by R. R. Irvine
Hatch returned to his desk and played back the latest intelligence reports detailing the Scott woman’s activities. Part of him couldn’t help admiring her. She was far more resourceful than he’d ever expected. Not for a moment had he considered the possibility that she’d get as close to him as she had by talking to Bill Varney. Of course, the man knew nothing. How could he? He was a second-rate scientist with no foresight. Proof of that was the fact he hadn’t joined CMI when he had the chance.
Hatch closed his eyes and, like a chess master, calculated the woman’s possible moves. Whatever she did, he’d be right with her every step of the way via his highly paid intelligence system.
There was also the possibility that he was worrying for nothing. Maybe her friend’s death in Alabama would bring her to her senses and make her back off.
Nodding, he picked up the direct line to his son, bypassing both their secretaries.
“We need to meet,” Hatch said without preamble. “How’s your schedule?”
“I’m free.”
“We’ll meet at home, then, just the two of us. Tell no one about it.”
“Is there a problem?” Lee asked.
“In the meantime,” Hatch continued, ignoring his son’s question, “I want you to contact my pilot directly. Tell him to have the plane standing by on a permanent basis from now on, twenty-four hours a day.”
Hatch paused, testing his son’s reaction. Dealing with company planes, even Hatch’s personal jet, was usually a matter for a secretary. To ask an executive of Lee’s rank could be construed as menial.
“Anything else?” Lee said.
Hatch sighed with relief. His son knew when to obey orders. “Tell the pilot his mission will be highly confidential. I expect him and his copilot to stay on board until they hear from us.”
“Consider it done.”
“We might need security for what I have in mind.”
“Kemp’s men?”
Hatch smiled. His son was catching on.
“How many will be needed?”
“He has six, doesn’t he?” Hatch asked, probing his son’s knowledge of the company.
“We lost one last month, don’t you remember?”
Hatch snorted. “You can’t expect a mercenary to stay sharp unless the training’s realistic.”
“I’ll have the five of them on standby at the airport.”
“I’m proud of you,” Hatch said and hung up before sentimentality got the better of him.
Then he rang for his secretary. The moment she entered he said, “I want you to arrange for a security sweep here and at my home.”
“There’s one due next week,” she pointed out.
“I want a full inspection, every room, every phone, within the hour.”
Nodding, she retreated, closing the door behind her.
Obedience was a wonderful thing, Hatch thought, especially in women. Affirmative action and equal rights were as dangerous to this country as drugs. Nick Scott was proof of that. If she got any closer to the truth, he’d have to pull the plug on everybody. He made a list on the legal pad in front of him. Her father, his students at the dig, the IRS man, they’d all have to go, along with anyone else she’d contacted.
“I hope you’re satisfied, Ms. Scott,” he said. “You are about to cause a massacre.”
Hatch drew a line across the bottom of the legal pad on his desk. “That’s your line in the sand, Ms. Scott. Cross it and I’m going to have to kill you.”
Nick crossed the threshold of her apartment just as the phone began to ring. Thank God, she thought. She tossed her purse onto the sofa and dashed into the bedroom. It had to be Ken.
She snatched up the phone and collapsed onto the bed in one motion.
“Ms. Scott?” a man asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Captain Evans, Alabama State Police.”
She sat up. “Yes.”
“Do you know a man named Ken Drysdale?”
“Yes.”
“It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Mr. Drysdale was involved in an automobile accident shortly after leaving Maxwell Air Force Base. He’s dead and your name was listed as next of kin in his wallet.”
The breath caught in her throat.
“According to our preliminary investigation,” he continued, “Mr. Drysdale stopped at a bar for drinks once he was off the base. An hour later his car ran off the road and caught fire.”
“He wouldn’t drink and drive,” she managed to say.
“No other cars were involved. His was the only vehicle on a country back road. He simply lost control.”
Nick swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, locking her knees to keep from crumpling to the floor.
“Are you sure it’s Ken Drysdale?”
“Like I said, we salvaged his wallet, and the rental car was in his name.”
“Has there been a blood-alcohol test?”
“Not yet.”
“What about an autopsy?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Scott. That’s all I’m authorized to say at the moment.” He sounded as if he were reading from a prepared statement. “We’ll contact you concerning funeral arrangements once our investigation is complete.”
The dial tone started Nick shaking. Only a teeth-clenching act of will kept her from hurling the phone through the bedroom window.
“Oh, Ken.”
She sagged onto the bed, still holding the droning phone, and wanted to cry. But anger wouldn’t let her. Ken was dead and it was her fault. She’d taken advantage of his love.
“Forgive me.”
For what? she asked herself just as he would have. For giving up, because that had been her intention after speaking with Professor Varney. His warning had been clear enough. Anything to do with Los Alamos was off-limits. And it was foolish to think a man like Leland Hatch would be involved, let alone care one way or another about a relic B-17 in the desert. What possible reason could he have after more than half a century?
None at all was the logical answer. But if not Hatch, someone cared enough to kill Ken Drysdale. That much was certain.
