Forbidden Area

by Pat Frank

  “This robbery is unusual,” said González, “only in the amount of money involved. Shorten the sum by three zeros, and I am sure it would be of no concern to anyone, even to Mr. Gumol himself. In fact, I have a feeling in my stomach that Mr. Gumol wishes he had not mentioned the matter, even for three hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Understandable,” said Felix, “if a shortage shows up in his bank.” He felt en rapport with González, who, like himself, was rather small and physically unprepossessing. González’ brown face was marred by smallpox scars, but his mind was quick and logical.

  González was thoughtful. “I doubt that it will be a shortage. It is something else—something queer. Now that you are here, I am convinced it is very queer.” One jet eye was hidden in a wink. “I know something of the FBI, my friend, and I know which division is yours, and I know your division is not interested in robberies, except of paper of greater importance than money.”

  “That’s true,” said Fromburg. “Still, this particular money could be part of something else. Do you think you’ll catch the woman?”

  “A certainty,” said González. “But we’ll catch her man, her pimp, first. The very size of the robbery—you call this type a ‘rolling,’ do you not?—insures its solution. Fives, tens, even twenties the man may spend without me knowing. But within an hour after he shows his first fifty dollar bill, I will know. He will never get to the hundreds, or the thousands. He will show himself, I think, within three days.”

  González took Fromburg to Gumol’s hotel, and they went up to his room, unannounced. Gumol was seated in front of the opened French doors, a highball glass in his hand, staring out over the water. It was not yet the heat of the day but he was shirtless, his face was bright with sweat, and a river of sweat inundated the patches of gray on his chest and flowed across his thick and waxy middle.

  Fromburg introduced himself politely and showed his credentials. An unpleasant-looking ape, he thought, and unhealthy, and smelly as a Skid Row stumblebum. Yet his questions, at first, were as diffident and respectful as any banker, and upright citizen, could expect. How had this unfortunate thing occurred? Would he please describe the woman? Had he mentioned having this large sum of money with him? And then:

  “By the way, was this your money, or did it belong to the bank?”

  “It was mine. Personal funds.”

  “Did you draw it out of your account before you came to Havana?”

  “No. Took it out of my safe deposit box.”

  “Were the serial numbers of the thousand dollar bills registered?”

  Gumol’s fingers twisted a knot of hair on his chest. “Why, no, I don’t believe so.”

  “That’s going to make it difficult to trace them,” Fromburg said. “Of course you know the banking regulations concerning registration of thousand dollar bills?”

  “Now look here, I don’t see why the FBI should be interested in this. I don’t think you have any right—”

  Fromburg smiled. “Only trying to help you, Mr. Gumol, as we try to help any citizen.”

  And he kept on pumping the questions. If it was true, as Gumol insisted, that the money was to be used for a Cuban business deal, then what was the deal? With whom? Was the money part of Gumol’s income? Had he paid taxes on it? How long had the money been in the vault? How much more cash did he possess? Would it be helpful if the Treasury Department was called in to refresh Gumol’s memory?

  At the end of four hours Gumol seemed to break. “All right! All right!” he said. “Now, I’ll tell you the truth. Truth is that I’m running away from my wife. Maybe that’s a crime, maybe it isn’t. She’s a vicious, jealous old harridan. Made my life miserable. I’ve been saving up for years waiting to make the break. Now, why don’t you people try to get my money back instead of trying to pin something on me? You’re law enforcement officers, aren’t you?”

  “Well, Mr. Gumol, I’m glad you came out with it,” Felix said. “It makes our job easier, knowing all the facts.”

  Gumol relaxed a little, and Fromburg calculated the measure of his relief. “However, there are just a few more questions.” He began to dig into Gumol’s past history. He began to ask about Gumol’s father.

  At six o’clock that evening González was wearied, and left.

  Fromburg kept at it. Several times Gumol refused to talk further. Each time Fromburg found that he could prod him into answers by hinting at publicity, or extradition. It became obvious that Gumol was deathly afraid of something. Somewhere back in the United States was something more fearful than the anger of his wife or an investigation of his funds.

