by Ken Follett
The search had been fruitless. He still did not know what Luke might have up his sleeve.
He went into the living room. He chose a position from which he could see through the venetian blinds to the front yard, and also through the open door into the hallway. He sat down on the pink vinyl couch.
He took out his gun, checked that it was fully loaded, and fitted the silencer.
He tried to reassure himself by imagining the scene ahead. He would see Luke arrive, probably in a taxicab from the airport. He would watch him walk into the front yard, take out his key, and open his own front door. Luke would step into the hall, close the door, then head for the kitchen. As he passed the living room, he would glance through the open doorway and see Anthony on the couch. He would stop, raise his eyebrows in surprise, and open his mouth to speak. In his mind would be some phrase such as "Anthony? What the hell--?" But he would never say the words. His eyes would drop to the gun held perfectly level in Anthony's lap, and he would know his fate a split second before it happened.
Then Anthony would shoot him dead.
3 P.M.
A system of compressed-air nozzles, mounted in the tail of the instrument compartment, will control the tilt of the nose section when in space.
Billie was lost.
She had known it for half an hour. Leaving the airport in a rented Ford a few minutes before one o'clock, she had driven into the center of Huntsville, then taken Highway 59 toward Chattanooga. She had wondered why the Components Testing Laboratory should be an hour away from the base and imagined it might be for safety reasons: perhaps there was a danger that components would explode under testing. But she had not thought very hard about it.
Her directions were to take a country road to the right exactly thirty-five miles from Huntsville. She had zeroed her trip meter on Main Street, but when the revolving figures reached 35, she could not see a right turn. Feeling only mildly anxious, she went on and took the next road on the right, a couple of miles farther.
The directions, which had seemed so precise as she wrote them down, never quite corresponded with the roads on which she found herself, and her anxiety grew, but she carried on, making the likeliest interpretation. Obviously, she thought, the man she had spoken to had not been as reliable as he had sounded. She wished she had been able to speak to Luke personally.
The landscape gradually became wilder, the farmhouses ramshackle and the roads potholed and the fences broken-down. The disparity between what she expected and the landmarks she saw around her grew until she threw up her hands in despair and admitted to herself that she could be anywhere. She was furious with herself and with the fool who gave her directions.
She turned around and tried to find her way back, but soon she was on unfamiliar roads again. She began to wonder if she was going around in a huge circle. She stopped beside a field where a Negro in dungarees and a straw hat was turning the hard earth with a walking plow. She stopped her car and spoke to him. "I'm looking for the Components Testing Lab of Redstone Arsenal," she said.
He looked surprised. "The Army base? That's all the way back to Huntsville and across to the other side of town."
"But they have some kind of facility out this way."
"Not that I ever see."
This was hopeless. She would have to call the lab and ask for fresh directions. "Can I use your phone?"
"Ain't got no phone."
She was about to ask him where the nearest payphone was when she saw a look of fear in his eyes. She realized that she was putting him in a situation that made him anxious: alone in a field with a white woman who was not making sense. She quickly thanked him and drove away.
After a couple of miles, she came upon a dilapidated feed store with a payphone outside. She pulled over. She still had Luke's message with the phone number. She put a dime in the slot and dialed.
The phone was answered immediately. A young man's voice said, "Hello?"
"May I speak to Dr. Claude Lucas?" she said.
"You got the wrong number, honey."
Can't I do anything right? she thought desperately. "Isn't this Huntsville JE 6-4231?"
There was a pause. "Yep, that's what it says on the dial."
She double-checked the number on the message. She had not made a mistake. "I was trying to call the Components Testing Lab."
"Well, you reached a payphone in Huntsville Airport."
"A payphone?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Billie began to realize she had been hoodwinked.
The voice at the other end of the line went on, "I'm about to call my mom and tell her to come get me, and when I pick up the phone I hear you asking for some guy named Claude."
"Shit!" Billie said. She slammed the phone down, furious with herself for being so gullible.
Luke had not been taken off his plane in Norfolk and put on an Army flight, she realized, and he was not at the Components Testing Lab, wherever that was. That whole story was a lie designed to get her out of the way--and it had succeeded. She looked at her watch. Luke must have landed by now. Anthony had been waiting for him--and she might as well have been in Washington, for all the use she had been.
With despair in her heart, she wondered if Luke was still alive.
If he was, maybe she could still warn him. It was too late to leave a message at the airport, but there must be someone she could call. She racked her brains. Luke had a secretary at the base, she remembered; a name like a flower. . . .
Marigold.
She called Redstone Arsenal and asked to speak to Dr. Lucas's secretary. A woman with a slow Alabama voice came on the line. "Computation Laboratory, how may I help you?"
"Is that Marigold?"
"Yes."
"I'm Dr. Josephson, a friend of Dr. Lucas."
"Yes." She sounded suspicious.
Billie wanted this woman to trust her. "We've spoken before, I think. My first name is Billie."
"Oh, sure, I remember. How are you?"
"Worried. I need to get a message to Luke urgently. Is he with you?"
