Thin Air

by George Simpson

  "My investigating act," he said. "Look, I could use you as a decoy. It'll be like flaunting failure in their faces. Should be fun to see them squirm. And at the worst, you'll have a good time. I hear Bloch's parties are sensational."

  "What about safety?"

  "You'll be surrounded by Navy brass."

  She sighed. "Oh, Hammond..."

  "What?"

  "You're going to have to buy me a dress. I just haven't got a thing to wear."

  She batted her eyes at him.

  They convened at Smitty's flat on 29th Street, less than half a mile from Hammond's. There were Hammond and Jan, Gault and Smitty, and their wives. The two Navy men were in dress blues, the ladies wore gowns, and Smitty effectively hid his bulk inside a tentlike tux.

  Jan was open and charming, much to Hammond's relief, even sweeping aside the muttered condolences offered by Smitty and Gault and captivating them with a warm and radiant smile.

  As he strolled past Hammond to get the ladies a drink, Gault mumbled, "That's a widow?"

  Certainly Jan was not behaving like a widow, nor did she even resemble one. Her gown was a pale green silk off-the-shoulder, with a sash draped across her breasts. Her brown hair gleamed, pulled back tight to fall around her neck in Grecian curls. Hammond could hardly take his eyes off her.

  Smitty excused himself to the ladies and led the men into his den, a dark oak-paneled cave lined with books. He poured them Scotch and plain soda water for himself from his private bar, then he sat down and faced Gault.

  "Okay, Admiral, let's have it," he said.

  "I spent all of yesterday morning with Admiral Larry Corso," Gault began. "He's Bloch's Washington rep. Retired six years ago as chief liaison for Naval Air Systems Command and he collects a fat pension. But he's a double dipper, because he also takes a fat paycheck as a lobbyist for some of the big defense contractors. And he's got a direct line into the Navy Chief of Staff, close ties with the Armed Forces Appropriations Committee, and the cooperation, if he needs it, of the White House.

  "He made it clear that he resents us sticking our noses into Bloch's business if only for one reason: both RTI and MTL are prime contractors on a super-sensitive, top-secret Navy project, the most advanced orbiting weapons guidance system of its kind. They've been developing it for years and they're very near completion. Admiral Corso, 'in the interests of the Navy' as he puts it will take any steps necessary to see that this project is not jeopardized."

  Hammond snorted. "Did you drop any hints about the steps Traben and his people have been taking?"

  "I did. And he looked at me like I was crazy. In fact, he got furious. He seemed to be aware of you, Hammond, and was quite upset. He accused us of cooking all this stuff up and he demanded to know why."

  Hammond looked to Smitty for comment, but the big man sat silently behind his desk. He didn't even appear to be listening.

  Gault resumed. "I checked with the CNO. The business about the guidance project is true. Very hush-hush. It's Micro-Tech's biggest contract, and RTI is a major subcontractor."

  At last Smitty let out a grunt. He shifted in his seat, picked up a pencil, and began to doodle. "You know, it's very interesting," he said. "I've had the Government Accounting Office do a preliminary audit on both companies going back some five years, just a check of in-house records. RTI is clean as a whistle. But on some of MTL's larger deals, contracts in the range of half a billion dollars, they've frequently requested enormous increases in funding. If, for example, they've got three big projects going and one of them falls into trouble, they have no compunction about running immediately to Defense for more money. You would think they'd want to uphold their sound image and simply rob Peter to pay Paul—fall back on company profits. But no way." He stopped, then looked at Gault.

  "You were right," said Gault. "They're kiting funds."

  "Sure they are," Smitty agreed. "And if they've been doing it for twenty years, it could amount to millions—certainly enough to finance Thin Air."

  "And without absolute proof, we can't touch them," Gault sighed.

  There was a long silence. Gault tossed down his Scotch.

  "It would be nice," began Hammond, "to sort of hint to F.P. Bloch that we know what he's doing."

  "Wouldn't it?" said Smitty thinly. "They're making a bona fide threat. Corso wants us to lay off."

  "But we're not getting anything in return," growled Gault. "That's a helluva one-sided bargain."

