“Your point’s well taken,” Jorgenson conceded. “I don’t particularly like Chilgers. Maybe that’s the problem.”
The President nodded faintly in agreement. “None of us like him, Arthur. But he gets the job done extremely well with no leaks whatsoever. He’s survived five administrations before mine and has outlived them all. That’s a tenure unheard of in government circles. I’d wager that all my predecessors had their suspicions of him too. But if any of them were warranted he couldn’t possibly have lasted this long.”
“It never hurts to be careful,” Jorgenson advised.
“Strangely, Arthur,” the President said ironically, “that might be the strongest argument in favor of Project Placebo.”
Jorgenson’s eyebrows fluttered. “Then I just hope we’ve got a good man in command of Bunker 17.”
“In fact,” Brandenberg noted, “we do: Major Christian Teare.”
“Christian Teare? I hope he lives up to his name.”
“And then some, Arthur. Teare’s six-and-a-half feet tall and carries enough weight for us to have to make up his commander’s uniforms special. Also gives us a helluva time regularly for refusing to shave one of the scraggliest beards I’ve ever seen.”
“You’ve met Teare, then.”
“I recruited him and with good reason. He comes from redneck county, Georgia. But don’t let that fool you because before he joined up with us he once spent an evening saving fifteen blacks from a KKK raid. There were twenty klansmen and one of him. Teare won.” Brandenberg paused to let his point sink in. “He’s not a man you want as your enemy, but he’s a man who scored the highest leadership quotient in his class as well as exhibiting a constant. negative stress factor.”
“Tough combination to beat,” acknowledged Jorgenson.
“Which is precisely why I placed him in command of one of this country’s most sensitive installations.”
“Sounds like the right man to have between us and Project Placebo,” noted the President.
“Let me put it this way, sir. If you’re looking for a man to keep a rock from pinning you to a hard place, you need look no further.”
“I’ll sleep easier tonight,” said Jorgenson.
Chapter Thirteen
Bane went straight from I–Com-Tech to Brooklyn Heights and the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Martini, the foster parents of Davey Phelps. The fact that the boy had disappeared after Flight 22 had landed intrigued Bane. Had he, like Jake Del Gennio, seen or known something that had necessitated his removal? The way to finding out began with the Martinis and he’d already decided on his cover for them: he would pose as a field agent for Child-Find, the national center for locating missing children.
The Martinis lived on the western edge of Brooklyn Heights, in a neighborhood far enough from the East River to be spared the massive renovation and conversion efforts that had turned much of the Heights into a prime — and exclusively priced — area. Their home was the larger half of a two-family which reminded Bane somewhat of the Bronx house he’d grown up in. It was homey enough from the outside with soft, well-kept brick and a clean side-walk, the city sounds just far enough away to ignore.
Bane climbed a set of comfortably aged cement steps and gave the bell one long ring. Feet shuffled toward the door and he felt himself being scrutinized through the peephole. Locks jangled and the door opened just wide enough for a pair of eyes to poke out over a fastened chain.
“Mrs. Martini?”
“You must be Mr. Bane.” Bane nodded and she shut the door again in order to undo the chain. “Yours was the first hopeful call we’ve had in days,” she said, holding the door open for him. “It’s good to see you important types taking an interest in the problems of people like us. My husband’s at work. Always gets home by four so he can spend some time with the kids.”
Bane watched Clair Martini close the door behind him and ran her features through his mind. Her pale face was creased by lines and dominated by a pair of tired eyes. Her hair fell unevenly across her face and neck. Her dress clung to areas where she had started to bulge. She had the appearance of a woman who had given up trying to look young, but inside Bane felt warmth and honest caring.
She tried to smile and failed. “We can talk in the living room.”
They sat down next to each other on a simple cloth couch. The rest of the furniture was also plain: a stained throw rug, a pair of matching chairs, a television set missing a knob or two. The shades were half drawn, casting the room into dark and somber silence. Bane’s uneasiness increased.
“You know,” Mrs. Martini began, “we got four kids with us right now, including Davey, and we wouldn’t mind keeping them for good. Davey’s the oldest, one of the nicest kids we ever had stay with us. Been here for almost six months now.” Mrs. Martini sighed and pushed back tears. “I remember the first time the city brought him over. We got taken with him from the start. He had these real wide eyes and shaggy hair, see, that made him look so innocent and lonely you just wanted to cry.”
Bane’s flesh prickled. She might have been describing his late stepson. “Would you happen to have a picture of Davey around?” he asked, not fully knowing why, something tugging at his gut.
“What for?”
“To put on the national wire. If Davey’s a runaway, it’ll help turn him up.”
“He had a set taken in school. I’ll get you one.”
Mrs. Martini returned to the room holding a dogeared snapshot. “Best I can do,” she said, handing it to him.
Bane’s eyes found the face and froze. The snapshot quivered.
Davey Phelps was the boy from Rockefeller Center!
The snapshot wasn’t a great likeness, but it was close enough, especially the long, scraggly hair and deep-set, haunting eyes. There was no mistaking those. Incredible …
“When was the last time you saw him?” Bane asked Clair Martini.
“Before he went to the airport to visit his grandparents in San Diego. Ten days ago now. He should have been home before noon on Saturday. I guess I should have met him at the airport but I had the other three kids to watch, see. When he didn’t show up by two, I called his grandparents and they told me they had watched him get on the plane which means if something happened, it was after he got to New York.” Her stare became cold, sure. “He wouldn’t have run away, Mr. Bane. He wasn’t the type. I wish he was, then I wouldn’t be so God-awful worried. Something’s happened to him, I just know it has!” Mrs. Martini was on the verge of tears.
“And you haven’t heard from him at all these past five days? A phone call even?” Bane asked, his mind moving in another direction.
“Not a whisper, Mr. Bane. My husband Big Joe’s been spending a couple of hours at night on the streets asking around and checking with Davey’s friends. We’ve gotta do something or we’ll just go crazy. But something happened to Davey. It’s like I told that other man. But he didn’t listen like you are. He didn’t care.”
“What other man?”
“I don’t remember his name. Said he was from some kind of special bureau. Tall and well dressed, with real funny eyes.”
Bane felt something cold grip his insides. “What kind of eyes?”
“Light colored, kind of gray. I never seen anything like them.”
Bane’s heart skipped a beat. Mrs. Martini was describing Trench! Here, in New York! The whole thing was starting to come together but it made no sense.