"No, ma'am. He went to his house."
"What's he doing there?"
"Looking for a file folder."
"A file?" Billie saw the significance of that immediately. "A file he left here on Monday, maybe?"
"I don't know nothing about that," said Marigold.
Of course, Luke had told Marigold to keep his Monday visit secret. But none of that was important now. "If you see Luke, or if he calls you, would you please give him a message from me?"
"Of course."
"Tell him Anthony is in town."
"That's all?"
"He'll understand. Marigold . . . I hesitate to say this, in case you think I'm some kind of nut, but I guess I should. I believe Luke is in danger."
"From this Anthony?"
"Yes. Do you believe me?"
"Stranger things have happened. Is this all tied up with him losing his memory?"
"Yes. If you get that message to him, it could save his life. I mean it."
"I'll do what I can, Doctor."
"Thank you." Billie hung up.
Was there anyone else Luke might talk to? She thought of Elspeth.
She called the operator and asked for Cape Canaveral.
3.45 P.M.
After discarding the burnt-out first stage, the missile will coast through a vacuum trajectory while the spatial attitude control system aligns it so that it is exactly horizontal with respect to the earth's surface.
Everyone was bad-tempered at Cape Canaveral. The Pentagon had ordered a security alert. Arriving this morning, eager to get to work on the final checks for the all-important rocket launch, they had been made to wait in line at the gate. Some had been there for three hours in the Florida sun. Gas tanks had run dry, radiators had boiled over, air conditioners had failed, and engines had stalled then refused to restart. Every car had been searched--hoods lifted, golf bags taken out of trunks, spare wheels removed from covers. Tempers frayed as a
ll briefcases were opened, each lunch pail unpacked, and every woman's purse dumped out onto a trestle table so that Colonel Hide's military police could paw over her lipsticks, love letters, tampons, and Rolaids.
But that was not the end of it. When they reached their laboratories and offices and engineering shops, they were disrupted all over again by teams of men who went through their drawers and file cabinets, looked inside their oscillators and vacuum cabinets, and took the inspection plates off their machine tools. "We're trying to launch a goddamn rocket here," people said again and again, but the security men just gritted their teeth and carried on. Despite the disruption, the launch was still scheduled for 10.30 P.M.
Elspeth was glad of the upset. It meant nobody noticed she was too distraught to do her job. She made mistakes in her timetable and produced her updates late, but Willy Fredrickson was too distracted to reprimand her. She did not know where Luke was, and she no longer felt sure she could trust Anthony.
When the phone at her desk rang a few minutes before four o'clock, her heart seemed to stop.
She snatched up the handset. "Yes?"
"This is Billie."
"Billie?" Elspeth was taken by surprise. "Where are you?"
"I'm in Huntsville, trying to contact Luke."
"What's he doing there?"
"Looking for a file he left here on Monday."
Elspeth's jaw dropped. "He went to Huntsville on Monday? I didn't know that."
"Nobody knew, except Marigold. Elspeth, do you understand what's going on?"
She laughed humorlessly. "I thought I did . . . but not anymore."
"I believe Luke's life is in danger."
"What makes you say so?"
"Anthony shot at him in Washington last night."
Elspeth went cold. "Oh, my God."
"It's too complicated to explain right now. If Luke calls you, will you tell him that Anthony is in Huntsville?"
Elspeth was trying to recover from the shock. "Uh . . . sure, of course I will."
"It could save his life."
"I understand. Billie . . . one more thing."
"Yeah."
"Look after Luke, won't you?"
There was a pause. "What do you mean?" Billie asked. "You sound like you're going to die."
Elspeth did not answer. After a moment, she broke the connection.
A sob came to her throat. She fought fiercely to control herself. Tears would not help anyone, she told herself severely. She made herself calm.
Then she dialed her home in Huntsville.
4 P.M.
Explorer's elliptical orbit will take it as far as 1,800 miles into space and swing it back within 187 miles of the earth's surface. Orbiting speed of the satellite is 18,000 mph.
Anthony heard a car. He looked out of the front window of Luke's house and saw a Huntsville taxicab pull up at the curb. He thumbed the safety catch on his gun. His mouth went dry.
The phone rang.
It was on one of the triangular side tables at the ends of the curved couch. Anthony stared at it in horror. It rang a second time. He was paralized by indecision. He looked out of the window and saw Luke getting out of the cab. The call could be trivial, nothing, a wrong number. Or it could be vital information.
Terror bubbled up inside him. He could not answer the phone and shoot someone at the same time.
The phone rang a third time. Panicking, he snatched it up. "Yes?"
"This is Elspeth."
"What? What?"
Her voice was low and strained. "He's looking for a file he stashed in Huntsville on Monday."
Anthony understood in a flash. Luke had made not one but two copies of the blueprints he had found on Sunday. One set he had brought to Washington, intending to take them to the Pentagon--but Anthony had intercepted him, and Anthony now had those copies. Unfortunately, he had not imagined there might be a second set, hidden somewhere as a precaution. He had forgotten that Luke was a Resistance veteran, security-conscious to the point of paranoia. "Who else knows about this?"