  "At least he's giving us a little time," said Smitty. "He could have charged right over to his 'friends in high places' and had us hog-tied."

  "But he didn't," said Hammond, putting down his drink, "because he doesn't want to attract attention. That means he knows what's really going on in there!"

  "Possibly," Smitty grunted. "In any case, we can continue to pursue this discreetly, as long as we don't antagonize Admiral Corso. I too have the ears of the Navy Chief of Staff and the Appropriations Committee." Smitty flashed a wry smile.

  Gault shifted uncomfortably. "I'm afraid Corso is a little better connected. The present Navy Chief served under him for ten years, and the head of the Appropriations Committee is a cousin."

  Smitty's face grew dark, "If there's one thing I hate, ifs pushy admirals," he snarled.

  Gault's eyes widened.

  "Present company excluded," Smitty added.

  Bloch's house was a four-story Victorian mansion in the most fashionable section of Georgetown. The palace occupied a corner lot and dominated everything around it. Floodlights blazed against the façade. The circular drive was awash with Cadillacs; diplomatic license plates abounded. It was obvious that Bloch moved in very high circles. Hammond adjusted his uncomfortable dress uniform and followed the others into the house. Gault stopped Smitty and pointed to a flock of Lincolns with Arab plates.

  "Does Bloch deal with the oil cartel?"

  Smitty shrugged. "Nowadays, the Arabs show up at every party."

  The foyer was enormous, with stairs opening onto two landings above. The floor was marble, the walls pale blue and hung with priceless oil paintings. Carved oak doors opened onto a ballroom on the left, where most of the party seemed to be gathering.

  As servants appeared to take their coats, Hammond swept the room with a searching gaze. He spotted a small knot of Arabs watching a group of Americans move down a side hallway. Smitty nudged him and indicated the men disappearing down the hall.

  "Big-shots from the oil companies," he said.

  The door was gently closed by a butler. Hammond glanced back at the Arabs—their eyes were riveted on that closed door.

  "That's a hell of an odd tableau," he whispered to Smitty.

  Hammond led Jan into the mass of people who made up the Washington social scene, pointing out several senators and congressmen. He was enjoying her excitement when he caught sight of a beefy face regarding him coldly from across the room.

  It was Joe Coogan.

  Hammond introduced Jan to a senator from Iowa and left with a promise to return with drinks. He walked directly over to Coogan, who greeted him with a big smile.

  "Thought you never traveled," chided Hammond.

  "Special occasion. I got called."

  "Really? I don't see your boss anywhere."

  Coogan laid a hand on Hammond's shoulder, then hurried off to someone else he knew.

  Hammond let out his breath, surprised to find how nervous he was. He didn't really believe Coogan would try to kill him here.

  He wandered back to the open oak doors, first checking to see that Jan was occupied in conversation. No problem: she was flirting with two senators now.

  He positioned himself in the foyer, covered by a group of new arrivals, and glued his eye to that side hallway and the closed door. Smitty came over and Hammond asked if he would get Jan a drink and keep an eye on her.

  "Naturally," said Smitty. "And what will you be doing?"

  "Waiting for Mr. Bloch. You might point him out to me."

  "He's not here yet."


  Hammond shrugged but remained where he was. After five minutes of waiting, he glanced around and noticed that most of the Arabs had moved into the party, but two of them had stationed themselves near a potted fern.

  Suddenly, the door swung open and the oil men emerged in twos and threes, looking casual as hell. The Arabs stared intently at each face, as if trying to sense what was going on.

  The last man out was tall, cadaverous, and sixtyish, with a jaundiced complexion. He had an imperial manner and a fast smile for the dozens of guests who immediately descended on him.

  It had to be Bloch. Hammond was sure long before Smitty returned with the Gaults and Jan, picking him up to take him over to where the host was holding court.

  "Francis!" Smitty boomed, cutting through a knot of well-wishers. The way opened for him the instant Bloch responded with a big, warm smile. The smile stayed there, fixed and generous, until Smitty introduced Hammond.

  Then it clicked down about four notches.

