“My name is Willard Farrington,” the man said.
Wait a minute, Stu thought. Farringt—
“That’s right,” the man added. “I’m Melissa’s real father. That’s the reason I was looking in her window. I just wanted to see her.”
“But—”
“There’s no time for that,” the man said. “No time for explanations.” He passed Stu a pale-blue piece of paper. “That’s a routing number and an account index. I’ve deposited $500,000 in a trust for Melissa. You can’t ever touch it. She can’t touch it until she’s eighteen. I can only hope that, as her father, you’ll guide her to do the right thing with it. It’s for her future, college, things like that.”
Stu stared at the sheet. Her father, he thought. “They said you were killed in a—”
“There’s no time for that,” the man repeated. Then he looked at his watch. “They’re on their way. I can’t be here when they arrive.” Then the man tossed Stu what looked to be a shoebox. “This is for you and your wife, to help out. Don’t be assholes with it. Take care of Melissa.”
Stu, now in total disbelief, opened the top of the box. It was stuffed with bands of $100 bills. This must be a couple hundred grand, Stu realized.
“I—wait,” Stu said.
“No time,” the man said again. He lifted up the cuff of his left pant leg. A metal band lay atop his ankle. “It’s a direction-finder. I’ve got to get out of here.” The bald man stared at him amid the cricket cheeps. “You’re a good man, I can tell.”
Stu stared back.
“Take care of my daughter,” the man said. “And don’t ever tell her about this.”
The pistol felt like dead weight in Stu’s hand. Crooked under his elbow was the box of money.
A reef of clouds drifted away from the moon. Suddenly white light filled the yard, spilling onto the intruder’s form. Stu noted the tears streaming down the strange man’s face. He also noticed—
Mittens? Stu thought.
The man seemed to be wearing mittens. Mittens, in summer?
But that was it.
Stu couldn’t think of anything to say as the bald man disappeared across the yard into the darkness.
—
CHAPTER 1
From above the headboard, as if accusingly, the stiff faces stared down at him. Johann Steinhoff, Manfred Freiherr Von Richthofen, E.V.Rickenbacker, Adolf Galland.
The best pilots in history… And I’m probably better than any of them ever were.
General Willard Farrington lay back in the large, silk-draped bed. He hated the bed, by the way. He preferred a barracks rack any day of the week. Farrington was fifty-one years old now—when you got older, you were supposed to want nice things. But this place?
It was a palace. It could be likened to the Presidential Suite at the Mayflower Hotel. Genuine oil paintings hung on gilt-and-columbine-papered walls. Plush burnt-ocher carpets padded every footfall. Fine furniture, a twenty-four-hour attendant, even a hot tub, which he never used.
Recompense for his duty, his sacrifice.
But in all, the luxuriant suite proved little more than a well-appointed prison. His brief “escape” a week ago was something the mission staff should’ve anticipated…but what were they going to do? Fire him?
Farrington chuckled under his breath.
Oh, he understood the necessity of the quartering rules. I’m special, he thought. I’m a living secret. I can never be seen.
And he still, essentially, believed that.
He’d merely taken his unauthorized stroll because he needed to know that his daughter would be well-cared for. He needed to see her, this gift of his own creation that he’d willingly abandoned a decade ago for his duty.
Farrington still understood the duty. He just wasn’t quite sure if he measured up any more.
I don’t know if I can do it, he thought. Not this time.
Maybe he was burned out…
Duty, it was all about duty, wasn’t it? The sacrifices of the few for the many. That’s why he kept those sterile portraits hanging above his four-poster bed. In the many moments of doubt, all he need do was look up into these faces of greatness and see himself. But the reassurance was dwindling of late. I’ve done my duty, haven’t I? he thought. Why can’t I just have a life?
There’s no going back, the portraits seemed to say. Don’t forsake your honor. Steinhoff sneered at him, Rickenbacker bristled. I’ve got more aerial combat kills than any of you fuckers, Farrington thought, but since most of mine are classified, I’ll never be in the history books. It wasn’t fair. But Farrington, even in this rare moment of pouting pride, realized how wrong he was.
Certainly, the men above his headboard would all have sold their souls to have Farrington’s privilege.
Stop being such a baby. Do your goddamn duty…
He lay back, his hands propped behind his head in the soft, goose-down pillow. He wondered what the woman thought when she first saw him. A hardcore military type? A busted old man? At least he kept in shape. The women were all wonderful actors. They acted like nothing was wrong when they saw his…
From the marbled bathroom, he heard the hiss of the shower creak off. At the same time, though, the intercom on the nightstand beeped.
“Sir, this is the CQ. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Farrington answered. “Everything’s terrific.”
“Your dinner will be ready in—”
“Cancel it. I’m not hungry.”
“Sir, you haven’t eaten all day. I really think—”
“Cancel it,” Farrington repeated with more edge in his voice. “And I don’t want to be bothered for the rest of the night. That’s an order.”
A long hesitation. “Yes, sir.”
The intercom clicked off.
Steam gusted like smoke when the bathroom door opened. The young woman sauntered out on beautiful long legs, all curves, flawless white skin, and green eyes like emerald fire. She was still trying, he had to give her that. But sometimes even men had “headaches.”
She stood fully naked, unabashed, drying herself with the terry towel. “Some men like to watch, they like to look,” she said.
Ain’t working tonight, baby. “You’re very beautiful,” he admitted. But then so was his wife, who’d swallowed a bottle of insecticide a year after his “death” had been relayed to her. If that wasn’t love, what was?
The woman propped one foot up on the bed, slowly drew the towel down her thigh and calf. “Hmm?”
Farrington knew the score. The Air Force contracted these girls all the time—the ones who weren’t drug addicts or street scum—and paid them to “surrogate” special personnel. Sex ops, they were called; this whore probably had a Secret clearance. They mainly catered to the sexual whims of double agents in hiding, or demanding defectors.
And then there’s me, he thought. The one man the Air Force wants to keep happier than anyone else.
He watched the sway of her perfect breasts as she continued with the towel. A quick glimpse at the soft thatch of her pubis nearly had him going. But he was tired of using people, just as he was often so tired of being used. That, or: Maybe I’m just getting old.
“Take your pants off,” she whispered through the most sultry of grins. “I’ll get you in the mood.”
“No, really. Too much on my mind, you know?”