«I wish, right here and now, that I was pointing a gun between someone else's eyes. Little island in the sun where you can't go bathing. An overconfident kidnaper can talk too much. You thinking what I'm thinking?»
Roomer nodded. «The Seawitch.»
At thirty-three thousand feet, Lord Worth had just completed a light but delicious lunch accompanied by a splendid Bordeaux wine, specially laid down for him in a Rothschild winery. He had regained his habitual calm. He had, he reckoned, touched his nadir. All that could happen had happened. In common with Larsen, Mitchell and Roomer, he was convinced that the fates could touch him no more. AH four were completely and terribly wrong. The worst was yet to come. It was, in fact, happening right then.
Colonel Farquharson, Lieutenant-Colonel Dewings, and Major Breckley were not in fact the people their ID cards claimed they were, for the sufficient reason that there were no officers of that rank with corresponding names in the U. S. Army. But then, it was a very big army, and nobody, not even the officers, could possibly be expected to know the names of more than a tiny fraction of their fellow officers. Nor were their faces their normal faces, although they could hardly be described as being heavily disguised. The man responsible had been a Hollywood make-up artist who preferred subtlety to false beards. All three men were dressed in sober and well-cut business suits.
Farquharson presented his card to the corporal at the outer reception desk. «Colonel Farquharson to see Colonel Pryce.» «I'm afraid he's not here, sir.» «Then the officer in charge, soldier.» «Yes, sir.»
A minute later they were seated before a young and apprehensive Captain Martin, who had just finished a rather reluctant and very perfunctory scrutiny of the ID cards.
Farquharson said: «So Colonel Pryce has been called to Washington. I can guess why.»
He didn't have to guess. He himself had put through the fake call that had led to Pryce's abrupt departure. «And his second in command?» «Flu, sir.» Martin sounded apologetic. «At this time of year? How inconvenient. Especially today. You can guess why we're here.»
«Yes, sir.» Martin looked slightly unhappy. «Security check. I had a phone call telling me of the break-ins into the Florida and Louisiana depots.» Dewings had put through that one. «I'm sure you'll find everything in order, sir.»
«Doubtless. I have already discovered something that is not in order.»
«Sir?» There was a definite apprehension now in Martin's voice and appearance.
«Security-consciousness. Do you know that there are literally dozens of shops where I cpuld buy, perfectly legally, a general's uniform. Those are the specialty shops that cater primarily to the film and stage industries. If I walked in dressed in such a uniform, would you accept me for what my uniform proclaimed me to be?»
«I suppose I would, sir.»
«Well, don't. Not ever again.» He glanced at his identity card lying on the desk. «Forging one of those presents no problems. When a stranger makes an appearance in a top security place like this, always, always, check his identity with Area Command. And always talk only to the commanding officer.»
«Yes, sir. Do you happen to know his name? Fm new here.»
«Major-General Harsworth.»
Martin had the corporal at the front desk put him through. On the first ring a voice answered. «Area Command.»
The voice did not in fact come from Area Command. It came from a man less than half a mile away, seated at the base of a telephone pole. He had with him a battery-powered transceiver. An insulated copper line from that led up to an alligator clip attached to one of the telephone wires.
Martin said: «Netley Rowan Arsenal. Captain Martin. I'd like to speak to General Harsworth.»
«Hold on, please.» There was a series of clicks, a pause of some seconds, then the same voice said: «On the line, Captain.»
Martin said: «General Harsworth.»
«Speaking.» The man by the telephone pole had deepened his voice by an octave. «Problems, Captain Martin?»
«I have Colonel Farquharson with me. He insists that I check out his identity with you.»
The voice at the other end was sympathetic. «Been getting a security lecture?»
«I'm afraid I have, sir.»
«The colonel's very hot on security. He's with Lieutenant-Colonel Dewings and Major Breck-ley?»
«Yes, sir.»
«Well, it's hardly the end of your professional career. But he's right, you know.»
Farquharson himself took the wheel of the car on the three-mile journey, a chastened, compliant Martin sitting up front beside him. A fifteen-foot-high electrical-warning barbed-wire fence surrounded the arsenal, a squat, gray, windowless building covering almost half an acre of land. A sentry with a machine carbine barred the entrance to the compound. He recognized Captain Martin, stepped back and saluted. Farquharson drove up to the one and only door of the building and halted. The four men got out. Farquharson said to Martin: «Major Breckley has never been inside a TNW installation before. A few illuminating comments, perhaps?» It would be illuminating for Farquharson also. He had never been inside an arsenal of any description in his life.
«Yes, sir, TNW—Tactical Nuclear Warfare, Walls thirty-three inches thick, alternating steel and ferroconcrete. Door ten inches tungsten steels. Both walls and door capable of resisting the equivalent of a fourteen-inch armor-piercing naval shell. This glass panel is recording us on TV videotape. This meshed grill is a two-way speaker which also records our voices.» He pressed a button sunk in the concrete.
A voice came through the grill. «Identification, please?»
«Captain Martin with Colonel Farquharson and security inspection.» «Code?»
«Geronimo.» The massive door began to slide open and they could hear the hum of a powerful electrical motor. It took all of ten seconds for the door to open to its fullest extent. Martin led them inside.
A corporal saluted their entrance. Martin said: «Security inspection tour.»
«Yes, sir.» The corporal didn't seem too happy.
Farquharson said: «You worried about something, soldier?»
«No, sir.»
«Then you should be.»
Martin said: «Something wrong, sir?» He was patently nervous.
«Four things.» Martin dipped his head so that Farquharson couldn't see his nervous swallowing. One thing would have been bad enough.
«In the first place, that sentry gate should be kept permanently locked. It should only be opened after a phone call to your HQ and an electronic link for opening the gate installed in your office. What's to prevent a person or persons with a silenced automatic disposing of your sentry and driving straight up here? Second, what would prevent people walking through the open doorway and spraying us all with submachine guns? That door should have been shut the moment we passed through.» The corporal started to move but Farquharson stopped him with upraised hand.
«Third, all people who are not base personnel—such as we—should be fingerprinted on arrival. I will arrange to have your guards trained in those techniques. Fourth, and most important, show me the controls for those doors.»
«This way, sir.» The corporal led the way to a small console. «The red button opens, the green one closes.»
Farquharson pressed the green button. The massive door hissed slowly closed. «Unsatisfactory. Totally. Those are the only controls to operate the door?»
«Yes, sir.» Martin looked very unhappy indeed.
«We shall have another electronic link established with your HO, which will render those buttons inoperable until the correct signal is sent.» Farquharson was showing signs of irritation. «I would have thought ah* those things were self-evident.»
Martin smiled weakly. «They are now, sir.»
«What percentage of explosives, bombs and shells stored here are conventional?»