Nick no longer had any choice. If she gave up, Ken’s life would have been thrown away for nothing.
She needed to call her father, to seek solace as she had as a child when the burden of dealing with her mother had become too great.
She was about to dial when the phone rang in her hands. Distantly, she heard a voice saying, “Hello, Nick. Are you there?”
“Ross?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes, it’s me. When I didn’t hear back from you, I started worrying.”
“Ken Drysdale is dead,” she blurted. “They’re claiming it was an auto accident but I don’t believe it. I think he was killed because he was helping me. The same thing could happen to you.”
McKinnon didn’t answer immediately. The longer the silence continued, the more certain Nick was that she’d done the right thing. It was better to warn him now and avoid having someone else hurt because of her.
“Like I told you before,” McKinnon said finally, “I’m not my father’s son but I intend to avenge him just the same. For my mother’s sake if nothing else, I’d like to see him properly buried.”
“Chances are we’ll never find him, or any of them.”
“Then we’ll put his memory to rest.”
“I don’t want you on my conscience,” Nick said.
“You don’t have any choice. I have the address of one of those P-38 pilots. And I’ve already taken a leave of absence.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“The airport in Phoenix. I just now made a reservation for Boise, Idaho, where the pilot lives. I made a reservation for you, too, at the airport in San Francisco. Your plane leaves at six tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll make it.”
“And I’ll be waiting for you in Boise.”
CHAPTER 31
Ross McKinnon met her at the airport gate with a kiss that took her breath away. She
held on, feeling a sense of instant comfort along with a rising excitement nearly equal to discovering a B-17.
“Whew,” she said when she finally came up for air. “That“s what I call an IRS audit.”
He stepped back to get a better look at her. “I like the look, lots of leg.”
She blushed. Despite the early morning rush to get to the airport in San Francisco, she’d chosen her clothes carefully. It was her one Saks outfit, a long-sleeve black velvet turtleneck sweater over a plaid kilt, slit up the side the way no Scotsman had ever intended. Her brown leather scuffed briefcase, the one she used for her classes, clashed.
He took her by the hand and led her away from the boarding area and into the main terminal. “I’m sorry about your friend, Ken. Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”
She nodded, looking around, heeding Ken’s warning about watching her back. No one except McKinnon seemed to be paying attention to her.
“There’s still time for you to back out,” she told McKinnon.
“I’m already in too deep.” He smiled. “Love is a crime when it leads to misuse of an IRS computer.”
Nick stared at him. Could he love her after so short a time? For her part, she was attracted to him certainly, but she’d been attracted to her department head before she got to know him better.
“The timing is bad, I know, but I wanted to let you know how I felt.”
She squeezed his hand briefly, then got down to business. “Tell me about the pilot.”
“That list your friend faxed to you contained twelve names. I could find only one of them in our computer, Joseph Twombly. By cross-checking, I confirmed that he went through advanced fighter training at Las Cruses, New Mexico, in 1945.” McKinnon pursed his lips.
“What’s the problem?” she asked.
“Very few people escape our computers. So odds are some of the other names should have shown up, too.”
“Does this man Twombly know we’re coming?”
“I called to make certain he was home, that’s all. I didn’t give my name or say what we wanted.”
Nick took a deep breath. “Let’s go before I chicken out.”
“If I’m reading the map correctly, he lives less than a mile away. We can walk.”
Nick remembered driving through Boise as a child. Then it had seemed like a small town, dominated by pine and cottonwood trees along the banks of the Boise River. Since then the population had nearly tripled. Now what trees she could see had a gentrified look, but the air smelled fresh enough, with only a hint of jet fuel from the nearby airport.
By the time she and McKinnon reached the Twombly house thunderheads were gathering along the horizon to the north. The house, like its neighbors, was a red brick square with two aluminum-framed windows flanking a front door. An aluminum awning overhung a concrete porch just large enough for Nick and McKinnon to stand side by side. A gray-haired man with a deeply wrinkled face opened the door.
“You must be the ones who called,” he said. “What are you selling?”
“Joseph Twombly?” Nick asked.
“That’s me.”
“We want to talk to you about the war.”
“Sure you do. But what the hell. I’m willing to talk to anybody these days, especially a good-looking woman like you. And who’s to say? I might even buy something if you two are entertaining enough.”
“Here’s my card,” Nick said.
Waving aside the offer, Twombly opened the screen door and ushered them into a small living room crammed with furniture. He pointed them to a sofa and took a facing recliner, whose upholstery was worn shiny. Behind the recliner stood a Formica-topped table with matching chrome-and-Naugahyde chairs. The top of the table was covered with potted plants, violets mostly, and a few begonias. Somehow Nick had been expecting to see flying memorabilia.
She smiled at the man. To have flown in World War Two, Twombly had to be seventy at least, more likely seventy-five, but his eyes were twinkling as he admired Nick’s legs. In contrast to the life in his eyes, his face had a pallor of illness.
“I understand you flew P-38s during the war,” she said.
“Now, how the hell would you know that?”
