Together We Kill

She’s lying quietly out there on the bottom now — melted, fragmented pieces of metal scattered like dust across the sand, nameless, traceless, but evoking a memory that could make you sweat cold if you knew the truth about her.

Not too far away is another mass of metal, twisted and corroded by now, but still recognizable for what it was. Both masses had been born together and served together, then separated for 20 years to meet again in a fusion of terror that was, fortunately, almost totally, unseen.

There was still one other memory... a sudden, bright-red, misty memory better forgotten.

Chapter 1

I sat there with the half-finished coffee in my hand, watching them service the battered old Mustang on the runway outside. There was nothing of interest there; I had seen it done too many times before. But the blonde reflected in the plate glass window of the bar was interesting, especially when she knew I was watching her and arranged herself so I could see her legs from the best angle.

Step one in the big play, I thought. She was chumming for me and next would come the hook. Cute, real cute, I looked like something out of the “Late Show” in an old AAF A-2 jacket with a leather helmet and goggles jammed into my pocket, and she was a dream in a fitted covert suit that made her hair look like a summer sunset.

The trouble was, I knew her, only she didn’t know me. Three years ago, Lois Hays had interviewed me in a German hospital to find out why I was interested in making an air drop of ammo into Hungary from an old Ju-88. I could have told her it was for the loot, but my face was bandaged and still hurt from the shrapnel slice so I didn’t bother. That time she had played the part in a nurse’s outfit.

Dominick Lolla, who got me smuggled back to the States on a tramp steamer, knew her, too. He was an accredited Circut correspondent and didn’t hold much with anybody doing legwork for Duncan Knight, whose “Washington Inside” column was dedicated to ripping apart our military policy.

I grinned at her reflection. So what the hell, if you need legwork done, get someone with pretty legs to do it. Hers were beautifully rounded and shiny with nylon until the sheen stopped and there was a quick flash of tan before she pulled the hem of her skirt down.

And when you’re looking at legs you don’t see people, so when the big guy said, “Mr. Fallon?” it caught me by surprise.

He had an angular face, almost devoid of expression, but ready to be friendly if he had to. His suit was well cut, but not new, and fitted with some peculiar purpose in mind. The smaller man with him was on the mouse side, with an irritated squint to his eyes.

I stood up. “Cop?”

“Lieutenant Trusky, city police.” He held out his hand. “It shows?” His voice sounded amused.

His hand was hard. “To some.”

“This is Mr. Del Reed from the state’s attorney’s office.”

The smaller guy nodded curtly and shifted his briefcase. “If you have a few minutes I’d like to talk to you,” he said.

“What about?”

“You have a few minutes?” Trusky asked politely.

“Sure.”

“Then let’s find out.”

Behind me the blonde uncrossed those legs again and watched us. Del Reed nodded toward the small restaurant section, across the room, and when Trusky moved up beside me I could feel the gun at his hip.

“How long did you know Tucker Stacy, Mr. Fallon?”

Del Reed didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. “Since ’forty-two,” I said. “We were in the Army together. Air Force cadets.”

“You were in the same outfit together. Two hundred-fifty-second Fighter Squadron, I believe.”

“If you know so damn much, why the questions?”

Reed’s face tightened, but a wave from Lieutenant Trusky calmed him down. “All right, let’s get to the point,” he said. He pulled a folder from his briefcase, held it in his lap and fingered the contents. “You and Stacy were discharged together, shared a brief business venture...”

“Crop-dusting,” I interrupted. “We went broke.”

“...Corresponded a few times and except for a squadron reunion in nineteen fifty-four, apparently never had any further contact.” His eyes left the folder and drifted up to meet mine.

“So what?” I said.

“So out of a clear blue sky he left you a half-million dollar investment.”

I put down my coffee and leaned on the table. The little man was getting to me.

“Is his family contesting his will?” I asked.

Reed’s mouth twitched. “You know he has none.”

“Is the state?”

“Well, no.”

“Don’t hesitate, Mr. Reed. You’re off limits and you know it. Put it on the line or take a walk. You just don’t impress me at all.”

“Del is trying to... let’s say, forestall action, Mr. Fallon,” Trusky said quietly.

“The will hasn’t even been probated yet,” I reminded him. “I’m here because Tuck’s lawyer wrote me. Now where does the state come in? So Tuck leaves his old buddy an airfield, the Capital K. I come down here to see what it’s all about and the action starts before I even get there.”

“Had you known about the will?” Reed said.

“No. But it doesn’t surprise me.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re two of a kind. Neither one of us had anybody else. In the Army we took pretty good care of each other, and if one of us had been knocked off the other would have gotten his gear.”

“Who was your National Service Insurance made out to, Mr. Fallon?”

“An orphanage, Mr. Reed. So was Tuck’s. If you read all those papers you should know that.”

He ignored the remark. “Do you have a will?”

“What for? Outside of that Mustang, I don’t have anything.”

Trusky tapped the table with a forefinger. “Old fighter plane, isn’t it?”

“You know it. You were there, weren’t you?”

The cop smiled and shrugged. “Practical to own?”

“For my purposes,” I told him.

Reed snapped the folder shut. “And what may those purposes be?”

I pointed toward his lap. “What do the papers say, buddy?”

“That you worked for a motion picture company. I can’t see where owning an airplane...”

“You don’t see much at all. Were you elected or appointed?”

“Appointed, but...”

“Then somebody’s pretty damn stupid.”

“Listen!”

“Aw, shut up.” I looked at Trusky and he was trying not to grin. I said, “I’ve worked with Demeret Pictures off and on for ten years. When they go on location, I fly the daily takes back to the lab for developing, then hustle them up to the location for screening the next day. But that’s beside the point. Let’s get to the business you’re trying to involve me in.”

Trusky said, “If you inherit the Capital K, what do you intend doing with it?”

“Run it... sell it... how the hell do I know. You got any ideas?”

“I might.”

“Then let’s hear them.”

“Let’s see what you do with it first.”

It started to come through then, even the bit with the blonde outside. “What was Tucker doing with it?” I asked them.

Trusky threw Reed a sidewards glance and when the attorney nodded he said, “There’s been some speculation in higher quarters that your friend might have been engaged in some illegal activities.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged again. “Florida’s close to enough places to make a lot of illegal things practical if you don’t mind getting killed for them.” They stood up and Trusky said, “See you tomorrow. We’re going through all of your friend’s papers, private and business. Everything. You can lodge a complaint if you feel like it.”

I gave him a grin that was all teeth. “Hell, why should I? Be my guest.”

Chapter 2

The wire services had never said much about it. Tucker had simply flown out in the Staggerwing Beech he had liked so well and never come back. He had told Charlie Traub, his chief mechanic, that he was going to do some preliminary work on an aerial survey job he was bidding on and headed for the southern tip of Florida. An hour after take-off, a line squall came up. It was supposed that Tuck tried to fly around it, couldn’t get through and ditched in the ocean. An air-sea rescue unit located pieces of wreckage that were unmistakably from his plane.

You get old but never bold. It just didn’t sound like Tuck.

Only the local paper played up the incident big. Tucker Stacy was a prominent character in Celada, a war hero who turned an old Air Force auxiliary field into the Capital K and promoted a couple of electronics plants to locate in the area. That, with a booming resort section, put Celada on the map and Tucker Stacy in the city council.

Old Tuck, how he had changed. He sure used to be the wild-assed one, ready to charge into anything. Nine confirmed kills on Me-109s. Tuck? Hey, remember that leave in London? That pair of Scot lassies! Crazy, man. What did they teach them on that farm? Remember? Remember, hell. When you’re dead you don’t remember anything.

I propped the scuffed jump boots on the end of the couch and looked at the ceiling. Across the room, the TV was giving the weather reports for tomorrow. Hot. Clear. Probably local thundershowers in the afternoon.

When the knock came I said, “Come on in,” and didn’t take my eyes off the ceiling. The door snicked shut. “I’ve been waiting for you,” I said.

Lois Hays tilted her head and smiled. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Why not?”

She was prettier face to face than reflected in a plate glass window. Even though the suit was cut in an almost military fashion, she couldn’t hide the full thrust of her breasts or the rich sweep of her hips and thighs.

“You got pretty legs,” I said. “Pneumatic. Soft, cushiony.”

“I don’t know if I should thank you or not.”

“Never mind that. Just make the pitch.”

“What?”

“Honey,” I said, “you made the point clear in the lounge. I dug the bit with the legs and all. I appreciate the generosity. Now let’s hear the offer.”

For a moment she poised there, motionless, then her face flushed and the anger tightened her mouth. But only for a second. The pink left her cheeks and she laughed deep in her throat. “I think you’ve known too many hotel rooms and too many...”

“Whores?” I added for her.

She didn’t get mad. “Like you say, why not?”

I turned my head and grinned. I couldn’t have made a pretty sight. I still hadn’t shaved and the scar on my face always showed worse then. “Wrong, baby. I’m a funny sort of guy. I never buy it. It gets given to me or I take it.”

“Should I be frightened?” She laughed again and sat down.

“Not tonight, kid. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.” I closed my eyes and settled back. “What do you want?”

“A story.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I could feel her smiling. “My name is Karen Morgan. I’m with Barrett Syndicated Features and I’d like to get some background on Tucker Stacy, and, of course, you and your plans. You may not know it, but Mr. Stacy’s activities were of great interest statewide.”

“Honey,” I said, “cut the crap.”

I opened my eyes and she was watching me, the softness gone from her face. She was steady, studying me, waiting. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Tuck’s death is only a local matter,” I said.

Her tongue touched her lips. “All right, I’ll come clean,” she said. “There’s been speculation.”

“How about that.”

“Aren’t you interested?”

“Kid, Tuck and I faced death plenty of times. You’re bound to gel it someday anyway. I’ve had a plane torn apart under me in a storm.”

“Have you checked the weather for the day he died? Several planes flew through that line squall without any difficulty.”

“Sugar, inside a thunderhead...”

“There weren’t any severe ones. I have verified pilot reports to that effect. So does Miami. The squall line was light. A Cessna 90 and two Tripacers passed through it.”

“So?”

