The Spy
Page 26
The plane banked, leveling for Southwick.
Marchaud, the child of the trapeze, had stayed in France. Sinclair, her other, was on her way to Eisenhower. Bernstein filled her in. The General was out of town. He was in a big fight in Normandy: something about British Army movements. Kicking butts, as it were, he would be back on Tuesday. Mrs. Summersby would meet them.
She was the general’s girlfriend.
Valerie was glad that somebody was.
Hanging above the highway, flying low to avoid radar, Valerie felt like a bird. She looked, and did a double-take! The silver and black limousine was traveling the road just beneath them: so close, she could see the back window down!
Bernstein threw it a glance. “How about that?”
The Spy was there, he was looking up. Blinking like a code, blue rays shone about his face...glittering like agates. Valerie could taste it: a vibration...something had entered her thinking:
His photograph!
Had she not taken it yet! From her bedroom, she had been called to the telephone. Having scheduled a studio appointment for Winston Churchill on Hamilton’s say so and on her day off, the surprise call from The Spy had pulled her out of the darkroom. Sinclair looked down. Was there still time? There was? Or would be? There was! She waved. Well then! If the pilot would hold the customer, she would get right on it. An introductory offer:
She was lining it up...
CLICK!
A tremendous LIGHT, like a flashbulb, shook the air outside the plane, echoing ahead of them and booming through the heavens!
“Son of a bitch!” Bernstein said. “Did you see that?”
Cross-eyed, Valerie shook her head.
Speeding away, The Spy rolled up his window...his eyes flashing with facts, like Holmes, “—looks like a clean hit!” he remarked to the driver, there being no other witnesses and offering congratulations all the way around. Overhead, the plane roared—dipping its wings.
Ryan looked up.
The Spy laughed.
A long shot, he had caught her on the fast shutter.