  More rum was brought. Fromburg drank just enough to keep the edge on his energy. He allowed Gumol to take three drinks to his one. He allowed Gumol to drink until his speech slurred and he weaved in his chair like an animal brought to bay after an exhausting chase. Food was sent up. Gumol revived somewhat, and spun lies as he ate.

  At length Fromburg judged his target was wavering. He said, in the same tone as he used for the most innocuous of questions, “Your wife says you’ve been getting money from the Commies, Mr. Gumol. Is that true?”

  Gumol’s mouth was slack, his eyes dull as if he had been punched. He shook his head. “Lies. Another one of her dirty lies. She’d say anything to get me into trouble. Why, it’s ridiculous. Can you imagine a banker being a Communist?”

  Fromburg nodded. “Why, yes, I can,” he said. “I have known millionaires who were Communists, and well-paid editors who were Communists, and a few government people who were Communists. So it isn’t hard for me to imagine a banker being a Communist, and it certainly isn’t difficult to imagine a banker dealing with the Communists, even if he isn’t one himself. Perhaps your wife was referring to some deals in foreign exchange.”

  Gumol didn’t speak at once. He was reflecting on how much could be learned from old records. “It is always possible,” he said cautiously, “that years ago, before the war you know, my father may have executed a few commissions for them. Perhaps that’s where my wife got the crazy idea.”

  “Perhaps,” Fromburg said. He looked at his watch. He had been at it twelve hours. It was about enough for that night. In the morning he would have Gumol go back over the whole story, have him retell his whole life history. Fromburg was confident that after he had caught the man in enough lies, Gumol would break. Now he wanted to give him something to think about. He wanted to be sure that Gumol’s night would be sleepless, and that he would be terrorized by his own imagination. “Mr. Gumol,” he said, “I happen to know that you’re here because you’re afraid. I don’t blame you. I don’t think your life is worth much, at this moment. Nothing’s going to save you, except perhaps the truth. Now I’m going to leave you but I’m going to be in the next room, and I’ll be back here for breakfast with you in the morning. Don’t try to leave. Lieutenant González wouldn’t like it.”

  Fromburg rose, stretched, and left. When the door shut, Gumol fell across the bed, buried his face in the pillow, and sobbed. After a few minutes he began to claw at the sheets in rage at his own stupidity.

  9

  That night Katharine and Jesse went out to the flight line to watch her brother’s plane being readied for takeoff. Keatton had ordered an unorthodox emergency mission for six bombers from Hibiscus and thirty more from the other southern bases. Only elite crews were chosen. They were to range far out over the ocean, the Caribbean, and the Gulf, and scan the seas, outside normal shipping lanes, with their radar. The B-99 was not designed or equipped for anti-submarine patrol for it burned fuel at a fantastic rate at the lower altitudes, but it had an important asset—tremendous range. By proceeding to remote search areas at normal altitudes, and then dropping closer to the sea, their radar might, conceivably, find submarines cruising on the surface halfway across an ocean.

  The mission was heartening proof to Jesse that Keatton was taking seriously the Intentions Group’s forecast, but he watched the preparations for another reason. He had for
gotten how many things went aboard an aircraft in the final hour before takeoff.

  There were oxygen tanks. “They look like bombs themselves,” he told Katy. There were flare guns, freshly charged flashlights, map cases, box lunches, thermos bottles, newly inspected rubber rafts with their compressed air cartridges for inflation, bulky cameras, cases of film, fire extinguishers, binoculars, extra radar tubes, first aid kits. There seemed no end to the equipment that could hide a pressure bomb.

  Jess said, almost to himself, “But the cabin is pressurized.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was just thinking that all that stuff is going into a pressurized cabin, so how could a pressure bomb work? But as soon as I asked myself the question I had the answer. Sea level pressure isn’t maintained in the cabin. They just try to keep it at a bearable level. They don’t even start to pressurize the cabin until they’re over ten thousand. When the Nine-Nine is at twenty-five thousand, pressure inside the cabin is held to about twelve. So if a pressure bomb is sneaked into the cabin, it must be set around there, just a little bit higher than the ones in Italy.”

