“I didn’t do anything. I swear it. It wasn’t me.”
“Then who was it? And what did they do?”
Gumol’s chin fell on his chest, his head wavered, but he could not seem to speak.
Felix had to say it, his voice like an icicle held at the man’s throat. “Mr. Gumol, I think you know something that is going to happen. If anything does happen, if it happens before you come clean, I can promise you this—I don’t know where the first shot will be fired, but the second one will be right into your fat gut.”
Gumol’s face changed color again. From brick red it faded to gray, and then to chalk white and when he spoke he strangled again, and he had difficulty speaking, as if he breathed off the top of his chest and had little breath for words. “All right… . I’ll tell you about it. Remember it was me who told you… they’re blowing up the bombers… . There are four of them in this country… I mean the United States. I met one… his name… his name is—” Gumol’s hands lifted and crept up across his stomach as if to hold in pain. “Smith—” He gasped. “The others are…” Gumol’s chin fell again. He seemed, indeed, to be looking down at his stomach, open-mouthed in astonishment. But he kept on leaning forward until he rolled off the chair onto the floor. He choked, his hands clawed at his throat, saliva appeared at the corners of his mouth, his legs kicked with unexpected force. He relaxed, still. Long before the doctor reached the room, Fromburg knew that Gumol was dead.
To the doctor, a North American, it was very simple. “Classic coronary type,” he said. “They come to Havana to live it up. They live about two years in two days and kick off. What’s he been up to for the last two days?”
“Nothing,” Felix said. “He hasn’t even been talking very much.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “it’s a wonder he lived as long as he did. Should’ve been dead a couple of years ago.”
It wasn’t that simple for Fromburg. He had everything—and he had nothing. Perhaps Gumol had left some useful documents or records at the bank, but he doubted it. And why did the man’s name have to be Smith? What Smith? Where? There were no scrambler lines out of Havana, so Felix was forced to telephone, in clear, from his own room. Since it was Saturday afternoon, only a few people, and none in authority, were on duty in counter-espionage. They promised to relay his information to someone who knew more about this Gumol matter, and send special agents from the Philadelphia office over to the bank. It seemed far-fetched that a suburban banker would know anything about sabotage of the B-99 bombers, but the Air Force would be alerted nevertheless. It was a shame that Fromburg’s information was not more specific.
Felix called at Havana police headquarters, and at the embassy, which would have the duty of notifying Gumol’s family, and arranging for shipment of the body back to Upper Hyannis. He returned to the hotel and packed his bag. Perhaps he had failed. Perhaps he should have been more observant of the man’s condition, and been easier on him. Yet on the whole he felt he had done all he could. Late that night he boarded a plane back to Washington. At least he would be with his family before Christmas, and with them face what was to come. He had called Sarah, and told her to load up the car, and be ready to leave when he got home. 9
Phil Cusack thought that Betty Jo Atkins’ house was really something, much nicer than the house of any girl he had known in Morgantown, and infinitely cleaner and more luxurious than his own family’s unpainted two-story frame packing-case, with its torn green shades, uncarpeted, gritty flowers, junk furniture, and primitive bathroom. Betty Jo’s living room was furnished in modern, just like the quarters of the married officers on the base. Betty Jo had a fascinating lamp, shaped like a black leopard standing on its haunches, and the shade was painted like a tiger’s skin. She had a combination television set and record-player. She had everything. Stan Smith was a lucky man to have her.
She could cook, too. She cooked a Hungarian goulash better than any he had ever tasted at a hunyak table in West Virginia. They ate on the glass-topped, wrought-iron coffee table in the living room. Then she brought in ice cream and beer.
They drank a second beer and sat side by side on the soft, white rug and watched a comedy hour. Then the “Hit Parade” came on and she shook off her shoes and pulled him to his feet and said, “Let’s dance.”
He wasn’t much of a dancer anyway, and it was embarrassing, trying to dance on that deep rug. She said, “You’ll do better if you hold me a little closer.” She pressed close against him.
Phil didn’t do any better. Much as he tried to concentrate on dancing, he found that his feet were hardly moving at all. He was scared of what was happening, but he couldn’t control himself. He said, taking his arm from her waist, “I think I ought to go back to the base.”
Her hips and shoulders were still weaving. She said, “I thought you said you were on twenty-four-hour pass? You don’t have to be back until tomorrow morning, do you?”
“That’s right. But the last bus leaves at twelve. After that there isn’t another bus for the base until eight, maybe eight-thirty in the morning.”
“Aw, don’t worry about it. We’ve got a car. I can drive you back any time.”
“That’s real nice of you, Betty Jo, but I don’t want to put you out, cause you any trouble or anything.”
“It’s no trouble,” she said. “I want you to have a big time tonight. Tell you what you do. I’m out of beer. Take the car and get another six cans. Lots of places open on the Trail. Then when you come back we’ll talk it over.”
Phil said, “Okay.” He thought of Stan, and felt guilty, but what else could he say?
She found the car keys in her pocketbook and juggled them for a moment in her hand, thinking about the car. Again that day, she had forgotten to get the tail light fixed. The garages were open late, Saturday nights, but they’d all be closed Sunday morning, and Stan had said he might be in to see her tomorrow. If she didn’t have that light fixed when he came in again, Stan would be real sore. He was a bug about little things like that. “Tell you what you do, Phil,” she said. “My left tail light is busted. Drive on in to town and get it fixed for me, will you? Then pick up the beer and come on back. Here’s some money.”
He refused the bills. “I’ve got plenty,” he said. “I’ll catch it.” It made him feel better to be able to pay. It made him feel like an older man. 10
Lieutenant Hans Fischer, of the Air Police, had his own theory about the airman receiving a suitcase from a boat up the coast. It was Fischer’s theory that no submarine was involved, and that the airman wasn’t an enemy agent at all, but was engaged in smuggling dope. You will find young punks in the Air Force, as elsewhere, and Fischer had just succeeded in turning up two nineteen-year-old addicts. But he hadn’t laid hands on the pusher who sold them the heroin, and, until all Air Police at Hibiscus were placed on anti-sabotage alert, it had been his assignment to find this pusher, and he had not forgotten it. It was also Fischer’s belief that the smuggler’s car and suitcase would not turn up at Hibiscus, if it turned up at all, but in Orlando. If the smuggler had a new car it indicated he was newly affluent. The pusher would not want to attract attention to himself by driving it on the base.
Fischer had been on duty almost all Friday night, and until noon Saturday. He had been told to take Saturday night off. Instead, he had come to Orlando and stationed himself within sight of the terminal for Air Force busses. If there was any dope pushing going on, it would likely be near this center of activity, and Saturday night was the time to spot it. He watched for a new green-and-white Chewy hardtop with an airman at the wheel. He saw six or seven cars that came close to answering the description, but they were all driven by civilians. Then he saw it.