Flynn

by Mcdonald, Gregory, 1937-2008

  Grover jerked the steering wheel and stepped on the accelerator. The car darted down the ramp.

  "I expect that's the plane now."

  "Inspector, that's an F-100. A fighter plane."

  "Yes, you're right about that. I'm surprised you know."

  "Who are you meeting?"

  "Wait here a minute, and see where the plane ends up."

  "It will come up here, of course, to the buildings. It has to report in."

  "Let's see if it does."

  The plane used little of the runway in landing, turned off at the first intersection, turned left again, and taxied downwind to the line of trees at the very edge of the field.

  Heavy clouds were scuttling across the sky.

  Grover was looking through his rearview mirror.

  "Here come the Air Police."

  "Go meet the plane," Flynn said.

  "What about the AP's?"

  "Ignore them for the moment. Mustn't keep the man waiting."

  Grover drove the car at a furious speed down the main runway.

  "While I'm talking to my friend, doubtlessly the Air Police will give you ample opportunity to explain. Be sure and apologize, Grover, for not checking with them first. Tell them you're always making mistakes."

  "Not me, buddy."

  The plane was still closed when they arrived at its side. The jet engines were whirring down.

  Flynn stood on the runway.

  The roof of the cockpit rose slowly.

  N. N. Zero released himself from his seat belts and electronic headgear.

  N. N. Zero had to have a working communication system wherever he was.

  "Hello, Frank."

  "Sir."

  N. N. Zero was three feet, ten inches high.

  He had his own method of getting down from the plane, as the footholds were too far apart for him. He would hang from one hand, find a foothold with one foot, use his hand on the next foothold, and hang again.

  Flynn always had the instinct to help him, whatever he was doing, as he would a child, but had learned a long time ago that such was a most grievous insult.

  Flynn had worked long and intimately with John Roy Priddy—N. N. Zero.

  "I brought you some tea, Frank."

  "Grand."

  The little man took off his gloves and unzipped a pocket in his flight suit.

  "Papaya Mint. Ever tried it?"

  "I have, sir."

  "Well, here's some more. Drink it in good health."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "How's Elsbeth?"

  "Fine."

  "Randy?"

  "Fine."

  "Todd?"

  "Fine."

  "Jenny?"

  "Fine."

  "Winny?"

  "Fine."

  "Jeff?"

  "Fine."

  "You look a little tired, Frank."

  "I'm not. I'm just short of sleep."

  "Ah, like the old days, eh, Frank? Before you and I got so high-ranked life became nearly impossible for us. Mawlaik, Khairpur, Mafeking, Suakin. Did we ever sleep, Frank?"

  "Infrequently."

  John Roy Priddy had no family.

  And he hated sleep.

  As over-thin as he was over-short, he would fight sleep for days and nights at a time. However long he had postponed sleep, however exhausted he was, he would dream terrifying dreams, sweat profusely in his sleep, groan, and scream heartrending screams. In his career, he had undergone three courses of physical torture, in three different countries, administered by three different sets of experts, each incident lasting a month or more.

  And when he woke, John Roy Priddy always heaved himself dry, vomiting whatever or nothing, frequently just air, his stomach muscles working convulsively.

  Flynn had watched his friend over many years, in many parts of the world. Priddy's way of life had never changed. And Flynn had never spoken of it.

  Of course they never slept in the old days—which weren't that many months ago.

  Priddy would never sleep, if he could help it.

  "Raw wind," N. N. Zero said.

  Flynn shrugged. "Boston."

  An Air Police jeep was roaring down the runway toward them.

  "Let's walk a little," Zero said.

  "Aye."

  They walked along the edge of the horizontal runway, the line of trees to their right.

  "What do you know about the explosion of Zephyr Flight 80 so far, Frank?"

  "One hundred and eighteen people killed. The plane was full. It exploded within a minute of taking off at three-ten this morning. The airlines people insist the plane was in perfect condition. They also insist there was no dangerous cargo aboard, but that is yet to be confirmed. Passengers went through a fully operational airport security check; nothing suspicious was reported. The cargo luggage check is a little more doubtful, as luggage was coming from four points of origin, Boston, Chicago, Atlanta, and San Francisco. The plane was blown to smithereens. I saw it."