“So there’s been some speculation...”

I twisted on the couch and propped my head in my hand. “What about?”

Her smile was almost disarming. “Were you ever a policeman?”

“No, but I’ve operated in their area of work.”

“Very well. Mr. Stacy, it was rumored, was not above turning a dishonest dollar.”

“With all his loot and his investment here it doesn’t sound reasonable, honey. As an airport, the Capital K is a going concern. Try again.”

She stood up quickly, frowning in concentration, and walked toward me. There was a “woman-with-a-mission” look spread right across her face. “A few years ago he had nothing except a few surplus airplanes. Somehow he managed all this. It came suddenly and expanded fast. The big question is why.”

“He was lucky, baby.”

“All right. Then the big question is how.”

I shrugged. Tuck’s business was no affair of mine. “Where do I come in?”

She found my eyes with hers. “Supposing he did have an illegal operation going somewhere, then the possibility of his having been killed would be increased, correct?”

I nodded noncommittally.

“And there’s a possibility that he would have left some record of a sort.”

I nodded again.

“If I could see his papers... or whatever effects he left... I might be able to come up with a story.” She paused and gave an impatient toss of her head. Hair swirled across her shoulders like a golden wave. “You inherit his property. You could let me do this. Will you?”

“Maybe,” I said. “What’ll you give me?”

Her eyebrows raised. “What... do you want?”

“Try me and see.”

For three full seconds she stood there, a curious smile toying with the edges of her mouth. Then her hands went to the buttons of her jacket and flipped them open. She dropped it to the floor, then did the same thing to her blouse. There was another minute pause before her fingers went to the hooks of the brassiere at her back. With a motion of her shoulders, she let it slip down her arms, dangled it a moment in her fingers, then dropped that, too.

The smile was gone now. In its place there was an intense, sultry look she couldn’t conceal. Her breasts were magnificently full, seeming to pulsate with pressure that wanted to burst through the taut red nipples. Her breath was jerky and a shudder went through her shoulders to twist down into the supple, trim waist that flowed into her skirt.

I hadn’t moved. I just watched her. It was something she had never done before and showed it, and the doing had turned her into a person she had tried hard to conceal. She swayed toward me and in another moment would have taken the step that would put her inside my reach. Already I could see her hand groping, feeling for the zipper at her side.

I got up quickly, walked to the door and turned around. “Nice act, Lois, but you’ll never make the big time.”

It was as if I had belted her. The longing disappeared and for a moment there was a hint of fear, then something else.

“Lois?” she said.

“We’ve met before, baby. You didn’t get what you came after then, either.”

Chapter 3

From the air the runway system of Tuck’s airport was shaped like a capital K, and that’s how it got its name. It was built during the war as an auxiliary to nearby Martin AAFB, but not enough B-24s or 17s put down there to cave in the runways so it was in top shape. Tuck had erected a fine operations building, attached a lounge and restaurant, added a motel unit and a group of specialty shops built around a generous swimming pool. There was a golf course bordering the south edge of the field, several tennis courts, an adjacent highway and, at the far end of the field, away from the social center, the hangar area. Not a very military setup, but a profitable deal in these days of fly-in vacations. At night, each burning light read like a dollar sign. The motel units were filled, maintenance and repair was going on around the clock in the hangars, and overhead was the sporadic drone of light planes coming into the pattern.

At 9 o’clock I got one of the kids who drove the caddy cars to take me to the hangars. Tuck had had his office there, where he liked it best... in the middle of engines and airframes. Sam Devin, Tuck’s attorney, would have preferred his own office, but he was looking to please what might mean a new account, so he came where I asked him to.

Sam was a short, wiry guy with a grey crew-cut. He was probably pushing sixty but moved like thirty. His eyes gave him away. They had seen the inside of too many courtrooms and too much misery. We shook hands briefly, and Sam said, “Charlie Traub will be here in just a minute. Mind waiting?”

I said no, poured myself a beer from the cooler in the corner and sat down. Charlie Traub came in like a little fox terrier, introduced himself to me on the way to the cooler and pulled up a chair.

In one way he was like Sam. He had the stamp of the old-time flier all over him, from his stained white coveralls to the wrench scars on his knuckles. They were both about the same age until you read their eyes. There was still a lot of life left in Charlie’s.

Sam spread his papers out on the desk. “Ready?”

Both of us nodded.

“Fine.” He picked up the top sheet, glanced at it briefly and put it down. “Tucker’s will provides for two persons. Charlie Traub here gets twenty thousand in cash, three airplanes specified here and a five percent participation in the profits of the Capital K. He is to remain here in his present position for one year before he can be fired.”

“And to Cat Fallon here goes the entire rest of Tucker’s estate. I haven’t had time to itemize the assets, but to give you an idea, I’d say the cash value of his properties is about a million. On deposit is some two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Just a personal letter to you, Mr. Fallon.” Sam fingered an envelope and handed it across the desk to me. It was sealed and the note inside was undated. From what it said, it seemed neither important nor cryptic.

I felt myself frowning at the note the second time I read it. Who the hell were Verdo and Cristy? The names sounded familiar enough, but I sure couldn’t recall them. Back in the old days, Tuck knew everybody on the base and in town. Me, I didn’t give a damn for any of them. Verdo and Cristy! Well, hello to them wherever they were. I folded the note and stuck it in my pocket.

Sam said, “Now for your immediate plans, Mr. Fallon...”

I waved him off. “Let’s keep things running the way they are. Charlie knows the maintenance end and the rest of the staff must be on the ball. The Capital K has been making money. I’ll take a look at Tuck’s personal end and see how I can fit in. Hell, I got no place else to go anyway. Sound okay?”

“Fine with me,” Charlie mused.

Sam stood up and began collecting his papers. “I’ll have everything in final form in a few days,” he said.

“Before you go,” I said, “just one more thing. Between us.”

Both of them glanced up sharply.

“Did Tuck have something going for him?”

They exchanged sharp looks, then Charlie squinted and looked at the ceiling. “Like what, Cat?”

“Let’s cut it clean. Was he involved in anything illegal?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because, Sam, the cops arc already asking questions and I gave my approval for them to poke around Tuck’s papers. How does that sound to you? Upset any applecarts?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Nope. They can look all they want. If Tuck or anybody else were involved with an illegal operation to my knowledge... or even if I suspected it... I wouldn’t be here.”

“Good enough. How about you, Charlie?”

“As far as I know, nix. He made some smart deals, but legal right down the line. He never chiseled or stole and his credit was tops. He’s flown out of here alone many a time without bothering to tell me where he was headed. I didn’t check his flight plans or even know if he filed any. But hell, a guy’s entitled to some time off. So maybe he went to Vegas or to one of those fancy fly-in fields where they have a cathouse at the end of a runway. Okay?”

I thought it over and nodded. “Suits me. I just don’t want my neck stuck out.”

“You’re the boss now,” Charlie said. “Any orders?”

“Yeah. Fix me up with one of the motel units. I’ll have my stuff sent over from the hotel. And run a hundred-hour check on the Mustang.”

“No trouble. What about parts?”

“Trans-Florida Aviation over in Sarasota has a full stock of P-Fifty-One components. And since we have some loot in the bank, don’t go scrimping. My instrument panel is outdated, so get the King Radio catalogue and mount me up. I want new tires and canopy on the baby and find a reticule for the gunsight.”

“You got a K-fourteen on that thing?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What for? You can bust your head if you...”

“I always wear the shoulder harness locked on landing, buddy. Besides, I might want to shoot somebody.”

“Oh,” he grinned, “a nostalgic.”

“There aren’t too many of us left,” I said. Then I remembered it was what Tuck had written. I tried to remember who Verdo and Cristy were. There was some reason why I should remember them, but the reason was twenty years old and only a hazy recollection now.

The kind of circles I traveled in made it no trouble to enlarge my contacts. One call to Slim Upgate in New York put me through to a lead man in Celada named George Clinton, and with a clearance like Upgate he was glad to give me a run down on Tucker Stacy. Briefly, he told me, Tuck was a wheeler-dealer who operated on a comparatively small scale, liked what he had in Celada and decided to stick around. Clinton hinted that Tuck had some outside interests, but speculated that they lay somewhere between a man’s normal attachments for girls and gambling. He didn’t think it was anything in the rackets.

When I mentioned the cops, Clinton shrugged, but Del Reed’s name brought a squint to his eyes and he made a couple of phone calls. After the last one he hung up, dragged on a cigar and told me Del Reed was the state man handling any of the operations involving the new Cuban setup, especially the anti-Cuban bunch in the Miami area.

“Where would Tuck fit into that picture?”

“I could guess,” Clinton said.

“Then guess.”

“He had planes, an airfield. Now you guess.”

“Smuggling?” Clinton made a vague gesture. “No, that’s not logical,” I continued. “He couldn’t get into Cuba to start with. Besides, they come out in bunches. They commandeer boats generally.”

“The big ones?”

“Aren’t most of the big ones already here?”

Clinton studied his cigar a moment. “Yes, I’d say so.” He looked up at me. “There’s still a bunch operating in the mountains like Castro did.”

“No dice, friend. Castro’s was an army of poorly trained malcontents who were glad to see Batista go. It’s not like that now. With Russian and Chinese Commies in there running things, whatever opposition shows its face will get smeared like a bug. The groups in the mountains are scattered little units. Any real opposition to Castro will come right out of the States.”

“You never know what the Commies are going to pull,” Clinton said. “Well, if there’s anything else you want any help with, let me know.”

“I will.”

“You want me to pull the local fuzz off your neck?”

“That’s a real power play, friend.”

Clinton made another small gesture with his hands. “I’m a heavy contributor to certain campaign funds. Little favors I can get.”

“Save them until we need them.”

“Suit yourself,” he said.

Out of habit, I checked the weather before I hit the pad. The latest out of Miami had a tropical disturbance building up. The weathermen had already named the hurricane Ingrid. It was enough to put a crimp in the traffic pattern even though the sky was clear and the wind a gentle five knots from the west.

Charlie Traub’s crew had already started tearing down the Mustang, and after a cursory look around, I walked back to the end unit of the motel that had been Tuck’s, stripped down, took a shower and flaked out on the bed.

