She stood up and started to examine the books in his bookcase. There were quite a few on aeronautical engineering, electronics and other related subjects. There was a whole section on airships. Many of them were historical outlines and accounts of airship disasters, but there were also new studies such as Hartcup’s The Achievement of the Airship and Kirschner’s The Zeppelin in the Atomic Age. She was turning away from the bookshelf when she suddenly noticed a half-dozen books on psychiatry: titles by Freud, Reich, Laing, Rollo May and Jung. She stared at them in surprise. She wouldn’t have thought Keller would have been interested in that sort of subject.
‘The food will be ready in a moment,’ announced Keller, re-entering the lounge.
Samantha pointed to the books.
‘I’d never have guessed you were into psychiatry.’
For a moment Keller looked uncomfortable.
‘Yeah. I had a passing interest.’
‘A bit odd for an electronics man.’
Keller shrugged.
‘I guess we all should know a bit about what motivates us, don’t you?’
‘I hadn’t really thought about it before,’ admitted Samantha. Keller suddenly sniffed and hurried back into the kitchen. The telephone buzzed.
‘Shall I get it for you?’ Samantha called.
She heard Keller say something within the kitchen and took it for an affirmative.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mister Keller’s residence?’
The female voice was friendly and bright.
‘Yes. He’s busy right now. Can I take a message?’
‘Yes please. This is Air New England calling. Would you tell Mister Keller that we rang to confirm his booking on the noonday flight to Montreal tomorrow?’
‘Oh yes. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Samantha replaced the receiver as Keller came back into the room.
‘That was Air New England confirming your flight to Montreal tomorrow at noon.’
Keller frowned.
‘Oh … thanks.’
Samantha went back to her drink.
‘I didn’t know you were off to Montreal tomorrow.’
‘Just a two-day trip,’ Keller grimaced. ‘Back home to see the folks.’
‘Oh. I keep forgetting you are French-Canadian.’
‘Je suis Québecois’ intoned Keller. ‘Mon père est canadien mais ma mère est française.’
Samantha smiled apologetically.
‘French is not one of my languages. Now had you spoken Spanish — been a Mexican or from somewhere down that end of the continent … ’
‘I was just saying that I was born in Quebec. My father was from there but my mother was a Frenchwoman. They still live near Montreal. I’m just going up there to perform my filial duty.’ He pronounced Montreal as a French-Canadian would.
‘But now,’ he changed the subject abruptly, ‘dinner is served.’
He led her into the kitchen which doubled as a dining-room.
There was no sign that Keller had been cooking, only the simmering pots and pans on the hob. Everything had been cleared away. The table was neatly laid and a bottle of white wine was standing in an ice-bucket.
Samantha sniffed appreciatively.
‘Smells great.’
Keller motioned her to sit, helping her with her chair, before serving her with a mushroom starter.
He poured the wine and took his seat.
‘You seem to live in comfort, Jules,’ Samantha commented, encompassing the apartment in a motion of her hand.
Keller’s face grew serious.
‘Yeah. I was born in Joliette, that’s halfway between Montreal and Quebec City. We lived in a poor part of town. My dad was a farm labourer but he had a bad accident when I was young and couldn’t work. There wasn’t much money about. I had to get through school and college as best I could. That meant working every goddam hour there was in a day. I was determined that when I was able to earn my own living I would adopt a lifestyle that … well, I would luxuriate in the things that I never had as a kid.’
He laughed, a little too harshly.
‘Anyway, you don’t want to hear my problems. Eat up.’
Afterwards, she had to admit the meal was exceptional. Jules Keller was a good cook and excellent company. She had never giggled so much in her life. He was full of witticisms, of quick retorts and amusing anecdotes. She could not remember when she had had a more enjoyable evening. When Keller brought the coffee she found his face had become serious again. He was staring at her with that same speculative gaze she had noticed when he had taken her to lunch a few days ago. She returned the gaze steadily.
‘Will you stay the night, Sam?’ he suddenly asked.
To her surprise, she found that she was not shocked. It was inappropriate to feign any false modesty or pretend that she did not want to stay.