  "You saw it?"

  "Yes."

  For once, the sky in Boston had been perfectly clear, allowing him and his children to see one hundred and eighteen people blown apart, their parts burning, falling, falling through the sky.

  "Almost all the evidence fell into Boston Harbor."

  " 'Almost all'?"

  "I found a severed human hand in my backyard this morning."

  "I'll bet you said, 'Pull yourself together, Charlie.' I mean, when you found it."

  "I think I did. To myself."

  Priddy laughed. "I remember your saying that that time in San Matias. Do you remember? Bits of bodies everywhere—"

  "Any laugh in a disaster," said Flynn. "Any laugh in a disaster. The worse the disaster, the worse the joke, I'm afraid."

  "It keeps you from throwing up."

  Priddy gave Flynn a quick, anxious glance.

  "The story that the plane was shot down by a rocket fired from a submarine is being generally discounted," said Flynn. "I haven't looked into it myself."

  Priddy said, "You might."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. It's not impossible."

  "I gather not, if you and I are standing in this chilly place, talking. Did you have me assigned to this case?"

  "Yes. Sorry, I couldn't get you on the phone earlier this morning. It's just a coincidence: you hiding out in the Boston Police Department while things cool down worldwide and a big bang like this comes along. Right man in the right place at the right time." As he walked, Priddy clapped his left shoe against his right. "Just as if I'd planned it."

  "Right," said Flynn. "The only people on the passenger list causing any general conversation are a federal judge named Charles Fleming—who, incidentally, tried to take out five hundred thousand dollars' worth of flight insurance on himself before boarding—the actor, Daryl Conover, and the young man who won the World Middleweight Crown last night, Percy Leeper."

  "Oh," Priddy said, "that's too bad. I didn't know that."

  "None of the other names mean much to me, but that matters not at all. When you have one hundred and eighteen people murdered ... what's the math of it, John Roy? In a group that size, how many potential suicides, murder victims, fanatics might there be?"

  "Oh, not that many. The world's on a far more even keel than the facts ever lead us to believe."

  "Say it so?"

  "Our own lives, Frank, mustn't allow us to let our perceptions be distorted."

  "Nevertheless, a mass murder such as this might easily come down to a stewardess with a rejected boyfriend."

  "It might."

  "The last thing is that the Human Surplus League has claimed credit for the explosion. They seem the usual sewer-type variety of nihilists. I've sent the sons in hot pursuit of them."

  "Randy and Todd?"

  "Yes."

  "Great. The more experience they get, the better it is for everybody."

  Flynn smiled. "It increases their options in life."

  "Remember, Frank, aft
er you did your bit in Nazi Germany as a teenager you turned away from the whole thing? Studied philosophy in Dublin."

  "I had seen hell."

  "And finally you turned away from it, and came back to us."

  "I had had enough of truth." They walked a moment in silence.

  Priddy said, "So what's your conclusion, Frank?"

  "That a case like this most likely will take years and years to solve. That the chances of its ever getting into a court of law are exceedingly slim."

  They turned around.

  At the airplane, Grover and an Air Police sergeant were standing, fists on hips, noses within an inch of each other, faces beaming red in the increasing wetness of the day, shouting at each other furiously, simultaneously.

  Grover was in his element. Nothing he liked better than a good nose-to-nose shouting match. He'd be more relaxed for days.

  The other Air Policeman stood aside, hands also on hips, a white truncheon clutched in one hand.

  The pilot of the modified F-100 had never appeared. The forward cockpit had remained closed.

  "You missed something, Frank," Priddy said* "I'm really surprised."

  "Where did I miss it?"

  "On the passenger list."

  Flynn said, "Then I'm still missing it, O wondrous chief of N. N. You'll have to enlighten me."

  "Three men boarded that plane together, carrying American passports in the names of Abbott, Bartlett, and Carson."

  "A, B, C," said Flynn. "Smith, Brown, and Jones. I detect the level of deception usually achieved only by the United States State Department."

  "Yeah."