For a while I lay there with my hands behind my head, trying to get inside Tuck’s mind. Damn, there wasn’t one reason in the world outside of sentiment that would have made him leave me all his goodies. Big wheelers just don’t have sentiment. I had known too many of them. If I had been an operator who could make a go out of what Tuck had built up, I could see a reason, but I wasn’t an operator.

So maybe it was sentiment, like that reflection back to Verdo and Cristy. I’d have to look them up, whoever they were. Maybe a couple of late replacements from a repple-depple in ’45. Tuck always did baby the new ones. Me, I watched out for me first.

Sentiment? No, there was another reason somewhere. Meanwhile, I had a half million bucks to play with and no sentiment involved. It was going to be a lot of fun. One big ball and to hell with everybody. When it was over and spent, I’d climb back in the rebuilt Mustang and find some more fresh sky to find a buck in.

That’s how I fell asleep.

And when I woke up she was standing there in the moonlight with a gun in her hand pointing it at my head. Not a little girl-type rod, but a fat black musket that was a .38 police positive with a four-inch barrel. In the pale yellow glow from outside I could see the dull grey of the slugs in the cylinder.

She was only smaller than average in height. The rest of her was all magnificent woman that slacks and a sweater couldn’t hide. Only the total black of her hair lightened her face by contrast. No sun-worshipper could have had a more luxurious tan.

She saw my eyes open. “Don’t move, señor” she said.

“I could use a sheet over me.”

“I’ve seen naked men before.”

“Drop dead,” I said, and flipped the sheet over myself.

“You almost did, Mr. Fallon. Don’t move again.”

I could see the expression on her face, a peculiar set to her eyes. She wasn’t fooling. Il had been close. Very slowly I settled back and folded my hands behind my head. Never trust a broad with a gun. If she could use it, that made it even worse.

“Your play, baby.”

“Quite, Mr. Fallon.” Her voice carried a soft Spanish inflection.

“Am I supposed to know you?”

I could see the tip of her tongue wet her lips indecisively. “Not necessarily. I am Sharon Ortiz.”

“Cuban?”

She didn’t hesitate. “My father was Spanish. We lived in Cuba. My mother was Irish.” Her mouth smiled over beautiful white teeth, but there was no humor there at all. “But I am Cuban, señor.”

“And what do you want with me?”

“Right now I am to decide whether you would be better dead or alive.”

“Great. How does it look?”

Her hand tightened around the .38. I hadn’t figured out yet how I was going to take it away from her. “Don’t be flippant, Mr. Fallon. This is not a toy.”

I gave her words back to her. “I’ve seen guns before.”

“Yes, I imagine you have.”

“Then either use it or tell me what the hell you want.”

Her eyes never wavered from mine. “You prefer to stay alive?”

“Sure.”

“Then you are to stay here, out of sight. You are to see no one, talk to no one. You will give us... one other person and myself... authorization to inspect all of Tucker Stacy’s personal belongings and this entire installation. Then you may live.”

“Thanks. Now what are you after?”

“It isn’t necessary for you to know.”

“Sorry, baby,” I said.

She was going to do it, damned if she wasn’t. She thumbed the hammer back for single-action release and took one step toward the bed to be certain of her target and that’s what happens when you send a girl out to do a man’s job. When you shoot somebody you do it then and from where you stand. You don’t take time to single-action a double-action gun or step into the target where a guy can kick the piece right out of your mitt with one foot and yank you into the sack with the other.

It doesn’t take much to turn a tough broad into a soft one. You take all their defenses away when you grab them by the collar and rip the clothes off their back. I hooked my fingers in the waistband of her slacks and with one wrench tore them loose with the pink things underneath. The spitting, clawing tiger became a sobbing, frightened woman in seconds.

She was beautiful, a terrified, beautiful animal with black hair and tawny skin and big, round eyes filled with horror — not so much at what she thought was going to happen to her, but at the mistake she had made.

I said, “You could have caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, baby.”

Then, instantly, the woman touch was there again and she saw her out. Give a little, get a little, she was thinking.

“But not this time, baby.” I grabbed her by the arm, dragged her off the bed and hustled her to the door. I gave her a shove outside where the scream she started broke off into a gasp when she realized she was naked in the world.

I laughed, locked the door and went back inside. I found the .38, stuck it in my pants hanging on the back of a chair and sat on the edge of the bed. She’d be back. You don’t do things like that to a broad who comes calling with a gun without her coming back.

Outside, the wind had picked up a little. It felt good rolling across my chest. I pulled the sheet up and went back to sleep grinning.

Hell of a thing. Two of them almost back-to-back, Lois and Sharon. I was throwing away more than most guys ever got.

Chapter 4

At 7:30, I had breakfast and went over to the operations building. Charlie Traub was already there with Del Reed and Lieutenant Trusky. When I nodded to Charlie he came over, both hands jammed in his coverall pockets.

“These clowns been poking around ever since dawn,” he said.

“I told them they could.”

“Not in my private office. They got two men over there now cleaning up the mess they made. I won’t stand for that crap. You know what they’re looking for?”

“How would I? Hell, let them look. The sooner they get done the sooner they’re out of my hair.”

“Sure, but you better talk to Trusky.”

“Why?”

“You’ll find out.”

I told Charlie to get back to the hangars and walked to the files. Everything from them was spread across the counter while Del Reed fingered each sheet carefully.

“Find what you’re looking for?” I asked.

Del Reed put down a folder. “Not yet, Mr. Fallon, but we will.”

“If Tuck ever went to Cuba, I doubt if he’d file a flight plan.”

This time both of them stopped at once and turned toward me. “You seem to know a lot, Mr. Fallon,” Del smiled. There was no friendliness there, just the smile of a lawyer baiting a witness.

It took Trusky to break through the ice. “Knock it off, Del. He’s played too many of these games.” His eyes glued themselves to mine. “Suppose you try talking a little bit, Fallon. Like where your information comes from.”

“Back issues of the Miami papers,” I lied. “Interesting articles about your partner here and his pet activities... the Cuban bit. That’s all he touches... that’s all he’s assigned to. Right?”

“Go on.”

“So it figures, Lieutenant. Tucker had planes and an airfield. He had an interest in politics. He’s suddenly dead and the Cuban expert turns up to go through his records. Now let’s tighten things up a little. Let’s go into my office where you two can talk to me. If I like what you say, I won’t throw up any roadblocks. You’re here at my convenience, and I can crowd you out any time I like. Try subpoenaing anything and the story comes out. I don’t think you want that just yet. Okay, now what do we do?”

Trusky looked at Reed. The little man glared at me and nodded.

“Clean up the mess first,” I said, “then meet me in my office.”

Later, over Reed’s objections, Trusky laid it out. He said, “You know the background on the Cuban deal. Right now the ticklish part is that anti-Castro people ready for an armed attack are here in Florida. It’s something that should be dealt with on a national level, but because of the peculiar circumstances and the proximity of Cuba, it’s all centered in the end of one state. Our people have put up with it and are better qualified in most cases to deal with things.

“However, all the anti-Castro bunch aren’t Cubans. Plenty of U.S. types are right there with them. We suspect your former buddy Tuck was one of them.”

“So what?” I said. “I feel the same way. What’s wrong with that?”

Del Reed stood up impatiently. “Wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. If it’s played out politically or economically that’s one thing, but when it comes to any acts of violence it could touch off a hot war. Don’t you realize the Reds are just waiting for us to make a move so they’ll have some excuse to come to the aid of Castro? Don’t you think they’d have a beautiful piece of propaganda going for them if one of our citizens got caught up in an international mess?”

Reed leaned on the desk, his face livid. “Tucker Stacy was reported to have made numerous unauthorized flights out of the country. He was reported seen in the company of several well-known anti-Castro people on several occasions.”

“Reported,” I reminded him, “not proven. And if you do prove it, what can you do? He’s dead.”

“Exactly.” His face was bright with sweat now. “And supposing his death was not accidental and it gets out. Do you realize the stink our own people will make? You realize how much closer that can push us to all-out war?”

“Maybe it’s about time,” I said.

Del rubbed his hands together until he regained his composure. “Don’t be stupid. Nobody wins with a war.”

“Maybe not, but you could still be doing this wrong.”

“Then you tell us,” Trusky said.

“Let it die. No harm is done.”

Reed’s face showed his contempt for my suggestion. “Unfortunately, the damage might already be done. Tucker Stacy was a brilliant promoter. There’s no way of telling how far he went or what was involved. One thing we’re sure of. Your friend was in the hottest juggling act that’s come up so far. All we know is that something big was underway and he was part of it. We have to know what it was. Do we have your cooperation?”

“Sure,” I said, “only you have a time limit. Three days. That ought to be cooperation enough.”

“Well?” Trusky asked.

Del Reed nodded. “That will do it.”

Before they could leave, there was a rap on the door. It swung open and Charlie Traub poked his head in. “Some broad here for you, Cat.”

“Send her in.”

The request was almost useless. Lois Hays came sweeping past Charlie before he could ask her. I grinned, waiting to see the malice in her face, but there was none. “Well, hello, sugar,” I said. “Meet Mr. Reed and Lieutenant Trusky.”

Something happened to Del’s face. It seemed to freeze up. “We’ve met before, Mr. Fallon.”

“Yes, in a courtroom, wasn’t it?”

“Quite. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mr. Fallon, we’ll get on with things.” He nodded curtly to Lois, and walked to the door with Trusky behind him. The cop’s eyes were half closed, and I could sense his mind working. Halfway out, Reed paused and said over his shoulder, “I can expect a confidence between us, can’t I?”

“I wouldn’t worry,” I told him.

Lois had seated herself behind the desk and was sucking gently on a cigarette. Her eyes were laughing at me now. She answered my question before I could ask it. “No, I’m not mad. In fact, I think you were kind of cute. Anybody else would have gone all the way.”

“I’ve been there, baby, it’s nothing new anymore.”

“But I’m curious, Mr. Fallon...”

“Cat.”

“All right. Cat. You said we had met before.” She blew a cloud of silver smoke toward me. “Where?”

