I used the first public phone booth I could find. I placed the collect call to Hawk’s unlisted home telephone number. He was going to be displeased that I was calling so late. He valued his sleep and began it no later than ten-thirty.
Hawk was displeased all right, but because I had waited so long to report. He didn’t even let me talk.
“Nick, we’ve been had,” he began with the same opening I had in mind. “I can’t talk to you on an open line like this. How soon can you get to the pit at Fort Mason?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Make it twenty. I’ll be waiting on the line, holding until you get there.” He hung up without a goodbye, leaving me with my mouth open.
The pit is a secure communications center manned by a select contingent of cryptographic experts from the National Security Agency. They operate and maintain highly sophisticated, ground-to-satellite transmissions which carry the bulk of United States coded diplomatic messages to embassies around the world. Additionally, the highest priority, scrambled voice traffic is accomodated. Duplicate facilities exist on the east coast, on Okinawa, and at a very secure base on the island of Crete. Fort Mason had direct channels to Washington which Hawk would not hesitate to commandeer. He also wouldn’t send me to the pit unless something like an impending natural disaster was about to take place.
There was no way I was going to be speaking to Hawk from Fort Mason in twenty minutes. I took five to pick up three spongy-bunned hamburgers and a chocolate shake at a fast-food drive-in. I ate and listened to the news on the car radio while driving back across the Bay Bridge. The evening broadcast carried items relating to the United Nations, new hopes for peace in the Middle East and South Africa, a new offshore oil find near Madagascar, and depressing economic trends in Europe. The local sports announcer had some interesting observations on the future of the Oakland A’s.
Once in the city, I drove west on Eddy Street to Van Ness, then stayed on it all the way to Fort Mason. The last part was all downhill.
One thing about the military, they don’t want anyone to get lost. There were guideposts on every corner pointing to various buildings. Every building was identified by a number and a sign. I had no problem locating the Officers’ Mess and the parking lot beside it. The break in the shrubbery leading to the concealed path was a little harder to find. The bushes had thickened since the last time I had squeezed through them.
I followed the bare path which led downward behind the Officers’ Club to a low building constructed entirely of cinder block. Light coming from windows high up under the eaves of the flat roof illuminated clearly the reinforcing wire imbedded in the thick glass. The Spanish-style, iron-bar grills in front of the windows were not there just for decoration.
I walked past two sets of recessed, flush-metal double doors until I came to a single steel door with an amber light overhead. I pushed a concave button below a placard which read: Press for Entry. Nothing happened. I pushed again. A voice reached me, coming out of a small, louvered grill set in the steel door casing. “Step inside and face to the right.” The scratchy, metallic words sounded like a recording.
The steel door slid to one side. It had to be moved by some mechanical means; the door was solid steel at least eight inches thick. I moved inside onto a metal plate that fit flush with the floor. The outer door closed behind me. I was left in a boxlike entry way, sealed off ahead of me by another steel door. When I looked to the right I saw a wall studded with regularly-spaced apertures which I knew contained multifrequency sensors.
The platform on which I stood rotated slowly until I had been turned a full ninety degrees. A drawer, similar to those used at drive-in banking windows, slid out of the wall in front of me. “Remove your gun, strapped-on knife, and the spherical object concealed between your legs and deposit them in the receptacle. Mr. Hawk’s call has been routed to Room W. Third door on the left.” This voice was definitely human, but it had no warmth.
I placed my weapons in the extended drawer. The drawer closed immediately. Then the steel door I first faced opened to admit me to a tile-lined corridor. I passed by two inner doors that failed to hold back a constant clattering noise and the smell of ozone. The entire building hummed serenely as though it was sitting on top of a tremendous power plant. Room W appeared at be part of an electronic laboratory. Oscilloscopes, along with panels mosaicked with blinking multicolored lights, offered a dazzling display. The bank of consoles against one wall containing spinning, jerking reels of wide magnetic tape were producing enough heat to make the large, air-conditioned room uncomfortably warm.
Of the three telephones waiting on the top of the centrally situated executive desk, only the green one was off the hook. I sat down at the desk and picked up the phone. “This is Carter, sir.” I held the receiver an inch away from my ear, waiting for the explosion.
None came. Hawk spoke in a calm, quiet voice. “What have you uncovered?” That was typical Hawk. He was interested only in bottom line facts.
In the simplest terms, I related that Gloria Grimes, once Gloria Parker of the films and now an MIA wife in San Rafael, had told me that Keith Martin’s last known address was some Quantas Airways flight headed west. I heard a muffled obscenity come over the line. Then I heard Hawk’s voice continue, but he wasn’t speaking to me. He had someone else with him which meant that Hawk had left his house. He wouldn’t do that unless he was part of an extended night session called to deal with a crisis condition. When he came back on, Hawk surprised me with a compliment. “You’ve done well, Nick. Now we’re pretty sure where we stand.”
It sounded as though Hawk had assembled enough information at his end to settle the matter. I expected him to tell me to cash in my chips and come home. Instead, he engaged me in conversation. “Did you know that Dinh Ba Thi, the Vietnamese ambassador to the United Nations, has left for Hanoi?”
I remembered. “I heard it mentioned on the radio a short time ago. He’s the one our government expelled once for spying.”
“Good memory, Nick. Only this time he’s going back because of the sudden death of Ban Lok Huong, Hanoi’s Minister of Security.”
“I didn’t hear that,” I admitted.
“Huong died this morning. An immediate news blackout followed the official announcement. Naturally, it was important for us to know why. Huong was no obscure personality. We’ve had a tag on him for a long time. During the war he was a general in charge of the interrogation and processing center through which all American prisoners of war passed before being shunted out to regular prison camps. A lot of U.S. servicemen never left his place alive.” Hawk wasn’t making idle talk; he was leading up to something.
“Keith Martin could attest to that,” I said, letting Hawk know I was keeping in step.
“After the war, Huong, like many senior Viet Cong officers, became a top government official and rates a state funeral,” Hawk went on. “That’s all in the file. None of it warrants having a lid put on. We had to use some unorthodox sources to find out, but now we have some idea why. Ban Lok Huong didn’t die a natural death. He was assassinated. Not only him, but his wife and two unidentified persons who were dinner guests in Huong’s villa. A virtual slaughter, vicious and unwarranted.”
Those last words were strange ones coming from a man who allowed AXE agents to use drastic measures as last resort actions.