  "Who were they?"

  "Not 'they' so much as he. 'Abbott' was a bodyguard; 'Carson' a bodyguard-secretary type; he, 'Bart-

  lett,' was Rashin al Khatid, Ifadi Minister of the Exchequer."

  "Ah!"

  " 'Carson's' real name was Mihson Taha; 'Abbott's' was Nazim Salem Zoyad."

  "What deception! They fooled us again."

  "Somebody has fooled us."

  "What were they doing hei£?"

  "You must be short of sleep, Frank. What was the Minister of the Exchequer of the newly declared Republic of If ad doing in Boston?"

  "Banking."

  "The story we have is that he was here to arrange, through one of these private, Boston international banks, the transfer of something like a quarter of a billion dollars' worth of gold into International Credits."

  "What bank?"

  "It's called Kassel-Winton."

  "Never heard of it."

  "Of course not. It's not one of your usual home-lending institutions. A very private, very international bank."

  "Why the secrecy, John Roy? I don't get that at all."

  "Frank, Arabians love long, loose robes. Burnooses and sunglasses. Walls around their houses. They keep their wives under their beds. You know all that."

  "But what I do not know is why the United States State Department gave in to this sense of modesty and provided them with American passports."

  "Two reasons, I think. The first is that Had has oil fields and United States policy is to be nice to people who have oil fields, however small. The second reason is that Ifad intends to use its quarter of a billion dollars of International Credits in purchasing American armaments."

  "Of course," said Flynn. "I should have known."

  "As you also should know, the average American taxpayer gets enraged every time he hears that his nation is providing armaments for everybody on every side of every quarrel, the world around."

  "Purely defensive weapons," Flynn said, "I'm sure."

  "Come on," said Priddy. "Let's walk back. I'm getting cold."

  "Well," said Flynn. "So Rashin al Khatid, Minister of the Exchequer of the Republic of Ifad, was also murdered last night. What does it mean?"

  "I don't know."

  "Next we'll discover the President of the United States was aboard that plane last night, disguised in a wig and putty nose."

  "No," said Priddy. "I saw him this morning."

  "And how was he?"

  "He didn't ask for you."

  "An oversight, I'm sure."

  Down the field, the sergeants' debate obviously remained unresolved. They leaned against their separate vehicles, sulking.

  The truncheon had not been used on Grover.

  "What do you need, Frank?"

  "I need to see the top dogs at the bank. Kassel-Win-ton, is it?"

  "It will be arranged."

  "I want to see all of them. Everyone who knew about the Minister's visit and the nature of his visit."

  "Okay. What else?"

  "I don't know. This is an unexpected element."

  "I don't think the Minister was expecting it, either."

  "I daresay not. Does the FBI know about this?"

  "Absolutely not. Can't have them creeping around, writing reports to each other."

  Just before they arrived within hearing of the men by the plane, they stopped again.

  "Try not to blow your cover, Frank. It's going to be difficult on this one."

  "Did you ever see anyone who looks more like a Boston cop?"

  "Yes," said Priddy. "And I've never been in Boston before. Do you enjoy the double salary?"

  "It helps out."

  "Still have the farm in Ireland?"

  "Yes," said Flynn. "Near Loch Naf ooie."

  "You should get the kids over there," Priddy said. "For the summer."

  "Maybe I will," said Flynn. "Thanks for the tea."

  Nine

  "No one home," Grover said.

  Flynn rang the bell of The Meadows, Wood Lane, Kendall Green, himself.

  It was the sort of farm cottage common to the South of France, low, long, wheat-colored stucco with well-placed, recessed windows and doors, at the end of a long gravel drive, surrounded by well-tended lawns and gardens.

  "This place would be beautiful in the spring and summer," said Flynn.

  Grover said, "This is how a judge lives. I've never known a judge to risk his life in the street."

  "It's the sitting that makes him valuable," said Flynn* "The sitting-being-lied-to."

  A small, pink motorcycle with a sidecar turned into the driveway, and crunched sedately along the gravel toward them.

  The person driving the motorcycle wore a pink nylon, one-piece suit, pink helmet, and blue suede boots and gloves.