"His secretary, Marigold. And Billie Josephson--she told me. There may be others."
Luke was paying the driver. Anthony was running out of time. "I have to have that file," he said to Elspeth.
"That's what I thought."
"It's not here, I just searched the house from top to bottom."
"Then it must be at the base."
"I'll have to follow him while he looks for it."
Luke was approaching the front door.
"I'm out of time," Anthony said, and he slammed down the phone.
He heard Luke's key scrape in the lock as he ran through the hall and into the kitchen. He went out the back door and closed it softly. The key was still in the outside of the lock. He turned it silently, bent down, and slipped it under the flower pot.
He dropped to the ground and crawled along the verandah, keeping close to the house and below window level. In that position, he turned the corner and reached the front of the house. From here to the street there was no cover. He just had to take a chance.
It seemed best to make a break for it while Luke was putting down his bag and hanging up his coat. He was less likely to look out of the window now.
Gritting his teeth, Anthony stepped forward.
He walked quickly to the gate, resisting the temptation to look behind him, expecting at every second to hear Luke shout, "Hey! Stop! Stop, or I shoot!"
Nothing happened.
He reached the street and walked away.
4.30 P.M.
The satellite contains two tiny radio transmitters powered by mercury batteries no bigger than flashlight batteries. Each transmitter carries four simultaneous channels of telemetry.
On top of the console TV in the living room, beside a bamboo lamp, was a matching bamboo picture frame containing a color photograph. It showed a strikingly beautiful redhead in an ivory silk wedding dress. Beside her, wearing a gray cutaway and a yellow vest, was Luke.
He studied Elspeth in the picture. She could have been a movie star. She was tall and elegant, with a voluptuous figure. Lucky man, he thought, to be marrying her.
He did not like the house so much. When he had first seen the outside, and the wisteria climbing the pillars of the shady verandah, it had gladdened his heart. But the inside was all hard edges and shiny surfaces and bright paint. Everything was too neat. He knew, suddenly, that he liked to live in a house where the books spilled off the shelves, and the dog was asleep right across the hallway, and there were coffee rings on the piano, and a tricycle stood upside down in the driveway and had to be moved before you could put your car in the garage.
No kids lived in this house. There were no pets, either. Nothing ever got messed up. It was like an advertisement in a woman's magazine, or the set of a television comedy. It made him feel that the people who appeared in these rooms were actors.
He began to search. A buff-colored Army file folder should be easy enough to find--unless he had removed the contents and thrown away the folder. He sat at the desk in the study--his study--and looked through the drawers. He found nothing of significance.
He went upstairs.
He spent a few seconds looking at the big double bed with the yellow-and-blue covers. It was hard to believe that he shared that bed every night with the ravishing creature in the wedding photo.
He opened the closet and saw, with a shock of pleasure, the rack of navy blue and gray suits and tweed sport coats, the shirts in bengal stripes and tattersall checks, the stacked sweaters and the polished shoes on their rack. He had been wearing this stolen suit for more than twenty-four hours, and he was tempted to take five minutes to shower and change into some of his own clothes. But he resisted. There was no time to spare.
He searched the house thoroughly. Everywhere he looked, he learned something about himself and his wife. They liked Glenn Miller and Frank Sinatra, they read Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald, they drank Dewar's scotch and ate All-Bran and brushed their teeth wit
h Colgate. Elspeth spent a lot on expensive underwear, he discovered as he went through her closet. Luke himself must be fond of ice cream, because the freezer was full of it, and Elspeth's waist was so small she could not possibly eat much of anything at all.
At last he gave up.
In a kitchen drawer he found keys to the Chrysler in the garage. He would drive to the base and search there.
Before leaving, he picked up the mail in the hall and shuffled the envelopes. It all looked straightforwardly official, bills and suchlike. Desperate for a clue, he ripped open the envelopes and glanced at each letter.
One was from a doctor in Atlanta.
It began:
Dear Mrs. Lucas,
Following your routine checkup, the results of your blood tests have come back from the lab, and everything is normal.
However . . .
Luke stopped reading. Something told him it was not his habit to read other people's mail. On the other hand, this was his wife, and that word "However" was ominous. Perhaps there was a medical problem he should know about right away.
He read the next paragraph.
However, you are underweight, you suffer insomnia, and when I saw you, you had obviously been crying, although you said nothing was wrong. These are symptoms of depression.
Luke frowned. This was troubling. Why was she depressed? What kind of husband must he be?
Depression may be caused by changes in body chemistry, by unresolved mental problems such as marital difficulties, or by childhood trauma such as the early death of a parent. Treatment may include antidepressant medication and/or psychiatric therapy.
This was getting worse. Was Elspeth mentally ill?
In your case, I have no doubt that the condition is related to the tubal ligation you underwent in 1954.
What was a tubal ligation? Luke stepped into his study, turned on the desk lamp, took from the bookshelf the Family Health Encyclopedia, and looked it up. The answer stunned him. It was the commonest method of sterilization for women who did not want to have children.