A Thousand Suns

Chapter 12 The Telephone Call

Chris kneeled uncomfortably on the hard tiles of the bathroom floor, counting out a forty-five-second photographic exposure, his familiar crimson studio-world temporarily obliterated by a blast of white light from the enlarger’s small fluorescent tube. He wore red-eye goggles to preserve his dark-adjusted vision.

His mobile phone started to bleep the Simpsons’ theme tune.

‘Shit!’

It was in the bedroom. He let it ring out, desperately trying to keep track of his countdown as it ran through the irritating ring tone three more times.

‘Three… two… one.’ He snapped off the light and covered the exposed photo-paper before lurching out of the bathroom to catch the phone before it rang off. He knew it would be his agency. Chris had been expecting them to get in touch to confirm receipt of the advance from News Fortnite.

The mobile predictably went silent as he grabbed hold of it.

‘Bollocks.’

Chris checked the number of the caller. It had been withheld. That was almost as irritating as answerphone messages from people who identified themselves with ‘It’s me’ and expected him to know who to phone back. Only Chris’s mum could get away with that.

He loitered by the phone for half a minute before deciding that whoever it was had either dialled a wrong number or reckoned whatever it was could wait.

He was reaching out for the bathroom door when it rang again. He was quicker this time and interrupted the first bar of the tune.

‘Hello?’

‘Good evening.’ The voice of a man. No one he recognised.

‘Who’s this?’

‘Uh… my name is James Wallace.’

Chris quickly trawled through his mental list of business contacts; the name meant nothing to him.

‘Sorry, mate, I’m not—’

‘I used to work for the Office of Strategic Services during the war.’

A pause. Chris vaguely recalled that organisation from some documentary he’d seen on cable; the OSS was the precursor to the CIA. Wartime intelligence.

‘And after the war ended, the United States Airforce Intelligence. I’m retired now, of course. I have friends there still, but now I spend too much time watching daytime TV.’

The old man paused, presumably anticipating a muted laugh.

‘Go on,’ said Chris.

‘I… this is a little awkward over the phone… I gather you enquired about a certain wartime plane with the USAF museum over at Dayton? A Flying Fortress that went missing over Hamburg?’

How the — ? Chris took a second to compose himself.

‘Yes, I was asking about a plane called—’

‘Please… It’s best if we don’t mention the name. Let’s just refer to her as “the find” for now, okay?’

Chris felt an adrenaline spike, and not for the first time in the last few days cursed the fact that he was on the cigarette-wagon. He reached out for a piece of chewing gum from the bedside table. If there had been a packet of cigarettes within reach, it would have been game over for this year’s attempt to quit.

‘How the hell would you know that? Hang on… how did you get my number?’

The elderly voice wheezed a small, knowing laugh. ‘Let’s just say I have a few old friends still in Airforce Intelligence, and those old dogs know a few clever tricks. I’d like to arrange a meeting with you, if that’s not any trouble.’

Not for the first time Chris felt his stomach stir uneasily. All of a sudden, his little scoop was beginning to attract a bit of attention. Was it the sort of attention he wanted, though?

‘Why? What do you want from me?’ he said, trying to keep the tension from his voice.

‘I know you are investigating a certain “find” discovered off the coast nearby. I thought maybe we could exchange some information about it. If it is the same plane, then I know a little about how she might have ended up there, and in return, I’d be curious to hear anything you might have discovered about her. A mutual quid pro quo. Does that sound of interest?’

Christ, what the hell am I getting myself into?

The missing father and son, true or not, was one thing. An old wartime intelligence spook emerging out of the gloom was very much another. Unsettling, but then Chris reminded himself he had exposed himself to far more worrying situations in the past, in the pursuit of the all-elusive cover-photo… Rwanda, Sarajevo, Iraq… This was, so far at least, nothing to get too jumpy about. Not yet anyway.

‘I suppose we can arrange a little show and tell,’ he answered.

‘Good. I’d prefer we had this little mutual show and tell in person rather than over a phone, if you understand me.’

‘Uh… I’m not sure I—’

‘Relax. If my motives were sinister, I wouldn’t be asking your permission to talk with you, would I? You could just say no, and that would be that. But I suspect you’re just as curious about this plane as I am.’

True.

Chris wondered if he was being too cautious. Whatever tale lay behind this plane nestling on the seabed off America, it was sixty years old. The only men in dark suits who might come looking for him would be packing zimmer frames.

‘And anyway, I’m wary that ears are still listening out there, if you get my drift. Best to be safe than sorry.’

‘Okay, then,’ said Chris. ‘Where and when?’

‘Now that’s the thing. I’d like our meeting to be discreet. It’s probably best if I were to come over to you. I presume you’re on or near Rhode Island somewhere?’

‘Port Lawrence. It’s a small place, very quiet right now.’

Chris was cautious about telling this man where he was staying; he decided it might be best to arrange a public, but not too public, meeting place.

‘There’s a little bar and grill place called Lenny’s. We can meet there if you like. I’ve been there a couple of times. It’s quiet and empty. We can talk discreetly there.’

‘Good.’ The old man sounded relieved. ‘What’s your name by the way?’

A first name couldn’t do any harm; you’ve got nothing with just that. Chris decided to let him have that. ‘Chris. Listen… how did you get my number?’

He heard Wallace chuckle. ‘You didn’t withhold your number when you called the museum, did you?’

Chris could almost have smacked his forehead. But then, to be fair, he hadn’t anticipated the call to Dayton would be anything other than routine when he had started dialling.

‘Don’t worry,’ Wallace added, ‘it’s just me that has your number. Would tomorrow be okay with you?’

‘Tomorrow evening? Yeah, that’s fine. Seven p.m.?’

‘Nineteen hundred, that’s fine. How will I identify you?’

‘I look English, apparently.’

‘I… I’m sorry?’

‘Tall, slim, short light brown hair, pretty nondescript… look, sod that, I’ll carry a camera, okay?’

He heard Wallace sigh. ‘Please be discreet, Chris. Tell no one about this for now. Like I’ve said, old ears might still be listening. After all, I found you, and I’m hardly a professional now.’

Wallace’s words gave him pause for thought. Just how careful was he being? It seemed pretty much every bloody living soul in Port Lawrence knew what his business was.

‘You’re right, I’ll keep shtum. Look, forget the camera. Lenny’s is pretty quiet, you’ll find me easily enough, I’ll be the only bloke who doesn’t look like a fisherman. ’

He heard a gentle wheeze from the old voice on the end of the phone. Wallace was laughing this time. ‘Good. Tomorrow at seven, then,’ he added and the line went dead.

Chris sat down on the end of the bed and stared at his mobile phone, worried that it might ring again with some other shady spook from the past enquiring about his comings and goings.

God, I could really do with a smoke.