Authors: Harry Bingham
They made love.
It wasn’t their first time, but it somehow felt like it. Abe was inside her for around twenty minutes. He climaxed once. She climaxed again and again, softening her cries until the final minutes, when she moaned like an airplane wing locked into a full-throttle dive. When they finished, they didn’t pull apart. They just held each other, listening to the wind.
After forty minutes, something changed. She felt it in the muscles of his body and the curve of his back, and she prompted him.
‘Don’t you want to know how Sarah Torrance is getting on with her new job?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘Very well, I think. They handle all Marion’s business. All bank transfers come in by telegraph. I’ve got myself a desk close to the telegraph machine itself. None of the other girls like it. They think it leaks electricity.’
‘Excellent.’
‘It doesn’t leak electricity, does it?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t want to move too fast, but I’m sure I’ll be able to take copies of the bank transfers as they come in.’
‘Excellent.’
‘And they’ve got records. Every transfer of money that’s ever passed through the bank. Domestic and foreign. Going back years.’
‘Excellent. Excellent.’
‘And I know where the records are kept. They’re in a locked cupboard in the office of Mr Rogers, the deputy manager. As far as I know, he’s the only one with a key.’
‘Does he ever put his keys down?’
‘Not that I’ve seen.’
‘Is there any way to force the lock?’
‘Maybe, but I’m not the best lock-forcer in the world.’
Abe thought of Pen’s near-total mechanical incompetence and was forced to agree with a grin. All Pen could see of his response was the white glow of his teeth. She kissed him softly.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find something.’
‘You’ve met Roeder, of course,’ said Powell, knowing that Willard had done no such thing.
Except that in a way, Willard had.
Dorcan Roeder was a short man, with the heavily muscled upper body of a man who worked hard in the gym. His face was ugly but powerful; the face of a man with no doubts as to his own importance. It had been Roeder outside Powell’s office on the afternoon when Powell had given Willard the forty archive files; Roeder who had positioned himself there just to see him.
‘Dorcan heads our insurance arm,’ added Powell, blandly.
The two men shook hands. Willard found himself wondering how many men had been killed by the hand he’d just shaken; how many men in their last seconds on earth had seen that very hand striking down, gathered to punch, squeezing a trigger. It was a loathsome thought, one that made Willard want to wipe his palm. They sat down.
From the start, the meeting ran away from Willard. He could tell from the first moment. The way Powell sat beside Roeder. The way the two men hardly looked at each other. The way the air seemed to be thick with an understanding that had nothing to do with Willard.
‘You’ve cleaned Marion,’ said Roeder.
‘Yes.’ Willard explained briefly and clearly what he’d done.
‘Why?’
‘Two reasons. First, a general one. Marion started out as just another supply route. It made a little money through booze. A little through smuggling. A little through gambling. The situation has changed completely. We needed to update security arrangements. That’s what I’ve done.’
‘And the specific reason?’
‘The specific reason is very minor.’ Willard had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in his head. He fought to hold his voice steady, his body relaxed. He spoke about Lundmark, about finding out they’d already killed the boy’s father. He said nothing about scaring Hennessey, nothing about the red sheets, nothing about his certainty that Rockwell was out to destroy them.
‘You shot up somebody else too. A local guy. Ran a store.’
‘Gibson Hennessey, the storekeeper from the town just up the hill from Marion. He was the ringleader of the town’s resistance. We’ve been wanting to lose the guy for a long time now. He’s gone to Atlanta with his family. Mason’s delighted.’
Willard was angry with himself. He’d spoken the last part too quickly. How the hell had Roeder known that they’d shot up Hennessey’s place? Had Mason told him? If so, what else had Mason revealed? Willard flicked a glance at the insurance man, but Roeder’s eyes were empty. Or to be more exact, they were the exact opposite, they were too full. Roeder had pale hazel eyes, but his left-hand iris was clotted with dark purplish-black blots. The clots made him hard to read, made it hard to hold his gaze. Willard looked away.
‘Good,’ said Powell. ‘Sounds like you’ve done well. Always nice to clean things up without making a mess. That’s the trouble with corpses. You just can’t get the cops to stay away.’