  He would tell General Keatton about it, if he had another chance to see Keatton alone. He would certainly talk about it to Colonel Lundstrom. Of all the security officers now on the base, Lundstrom had been most impressed by his pressure bomb theory. Lundstrom, too, had been in Italy and recalled the tragic legend of the Cottontails.

  At eleven the planes were ready. Clint sauntered over to say goodbye. He squeezed Katharine’s shoulder and said, “See you people at breakfast. Or maybe brunch. Depends on our fuel consumption. A Nine-Nine doesn’t like to cruise around and around at under thirty thousand feet.”

  “Yes,” Jesse said. “We’ll see you at breakfast.” He tried to make the tone of his voice as casual as the words. It was difficult. All his life, it seemed, he had said casual goodbyes which in a few hours were solidified as permanent, by death. He had lost so many friends. He hoped he would not lose this brother-in-law-to-be, who also promised to be a good friend.

  Then Clint was gone. The great engines fired up and Jesse and Katy and the Air Police got off the flight line and found shelter in the lee of a crash truck and shielded their ears against the torturing roar. The mission took off. In the strange hush after, Katharine said, “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  Jesse said, “Don’t beat yourself up, Katy.”

  “I don’t think you can quite understand how I feel about those big brutes,” she said, “because you’re not a woman. To me, those planes are monsters.”

  They walked over to Clint’s car and he helped her inside and he pulled her to him and kissed her. When she responded he knew that she had Clint off her mind, at least for a while. It was an hour before he drove her back to the Greshams’.

  10

  Since this was his night off, Stanley Smith stayed in Barracks 37 and played poker. To have reported for work in the mess hall when he was not required to do so, or even visited the kitchen, would have caused comment and brought him unwelcome attention. He could wait. He planned to take three of his thermos bottles to work on the following night, and two more Sunday night. That should finish SAC.

  (It was not a night off for Masters, on a SAC base near Corpus Christi. Unlike Smith, Masters had never been able to ease himself into a position where he always had access to the flight lunches and coffee containers. Things had been quite difficult for him, and risky. But on this night he was determined to make a big effort, for it was his night of midnight to 0800 duty, when he would have his best chance of planting the booby traps. When he reported at the mess hall he carried a thermos bottle under each arm.)

  seven

  WHEN SMITH awoke Saturday morning he yawned, stretched, and saw that Phil Cusack was sitting on the other bed, watching him. Cusack was dressed in his best blues, and was wearing his peaked cap. Smith guessed that Cusack had been sitting there for some time, hoping he would awaken. “Say, Stan,” Cusack said, “you know I got cleaned in that game last night.”

  “Told you to get out when you were ahead. Table stakes is for men, not boys.”

  “How much did you win, Stan?”

  “I don’t know. Forty-fifty maybe.”

  “How about lending me a couple of bucks? I’ve got my twenty-four-hour pass for Orlando.”

  “How much do you owe me now?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  Smith sat up. “Okay, I’ll let you have another ten. Hand me my wallet. There, on that table.”

  Cusack brought the wallet. “Stan,” he said, “I borrowed one of your ties.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Stan, do you know you’ve got five coffee jars stacked up in your closet? I thought you ought to . . .” Cusack stopped. Stan’s face suddenly was like gray stone. “I thought you ought . . .”

  “What about those thermos bottles?”

  “Nothing. Except last night Ciocci was beefing. Says he’s shy five thermos bottles because they got lost with them aircraft and now he doesn’t have enough. Maybe I ought . . .”

  “Shut up!”

  “I was only going to say maybe I ought to take them back to the kitchen for you.”

  “Oh.” Smith forced himself to relax. “You don’t have to worry about it, Phil,” he said. “I’ll take ’em back when I go to work tonight. Only thing is, I don’t like anybody messing around in my closet. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Sure, I know it. I was just borrowing that tie.”