“Uh-uh. I like my advantage. Maybe some other time I’ll tell you. Right now get on with your pitch. What’s it this time?”

She waved one hand toward the closed door. “You had an important visitor. What’s he doing here?”

I shrugged and slid off the desk. “The same thing you’re doing.”

Her eyebrows went up with mock curiosity.

“Come on, quit the games. I wasn’t born yesterday, kid. He’s a state rep engaged in political work dealing with the Cuban situation. You’re a nosy legman for a political reporter. You both want the same thing.”

“And what would that be, Cat?”

“Whatever you think Tucker Stacy was doing for the anti-Castro bunch.”

“It would make a good story. It is my job, you know.”

“Happy landings.”

“Will you help me?”

“What for?”

“I could guarantee you certain rewards.” She grinned impishly.

“Sex isn’t a reward with me, baby. It’s a functional necessity. Like lunch. Got any better offers?”

Lois snubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray, glanced at me and picked up her handbag. She smiled, cocked her head and said, “Give me time. I’ll think of something.”

I waited until she was almost out. “Lois...”

She looked back at me. “Yes?”

“What are you after?”

“Have you gone through your deceased friend’s things yet?”

“Casually.”

“Did he traffic in bananas?”

“Beats me.”

She smiled again. “If you find out, I’m at the Jackson Hotel.”

“Swell. I’ll bring a bottle.”

“Why waste time drinking?”

“Yeah,” I said as she closed the door.

Bananas! Now it was bananas. What was it Tuck’s letter said?... “Don’t choke on a banana.”

I got Charlie Traub, two of his assistants and three girls from the office. We spent the rest of the day going through every piece of paper in the files. There wasn’t a thing mentioning bananas anywhere. I said the hell with it, went back to my motel unit to clean up for supper. The second I stepped inside the darkened room I knew I’d been had. The first solid thwack caught me rolling away but brought me to my knees. The second one did the job and was almost a relief. The sudden swell of unconsciousness blotted out the terribly explosive pain that seemed to be bottled up inside my skull, dulling it little by little until it was only a memory.

There were three of them there: two small dark men in grey business suits and a taller, sardonic type who sat comfortably in a chair, watching me with mild amusement.

I lay on the floor at his feet, my legs drawn up behind me and taped to my wrists behind my back. A piece of the same adhesive had been plastered across my mouth so that the low moan of pain I let out seemed to come through my nose. Each eye was a separate ball of torture, the ache in my head seeming to be concentrated at the pupils. Every pulse beat was an individual torture.

Either the pain moderated or my tolerance to it increased, because I could see and hear again. There was wind, but it came from outside the building, gusts rattling the palm leaves and whistling as they twisted past the corners of the motel.

“Feeling better, Mr. Fallon?” His eyes danced again and the pencil-line mustache twisted as he smiled.

All I could do was glare at him.

“Don’t try to talk. Until you fully understand your predicament, I merely want you to listen and understand. Then you may speak. Let me remind you — one attempt to draw attention here and you will regret it.” He turned his head to the man beside him. “Juan...”

With a practiced move, the little guy flipped open a knife.

“It can be painful, Mr. Fallon.”

He didn’t have to point it out. I’d seen it all done before. I let my eyes wander past his face and take in the room. They had destroyed it pretty well. The one in the chair smiled again. He reached inside his coat and found an envelope. When he pulled out the letter, I saw it was the note Tucker had left for me.

“I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth, Mr. Fallon. I want you to explain something, and if it is satisfactory we will simply leave you here. Frankly, dead men can cause trouble. However, you can make me kill you, if you wish. Your life is a very impersonal matter. Do you understand?”

I nodded. I had done business with these types before.

“Take off the tape.”

The man with the knife bent over, felt for the edge of the adhesive like he was going to peel an apple, caught it and ripped it loose with a jerk. I felt the skin of my lips tear and I almost made a fatal mistake of trying to catch his nose with the top of my head. He grinned, realizing my intention, and squatted there with the knife, ready to slip it into my belly.

“You have control now?”

“I know the rules,” I said.

“Good.” He fingered the paper, holding it up so I could see it. “A carefully guarded note from your late friend, no?”

“No.”

“Then why hide it where you did?”

“It wasn’t hard to find. I just considered it personal, that’s all.”

“Perhaps. But I think you couldn’t quite figure it out and kept it as a memorandum.”

“Why?”

“Ah yes, why. We know that Tucker Stacy had little or no previous contact with you, so I agree that you have no knowledge or interest in his... let’s say, ventures. However, as his inheritor, you do have now, and it is likely that you think to capitalize on everything he was involved in. Therefore you do not wish to let anything slip through your fingers. Reasonable?”

“Yeah, but not true,” I grunted. “What the hell is this all about?”

“Who are Verdo and Cristy, Mr. Fallon?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Ah, but you do.”

“Sorry, buddy, but that’s one thing you can’t get from me. Whoever they are belongs to twenty years ago.”

“Tucker Stacy seemed to think you would know them.”

“He was wrong.” It was the way I said it that made him frown.

“Yes, that could be, but there are ways of probing a man’s mind to make him remember.”

“So hypnotize me.”

Very languidly, he screwed a cigarette into a holder. “You are in no position to be facetious, my friend.”

“So go screw yourself then.”

The little guy with the knife pricked the skin of my neck. He was enjoying his work.

I said, “What’s this all about?”

“It is better that you don’t know. None of it is your affair.”

“Then you’re at a dead end, buddy.”

The tall one nodded and pulled at his cigarette, “If we could be sure of that, your chances of survival would be much improved.”

There was a sudden shriek of metal and something smashed against the window frame. Like a cat, the little guy was at the light, snapped it off, then opened the door a crack to peer out. He turned, closed the door and flipped the light back on. “It is the window shutter, Señor Marcel. The wind...”

His voice cut off at the look the tall guy gave him. I faked a groan and laid my head back to cover the moment. A name. At least I had a name now. Señor Marcel.

When I opened my eyes he was watching me. Then, after a few seconds, he seemed to make his decision. I was a nothing. I couldn’t have caught his name. “This note, Mr. Fallon... it mentions choking on a banana. Could you explain that?”

Inside my head the pounding started again. Cramp spasms were starting up my neck and all sensation was gone in my fingers. “I don’t know what the hell he meant. Get off my back, will you?”

The knife touched me again. “Shall we try another way, señor?”

Marcel pulled the cigarette butt from the holder and dropped it into an ashtray. “No, not this time. I think our friend here is telling the truth. It is quite possible that he might learn something later. In that case we shall pay him another visit.” He stepped toward me and looked down at me, his eyes cold little slips of ice. “You are a smart man, Mr. Fallon?”

I didn’t answer him.

“If you are, you will say nothing about this. We have people around and if it is necessary to eliminate you I will be more than happy to accommodate. If you even become a nuisance, this will happen. You may, for instance, speculate on your friend Tucker Stacy.”

Before I could grasp his meaning, he made a motion to the one with the knife, the tape was slapped on my mouth, and with a smile of pure pleasure he swung the sap at my head and the world was all dark, pinpricked with a million lights that went out one by one.

Chapter 5

I didn’t realize I was awake until the beam of a light seared my eyes. I had been in a state of half consciousness when the flash beamed itself at my face, twisting a knife into my brain. A curiously lilting voice said, “Maybe this time I shall kill you, señor.”

Sharon Ortiz.

It won’t take much, I figured.

The light made a circuit of the moon, spotting the disorder and the strewn papers. “They found something,” she accused. Then the light hit my face again. “You will tell me.”

I was past the point of argument. I didn’t care one way or another. There was a lot I wanted to tell her that could be summed up in two distinct words, but something always made me play the angles.

She leaned forward and caught the tape over my mouth by a corner. I squinted my eyes against what was to come, but unlike the others, she worked it loose carefully. “What was it?” she hissed.

“Bananas,” I said. “That’s all those damn fools wanted to know about.”

Air whistled through her clenched teeth. “They know!”

“Nuts.”

“Mr. Fallon!” I was looking right down the barrel of the .38 again.

I said, “He left me a note. He told me not to choke on a banana. Now drop dead. I’m sick and tired of being caught in the middle of all this.”

Slowly, the gun dropped so that it pointed at the floor. The light bouncing off the tile threw a soft glow around her, making her hair shimmer like new coal. “Yes, I realize. You are typically American, señor. Nothing is of any importance to you except your dollar and yourself. You are making it so easy.”

Sharon Ortiz knelt beside me and I felt her fingers at the tape behind my back. She stripped it off with a harsh, tearing sound, not trying to be gentle. Then she stood up to watch me writhe helplessly as the blood flowed back into my arms and legs.

“I don’t think you are worth killing, señor. Maybe later, but not now.”

“That’s what everybody thinks.”

“I hope your friend gave you good advice. Don’t choke on a banana. If I were you I would not even look for one. Good night, señor.”

For a half hour I lay there rubbing myself back to normal. When I could walk, I found a bottle of Four Roses in the kitchenette and mixed a drink. Damn Tuck and whatever he was up to. Why did he leave me trouble? I had enough on my own. Damn every one of them. I was tired of being kicked around like a stray dog. Well, the Capital K was mine now and I was going to run it. Nobody else. Just me and my way. You get one chance in life to cut out of the ditch and this was mine.

By mid-morning, Charlie Traub had the Mustang ready. It was crouched in the hangar like the deadly, hungry thing it was, defanged now, but ready to scream back into the blue where it belonged. Charlie came over wiping his hands on a dirty rag, and when he looked at me his eyes narrowed.

He pointed out the hangar doors. “You going up? Wind’s pretty stiff.”

“Not enough to bother this bird.”

“Ingrid is cutting in on Jamaica. Looks like she’s coming this way. We ought to be tying down a lot of kites pretty soon.”

“Good. Look, am I gassed up?”

“Ready to roll.”

“Get her out on the ramp. I might want to take off in a hurry.”

“Sure, Cat. Thought you wanted that jump seat installed, though.”

“I’ll tell you when. You see Trusky and Reed around?”

“Sure. Since six A.M. they’ve been asking everybody questions. What do you think they’ll come up with?”

