Thin Air

by George Simpson

  "Very funny. Have you got a pencil?" She grunted a reply. "Okay, get hold of the Data Center first thing in the morning. Have them run a check through BUPERS on one Joseph Coogan, possible former Navy officer. Have them check the State Department for current status on the passport and visas of one Dr. Emil Kurtnauer, Austrian-born, possible naturalized American with dual Israeli citizenship. I want to know whether Dr. Kurtnauer has returned from Israel at any time in the last ten years. If so, dates, port of entry, et cetera. Then I want a run-down on security clearances for Micro-Technology Laboratories in Manhattan Beach, California. Was Kurtnauer ever cleared by the FBI to work there? And I want a complete portfolio on the company itself teletyped to the Los Angeles Navy PIO. I'll be here at 0900 tomorrow morning—that's noon your time. Okay?"

  There was a long silence punctuated by a groan, then she asked him to spell Kurtnauer.

  "One other thing," he added, "get hold of Cohen or Slater through Jack Pohl. Have one of them call me here at 0930 tomorrow."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And get some rest, Ensign. You sound like someone's been pushing you too hard."

  Jan Fletcher lived in a fashionable section of Brentwood, north of Sunset Boulevard on a street called Homewood. The house was a one-story ranch-style home on a large tree-shaded lot. Hammond walked to the front door and rang the bell.

  She opened the door and smiled tentatively as she let him in. She walked ahead of him and down a few steps to the living room. It was long, with huge glass doors that opened onto a patio and an enormous backyard. There was a novel overturned on an ottoman, and a half-empty cocktail glass on the coffee table.

  "Can I get you a drink, Nicky?"

  "Please." He nodded. She went to the bar and he looked around, impressed by the decor. It was very California, especially the fossil-stone and brass fireplace that jutted out into the center of the room.

  "I wanted to get rid of that," said Jan, following his gaze, "but Harold loved it." She returned with Hammond's drink. "A big fireplace was his status symbol. Comes from living in too many apartments with radiators."

  She met Hammond's gaze and let him search her face. Her eyes seemed cool and distant.

  "I'm all right now," she said. "I've gotten used to being alone again." She picked up her drink and sipped at it.

  "I'm glad," he said, and smiled.

  "You're glad I'll alone?"

  Hammond blinked. "I'm sorry. What a dumb thing to say."

  She sat on the edge of the ottoman, her knees pressed together. "Hammond...why are you here?"

  He sighed. "I think I acted like a rat before. I wish there were some way I could make it up to you."

  She studied him objectively. "There is. Tell me what's on your mind."

  He laughed. "I thought you said not to bring my work around."

  "If it concerns me, then it's not just your work—it's an obligation."

  He felt something move in his stomach. "I guess I do owe you..." he said and paced to the bar for another ice cube. He called back over his shoulder, "How much did Harold confide in you?"

  "That's impossible to answer, isn't it? If half his life were a secret, how would I know it?"

  "You always seemed to know when I was hiding something."

  She smiled and crossed her legs, relaxing. Hammond walked back slowly, his eyes on her calves. She looked so good in a skirt....

  "You did look into his background, didn't you?" she said. "That's, what you've been working on; that's why you're here." -

  He nodded. "Believe me, there's nothing in Harold's, past that will ever change your opinion of him, whatever that is. But he knew things that couldn't...that were buried inside." Her expression changed to puzzlement. He took a deep breath and said, "What if I told you that Harold's nightmare was real?"

  She stared at him. "What—what do you mean?" she stammered.

  "I mean real. All of it. Not just a dream: it happened. He really was in Philadelphia, there was an experiment, and he was part of it."

  Her eyes were wide. "Is it true?" she breathed.

  "Let me put it this way," he said. "I've found other men with the same dream." She stared back. "And the same doctor."

  Her eyes searched his, probing. "McCarthy—?"

  "Yes."

