg,” said the colonel, and puffed his unlit pipe.

Unterberg gave Pryor a friendly nod. “Hi,” he said, but the colonel made no attempt to explain who he was or the reason for his presence.

“If you’re busy, I’ll come back,” said Pryor.

“No need,” said the colonel. “As a matter of fact, we were just talking about you.”

There was a knock on the door, and one of the rewrite men stuck his head in.

“Not now,” snapped Colonel Steinmetz. “I’m tied up for five minutes.”

So, thought Pryor. Five minutes. That’s all they have allocated.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here,” said Pryor, “The TWX just said come quickly, most urgent.”

“Yes,” said Steinmetz. “I wanted to see you.”

He struck a match and lit the pipe. The smoke swirled in front of his face, and that seemed to fortify his courage.

“You’re being reassigned, Joe.”

6`When?”

“As of now.”

Unterberg was studying the big map on the wall. It showed the circulation area of Stripes’s European editions, from Norway to Turkey.

“My UK tour isn’t over yet,” said Pryor. “I’ve got another eighteen months. I’m not due to leave until December 1962, and anyway, I thought I’d ask for an extension. I like the London bureau.”

“Well,” said the colonel, a little awkwardly, “we’re making some changes.”

Pryor crossed his long legs. As soon as he had received the telex, he knew this was coming. That didn’t make it any more pleasant.

“What’s my new assignment?” he inquired warily.

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The colonel blew out more smoke. “Wheelus,” he said. “Libya?” gasped Pryor. “Jesus Christ. Permanently?”

“You’re taking over the bureau,” said the colonel. “It’ll be a challenge.”

“What bureau?” demanded Pryor. “Flies and desert and camels.”

“Wheelus is a very important SAC installation,” the colonel said earnestly. “It’s a key base. We need a good man there. ‘

“The climate is very good,” Unterberg interjected mildly. “Much better than England. No rain. No fog. More like California.”

Pryor ignored him. “I don’t want to go, Colonel,” he said. “I’m sorry. I like it where I am. Wheelus is an asshole. You might as well send me to Iceland. It’s a dead end. I don’t even see why we need a man there.”

The colonel puffed his pipe. “Well,” he said at last, “that’s the way it is, Joe.”

“Why?” asked Pryor. “Why does my UK tour get cut short and you want me in the boondocks? Why, all of a sudden?”

Steinmetz took his pipe out of his mouth.

“I’m running a newspaper, Joe,” he said, as if be was editor in chief of The New York Times. “I’m giving the military a service. I have to make these decisions. In the military, we go where we are ordered.”

“I’m a civilian,” Pryor said mutinously.

“You’re an employee of the Department of the Army, Mr. Pryor,” said the colonel. “That makes you part of the military.”

I can quit of course, thought Pryor. I can throw up the tax-free privileges, my PX card, the free travel, and the security, and start tramping around small-town newspapers in godforsaken places, trying to get a job.

“I’ve been offered a job on the Rome Daily American,” announced Pryor.

“Then why don’t you take it, Mr. Pryor?” suggested Unterberg.

Pryor rounded on him. “What the hell’s it got to do with you?” He turned to the colonel. “Who’s this guy anyway? Why is he sitting in on this?”