“What do you think, Charlie. You were closer to him than anyone else.” I paused and studied him. “Was he involved with the Cubans?”

For ten seconds he stared out the door, then came back to me. “Sure he was, Cat. He was the contact man between Miami and the ones in Cuba trying to oust the Commies.”

“How do you know, Charlie?”

“Like a maid who washes your clothes. She knows if you’re clean or dirty. Some things you can’t hide. Bullet holes in wing fabric, for instance. Sand in the fairings from beach landings. Certain fuel loadings and special harness rigs for cute drops and pickups. He had some good cover for what he was doing, but he didn’t fool me none.” He looked down at his hands and stuffed the rag in his back pocket.

“And whose side were you on, Charlie?”

His eyes bored into mine. “I hate that Commie bunch,” he said.

I held out my hand. “I’m with you.”

George Clinton was having lunch when I found him. He waved me over, put down his paper and offered me a cigar. He said, “I had a call from Slim Upgate to make sure you got what you needed. You got some big friends, buddy.”

“I did him a favor once.”

“Pays off. What can I do for you?”

“Any connections in Miami?”

“What kind?”

“Guns and ammo to the bunch in the mountains.”

“You can check that through surplus sales.”

“Not this time. The stuff would go through too many hands. Besides, a lot of arms dealers have held the stuff for years, waiting for something like this. It’ll be strictly black market for these shipments. Our State Department isn’t clearing anything through to Cuba the easy way.”

“I know. They do everything bas-ackwards. Now they got real trouble on their hands.”

“How about it?”

“Where can I reach you?”

“Suppose I call you. How long will it take?”

“Couple of hours.”

“Where can I reach you?”

He jotted down a number on the back of a matchbook and handed it to me. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

“Sure,” I said. “And find out if anyone knows a guy named Marcel.”

Clinton took the cigar out of his mouth slowly. “Andre Marcel?”

“Could be. Tall, thin guy with a mustache and an accent.”

“You’re asking for trouble, Fallon.”

“That’s all I been getting. Who is he?”

“If he were in the rackets, you’d call him an enforcer. He’s a troubleshooter for any country with money to spend. The last I heard of Marcel he was operating in Panama. He was responsible for re-routing the drug traffic that used to come into the States from Algiers up through Italy and Spain. He saw to it that only the stuff out of China got in.”

“So two birds got killed with one stone,” I said.

“Right. The Red organization piled up loot and the moral breakdown was speeded up here with the influx of H.”

I got up to leave.

“Fallon... How far is this going? Are we covered?”

“Nothing will involve you.”

“Good. Let me know if you need a couple of hands. I know some boys who will be glad to do a favor for Slim, too.”

I called Lois Hays from the lobby of the Jackson Hotel and was invited right up. When I knocked, she opened the door and stood there smiling at some secret joke, waiting while I took my time to look at her.

The sheer black negligee was all she had on, carefully arranged so that the neckline plunged in a wide open V that laid bare half her breasts before it swept into a knotted belt.

“Like?” she asked.

“Neat, but not gaudy,” I said.

She chuckled and led me into the room, quite conscious of the fact that the sun streaming through the window in the far wall did more than just silhouette her figure. It illuminated it with cleverly distorted shadows that were uncomfortable to watch. Sitting down was another contrived production designed to jolt the stability of any situation. Almost carelessly, she crossed her legs and let the flesh of her thighs sparkle through the slit in the gown.

I showed my appreciation and looked — like I was supposed to. The only trouble was that there was nothing new about it. But women never seem to take that into consideration.

“You said you’d bring a bottle.”

“And you said why waste time.”

“So?”

“You were right. There’s more to do.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bananas. You asked me about them. So has everybody else.”

I slid into a chair beside the phone and glanced at my watch. “You brought the bit up, so you must know something about it. You’re in the news business. You’re covering something to do with the Cuban situation. Whatever the bananas are, they’re not quite a secret and since I’m involved I’d like to be let in a little bit more before I stick my neck out.”

“And how far will that be, Mr. Fallon?”

I watched her a few moments, then I said, “All the way, kid. Somehow it revolves around me. I don’t know how, but I intend to find out. I got the strange idea that without me the whole thing can’t work.”

“Possibly,” she told me.

“Or something else.”

She paused in the act of reaching for a cigarette. “And what might that be?”

“Maybe it’s just necessary to be sure I don’t know anything — because if I did I might want to follow through on what Tuck started.”

“What do you intend doing?”

“I’m going to satisfy my curiosity, sugar.”

“That’s what killed the cat.”

“Not this cat. Can I use the phone?” She waved her hand to go ahead. “Long distance?” I asked.

“It’ll go on expenses.” She snubbed the cigarette out and unfolded from the chair. “I’ll get dressed.”

The long-distance operator made a good missing persons tracer. She started with an obsolete number, but finally ran down Joe Conway operating a propeller rebuilding shop in south Jersey. He was another guy from the old 252nd Fighter Squadron whom I had seen on rare occasions since the war. He had put in a lot of pub time in London with us. Like Tuck, Joe had known practically everybody on the base.

For ten minutes, he rehashed the old days in a bubble of enthusiasm before he realized there was something I wanted. He had read of Tuck’s death and didn’t seem surprised at me inheriting his estate. All I told him was that Tuck mentioned two other guys and wanted me to look them up — Verdo and Christy.

After a moment’s silence, Joe said, “Jeez, pal, those names are familiar, but I’ll be damned if I remember who they are. You sure they were with our outfit?”

“They must have been. Think they were late replacements?”

“Could be, but I knew most of those, too. This real important?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell you what. I see Whitey Thompson once in a while, and he has an album full of pictures of the old bunch. Suppose I go over what he has and see what I can do.”

“I’d appreciate it, Joe.”

“I’ll get right on it. Keep your head out of the cockpit.”

“You know me.”

When I hung up, I dialed George Clinton to see if he had found anything out. “Cat Fallon, George. Find your man?”

There was a small hesitation, then, “Yeah, I got him.”

“Well?”

“Your buddy Tucker Stacy was working against the Castro bunch, all right. He was making arms drops, but from what I gather it was more of a cover for something else. He was closer to the political situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was hauling important people in and out of Cuba, working on the big end. Now listen, these people of mine have funny sources of information. It’s damn reliable, and in their kind of work they have to be sure of the score. At the same time, they don’t want to get involved. They come up with more stuff than the CIA. You know what happens if any of this leaks through you? Even Slim Upgate won’t try to help you.”

“I’m clued in, buddy.”

“Okay then. Ever since the Bay of Pigs, something big has been in the works down in Cuba. Nobody seems to know what it really is, but it’s mighty explosive. Our own agencies have been working on it and running up against a wall. Whenever someone gets inside the Castro outfit and learns something, they never show up again, so their counterespionage must be pretty good. Whatever’s going on, Stacy was wise to it. He got so hot none of the boys would do business with him. They’ll peddle guns, ammo, equipment — but nix on politics. They can be hit from both ends if they try.”

“How about Andre Marcel?”

“A Castro boy. He doesn’t give a damn about arms shipments because the Reds can out-supply anything the black market can send over from the U.S. He’s strictly political. A rough guy. I’ll tell you something else, too. Nobody seems to think Stacy died accidentally. He had some live cargo with him when he went down, somebody from the hills with proof of what was going on down there.”

I said, “That’s all?”

“That’s all anybody will talk about. What comes next?”

“A trip to Miami. I want to find out a little more about that accident. And give me a contact there.”

“Try Felix Ramsey at the Cable-Hurley Supplies Company. It’s listed in the book. Felix runs the operation from behind the scenes. He’ll go along with whatever you want as long as it’s in line with policy.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Good luck. You want my boys?”

“I’ll handle it.”

When he hung up, I called Upgate in New York and passed on the word. Slim seemed pleased and wished me luck, too, without asking what I was doing. I cradled the phone and sat there thinking the thing through. But it still boiled down to just one thing... who were Cristy and Verdo?

“Do I look all right?” she said from the doorway.

Lois Hayes was sheathed in black, the sheen of a soft fabric clinging to the curves of her body. A wide belt nipped her in at the waist, giving the thrust of her breasts the look of aggressive jetpods on a Boeing 707. I had to laugh.

She frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. What’s the outfit for?”

“I thought you’d take me with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re looking for something. So am I. It may be the same thing.”

“What’ll you do with it when you find it, kid?”

She took a few long-legged strides into the room so I could get the full effect. “I want to write about it. That’s my job.”

For an instant she had that dedicated look again, then she turned slowly and gave me the total charge of those deep blue eyes. “Will you take me?”

I shrugged. “Why not. Maybe you can pull some strings I can’t. Only let’s go now before I get sexy.”

Chapter 6

Hurricane Ingrid had picked up speed since the last weather check. Miami had it at full strength with winds over the 100 mph mark and alerts going out all along the coast. So far the state was only tasting the far-reaching effects of scud and heavy gusts, but in a few more days Ingrid was going to tear things apart if she stayed on course. The patrol planes had it heading directly for Cuba, and if it followed the normal track, it would continue toward Florida.

Charlie Traub felt a little uneasy about me going out, but I filed a flight plan for Miami, made a visual check of the Mustang and helped Lois into the jump seat. She wasn’t going to be comfortable and I didn’t care, but there was no word of complaint from her at all. Installing that back seat knocked out the fuselage tank, but I didn’t need the range much.

I started up, checked the mags at the end of the runway and got a tower clearance for take-off. Once in the air, I switched to the Miami frequency and stayed on a heading until the airfield was in sight.

Lois made my first contact for me, a local reporter named DeWitt who had written the original story of Tuck’s disappearance- the one the wire services picked up. We met over coffee in a restaurant and he laid out a folder of clips on the incident. There were several pictures of Tuck beside a plane at the Capital K, one at a ground-breaking ceremony somewhere in Celada and another taken outside the state capitol. Most of the copy was devoted to his activities in helping build Celada from a nothing town to a national tourist spot, but because of the unknown factors surrounding his death, the details mainly centered on the squall line he was supposedly caught up in, the extent of the search and the statement of the helicopter pilots who spotted the wreckage and the fisherman who collected a few fragments.