  Dinner was sumptuous, luxurious, and stately, but Hammond was perturbed to find that last-minute seating arrangements placed him and Jan opposite Coogan, at actable far from Bloch, and even farther from his companions.

  The dining room was as enormous as the ballroom, draped with heavy curtains over French windows. The chandeliers seemed to enhance the gleam of pleasure in Jan's eyes. The room was arranged in a succession of small round tables, each seating six. Coogan, Hammond, and Jan were at a table with three Arabs, directly in front of a window. Hammond was uncomfortably aware of being the perfect target for an assassin waiting on the street outside. Coogan seemed to relish his discomfort.

  During dinner, Hammond stole glances at Bloch, sitting across the room with several grim-looking businessmen. He was animated; they were listless. Hammond recognized two of them as oil men he had seen coming out of that hallway earlier.

  He continued watching Bloch, but his attention was drawn back to his own table by Coogan's deep, raspy voice telling Jan how lovely she was. Hammond smiled to himself.

  Jan handled Coogan expertly, encouraging the compliments and, casually flirting. But when one of the Arabs inquired as to Hammond's job in the Navy, Coogan got down to brass tacks:

  "Commander Hammond is a super-secret agent of the Naval Investigative Service," he said, "sort of a waterlogged James Bond."

  The Arabs nodded and laughed. "Is this true?" one of them asked Hammond. He shrugged flatly.

  "Of course it's true," said Coogan. "And who are you investigating tonight, Commander?"

  "Nobody."

  "Oh, I can hardly believe that, I can't think of any other reason why an agent of the NIS would be invited to a Washington soiree. Perhaps you're investigating these gentlemen!"

  He waved at the Arabs. Hammond looked up at them. Their smiles vanished.

  "Come on, Hammond," laughed Coogan. "Tell all!"

  Hammond smiled at the Arabs. "You can relax, boys, I'm here to investigate Mr. Bloch's chopped liver."

  Coogan roared and the Arabs joined him, relieved.

  Hammond gazed out the window intently.

  After dinner, Jan went off to the powder room and Hammond got up to follow Coogan, who turned back with a grin. "I'm in not going anywhere special, Hammond. You really don't have to tag along."

  "I like dogging your footsteps. Maybe you'll trip and I can catch you."

  "Your girl friend is a knockout, Hammond."

  "You know who she is: Harold Fletcher's wife."

  Coogan smiled broadly. "You mean widow," he said.

  Hammond stopped in his tracks, his brow darkening. Coogan turned back to him, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. "If I had a girl friend like that," he added, "I wouldn't keep her in Washington. The dangers of mugging."

  "How would you know that since you spend all your time in California?"

  "I've been told."

  Hammond stepped away, knowing Coogan would follow him now, eager to continue the taunts. And Coogan did without hesitating a moment, not realizing until too late that Hammond was maneuvering them toward Bloch.

  At the last moment, Coogan reached for Hammond's arm but found it jerked from his grasp. Hammond walked right up to Bloch among a group of businessmen and Arabs.

  "Mr. Bloch," he said, "I'd like to compliment you on your Chief of Security." Hammond slurred a bit, playing tipsy.

  Bloch's eyes flicked to Coogan, who stood anxiously a few feet away. "Mr. Coogan works for MTL," he said quietly;

  "Yes, I know. I visited your plant out in Manhattan Beach. I was very impressed; I'm impressed by everything I learn about Micro-Tech."

  "Are you doing research on us, Commander?" The cold smile edged into place. The Arabs looked on with interest.

  "Research?" repeated Hammond. "Yes, you might say that. For instance, I've discovered that MTL handles a lot of government contracts—a few small jobs and a lot of big impressive ones." The Arabs looked away, but their ears became antennae. "I find it curious that a certain Navy project requires astonishing amounts of government funding while the others seem so damned self-sufficient Why is that?"

  "The Navy project involves more experimentation. Especially since it's not into production yet—"

  "What's the nature of it?"

  "Really, Commander. If you don't already know, then it's none of your affair."

  Hammond smiled and said, "Oh, I know what it's supposed to be, but I've been wondering if it's really something else."