  Smith opened his wallet and brought out two tens, and handed them to Cusack. “Here’s a little extra dough,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

  “Thanks, Stan,” Cusack said, grinning. “Say, you know any girls in Orlando?”

  “A few. Why?” He wished Cusack would hurry up and get out.

  “I just wondered whether maybe one of your girls wouldn’t know a girl?”

  Smith realized that the situation had to be handled. It was necessary that Cusack get off the base, and necessary that he forget all about those thermos bottles in the closet. The way to make him forget was get him a girl. There was only Betty Jo, and Betty Jo wouldn’t go for Cusack. But Betty Jo would know plenty of other girls, and maybe she could find one of about Cusack’s age. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Phil. I’ll give you a note to my girl. Name’s Betty Jo Atkins. Works at the Sea Trout. She’ll get you fixed up.”

  Smith got out of bed, found a pad of Air Force stationery, sat down at the table, and wrote the note: “Dear Betty Jo—This will introduce my roommate, Phil Cusack. He’s a good kid. Wants a date. Take care of him, will you? Love, Stan.”

  He slipped the note into an envelope, wrote her name across the face of it, and handed it to Cusack. “She gets off work at five. You know where the Sea Trout is, don’t you?”

  “Sure. Thanks a million, Stan.” While Cusack was trotting down the steps of Barracks 37, whistling, he unfolded the two tens. They were new bills, but Stan’s fist had crushed them into a moist, twisted knot. Stan was a wonderful guy, all right, but about some things he sure was funny.

  2

  Clint Hume was back in time for a late breakfast, as he had promised. He showed up at the Gresham house with Red Gresham, his aircraft commander, shortly before eleven. The long-range search had been back since nine, but de-briefing had required almost two hours. It had been difficult to determine what the electronic eyes of the B-99’s had seen, if anything.

  Katharine and Jesse and Margaret Gresham were waiting, sipping orange juice and listening to the radio in the kitchen. Jesse was contemplating, aloud, a peculiar facet of American manners. In times of tension and crisis people kept their radios going all day and most of the night, to the neglect of television. He rarely had been out of earshot of a radio for the whole week. People knew, instinctively, that a radio program could and would be interrupted for a news flash. It was different with television, which might be showing a film at the moment, or be engrossed with an expensive and complex dramatic production
or situation comedy which on no account must be blighted by a news bulletin.

  Clint Hume and Gresham, heavy-eyed and unshaven, sat down at the table and Gresham nodded at the radio and said, “What’s the news?”

  Jesse laughed. It was easy for a man to lose his perspective in their business. He said, “Red, if there’s any really important news in the world it’s probably right in your head.”

  “Not mine,” Gresham said. “Clint’s. Unless he had spots in front of his eyes. He can’t seem to make up his mind.”

  Clint Hume said, “We’d been more than halfway to Europe, and were coming back when I picked up what looked like a whole fleet of ships on my screen. Fringe area. Just when the pips came into the hundred mile circle, they disappeared. Just faded away. Never saw anything like it before.”

  “How many pips?” asked Jess.

  “Oh, more than a dozen. About nine hundred miles due east of New York. I don’t know whether it was some freak reflection, or what. That’s what I can’t make up my mind about.”

  “Anybody else see them?”

  “No. We had the northeast quadrant and they all seemed to be in our sector. That’s the trouble. Anyway, we sent on the sighting to Washington, followed by a question mark.”

  The music on the radio faded away, and an announcer’s voice said: “We interrupt this program for an important news bulletin. Radio Ankara has just announced that it has learned, from a reliable diplomatic source, that two well-known marshals of the Red Army and an admiral of the Red Navy have been executed. Marshals Jullnick and Kuznoff, and Admiral Zubarov were arrested on November fifteenth, secretly tried as enemies of the state, and shot in Lubianka Prison, according to the official Turkish radio. There has been no confirmation of this report from Moscow. The Associated Press and United Press have received no dispatches from their correspondents in Moscow for the past twenty-four hours, indicating that a most rigid censorship has been imposed. For further developments, keep tuned . . .”