‘Alright … yes,’ she found herself answering in a small voice.
*
Garry Carson looked at his wife across the breakfast table.
‘Tom Saxon flew into Portland last night,’ he said.
Helen did not glance up from the morning newspaper.
‘Maria Terrasino told me.’
‘He’s staying at the Sheraton in South Portland until he finds a suitable apartment.’
‘Oh?’
Her voice was polite and disinterested.
‘I thought we could organise a barbecue this evening to welcome him. I could invite the Terrasinos, and some others from the project — Harry Maclaren, Danny Macmillan, Billy Heath, the guys he will be working with.’
Helen raised her eyes from the newspaper and stared at her husband. Her face looked a little strained.
‘Tonight, Garry? That’s rather short notice.’
T wanted to tell you last night,’ there was a touch of bitterness in his voice. ‘But I understood you were at a movie with Lesley Van Kleef.’
Helen nodded absently.
‘She’s having trouble with Oscar. I think she might be leaving him.’
Carson was not interested in the domestic problems of Oscar and Lesley Van Kleef.
‘Anyway, I’ve already mentioned tonight to a few people. It would be nice for Tom to meet a few friendly faces.’
He couldn’t understand Helen’s lack of enthusiasm. Tom and Jan Saxon, Helen and himself, used to be such good friends in the old days. Knowing Tom, and about the tragic death of Jan and Tom’s kid, Tom Junior, he would have thought that Helen might have gone out of her way to make him feel at home.
‘There’s also the English girl,’ went on Carson, ‘Claire Ashton. She’s the daughter of our British vice-president. I’ve invited her across as well. She arrived on the same flight as Tom.’
Helen Carson drew a deep sigh. It seemed there was no getting out of the party. It had to happen, she supposed, sooner or later she would have to meet Tom Saxon. She wished it had been later, though.
‘Well, I suppose I better see what I can dig out of the freezer.’
Carson smiled, partly with relief.
‘We’ll just rustle up some barbecue chicken, corn on the cob, a few snacks. Nothing grand.’
‘I’ll ask Maria to come over and help me prepare.’
She began to tidy away the breakfast things.
‘What’s this Claire Ashton doing on the project?’ she asked, trying to make conversation.
Carson finished his coffee with a gulp.
‘She’s a secretary or something. Going to help out Samantha Hackerman in the press office, so far as I can gather.’
He stood up.
‘Gotta go. We’re showing Tom round the Albatross today.’
Helen watched the kitchen door slam shut. Carson hurried out of the house and climbed into his Cord automobile.
Damn it! It was so unfair, she thought. Just when she had dismissed Tom Saxon from her mind, he had to reappear. And the irony was that it had been due to Garry that Saxon had been offered a job on the pro
ject.
*
Charles Renard turned his black Thunderbird hire-car off the main highway and along the road to Pointe-aux-Trembles, the northern suburb of the city of Montreal. Beside him, Tanya was peering at the city guide on her knees and glancing, now and again, at the street signs.
‘Ah, voilà!’ she cried and pointed to an old colonial French-style building which they were approaching. A large, peeling notice hung outside. La Ratière. Renard grinned as he swung the Thunderbird into the parking lot alongside the building.
‘The rat-trap, eh? An appropriate name for our rendezvous.’
Tanya put the street-map back into the glove compartment and stretched.
‘How long will you be, Charles?’
‘Not long. A few moments if the man I am to meet is not late. Will you be alright waiting in the car?’
‘Certainly.’
Renard left her and walked into the bar. It was fairly dark and smoky inside. He stood on the threshold, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. He spied his man sitting near the door. There was a bottle of wine on the table before him and two glasses, one of which was nearly full and which he was sipping.
‘Hello, Keller,’ Renard greeted him, slipping into the seat opposite.
‘Welcome to Montreal, M’sieur Renard,’ replied Jules Keller. ‘A glass of wine?’
Without waiting for an answer, Keller filled the empty glass and pushed it across.
‘What is the news?’ asked Renard.