I jotted down the names of the pilots and the fisherman, thanked DeWitt and got on the phone to the airbase. Captain Rob Olsen was on alert but at his home, and when I located him he said he’d meet me at the club in an hour. This time I let Lois rent a U-Drive-It on her credit card and drove on out to the field.

The captain’s story was concise... it was a routine search mission in a given area that extended no more than ten miles off shore on the supposition that Tuck had simply tried to skirt the storm and got caught up in it. He had pictures of the pieces of flotsam from the Staggerwing Beech. Enlarged, they showed a seat cushion, pieces of fabrics and a dented GI gas can with a familiar white hand and a large K beneath it. Twisted around the can were unmistakable parts of aircraft framing and more fabric. Since his helicopter was not equipped with floats, Captain Olsen had not made an attempt at pickup, but radioed the location to his base. Then a boat was sent out. However, before the patrol boat arrived, the fisherman got there, attracted by the chopper, salvaged the wreckage and later handed the remains over to the government launch.

Before we left, I told Captain Olsen I was a pilot, briefed him on my background and asked him what he thought of the squall line.

“That’s the funny part,” he told me. “It wasn’t that bad. The Beech could have made it without any trouble, I’d say, but you know thunderheads. Maybe he hit it at the wrong spot.”

“But it could have been torn up in the storm?”

“It could have been.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

Later Lois said, “What now?”

“I want to be certain of something.”

“Do you mind telling me what you are really after?”

“I don’t think you’d understand.”

“Why not?”

“Because you aren’t curious enough, honey. You sit and listen while I talk — like you knew all along what’s going on and are just letting things stall out. You’re supposed to be a reporter with a newsy nose. You gather facts for a political hack who is always after our government policy, but you aren’t prying a bit.”

She made a wry face. “All right, I know what you’re after.”

“Tell me.”

“You want to know how Tucker Stacy died.”

I grinned at her. “I know that, sugar. I want to know why.”

“Go right ahead then. You’re doing fine. You’ll make a good story yourself if nothing comes of this one. It you have something more specific for me to do...”

“I have.”

“What?”

“Miami is loaded with anti-Castro people. You know any of them?”

“There are some who have appealed to our government. There’s their government-in-exile and...”

“Okay, try them. Get to the big ones and see what you can come up with on this bananas thing.”

Her eyes darted to my face.

“You got it from someplace. Where?”

She licked her lips, then: “A rumor. The person who mentioned it was killed before he could testify before a Congressional committee.”

“That Gonzales guy last week?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. He had come over in a small boat that had floundered halfway across and drifted for a week. He was near dead from exhaustion and exposure. I was there when they took him off the rescue boat. I heard him mention the word.”

“So he was hungry.”

“Could be.”

“Suppose you find out. Think you know the right people?” Lois nodded. “I can try. Shall we meet later?”

“There’s a Paramount Motel across from where we rented the car. I’ll stay there tonight.”

She started to smile.

“Two rooms,” I said.

The smile turned into a pout.

“Adjoining,” I added.

“I’d like that,” she said.

Rather than have DeWitt come out again, I went to the office and had him show me the editions of the paper that carried the account of Gonzales’ death. When he didn’t appear for the hearing, he was found choked to death in his roominghouse near Washington — even though a police officer guarded the building. Investigation showed that the killer had gained entry by climbing a tree in the backyard, forcing a second-floor window and making his exit the same way. It was assumed the killer was a Castro fanatic.

DeWitt said, “That wasn’t the first one of those.”

“Oh?”

“This town is loaded with people from both sides. Hell, it’s open warfare around here no matter whom you favor. Luckily for us, they keep it pretty much inside their own quarter, but the situation is going to blow someday. By the way, you know who this guy Gonzales was?”

“Nope.”

He thumbed through some later editions and pulled one out on its rack. The story was on page four, a resume of the rescue and subsequent murder of Gonzales. It said he was formerly employed by one of the ousted American industries in Havana.

After I finished, I said, “What about it?”

“Nothing much,” he shrugged. “Up until now they’d been playing the guy like he was a peasant climbing off the farm. Turns out he was a chemical engineer. What I’d like to know is what he wanted to spill to the Congressional committee.”

“I don’t think it would matter. They never seem to listen to anybody anyway.”

“That’s how it goes. Need anything else?”

“Where can I find that fisherman?”

“The one who picked up the plane wreckage?”

“Uh-huh.”

He told me to wait, dug into some other files until he found what he wanted and handed me a slip of paper with a name and address on it.

Peter Claude Watworthy was a dried-up little guy who had spent too many years in the sun. His face, neck and hands were withered and brown, but toughened to a leathery consistency. He sat on the back of his trailer puffing a pipe, staring into the sunset with obvious pleasures and let me speak my piece.

Finally, he put the pipe down and propped his feet up on a crate. “I been wondering about that, too, son. Up to now, nobody’s asked me — and I ain’t about to be traipsing off tellin’ what’s none of my business anyway.”

“Mind talking about it?”

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe and started stumping in a fresh load. “Not at all, son. Like to talk, matter of fact. Don’t get much chance to any more, seems like. You want to know about that airplane, huh?”

“Anything you can tell me.”

“Well, I think the papers got it all wrong.”

“How’s that, Mr. Watworthy.”

“Peter Claude’s the name.”

“Sure.”

“I been out three days fishing when it happened. Now I ain’t saying I’m sure, y’hear? I’m saying what I think.”

“That’s good enough.”

“The night of that storm... after it was all over... I seen this flash in the sky. Could’ve been a rocket a long way off, could’ve been anything else. Anyway, there was just that one flash. Around here, you get so you take things into consideration. Nothin’ I could do about it, and since nothin’ came over the radio I just forgot about it. It wasn’t until two days later I saw that there helicopter and went looking to see what the trouble was. That was when I found the stuff in the water and gave it to the government men when they come out.

“Peculiar thing was, if that plane went down in the storm, the stuff would’ve wound up on the shore by then. If it did come from the flash I seen, it was about in the right place.”

Impatiently, I sat and made nothing out of it.

“Later, I got to thinking about something else I found,” the old man went on. He eased off the seat and shuffled toward the cabin where he rummaged around in a box. When he came back he had the handle and part of a suitcase in his fingers.

I took it from him, examined the charred edges and the peculiar way the leather was shredded into its fibrous parts. One end of the handle broke loose and I saw where the brass clasp had been almost melted.

“Got that out a way, near where the flash was.” He paused. “Ever see anything like that before?” he asked.

I nodded. “I’ve seen bomb damage do things like this to leather.”

“Dynamite, son. I seen it happen, too. Now you know what I’ve been thinking?”

“I think you’re right, Peter Claude.” I handed the fragment back to him. “Hold on to this in case I need it.”

“Trouble, son?”

“There’s always trouble, Peter Claude.”

“How right you are, son.”

When I reached the Paramount Motel, I picked a Coke out of the machine and stuck my key in the lock. I closed the door, flipped the light on and the Coke stopped halfway to my mouth. “What the hell...”

“Come right in, Mr. Fallon,” Del Reed said. He pointed to the two sitting on opposite sides of the room, big men with bland faces that had the mark of government service stamped on them.

“Do you have a warrant, Reed?”

“Do we need one?”

“Okay, what do you want?” I glanced around the place. “How’d you find me here?”

“We’ve had a tail on you, friend. I’m glad you were truthful about your flight plan. We picked you up the minute you got here. You’ve been asking a lot of questions.”

“Your business?”

“We’re making it that. These gentlemen are federal agents. Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. Improbable names, but theirs nevertheless.”

“So what?”

“If you care to be inconvenienced, it can be done. It’s your choice now.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

Jones, the heavy one, spoke, scarcely moving his month. “We’ve run a pretty thorough check on you, Fallon. You have a few things in your immediate past that might not stand a good investigation.”

I put the Coke down and sat on the arm of a chair. “Kill it, buddies, I’ve had the con by the experts. This you’d do sure enough, except for one thing.”

“And what would that be?” Jones asked.

“Time. You need time. You want to know something. Okay, so do I, so quit wasting time.”

They passed a quick look between them and the other one nodded. Jones said, “Sometimes we have to take certain risks in this business. But first let me tell you something... from this moment on, you’ll be involved with national security. Break it and you’ve had it. Clear enough?”

“Clear enough,” I repeated.

“You know what you’re doing?” Del said angrily.

“Keep quiet, Reed,” Jones told him. “It’s out of your hands now.” He leaned forward, staring at me. “When the Russians folded in Cuba, they shipped their missiles out. Aerial photos showed them lashed to the decks of ships, and information from our agents confirmed the fact up to a certain extent.”

“Go on.”

“Whether or not the nuclear warheads were removed couldn’t be proved. Let’s suppose something, Mr. Fallon. Suppose one of those devices were installed in a ship and that ship headed for some strategic port here in the States and blown while it was docked.”

He stopped there and sat back, waiting for me to digest it.

Finally, I said, “So that’s what ‘banana’ is.”

The look went between them again. “What’s that, Mr. Fallon?”

“Banana. It’s a boat. A ship.”

“Where did you find that out?”

“Tucker Stacy mentioned it in passing.”

“No jokes, Fallon.”

“Is it a ship?” I asked softly.

“Yes. That isn’t the name, but it’s a ship. It’s a code name the Cuban underground gave it.”

I looked at the three of them. “Where is it?”

“Someplace at sea.”

“You don’t know?”

“We can’t get inside the hurricane area to find out. It cleared Cuba to get away from the storm and that’s all we know. But what we want is... what do you know, Mr. Fallon?”

“No more than you do, but Tuck knew about it.”

“We knew he was involved with them. What else did he tell you?”

“Nothing, but it was obvious why he was killed.”

Jones’s eyes narrowed at the word. “That’s right, he was murdered. Apparently he was bringing someone back from Cuba in the Beech and a dynamite bomb got loaded aboard with him. Somebody else had to get out fast with the information so Gonzales went. He got knocked off before he could talk too.”

Jones grunted, “Stupid.”

“Why?”