  "He made her sit down, then briefly described what McCarthy had been doing to his patients for twenty years. He told her about Yablonski and Olively, but he held back on Harold's death. She would ask soon enough: it wouldn't take her long to put two and two together. She listened stonily as he described McCarthy's technique, then interrupted him to ask why.

  He explained Project Thin Air quickly and calmly, and she sat there, growing incredulous. He had just finished telling about the 1953 experiment when she rose slowly and left the room.

  Hammond followed her into the kitchen. He watched her move around like a zombie. She put lamb chops under the broiler, then turned to make a salad.

  He caught her eye and said, "You don't want to believe it. I can't blame you."

  "I'd rather believe Harold was crazy."

  "So would I."

  She glanced at him once, then wouldn't look again. She concentrated on the dinner. He wasn't surprised by her disbelief. It was an idiotic story. He'd known that as he was telling it. It would be a miracle if Gault accepted even one word of it.

  Finally, Hammond sighed and said, "I'm feeling grubby. Would you mind if I had a bath?"

  She put down a paring knife without a word and led him to a huge tiled bathroom, then walked out, closing the door.

  While the tub filled, he stripped and examined his cuts and bruises in the mirror. He looked like a patchwork quilt of red, green, blue, and white. What a mess. He rummaged for Epsom salts to put in the tub and stopped to stare at the array of toiletries on the counter. She had not yet removed the traces of Harold Fletcher.

  He eased into the hot water and relaxed. He could feel tension melting away. But the ache from head to toe was still there. He slid down until the water was up to his chin. It was soft, soothing, and quiet. He closed his eyes....

  The door was thrown open with a bang and his knees jerked up involuntarily. He saw Jan coming at him with a terrible look.

  "You sonofabitch!" she screamed.

  She banged the sliding door back. Her hand swiped downward and caught him across the cheek. She bent over and flailed at him, slapping from every direction. She was sobbing with rage.

  "Jan!" he yelled. "Jan, for Christ's sake!"

  He managed to grab one of her hands but couldn't get the other one.

  She held his mouth shut with her fingers. He strained for leverage. "Don't say anything," she warned. "Ever again! Don't ever say anything to me again! You killed Harold!"

  She was staring at him, her lips contorted into a snarl. Then her eyes swam with confusion. She weakened, realized what she was doing, then let go....

  Hammond clutched the side of the tub and pulled himself up, sucking in air.

  "You killed Harold," she sobbed. "And I killed him, by sending him to you."

  She broke into tears. Her hands fluttered and he grabbed one of them. Her head sank onto his shoulder and she knelt at the side of the tub, sobbing herself quiet.

  "We didn't kill him," Hammond whispered.

  "But if he hadn't come to you—if you hadn't looked into his past—"

  Oh God, he thought. She's blaming us both for Harold's heart attack. She still doesn't understand that it was McCarthy,

  But maybe...maybe it was my fault, he thought.

  Her coldness had vanished. She helped him out of the bath, paying no attention to his nudity. She was solicitous of his bruises and, as she rubbed them with ointment, demanded to know how he had got them. There was no point in holding back anymore, so he told her about MTL and Traben, about Rinehart's death and his own close call. She still found Thin Air hard to believe, but he'd made her understand the danger. Now all she had to do was connect murder to her husband's death.

  By t
he time they sat down to dinner, the lamb chops were cold, but they ate voraciously. Flickering candlelight warmed their faces with a yellow glow. Hammond sijpped wine and wallowed in one of Harold Fletcher's terrycloth robes.

  "You don't have anyone staying with you?" he asked.

  "No."

  "What about your mother?"

  "She never travels. She won't leave New York." "Girl friends?"

  "I don't really want anybody. Harold's boss calls once a day."

  "How long are you going to stay in retreat?"

  She didn't answer for a long time, then she said, "I'm glad you're here."

  "I know. That's why you tried to drown me."

  She choked out a laugh, then smiled: it was pleasant seeing her happy again. He got up on impulse and came around the table to stand over her. She looked up at him with amused interest. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. She wasn't surprised at all. Her amusement turned to trembling fascination. She closed her eyes and he kissed her again. Her hand closed over his.

