At almost precisely the same time, in a small town in the western half of Colorado, the local mortuary had an unexpected visitor at a quite early hour. For a moment or two the manager who answered the door was concerned that the obviously foreign gentleman who had rung the bell was in a very upset frame of mind. He was quickly disillusioned; in poor, but understandable English, the visitor stated, “I wish to see a body.”
The manager was politely considerate. “I’m very sorry, sir, but our slumber rooms have not been prepared as yet. If you could return…” He stopped when he saw the look on the face of the man to whom he was speaking; for the first time he grasped that this was one of the enemy.
The man quickly pushed his way inside and looked once about him. “Where is the workroom?” he demanded.
Despite his mounting concern, the manager immediately became firm. “That is impossible, sir, the state law prohibits it. No one is ever allowed — ” A hand against his chest pushed him aside, then the unwelcome visitor began opening doors and peering inside. He discovered a showroom with several empty open coffins on display, a small chapel, and then the door he wanted. Although there was a firmly-worded notice posted on it, without hesitation he opened it and went inside.
The embalmer at work looked up, startled, and knew in a moment what the intruder was. He was a veteran of the Vietnam conflict and he had seen that kind of man before. He also knew which of the four bodies in the room would most likely be of interest to him.
The cadaver of Admiral Haymarket lay covered by a sheet; the nature of his fatal injuries had dictated a closed coffin service from the beginning. Close by the body, leaning against the wall, was a fine enlarged portrait of the admiral showing him at the height of his career; the impressive array of decorations above his left breast pocket matched by the neat row of four stars displayed on the right side of his collar. It was intended for display next to the sealed coffin and the flowers which would be placed around it so that those who came to pay their last respects would feel the presence of the man they had come to honor. The portrait had been flown in from Coronado and had been delivered only a short time previously.
The intruder pulled the sheet off the body. He looked at it for a moment and then began to change color; the embalmer waited to see if he would keel over.
After a few seconds the man recovered himself somewhat and pulled an ink pad and a thin piece of coated cardboard from his coat pocket. Proceeding with a duty he knew that he had to complete, he pressed the stiff fingers of the corpse against the ink pad and then, somewhat clumsily, pushed their cold tips onto the paper. He did it methodically; when he was not satisfied with the results from the right hand, he did the distasteful task once more to be sure. When he had finished he turned quickly away from the disfigured body and left the room as rapidly as he was able. Once outside of the funeral home he took a deep breath or two of fresh air, then jumped into a Mercedes-Benz sports car which was waiting at the curb and drove off with an abrupt, angry burst of speed.
Some seven hours later the fingerprints he had taken were delivered to the dignified Washington building which before the war had been the conqueror’s embassy. Because the premises were known to be totally secure, and were readily available, they had been taken over by the secret police — so designated only to distinguish them from the regular authorities. They were anything but secret and derived much of their strength from the combination of awe and terror in Which they were held in their own homeland.
In his office Colonel Rostovitch received the prints from Colorado. He adjusted the light on his desk for close work and then placed under it the fingerprint card he had obtained personally that same morning at the Pentagon. With the aid of a magnifying glass he compared the two sets of prints; he was not an expert, but in this instance he did not need to be. There was no doubt whatever; despite the inadequacy of the work done in Colorado, the two sets were clearly identical.
When the day was at last over and he was able to escape from the confines of his new job, Hewlitt congratulated himself that he had come through unscarred. He had, on this day at least, done everything that had been asked of him and had risked nothing. It would probably be a week or two before he could begin to probe for the cause of Bob Landers’ betrayal. By that time they might have him down as an ordinary employee prepared to do as he was directed and no more. That would suit his own plans perfectly.
He made his way out past the enemy’s security men and climbed into Frank’s cab with a sense of relief. He had a compelling desire to go somewhere away from the city where he could think his own thoughts or enjoy the simple luxury of talking to someone without having to feel that every word he spoke was being weighed and every idea he expressed judged.
“You look tired,” Frank said when they were well out into the traffic.
“I am,” Hewlitt admitted. “It’s a strain.”
Frank appeared to consider that answer as he edged his way into position for a turn. When he had completed it he seemed ready to say something, but before any words came out he evidently changed his mind.
“What is it?” Hewlitt asked.
“Well, maybe I shouldn’t,” Frank said.
“Go ahead, it’s all right.”
The muscular man behind the wheel still hesitated, then decided to try his luck. “I was just wonderin’ if you’d care to do me a real big favor.”
“If I can. Are you short on cash?”
Frank raised a hand and waved that off. “Nothin’ like that. You’ve heard me tell you about my friend Davy Jones — the electronics guy. Well, I’ve told him about you, working in the White House and all that, and he’d sure like to meet you.”
“I’d be glad to.”
Frank half-turned to show his appreciation, then his driving took over his full attention for the next two or three minutes. When he had broken out into the clear once more, he reopened the conversation. “Davy’s giving a little party tonight,” he said. “He’s got a big old house where you can let your hair down and enjoy yourself a little without havin’ to worry that someone’s listening all the time. Just five or six guys. We was wondering if you’d like to stop by for a little while. I’ve known you long enough to know that you aren’t concerned with color. There’ll be plenty of beer, Scotch, whatever you like, and one of the guys has got some nice film of pretty girls with no clothes on. You haven’t got anything against that, have you?”
“Hell no,” Hewlitt answered. For no good reason he thought of Barbara.
“Care to come?”
“How about for a little while? I’ve got some other things to do too.”
Frank turned his head and nodded. “How about if I pick you up a little after eight?”
“Fine.”
Having committed himself, Hewlitt remained silent for the rest of the trip. Once inside his apartment he showered, dressed in informal sports clothes, and turned on the news. He had no desire to go out for dinner; instead he chose a packaged meal from the stock he kept in his refrigerator and put it in the oven.
While the food heated he watched the news and gained nothing from it. The principal item was an obituary of Admiral Haymarket; with the aid of film clips his career was retraced without any reference to the disaster which had overtaken the Navy, and the rest of the armed forces, as well as everyone else. The enemy probably wouldn’t like it, but it was presented in such a way that it would be difficult to take exception to anything that had been said. Hewlitt took careful note and decided that there might be a contact worth making at the Washington station that had produced the program.