‘Saxon, the English pilot, arrived the other day. He will go through a familiarisation programme, a course of the simulator and then the Albatross will start her flight tests for her airworthiness certificate.’
‘How soon?’
‘Probably by the end of the month.’
Renard swore.
‘We are still held up on our shipment of helium for the Charles de Gaulle,’ he explained. ‘The gas hasn’t even left the suppliers yet.’
Jules Keller pulled a face.
‘Well, the parent board at Pan Continental have also approved the training of two aircrews for the Albatross. I understand that the crews have already been chosen, and should start their training schedule in about a week’s time. For the Transatlantic flight the Albatross will need at least one complete back-up crew.’
‘Do you know the schedule for the flight tests, Keller?’
‘Sure. The first test will be along the coastline from Portland north to Grand Manan Island, turning before they cross into Canadian airspace. Depending on the problems they encounter on that flight, they will carry out a training flight down to Washington, D.C. That flight will be the big prestige, publicity flight for the Albatross, with the presentation of an airworthiness certificate and the President going aboard to inspect the airship and so on. After that, a few more tests, and then the big one — the Atlantic flight.’
‘Do you think they will keep to their schedule?’
Keller was non-committal.
‘There’s a lot of talk about sabotage.’
‘They don’t suspect you of playing a double game?’
Keller grinned.
‘I’m keeping a low profile, as they say. Anglo-American already have their hands full. Westbrook’s death didn’t delay them, however. I initially thought it would put them way behind schedule but they managed to get hold of this English guy pretty quickly. He’s a qualified airship pilot and knows his stuff.’
‘I know about him,’ nodded Renard. ‘Did you bring me the specifications on the engines?’
Keller gave a quick glance round before reaching into his inside pocket and bringing forth an envelope.
‘These are the modifications on the Nomad engines but there might be other alterations before the final test flights.’
‘Modifications?’ frowned Renard. ‘What do you mean?’
He took the envelope and thrust it into his pocket.
‘Van Kleef wants to try to boost the speed factor to 150 mph.’
Renard looked apprehensive.
‘Does he have a chance of succeeding?’
‘That’s my field, remember?’ Keller’s assurance was bland. ‘Have some faith in me, Renard.’
Renard drummed his fingers on the table.
‘You know that the Charles de Gaulle is equipped with only six commercial high-speed diesel engines which would give the ship a maximum speed of 118 mph. We would have no way of competing if Van Kleef found a way to can more power out of those compound aero engines of his.’
Keller was reassuring.
‘Don’t worry, Renard. I won’t let you down … ’
He shot a meaningful glance at the chairman of Dirigeable-Commercial and raised his left hand, slowly rubbing his fingers together. Renard gave a gesture of disdain and took a small package out of his inner pocket. It looked like a fairly thick book wrapped up in brown paper.
‘Ten thousand American dollars in small denominations,’ he said. ‘That’s your second payment.’
‘It’s a pleasure doing business with you, M’sieur Renard. I sincerely hope we can do some more in the future.’
‘You may count on it,’ grunted Renard.
‘I hope you have a good trip,’ smiled Keller, as Renard stood up. ‘Are you over here for long?’
‘Just ten days. We will be going to see the helium people at Lake Charles. The delayed shipment is holding us up.’
‘The Albatross has already had her tanks filled,’ mused Keller. ‘She’s only waiting on getting a trained crew.’
Renard suddenly sat down again and stared at Keller. ‘You’re pretty unscrupulous as they go, aren’t you, Keller?’ he asked softly.
The French Canadian chuckled.
‘You have exactly the same traits. I know your history. Poor background, like me. I was not meant to be poor, either, Renard. To make money you cannot afford to be a moralist. Money and morals don’t go together.’
Renard lowered his voice but he spoke intently.
‘If the Albatross can be delayed from making her test flights on schedule and, above all, from making the Transatlantic crossing before the Charles de Gaulle, there will be a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus credited to whatever bank you like.’ Keller stared thoughtfully at Renard, and then grinned.