  They made love long into the night, then fell apart on the sheets in a sprawl and let the cool air from the open window dry their bodies. They touched hands and lay quietly in the dark until they were asleep.

  Jan woke Hammond at around four in the morning and complained of being cold. Hammond pulled up the sheet and arranged the blanket and she huddled with him. He peered through the dimness and saw her studying his face. Her eyes were warm now.

  "Nicky?"

  "Umm..."

  "Why did we do this?"

  He said nothing and she didn't press him for an answer. They both lay there and thought about it.

  "Are we going to be a thing again?" she asked.

  After a moment, he said, "I feel like a football. You can grab me and run for the goal or kick me back to the visiting team."

  She smiled. "I don't like football."

  "Good," he said. "Then you name the game."

  "I can't...yet."

  "Just as well."

  She was silent again, for a long time, then she said, "I guess I should wait until all of Harold's affairs are settled before thinking of myself. God, I'm so tired of answering questions. Accountants, lawyers, insurance men...Can you believe one of the companies that insured Harold sent an investigator around the other day?"

  "Really?"

  "He was very pleasant, but he was asking all sorts of questions."

  "What questions?"

  "About what Harold was doing in Washington, where he'd been, who he'd seen. I didn't tell him we had met with you. I said only that he'd gone on business."

  Good girl, Hammond breathed to himself.

  "He asked if Harold had seen a doctor while he was in Washington. I said I didn't know. Then he asked something really nervy—if Harold was open with me about his personal problems."

  Hammond managed to stay calm. "What did he look like?"

  "The investigator? He was big, very big, with black hair, a crewcut...."

  Hammond tensed. Coogan.

  "Has anyone else been around asking questions?"

  "No. Who would be?"

  Hammond forced himself to keep his mouth shut. He didn't want her to feel she was in any danger.

  "Listen, the insurance companies have no business harassing you. Don't let any more of those guys in. And if that one comes back, call me."

  "Where?"

  "In Washington. And maybe it would be a good idea if you came back with me."

  She looked at him seriously, "I can handle myself."

  Oh, no you can't, he thought, not against this type of insurance.

  "I'll come to Washington," she said, "if I just can't keep away—from you."

  Comforting. He was suddenly very frightened. By coming here, had he put her life on the line? Was Coogan watching, even now?

  17

  Hammond went to the Federal Building in Westwood and stopped off at the FBI offices first. He requested round-the-clock surveillance for Jan Fletcher. He was introduced to Special Agent Morrow. "I can't tell you anything about the case I'm working on," he explained. "Just keep a close eye on the lady and don't let her see you."

  "What are we looking out for?" asked Morrow.

  "Strangers. Possible attempt on her life. I don't know yet. She's recently widowed. Shouldn't be any men going in or out and she's discouraging visitors. I suggest you bug the front door and monitor conversations."

  "But that's illegal," said Morrow with a big smile.

  "So?" Hammond watched him scribble a few notes absently, then leaned over the desk and covered the paper with his hand. "Hey," he said, "I'm not fooling. This is not routine. Two people are already dead, and I don't want anything to happen to her."

  His voice had risen, attracting attention from other agents. Morrow looked at him tightly, then smiled. "Don't worry," he said quietly.

  "Okay." Hammond nodded and left.

  He walked into the Navy Office of Information at three minutes to nine. He was taken back to the chief's desk and handed papers that had just arrived via long-distance photo-copier. They were copies of the MTL portfolio and several pieces of information.

  The top sheet was a memo on Coogan. It read:

  BUPERS reports a COOGAN, JOSEPH K.,

  Lieutenant Commander, U.S. Naval Reserve,

  Social Security No. 028-49-7721

  USN Serial No. 1389805

  Released from active duty August, 1955.

  Limited annual service to present.