That’s what Powell said, but Willard had learned not to listen too much to what he said. Instead, he had a sense, stronger than ever, that the two men had already choreographed this conversation. Powell would come across as the nice guy. He’d get to smile, as his executioner put the boot in.
‘Your fliers,’ said Roeder.
‘Yes?’
‘Who are they?’
‘Captain Abraham Rockwell and, until just recently, a Miss Penelope Hamilton.’
‘Miss Hamilton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Miss?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maintenance personnel?’
‘Just one man. A local mechanic, Arnold Hueffer.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Captain Rockwell.’
‘What are his qualifications?’
‘As a pilot, he’s the best there is. Bar none. As a lookout man, the best. As a leader, also the best. On the maintenance side, the same. He’s an exceptional hire.’
‘Who has been responsible for hiring Hamilton and Hueffer? Rockwell or yourself?’
‘Captain Rockwell.’
‘So the integrity of the operation depends on the integrity of Captain Rockwell?’
‘I guess so. Yes.’
‘Please identify any doubts you may have regarding his suitability.’
‘My only reservation concerns his motivation. I knew Captain Rockwell during the war. He is a man of exceptional calibre. Mason came across him when he was running small amounts of booze over the ocean from Havana. Mason wanted to recruit him then and there. Rockwell resisted. He had to be pushed. When Mason tested his loyalty, he passed the test, no problem.’
Roeder looked at Willard for a long time, but there was so little of anything in his eyes that it was like being scrutinised by a corpse.
‘I asked you for your doubts. You spent most of your answer telling me why you don’t have any.’
‘I don’t, not many. Any problem I have is to do with his reasons for working for us. Does he really want the money? That’s my issue. He says he wants to build some kind of airplane. With Rockwell that’s probably credible.’
‘You think money isn’t his motivation?’
‘I didn’t say that. I said I wasn’t sure.’
‘If not money, what then? Give me the worst possible case.’
Willard swallowed. The honest answer to Roeder’s question was:
I know for a fact that Captain Rockwell is out to destroy us.
But he couldn’t say it. Something in him simply refused to come out with it.
‘I don’t have a clear answer to that. I have no reason to distrust him.’
‘You just told me you did. You said his reason for working for us was probably credible. Only probably. That means you suspect his motives. You think maybe he’s working for some other reason. What?’
‘We’ve got men watching him. We’ve got a tap on his phone. We open his mail.’
‘You’re watching him?’
‘Right.’
‘How many men?’
‘As many as necessary. I’ve told Mason to make it a priority.’
‘So you don’t trust him. That’s obvious. Tell me about your other flier. Ex-flier. Hamilton. You said she was a dame?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s usual in the flying world, is it?’
‘No.’
‘But she needed the money, right?’
Willard swallowed uncomfortably. ‘I believe she was fairly well-off.’
Roeder threw a photo across the desk: a picture of the Hamilton mansion in Charleston. It lay in front of Willard like an accusation fired at point-blank range’
‘Fairly well-off?’
‘I believe her parents are very well off. But in any case, she’s not working for us any more. It’s just down to Rockwell now.’
Roeder snorted, but appeared to change the subject. ‘Please describe your personal relationship with Rockwell.’
‘He commanded my squadron during the war. I respected him. I believe he thought well of me.’
‘You flew together?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘In situations of danger?’
‘Of course, yes.’
‘And he was a good commander?’
‘No.’
Powell’s eyes, which had been elsewhere, jumped instantly to Willard’s face.
‘No?’
‘No. Not good. He was the best. I owe him my life.’
‘Hah!’ Roeder grinned and leaned back in his chair. ‘So you’re not in a position to assess his risk to the organisation.’
Willard opened his mouth to protest, but Roeder hadn’t made it a question and Powell showed no sign of wanting to hear what Willard had to say. Powell grabbed the ashtray, and shook a quarter-inch tube of grey ash into the bowl. He didn’t replace the ashtray, but held on to it, like a two-year-old with a bag of cookies.
‘Well?’ he said, speaking to Roeder.
‘I think Thornton’s right to clean Marion. I like the way he’s gone about it. I’ve got a couple of ideas for improving things, but nothing major. We need to keep a close ear on anything state or federal enforcement might be up to, but that’s routine. Over all, Thornton’s done a good job.’