‘Don’t worry, M’sieur Renard. The Albatross will not beat your ship … you can leave it safely in my hands.’
Chapter Fifteen
Harry Maclaren’s first reaction as he stood up to shake hands with Tom Saxon was a favourable one. Saxon seemed to be the stereotype airline pilot: tall, well-built, tousled blond hair and an air of boyish handsomeness. Yet Maclaren also noted the dark skin under the eyes, the drooping of the lids and the slackness of the mouth as if the man had made a night of it. He motioned Saxon to be seated.
‘Coffee?’
Saxon smiled. It was an easy smile, thought Maclaren. ‘Anything stronger, old boy?’
Maclaren drew his brows together. He didn’t approve of early-morning drinking. However, he went to the drinks cabinet without commenting.
‘What’ll it be?’
‘Whisky, if you have it.’
‘How about a shot of Old Grand-dad Bonded?’
‘Suits me. That’ll do the trick.’
‘Heavy night?’ enquired the project manager.
‘You could say that. Jetlag and all that.’
Maclaren handed him the drink and poured a coffee for himself.
‘Well, er, Tom … let’s get right down to business. Garry Carson is delighted to have you as his second pilot. I’ve seen your dossier and it’s very impressive.’
Saxon’s mouth quirked. It was apparent that Anglo-American’s dossier on him was a little outdated, or maybe Guy Lancaster hadn’t shot his mouth off after all.
‘It’s very impressive,’ Maclaren was saying. ‘I’m glad you decided to join us. Your work with dirigibles is invaluable to us. I presume you have read through all the project reports which Garry gave you?’
Sa
xon placed his attaché case on Maclaren’s desk and drew out a number of folders.
‘Yes; you better have them back as they’re all marked “secret”.’
Maclaren grimaced as he took the files.
‘We are more security-conscious here than in military aviation, Tom. Don’t let it worry you. Anyway, how do you feel about the project?’
‘It’s a development in aviation that was bound to come,’ Saxon replied with consideration. ‘Had there been a few far-sighted people about, we would have seen commercial airships flying in the late 1960s. Heaven knows, there were certainly enough designs and proposals going about at the time. I gather you have some pretty strong competition from France?’
‘Yeah,’ admitted Maclaren wearily. ‘There’s a guy called Renard who has built a similar ship in design, size and payload capacity, called the Charles de Gaulle, which is getting near completion.’
‘How near?’
‘Last time I heard they were arguing structures again. Their chief designer, a man named Lassay, resigned a few weeks ago but has shut up like a clam. Rumour has it that he was not enamoured with Renard’s safety requirements. He was replaced by a man called Villemur.’
‘I know of both Lassay and Villemur. They are top men. Villemur is an expert on metal and alloy stress.’
‘We understand that he’s not all that happy with Renard’s whizz-kid techniques,’ observed Maclaren.
‘Well, I’d say you have certainly got some strong competition to face. Forget the hustler. If Lassay and Villemur built the Charles de Gaulle then it’s going to be competition.’
Maclaren looked slightly irritated and then relaxed.
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Tom. You know a lot about the European experiments?’
‘As much as most people who have been in the field. When do I get to see the Albatross, though?’
‘Right now,’ replied Maclaren. ‘We’re joining Garry Carson and the rest of the test crew over at the construction site in a moment. But let me get you prepared. The Albatross is not like any airship that’s flown before. It is the last word in improved fabrics, metals, plastics and other structural materials. It has better engines and more streamlined ground-handling techniques than any other dirigible.
‘Remember the Hindenburg which crashed at Lakehurst back in 1937? That carried a crew of sixty-one, most of them riggers who had to crawl and scramble around inside the great airbag at distances as far as 400 feet from the main control room, having to take orders over intercoms. The Albatross will carry a flight-deck crew of four — the normal flight-deck crew of any modern long-distance aircraft. We have a pilot-captain; a co-pilot; a navigator and communications officer and an engineering officer. The whole ship can be controlled from the flight deck simply with advanced computer back-up. Even the slightest gas leak will register on the flight-deck control system.’
Airship Page 12