  Hammond glanced through the information several times before he caught the telltale clue in the middle of the page:

  9805—the last four digits of CooganV serial number and the final link is the code: 9805CGN-166.

  The red flags in the files at BUPERS were set up to notify Joe Coogan of any inquiry into the Sturman's former crewmen. Coogan, still on limited duty in the Navy, had instituted this procedure himself, but how?

  The second memo contained a' report on the status of Dr. Kurtnauer. Records showed that he had gone to Israel in 1950, had taken Israeli citizenship, and had never returned to the United States.

  The next memo was from the FBI. No security clearance for any Emil Kurtnauer at MTL, now or ever.

  Hammond's heart was pounding. So Traben had thrown him a curve. What a stupid move to pretend Kurtnauer was coming over from Israel. He should have known that Hammond would find out the truth and his suspicions about all of Traben's operations would only be heightened.

  They had to be stalling for time.

  Hammond turned to the MTL portfolio. Micro-Tech was a subsidiary of RTI, whose principal stockholder and Chairman of the Board was Francis P. Bloch. Bloch had founded RTI in 1955 and Edmond Traben's name appeared on the first Board of Directors. When Micro-Tech was formed in 1962, Edmond Traben became that company's principal stockholder and chairman. Joseph Coogan, Chief of Security, had held his post since the founding and, prior to that, had been head of security at RTI from the time he left the Navy in 1955.

  The key date was 1955, when all the plots were hatched, the conclaves met, and the umbrella of secrecy was drawn over everything.

  At exactly 0930 the phone rang and Hammond was buzzed. He got on the line with Slater.

  "Hiya, Hammond, what's on your mind?"

  "Where are you calling from, Tom?"

  "MAGIC."

  "Is Yablonski listening?"

  "He's exercising in the backyard. I can see him from my loft window."

  "How's it progressing?"

  "Like squeezing toothpaste. It all came to the top yesterday afternoon. He's remembering names and dates like a repentant mobster up before a Congressional committee. We can't shut him up."

  "Any side effects?"

  "No. I think we've blown all that away. He's still got some anxiety about McCarthy, but I think that's mostly his need for revenge. A nice murder should cleanse his soul."

  "I'd love to give him the chance."

  "Better make it soon, Nick. He's talking about go
ing home. So's Momma."

  "They don't like the hospitality?"

  "They don't see the danger."

  "Nobody ever does. I'll see them when I get back. I think I can scare the daylights out of them."

  "How about you, señor? Anything on Thin Air?"

  "Plenty, but I'll tell you later. Do me a favor—ask Yablonski if he ever knew a man named Coogan. Navy. Lieutenant Commander Joseph K."

  "Just a minute. Larry's got the notes...." Slater was gone for a moment, then Cohen got on the phone.

  "Here we are," he said. "Lieutenant Commander Joe Coogan, head of security for Thin Air. Yablonski met him once, probably in 1954."

  Hammond whistled. 1954? "Was Yablonski involved with Thin Air after 1953?"

  "Yes. He now recalls spending a great deal of time under special care. He's beginning to realize he never did go back to his original assignment. His records are absolutely false. He was discharged through a special processing station in '55."

  "Anything else on Coogan?"

  "Yes. He said Coogan left Thin Air sometime in mid '54 to move to Washington. The rumor was he got assigned to BUPERS."

  Hammond nearly crushed the receiver. So that's how it was done. As far back as 1954, Joe Coogan had infiltrated BUPERS and set up his coded alarm system. So the cover-up began even before the project went private. Traben must have been plotting with Bloch ever since the abortive, experiment of 1953.

  Hammond told Cohen to make a transcript of his notes and send it to Admiral Gault along with a note that Hammond would be back to meet with the admiral and Smitty later that day.

  Hammond hung up and called Ensign Cokeland at BUPERS in Washington. He was asking her to run down Lieutenant Commander Coogan's association with BUPERS when she interrupted him.

  "No need," she said. "I know Lieutenant Commander Coogan. He's Naval Reserve. He works here two weeks every summer."