“We should have had him before the committee. They wanted him recovered from the trip. We could have gotten the information earlier. Damn amateurs.” He took a heavy breath and settled back. “That isn’t locating the ship, Fallon.”

“You won’t get it from me. That’s all I know.”

This time it was Smith who spoke. His voice was a hoarse growl that didn’t go with his face. “We’re beginning to wonder. You might have a personal angle.”

“Like what?”

“The Hays woman. It could be a pay-off for a news story. It could be something else.”

I just looked at him.

“You’re looking for a kick in the teeth, boy.”

“It’s just a thought we’ll keep in mind. I hope you don’t plan on going anywhere soon.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to be your closest companion until this thing gets settled. Someplace in your mind you got a bug. It says you got something we want to know. I’ve been in this business too long not to smell things like that — and sooner or later I’m going to get it out of you.”

“Lots of luck.”

He ignored the crack. “Tucker Stacy told you something else. You’re still thinking about it. I want to be around when you find out what it is.”

Jones and Del Reed got up then, but Smith didn’t move. They weren’t kidding anymore. They said good night pleasantly, opened the door and left. I looked at Smith and he grinned, then switched on the TV. A newscaster appeared. Hurricane Ingrid was a blaster. All ships were being warned out of the area and the local citizens were being warned to batten down. Ingrid was over Cuba, still on course, picking up speed and increasing in wind velocity.

I walked to the phone, told the switchboard operator to get me a direct line and take time and charges, then I dialed through to George Conway up in Jersey. I asked him if he had seen Whitey Thompson about his old squadron pictures.

“Got right to him, Cat. Look, we went over everything, but he couldn’t remember anybody named Cristy and Verdo. He wanted to know, could it’ve been a squadron call name or anythin’? He remembers the names, but not who they belonged to.”

“We were all color and animal calls, George. Red three and four. Tiger Two... you know.”

“I’ll keep working on it. You’ll call me back?”

“Roger.”

I hung up and went back to watching television. Verdo and Cristy! Who were they? What were they? They hung there in the past of 20 years ago, meaning something Tucker thought I’d understand without any trouble at all. Why? What made him think I’d get the angle? So we were fighter pilots. We flew Mustangs and escorted B-17s and B-24s in and out of Germany. We did some low-level strafing, a little photo-recon work, covered the invasion and horsed around London. What else? I couldn’t figure it. I squatted down on the edge of the bed and gave up.

Lois Hays was due in. It was going to be a long night.

Maybe. The little gust of air on my neck turned me around.

Smith turned, too, and died before he ever saw who it was. The bullet from the silenced gun caught him right in the middle of his forehead.

Andre Marcel said, “You have been speaking to the wrong people, my friend. Now you will come with us. You will speak with us, too, and if you will speak well you will die quickly like your government friend there not slowly like so many others have died before him.”

Chapter 7

It was a small room filled with the smell of the sea, and I could hear the waves lashing at pilings beneath my feet. The wind was alternately shrill and sorrowful, building in strength.

They had me on a table, stripped to the skin, an overhead light blazing in my eyes. The hypo had worn off and I was fully awake. I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest. Andre stood above me, the two goons on either side. Very delicately he ran a finger over two scars on my body. “I’ve seen these marks before, Mr. Fallon. They were professionally inflicted.”

“Algiers,” I said. “I’m still here.”

“Quite. They never had a chance to finish, did they?”

A shudder ran through me, I wasn’t as brave as I thought. I strained at the ropes that held me spread-eagled. I was lucky the last time in Algiers. The French had come just in time. And I couldn’t have talked because I had nothing to say. Still, the Wogs would have gone ahead with the job. It was that way now, too.

“You are familiar with Arab torture?”

I didn’t answer him.

“Ah, I see you are. In that case, let us forego a few of the more basic steps and come quickly to those appliances that seem to guarantee results.” He reached for something attached to the table and brought up a pair of insulated wires. On the end of each one was a battery clip that could carry a lot of amperage.

“In case you have forgotten, this is an unusual instrument. One end we attach like so...” Andre Marcel snagged the clip in my earlobe. I winced, but it was nothing compared to what was to come.

“The other end,” he said, “will be attached to your testicles. At given intervals, a switch will be thrown and... ah, I see you realize what will happen. Not only is it most painful, but totally destructive. You would no longer be a man if you lived. You would never again know a woman or even want to. Most probably, however, you would die right here after hours of living with the pain centered in your vitals. Unpleasant to contemplate, isn’t it, Fallon.”

“You haven’t got long to live, Marcel.”

“So! You did catch my name.” He looked at the guy beside him. “You see?”

The one he addressed twitched nervously. Mistakes could be fatal in his business.

“Still,” Andre said with a humorless smile, “like you, I am still alive, but my chances of survival are better. Now, shall we proceed?”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“We shall see. First, what did you tell the government police?”

Sweat ran into my eyes and started to burn. I played it cagey and gave him facts. He would know them anyway. “They know Stacy was killed because he was trying to get information back about the nuclear warhead on the ship.”

“What ship?”

“You call it Banana.”

Marcel nodded slowly. “Good. You are telling the truth. Where is that ship going?”

“I don’t know.”

He reached out and jammed the clip up between my legs and the teeth bit into me. I started to yell when he said, “The switch, please,” and the yell rose into a wild scream that didn’t sound like my own voice at all. When it stopped, the sweat poured down my face and my whole body jerked spasmodically for a moment before the pain came.

Marcel let me taste it fully, let me realize that it was only that of a second’s duration, let me imagine what it would be like if it had continued longer. “Who are Verdo and Cristy, Mr. Fallon?”

I shook my head. I saw his nod toward the one at the switch and I tried to tell him that I didn’t know anything — but my tongue seemed to bloat suddenly at the incredible sweep of pain that came over me like a tidal wave of liquid fire.

When I tried to talk, my lips couldn’t form the words and my chest heaved convulsively. The sticky warmth of blood trickled down my wrists and ankles from where the ropes bit in when I strained against them. The sheer terror of knowing that there was nothing I could say turned my brain into a mad thing.

“You will have a minute to speculate, Fallon. Time to recover, time to reconsider, then we will begin again.”

My mind raced with something to tell him. Verdo and Cristy, Verdo and Cristy. They alone could break me loose from this. Who the hell were they? Who? WHO!

“Very well, Fallon, once again, who are Verdo and Cristy?”

He was ready to nod again. Then I had it. I had Verdo and Cristy. Not who, what!

And I was going to tell him. The hell with them all. He could have it.

The blast from Sharon Ortiz’ gun caught the guy at the switch full in the face. His head came apart in pieces, and before they could hit the floor she nailed the other one in the chest. He fell into Andre Marcel enough to ruin his aim and tumble him to the floor on one knee. I could see his expression as he looked up at her, the almost simpering grin of an idiot not knowing what to do yet knowing too what was coming. He started to make an imploring gesture when Sharon smiled back at him and almost casually pulled the trigger of the .38.

The first bullet hit Marcel in the stomach and he grabbed his gut as he doubled over. He looked up imploringly, holding his hand out, and the next one went through his palm into his chest. It slammed him back into the table where he coughed once and said something foul in Spanish. Then Sharon took deliberate aim and planted one right between the horns.

Very gently, she removed the clips attached to me. Then wiped the sweat from my face with her scarf. “You have not been hurt, señor. They had a long way to go before you were hurt.”

“Get me loose,” I breathed.

“First I must look at you.”

“Damn you.”

“Why, señor? I remember you looking at me like so not long ago. Can you imagine the things I could do to you now?”

I didn’t answer her.

Then she smiled. “But they would not be unpleasant,” she said.

In spite of what had just happened, I felt some crazy things go through my mind. “Stop it.”

Deliberately, she did something, then grinned again and reached in the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small knife. It took only a second to cut me loose. My clothes were in the corner on a chair and I dressed while she watched, never without that damn smile. She didn’t know it yet, but for this she was going to get fixed. Soon and good.

I said, “How long were you outside?”

“Long enough to know you wouldn’t tell them anything, señor.”

She didn’t know, I thought. She was wrong, but she didn’t know.

Sharon changed then. The smile faded and a look of serious concern crossed her eyes. “I know whose side you are on now, señor.”

The shadows dancing across her face gave a different life to her beauty. Her hair was a deep midnight glow, her lips lushly ruby, the Irish and Spanish in her trying to come out at the same time. I felt the firm swell of her breasts brush against my forearm and I ran my hand up her shoulder. Beneath her suit coat, she was warm and a muscle under my fingers trembled.

“How did you find me, Sharon?”

“By following Andre Marcel. He is so smart as to be stupid sometimes. He does not realize that our organization is also efficient. We are small, perhaps, but necessarily efficient. I knew he would keep contact with you. You are the key, señor, to all that we have.”

“I know what the score is now, honey,” I said. “The whole deal. I know about the ship you called Banana.”

“And where it is going?”

“Not yet.”

Stark disappointment flooded her face.

“In a little while, kid, just a few minutes more. Look, where are we?”

“On a wharf in the south end.”

“There’s a phone nearby?”

“I know where one is.”

“Good, let’s find it.”

I got Charlie Traub out of bed and asked him if Tucker had ever taped any of his plane-to-tower conversations.

He said, “Sure, whenever he wanted a permanent record the tower operators would cut in a tape. Why?”

“Back in the old days, Verdo and Cristy were wire recording devices we could call while in flight on photo-recon missions if we spotted something in a hurry and didn’t have time to jot it down. It was a squadron deal our own intelligence officer installed. Tuck still used the system, but with tape. You have a recorder handy?”

“One in the tower.”

“Okay, put me on that extension and get up there. Get out the tapes of Tuck’s last day. He may have called in, and if it was an automatic setup the tower operator never knew what was on there and just filed the thing.”

When he made the exchange of extensions, I held on and got the rest of the information from Sharon. They had definite information on the removal of the warheads and the installation in the ship, but Castro’s security was so tight that’s all they had. A top agent named Manuel Alvada was to come out with Tucker with documented evidence of the switch, but the plane had been sabotaged by Andre Marcel’s men. Gonzales was a technician who had stayed on in Cuba deliberately with intent to buck Castro and the know-how to get inside their major operations. When he defected they knew why and waited for him to show up in the States, Marcel preceding him there. The one thing he didn’t know, however, was where the ship was headed.