“I’m an archaeologist, Mr. Twombly. Old airplanes fascinate me.”
“Maybe so, but that doesn’t answer my question, does it?” He chuckled. “It’s too bad my son isn’t here. He’d get a kick out of this. Usually when I tell old war stories, I drive him and his wife away. Now here you are, making a special trip to see me. All the way from . . . ?”
“Berkeley.”
He winked. “Seeing a woman like you makes me wonder if I haven’t been a widower too long. And don’t judge a man by his age, either. I still fly, young lady, and own my own plane, a Beechcraft. That’s why I live here in the old neighborhood, close enough to the airport to walk, when I’m up to it anyway. My son keeps saying a man my age should give up flying. It pisses him off every time I pass my physical and get my pilot’s license renewed. He works for the FAA, you understand, so I have to mind my Ps and Qs. I . . .”
He paused to wait out the sound of a jet passing overhead. “That’s a 727.”
“You have a good ear,” McKinnon said, speaking for the first time since entering the house.
Twombly tapped a fingernail against the face of his wristwatch. “It takes off every day heading for Seattle at this time.”
Nick, who’d been sitting on the edge of the sofa, sighed with relief. Twombly’s comment about judging someone by their age was on target. She’d been expecting a stereotype, someone fragile, maybe even senile.
She leaned back, exposing more thigh and drawing his attention immediately. While rearranging her kilt more modestly, she said, “Tell me about your training at Las Cruces.”
The twinkle went out of his eyes. “To tell you the truth, all that stuff about me bending ears with old war stories is nothing but bunk. The past is gone, I say, and talking about it won’t change anything.”
“Like I told you,” Nick said, “I’m an archaeologist. Four days ago I was digging for Indian relics near the town of Cibola, New Mexico. Do you know what I found? A B-17.”
Twombly’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a four-engine bomber. I flew fighters.”
“There were bodies on board,” Nick said. “I didn’t have time to identify the remains properly, but I’d say they’d been there since the war.”
“So?”
“I found something else, too. A diary belonging to the navigator.”
“Was it in Japanese?” Twombly asked.
“He was an American, Ross McKinnon.” She nodded at McKinnon. “This is his son.”
Twombly shuddered.
“My mother was told he died in the Pacific,” McKinnon said. “What do you say?” “Did the B-17 have a name?”
“There was a scorpion painted on its nose,” Nick said.
“Christ! They swore us to secrecy. We were ordered never to speak of the Scorpion no matter what.”
“Who ordered you?”
He shook his head.
“Fifty years have passed,” McKinnon said.
Breathing heavily, Twombly levered the recliner back a notch, then settled back and closed his eyes. If anything, his pallor looked worse. Sweat beaded his brow, confirming Nick’s earlier thought that he wasn’t a well man.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
His nod was halfhearted.
Without being asked, she fetched a glass of water from the kitchen. He drank a few sips, then pressed the cool glass against his temple. But only the sound of an airplane passing overhead seemed to revive him.
“I may be the only one left who knows what happened,” he said after a while. “The fact is, I shouldn’t be here at all. I should be long dead.”
McKinnon started to say something, but Nick signaled for silence. She sensed that Twombly needed to talk. It was merely a matter of letting him go at his own speed with a little prompting.
“Fifty years
is a long time to keep a secret,” she probed gently.
“You’re right. Besides, it’s too late to court-martial me now. And those boys should be buried, no matter who they were.”
He paused for breath. “We were at Las Cruces and then, when the war had only a few months to go, they shipped my squadron to the Pacific. But when we got there, we sure as hell made up for lost time. Every nasty mission that came along, we drew it. At least, it seemed that way at the time. Thinking back on it now, I believe we did draw the short end of the stick, because every damn one of us got shot down, me included. All the others died. But me? Me the Japs caught. If the atomic bomb hadn’t ended the war, I would have died, too. Hellsakes, I was half blind from starvation by the time they liberated us. One survivor out of twelve, that’s me.”
He blinked at Nick, but she had the feeling that he was seeing only the past. She was about to prompt him about the Scorpion when he continued.
“Before we were sent off to the Pacific, a general showed up at our base in Las Cruces. None of us had ever seen a general before. This one had three stars and had just flown in from Washington. And what does he do? He shakes hands with all of us. Then he briefs us, not our CO, but he personally. We were to intercept a B-17 over the desert, he says, and gives us the exact coordinates. When we asked why, he said the plane had been captured by the Japs and was on a suicide mission. It would have been shot down long before it reached New Mexico, only the big brass had decided it was best if that happened over as desolate an area as possible.”
Twombly stared down at his lap where his hands were tightly clasped. “You found it, so you know what kind of country that is. After training there, even the Pacific looked good. Anyway, that day over the desert it was like shooting fish in a barrel. They couldn’t even shoot back. The reason, we were told, was that the Japs had stripped the plane of all its machine guns so it could carry more explosives. Now you tell me there were Americans on board. So why did the general lie to us?”
“Someone’s still lying,” Nick answered. “Right after I found the Scorpion, someone stole it away.”
“The military?”