  "Wait a minute," said Flynn. "I've got to see this. What could he be delivering? Flamingo eggs?"

  The motorcycle stopped in front of the walk leading to the front door.

  A pink knapsack was strapped to the person's back.

  Remaining astride the motorcycle a moment, the person looked at them through plastic goggles.

  Then the person put the plastic goggles on top of her helmet, took the helmet off and shook out her hair.

  She said, "You're very quick, Inspector Flynn."

  "And who might you be?"

  The figure, feet flat on the ground forward of her, shoulders hunched, chin lowered, said, "Sassie Fleming."

  "Sassie, is it?"

  "I might be a widow," Sassie said. "I guess I am. I just heard."

  "You're Judge Fleming's wife?" shouted Grover.

  She measured him with her eyes.

  "Widow Fleming," she said.

  She got off the motorcycle and came up the walk.

  "Bad news travels fast," she said. "I thought I'd have an hour or two to myself, before you arrived."

  After she opened the front door to them and led them inside, she said, "Have you been waiting long?"

  They said nothing.

  Flynn watched her swing the knapsack off her back and dump it in a chair. She unzipped the nylon to just above her waist.

  She turned to them, took a deep breath, hands on hips, and looked at Flynn evenly.

  "Well—" she said.

  There was a tiny green fleck in her left brown eye.

  Her face was extremely white. Her chin quivered just sligh
tly. Her mouth was dry.

  She went between them and down a few steps into the living room. Immediately she was standing at a sliding glass door, looking into the garden.

  Grover had out his notebook and pen.

  "What's your full name?" he asked.

  "Sarah Phillips Fleming, aka Sassie Phillips, aka Sassie Fleming, aka Mrs. Charles Fleming, also aka Ms. Phillips, Ms. Fleming, Doctor Phillips, Doctor Fleming."

  She turned to them and continued: "Address? The Meadows, Wood Lane, Kendall Green, Massachusetts. White Caucasian female. Age? Thirty-one. U.S. Citizen? Yes. Occupation? Teacher. No distinguishing marks." Her eyes were becoming wet. "No previous arrests or convictions. Whereabouts at the time of the crime? Subject says she was at airport with husband until one-thirty in the morning, when she went home alone to bed."

  "I must warn you—," Grover said.

  "That anything I say may be held against me in court, etcetera ad Miranda." Tears were on her cheeks. "Will you excuse me a moment?"

  Flynn said, "Of course."

  A few minutes later, she returned to the room, saying, "I'm sorry. At the moment, I'm more surprised than anything else. We had such a happy time last night."

  They had heard water run in a basin.

  Her hair was brushed, and she had taken off her one-piece motorcycle suit.

  She was dressed in slacks and a turtleneck sweater.

  Flynn and Grover remained standing in the living room.

  "Can I get you something?" she asked.

  "Thank you, no," Flynn said.

  "Have you had lunch? I haven't. I don't suppose I should have any sherry just now. Alcohol so accentuates a shock. Perhaps you'd have a good belt of whiskey for me."

  "I've never used it," said Flynn. "And Grover doesn't deserve it."

  She looked at Grover with a slight, friendly smile.

  "You're Sergeant Whelan, aren't you?"

  Grover was being charmed, although it was against all his natural instincts.

  "Yes, ma'm."

  "How are things over at the Old Records Building? Bit draf ty, isn't it?"

  Grover glanced at Flynn.

  "You have Lieutenant Concannon working with you, too," Sassie said to Flynn. "Unofficially, of course."

  "Do you know Lieutenant Concannon?" Flynn asked.

  "I've talked to him on the phone. That man is a real thinker. Funny, the police. As soon as a man's body becomes damaged, they throw him away in retirement. Shows you what they think of the mind. I'm sorry, I haven't asked you to sit. I'd rather stand for the moment." Again she looked through the window at the late winter garden. "I do wish I could get out and scrub around in the earth this afternoon." When she looked at the seated Flynn again, her smile was back on her face. "At least I'm lucky in that they sent old Reluctant Flynn to arrest me. Isn't that right? 'Reluctant' Flynn?"