‘Hey, Will, you hear that? Roeder telling someone they’ve done a good job. Not often I hear that. Huh, Roeder?’
Roeder showed no sign of wanting to join in Powell’s play-acting. Willard’s sense of gathering disaster grew stronger and stronger. He knew now that he could never have had Rockwell killed. The thought of Roeder doing it was nauseating.
‘Anything else?’ continued Powell. ‘Or maybe I shouldn’t spoil things. I just oughta pick up the phone to old man Thornton down in DC and tell him that his boy’s done good.’
‘Only one thing,’ said Roeder. ‘The pilot. I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. I don’t want him.’
Willard sat bolt upright. ‘The operation depends on him. It’s unworkable without him.’
‘That’s exactly what I don’t like. I want to hire some new guys. Our guys.’
‘You don’t understand. It’s not like driving an auto. This is difficult flying. And dangerous. It takes skill.’
‘Spotting a Coastguard boat on the open sea? Sounds like it just takes a pair of eyes.’
‘And what if they hide on the coast? There are a million inlets there. A million places to hide.’
‘So? Fly up the coast and look.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘It’s not that hard.’
‘Flying low? With coastal winds? Turbulence? In all weathers? In single-engined planes? Where one cough on the fuel-line means you’re going to smack into the forest at a hundred miles an hour?’
Roeder smiled. ‘Like I said, you’re not in a position to assess the threat.’
There was a pause. A nasty one: short but ugly.
Roeder turned to Powell, saying, ‘This guy Rockwell. I want permission to replace him.’
Willard’s ears had grown more sensitive since starting to work for Powell Lambert. Because he heard it: the thing that wasn’t even there. Roeder had inserted a tiny pause before the word ‘replace’. A meaningful glance had accompanied the pause. And Willard knew what they meant. They weren’t planning to replace Rockwell, they were planning to kill him.
‘And I object.’ Willard surprised even himself with his forcefulness. ‘The operation depends on Rockwell.’
‘Which it shouldn’t,’ said Roeder.
Powell put down his ashtray. ‘I’m sorry, Willard, I know you like the guy, but –’
Willard had one second to say the right thing. One second to save Rockwell’s life.
‘If Rockwell goes, then I cannot be responsible for the security of goods coming into Marion. I’ll have to reduce the flow of supplies coming in. We’ll have to turn down customers.’
For the first time, Powell hesitated. Willard realised he’d hit the right note.
Customers
: a golden word. Powell turned to Roeder.
‘You don’t actually know anything against the guy.’
‘I don’t want to wait until I do.’
Powell’s hesitation lasted another second, then ended.
‘I’m sorry, Will, in cases of doubt, I always have to go with Roeder. I want you to find some new fliers. Guys we can trust. Roeder will help. Maybe they won’t work out as good as Rockwell. That’s OK. If we lose a couple of planes, a boatload or two, we’ll just have to swallow the losses. But they’ll learn. In time, they’ll learn. And if Roeder’s not happy, then nor am I. OK?’
‘OK.’ Willard agreed because he had no other option.
‘In the meantime, Roeder, I want you to take over surveillance duties from Marion. Use as many men as you need to. Keep track of Rockwell. Don’t miss anything. If he is up to something, let’s make sure we know about it.’
There was nothing else to say. Willard felt sickened.
‘And Roeder. Give Thornton time to hire his pilots and get ’em trained. We’re pulling too much booze through Marion just to foul things up for the sake of a hunch. OK?’
Roeder nodded.
‘And I mean it. I don’t want this guy showing up in some auto wreck the day after tomorrow and you pretending like you never heard anything so sad. No replacing Rockwell until we’re ready.’ He turned back to Willard. Unusually for him, his voice dropped. It became quiet, even sensitive. ‘I’m real sorry, Will. The Firm asks sacrifices from us all.’
Willard nodded. He pretended he was a businessman doing his job. He pretended he didn’t care. But he did. Captain Rockwell might not know it yet, but his death warrant was already signed.
Mr Rogers, the deputy manager of the Savings Bank of Northern Florida, was forty-four years old. He enjoyed grilled beef, French-fried potatoes and anything involving cream and sugar. His complexion was an explosive combination of scarlet and chalk. He was losing hair from the front and top of his head. His belly looked as though he’d swallowed a watermelon whole.