A green-and-white Chewy, driven by an airman, turned into the big all-night garage and filling station just down the street. Excited, but walking at an even pace and pretending that his attention was elsewhere, so as not to alarm his man, Fischer strolled down the sidewalk. As he was crossing the concrete ramp, studded with gas pumps, Fischer saw the driver get out of the car. The airman was talking to one of the filling station attendants, and they were examining a broken tail light, when Fischer put his hand on his shoulder. “This your car?” Fischer said.
The airman looked up. He was a pimply-faced scrub of about the same age as the two addicts Fischer had nailed. He said, “No.” His eyes took in Fischer’s rank and the A.P. brassard on his arm and he added, “sir, Lieutenant.”
“Who’s it belong to?”
“Belongs to a girl.” Again, belatedly, he added, “sir.” Cusack couldn’t imagine what crime he had committed. The lieutenant was probably looking for somebody else.
“Let’s see your pass, ID card, and driver’s license.”
Cusack reached into his pocket and brought out his wallet, with his pass and ID card. The lieutenant, very tall, lean, and seeming somehow hard and faceless, although little older than the airman, said, “Where’s your license?”
“Sir, I don’t have a driver’s license. I don’t have a car, and this girl she asked me to come down here and get her tail light fixed.”
“She wanted you to get her tail light fixed at this hour?”
“Yes, sir, at this hour.”
Fischer told himself that this could be the right man. A fishy story and no driver’s license. Probably the punk had just bought the car with the heroin profits. “What’ve you got in the trunk?” he demanded.
“In the trunk? Nothing. I don’t know what’s in the trunk.”
Fischer said, “Open it up.”
The garage attendant, who had been listening, interested, moved away. If there was going to be trouble he didn’t want to get involved.
Cusack took the keys from the ignition. Fischer noticed how shaky he was, and how scared. Cusack opened the trunk. In the trunk was a new, brown leather suitcase, short and thick, more like a sample case, with a clear plastic cover. “Bring it out and open it up,” Fischer commanded.
Cusack did as he was told. There was nothing in the suitcase except five thermos bottles, fitted into niches of a felt-covered wooden rack, and held firmly in place by straps. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Cusack said. He was thinking of the five thermos bottles he had seen in Stan Smith’s closet, and had come to a quick conclusion. He’d bet that his roommate’s money came from stealing and selling mess hall equipment.
Fischer took one of the thermos bottles from the trunk. “Pretty slick way to carry your junk,” he said.
“My junk?”
“You’re a junkie, aren’t you?” Fischer unscrewed the top, drew out the cork, and held the bottle up so he could look inside. Empty. He smelled it. It smelled new. He said, puzzled, “Where’d you get these?”
“I didn’t get them, Lieutenant. I don’t know anything about them. Like I told you, a girl just asked me to drive her car downtown and get her tail light fixed. Now if you want to check with her…”
“We’ll check with her later. Right now, we’re taking this car and bag to the base.”
“Sir, I can’t take this car. It doesn’t belong to me.”
Lieutenant Fischer returned the bottle to its place, snapped the case shut, and returned it to the luggage compartment. The kid might be completely clear. Now that he’d talked with him, Lieutenant Fischer didn’t believe he was the slippery, lying, hophead type. But he wasn’t the type who would possess a girl with a new car, either. He seemed just a country kid, one who would have an awful lot of explaining to do, when you considered the FBI and police lookout, and the description of the car and suitcase. Fischer said, “Come on, get in the car. We’re going back to the base. I’ll drive.”
Cusack climbed into the front seat and handed the keys to the lieutenant. Suddenly he put his hands to his face and said, “Oh, Lord!” He could imagine what Stan Smith would say when Stan found out about all this. He knew pretty well what Stan would do to him if he got Stan into trouble. He decided he’d better not mention Stan at all, not to the Air Police.
Eight
STANLEY SMITH reported for duty in the Officers’ Open Mess, midnight to 0800 shift, a few minutes early. By the time Sergeant Ciocci and the others got there he had placed his three new thermos bottles in the rack, closest to the wall. He didn’t want Ciocci to see him bringing in three bottles, because it would seem unusual. But on this first shift of Sunday morning Sergeant Ciocci did notice something.
He looked at the row of containers, counting them. “Ten,” he said aloud. “That’s funny. Last time I looked there were seven. We never had more than a dozen, and we lost five in B-Nine-Nines. That makes seven we should have left, but now we’ve got ten. Stan, what d’you make of that?”
Smith laughed. “They aren’t having pups,” he said. “You know I drink a lot of coffee and so do the other fellows over in Thirty-seven and I had a couple of bottles in the barracks and brought them in tonight. Maybe somebody else, on the last Saturday shift, borrowed the other and just brought it back too.”
“Oh, sure,” said Ciocci. “But I could have sworn we never had more than twelve. I was going to requisition five new ones yesterday. Forgot.”
“We’ve got more than twelve,” Smith said. “Somebody’s always got one or two out.”
“I guess so,” said Ciocci, satisfied.
To Smith it was a bad omen. In all his operations, this was the first time he had come really close to slipping, and it made him feel jumpy, and apprehensive. Perhaps three was too many to do at once, but of course he didn’t know for sure that he’d be able to destroy three. There might be no missions at all, and even if there were missions you never could know how many officers would draw coffee. And he did have his five bombs and he would like to use them, effectively as possible, before Monday, which he felt sure would be the day. D-Day they called it in the U.S. Army, X-Day in the Russian.
Ciocci looked out through the glass in the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the mess hall. He said, “We’ve got some early customers. Take ’em, will you, Stan?”
During the regular, daylight meal hours the mess hall operated like a cafeteria, with the officers serving themselves, except in the Sky Room. During these hours the long array of steam tables were always filled with hot food. On the midnight to 0800 shift cafeteria service was not practicable, for these were the hours in which all major equipment was scoured and cleaned. So on this shift the cooks and kitchen helpers waited on table. Smith walked into the mess hall.
The good-looking civilian girl who had been around the base for a few days, and who he believed must be an agent for Special Investigations, was seating herself at one of the tables. With her was the big one-eyed major, and Lundstrom, the colonel from Washington, a wheel in security, who never seemed to sleep. They ordered sandwiches and milk.
When they had finished eating the major paid out of his chit book and asked, “How about wrapping up a roast beef to take out? With pickle.”
“Yes, sir,” said Smith.
He cleared the dishes, went into the kitchen, made a sandwich, and brought it to the major. The girl was talking. “Jess,” she was saying, “you’ve been at it all day. Why don’t you get some rest and be fresh in the morning?”