  Bloch gave him a wintry smile and a muttered excuse, then moved off with his Arab guests. Hammond found himself the object of curious study by those around him who had overheard the conversation. He looked for Coogan, but the big man was gone. He spotted Jan outside the powder room in discussion with Mrs. Gault. Smitty and the admiral were occupied with several friends.

  Hammond decided to do some exploring. He slipped out to the foyer and snatched a brandy from a passing waiter. He loosened the collar of his uniform and waited until none of the suspicious types were watching him, then casually wandered up the winding staircase. He held his breath all the way to the first landing, knowing that if he made it that far, it was unlikely he would be spotted by anyone below.

  He stepped onto the landing and looked both ways. Then he glanced down at the foyer. No one had seen him. With his pronounced shuffle and the brandy held loosely in his hand, he looked like a drunk in search of the bathroom.

  He wandered down the second-floor hallway and peered into every open room, finding little of interest—except for the sitting room in which he discovered a glittering couple staring at each other with smoky eyes; they didn't see him.

  Back to the landing again, then up the next flight of stairs. On the third floor, Hammond was a bit more cautious. It would be tougher to explain if he were caught up here.

  Most of the doors were closed. And the goddamned floor creaked. Hammond cursed the old house, but he began letting himself through the doors, one by one. They were all expansive bedrooms, superbly decorated. Even the slim shaft of light thrown from the hall made clear their opulence. Fortunately, none of the rooms were occupied.

  In the third bedroom he entered there was a light on across the room, a silvery beam coming from what looked to be a bathroom door, slightly ajar. Hammond hesitated a long moment at the bedroom door, his ears straining to catch any hint of breathing.

  There was none.

  He entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He waited with his back to the door, softly whistling to himself and playing his drunk act, while his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. There didn't appear to be anyone waiting for him. It was a room fit for a king, with a bed the size of a swimming pool, enormous fluffy pillows, mirrors on the ceiling....

  He walked slowly across to the bathroom.

  Pausing at the door, he peered cautiously inside. As bathrooms go, this was particularly spacious—and gilt, tiled, and carpeted. It was also a mess, with face towels and washcloths flung about, traces of hair, soap, and powder
on the counter...and an open shaving kit on the sink, alligator leather with the initials "FPB" in gold script.

  So there was no doubt that this was Bloch's bathroom. He went in and set his brandy down on the counter. Spanish tile, he noted, beautifully fitted, too. He moved to the toilet. As long as he was here...

  Then he noticed the groove worn in the carpet in front of the shower, as if something had been dragged across it in an arc. Hammond stared at it a moment; it was a curious imperfection in such a lavish house. His eyes traveled up to the large shower stall standing against the wall. Against it, not set into it; it had the obvious appearance of an afterthought. The door was one one side and the shower faucets against the opposite wall. Peculiar.

  Hammond opened the shower door and peered inside. It was dry as a bone. Not a drop of moisture, not even the odor of recent use. Hammond reached for the hot-water tap and turned it. Nothing happened. The flow was turned off.

  He stepped back out of the shower, puzzled. He glanced at the bathtub. It was a large sunken affair, and halfway up the wall were shower taps. If Bloch took showers in that, what did he need this stall for?

  Hammond hunkered down and examined the groove in the carpet, which lined up with one corner of the stall. It looked as if the entire stall could swing out on that arc. He got up and braced his hands against two corners of the stall and tried to move it in the direction of the groove. It didn't budge. There had to be an operating mechanism, a release trigger. He looked around for a lever, a switch—anything. There was a panel of wall switches by the bathroom door. He moved to it and tried them individually. There was one for the heater, one for the fan, one for the light. The fourth didn't appear to operate anything. He left it in the "on" position, then again tried to move the shower stall.

  This time it came away and swung across the carpet, scraping into the groove—and exposing a small vault behind it.

  As the stall swung fully open, a light blinked on in the vault, a low-wattage darkroom safety light. Hammond could see that in the center of a six-foot-square space stood a low metallic pedestal, apparently containing some sort of instrumentation.