Charlie came on then.

“Ready on the tapes.”

“Roll it.”

I heard Tuck’s voice then, the drone of the engine in the background. Very calmly he stated his position and the fact that he was flying out an anti-Castro agent with the story of Banana. He was taking no chances. In the event something happened before he could land he wanted the statement on record even if it wasn’t documented.

Banana was a World War II Liberty ship named Leona. It was scheduled to sail for the Panama Canal where it would be blown up. It was to be quite a coup. In this day of the airlift and almost overnight reconstruction, the damage wouldn’t be enough to impair our military or economic might. But that wasn’t the intent of Banana. It was a propaganda program the Reds had set up that would work against us. With all the unrest in Central America, the Leona would blow and the Commies would say that it was a deliberate United States action to give us a chance to move directly into South American countries to “protect” them — thus offsetting a true people’s movement against capitalistic governments. To back them up would be proof that the Panama Canal was an almost outdated project in these modern days of transportation, not even large enough to take modern carriers or battlewagons.

The cold war would become hot. The Reds had a live excuse of their own to move in militarily and the shooting would start. With the Red propaganda machine rolling, who would be on our side? Great!

Tuck’s voice suddenly cut off. He had died.

I hung up and explained it to Sharon. I watched her pale. “It’s too late, isn’t it, señor?”

“Not now, not after all that’s happened,” I said. “It’s never too late, Sharon.” I looked up the number George Clinton gave me. I got the watchman at Cable-Hurley Supplies Company and he gave me Felix Ramsey’s home number.

Ramsey didn’t like me dragging him out of the sack, but when I mentioned Slim Upgate he was ready to do anything. I nailed it fast. I wanted two 500-pound demolition bombs to swing under the Mustang and I wanted them installed right away. He stuttered a little when I told him, but he said he’d have a truck out at the field in an hour.

I had one more call to make. This one was the big one. I got the man named Jones after three tries and told him to listen carefully and not bother tracing the call. I told him Smith was dead and so was the guy who killed him. I told him where they were. I also told him there was only one way the thing could be handled, and it was my way. If our government stepped in there would be hell to pay and the propaganda bit would go right on, but modified a little. The Reds would play up the attempt but capitalize on the fact that when they blew the whistle on the plot it was their men who were killed performing a public service and the U.S. who tried to destroy the evidence of it. It was all very neat and covered from every angle.

Calmly, Jones said, “Then how will it be done?”

“I’ll do it. They’ll never come back to me, brother.”

“And you want what from me?”

“Get the reports from the planes patrolling the hurricane area. One of them might have spotted that ship. Can do?”

“Will do. How do I reach you?”

“I’ll call you from another phone,” I said and hung up.

The men were waiting by the Mustang with a truck. It didn’t take long to swing the two bombs under the wing or to hook them up. When they were ready, the guys simply looked at me curiously and drove away.

I made the call to Jones. He had the information at hand, but his voice sounded shaky. He started, “Listen, Fallon...”

“No time, friend, this is it. When it’s over I’ll explain. Not now. What about that ship?”

“She was spotted. In fact, the planes directed her through the best section of the blow.” He gave me the last coordinates and I wrote them down. “I know what you’re planning, baby. You got me on a hook and I can’t say a thing.”

“Don’t try.”

She was waiting for me by the plane, her eyes shiny with tears. “You think you can do this thing?”

“I’m going to try like hell, baby.”

“Then take my love with you, señor.” She reached up, her arms going around my neck and her mouth was a volcanic thing of sweetness and fire that said everything at once, promising everything, and I remembered what she did to save my life and felt a wild hunger for the woman she was, full and glossy, vibrant with a love she was giving to me.

When I took my mouth away from hers I said, “I’ll be back, Sharon,” then I climbed in the old 11–51 and went through the starting procedure.

The tower didn’t want to clear me, but I never gave him a chance to tell me so. I headed into the wind and eased the throttle forward and fought the side gusts until I was off the ground. Then I climbed to 30,000 feet, over the storm picked up my heading, held everything at max cruise and waited. The moon above made the rolling clouds of Ingrid look like grey snowbanks that gave way to the 60-mile width of the hurricane’s eye before narrowing across its southeast quarter. Then I passed it.

Chapter 8

I found the Leona ten miles off her course estimate. To make sure, I swept in low with my landing lights on, wheels and flaps down. There was her name plastered across the stern in fading white paint. I got the gear retracted before the first bursts of gunfire winked at me from the decks. I picked up altitude and circled the ship below.

Two chances, that was all I had.

I made the first pass from the stern, dumping her over from 15,000 feet and releasing my bomb at 2000. Behind me came a shuddering whump, and when I looked back I could see the yellow glow of the burst and the lurch of the ship as she caught the near miss. There were lights on the deck now and in their beams I could see the ant-like figures of men running. A spot flicked on and tried to catch me, but there wasn’t much chance of that. If they knew what they were carrying they’d be worrying about saving themselves, not killing me.

I took the Mustang up again and got set for another pass. I started to make a 180-degree turn into the run when I felt a sudden lightening of the ship, a quick uplift on the left wing and the insides wanted to drain out of me. Down below, the other bomb tore harmlessly into open water a half mile from the Leona.

It was too late after all.

For one second I thought of a suicide run, but I didn’t have the guts for it. In helpless anger I circled over the Leona, cursing that battered old hulk and wishing I still had the six .50s mounted that could at least tear some holes in her, damning the idiots that mounted the bomb, but mainly damning myself for not having checked everything out.

I took one last look below. This time there was something different. The ship had stopped. It had heeled over sharply to port and was low in the water. I took another chance and went in again with the gear down and the lights on. I saw what had happened.

The first bird had been a near miss, all right, but those rusted plates of the ship’s bottom were too old to take the concussion. They had folded and I had won. Damn it, we had won!

I eased the stick over and got out of there, getting on a return heading. But I couldn’t help looking back. I was far and high enough away to see it safely when it went off. No big flash. No mushroom cloud. The Leona must have been underwater when it happened. Just a beautiful, diffused glow that changed colors in a soft pattern that rippled out gently and just as gently receded.

Ingrid came into sight again, her eye and front quarter reaching out for Florida. I beat her in and taxied up to the hangar where Sharon was still waiting, the wind whipping the dress tight around her legs. The tower was trying hard to get me to get under cover and the lights of a truck were coming toward me. I waved the truck off, motioned that I was going up again and the guy yelled something unintelligible and swung around.

As he did, the motor coughed twice and began to run rough until I idled it at higher RPM’s. The old trouble was back again, despite Charlie’s work. I wouldn’t be able to shut down and re-start now without getting into it — and I wanted to get the hell out of there.

I edged in close to the hangar doors where there was a windbreak, locked the breaks, hopped out and chocked the wheels.

It was a bad thing to do, but I had no alternative.

Sharon came into my arms with a rush, burying her face in my chest, sobs of joy coming from her like that of a happy puppy. I shouted over the roar of the engine behind me, “She’s gone. It’s all right now... we have it made.”

“As long as I have you back, my big one...”

“Inside. I have one call to make.”

I pushed her ahead of me through the door into the hangar and felt for the light. The place was empty; everybody had cleared out in advance of Ingrid. I picked the phone off the wall and dialed my number.

The voice in the doorway said, “Hang up, Fallon.”

We both turned around.

Lois Hays stood there, her face a mask of pure hatred, the gun in her hand a cold, deadly thing. I put the phone back.

“Yes, I’m sure of it now, Lois, I knew how Del Reed, Jones and Smith could have found me, but not Andre Marcel. You were the only one who knew about the Paramount Motel.”

“You’re quite right. I told him.”

Outside, the wind was a tearing shriek. Ingrid was here. So was death. I felt Sharon’s hand grope for mine, find it and hold tight.

I said, “It’s too late, Lois. The Leona is down, the bomb is gone. The propaganda is a dead issue.”

“Is it? I think not.”

Somehow, she had figured an angle and I knew I was sweating. Her smile was as deadly serious as the gun in her hand. I measured the distance to her and thought about Sharon’s gun, but each time Lois Hays was following my thoughts as though she could read my mind.

“No,” she told us both, “there is not one thing you can do before I kill you. Not one thing.”

Trying to play for time, I said, “How can you make it, kid?”

“If you thought about it, you’d see. Tomorrow the papers will carry the story with Duncan Knight’s byline and we’ll still win. Pity you won’t be able to see it.”

“What story?”

“How an American citizen carried out an act of unprecedented violence — aided and abetted by authorized agents of this country — and destroyed a harmless Cuban vessel engaged in commerce with a neutral country. Don’t you just see how the rest of the world will eat that story up? Oh, I know what you intended the world to think... that the Leona went down in the midst of a hurricane, and certainly it could be assumed that such an old ship would succumb to hurricane seas. But you’re out of luck, Fallon. It will be my story.”

“And us?”

“When accused of the act, you tried to take me captive and I had to shoot you both. Who would deny that possibility when they know of the three men lying dead on the wharf. Fallon, you’re better off dead. And me, I’ll live to work another day. I’ll see that my story is well supported and I don’t think the government will want to go into the matter any more than is necessary. They want no part of a shooting war.”

She smiled again and raised the gun a little higher. “Outside, please. We might as well keep it clean. I don’t want any shots heard — not just yet.”

She stepped back through the door as we came toward her.

Tuck’s words: There are still some of us left.

Yes, there were.

We stood in the fierce forefoot of Ingrid, with our clothes snapping around our legs, our faces stung by sand that was ripping by. I held Sharon as tightly as I could and kept walking. Lois was still backing up, almost ready to pull the trigger. We walked forward and kept on walking, the three of us that were left — two in the front and one behind and all the while the crazy scream of the wind was the only sound we could hear.

The gun came up, leveled on the last step Lois took, but in our faces she read that we had won after all. There were still some of us left like Tuck had said, two in front and one behind her.

She started to scream as she backed into the great churning blades of the prop on the Mustang and dissolved into a red, misty froth that was carried away in the gale.