On the screen there flashed an assortment of publicity stills, of the interior of the ship, its freight holds, private staterooms, lounges and restaurants. Renard swore with a violence that startled Tanya and reached forward to snap the set off.
*
The first flight of the Albatross had been an unqualified success. No problems or hitches had arisen. Even John G. Badrick had moved around the project site congratulating everyone with his face wreathed in smiles. Garry Carson carried an echo of a smile as he debriefed his crew in the administration building, and before he had time to finish Oscar Van Kleef hurried in to pump them by the hand. ‘Terrific!’ he kept saying over and over again. ‘Terrific!’
The slightly pompous Federal Aviation Administration official who was checking their individual reports allowed himself to smile thinly.
‘Well, Colonel Carson, if your second flight goes as well, I can see no reason why we won’t be granting a certificate of airworthiness.’
‘It certainly went smoothly,’ observed Tom Saxon, handing the man his report.
‘Airships,’ the FAA man said in a dry monotone, looking at Saxon, who, as an Englishman, he probably considered was not acquainted with FAA regulations, ‘being aircraft are subject to Federal Aviation Regulations Part 91, General Operating and Flight Rules, when operating within the United States. This rule prescribes the conditions and limitations for the operation of aircraft within the national airspace system.’
‘Oh really?’ Saxon smiled broadly.
‘Oh surely,’ continued the man, who apparently lacked a sense of humour. ‘In order to conduct a freight and passenger airship operation for compensation or hire, any company, either private or one backed by public funding, would be required to comply with Federal Aviation Regulations Part 121, Certification and Operations. Er, that is where I come in. Airworthiness standards for construction and manufacturing of large airships do not exist and the certification of such a ship as the Albatross is being handled on a case basis utilising the experience of similar projects that have been started over the past.’
Danny Macmillan was doubled up in laughter.
Even Van Kleef was trying to suppress a grin as he drew the FAA official out of the debriefing room.
Carson slapped Macmillan on the back.
‘Jesus! And it depends on that guy whether the Albatross gets an airworthiness certificate!’
‘Just so long as it’s allowed to fly, skipper,’ grinned Billy Heath. ‘Well, I’m going up to the celebration party that Badrick’s throwing. Anyone coming?’
‘Yeah,’ said Macmillan. ‘Count me in.’
Carson nodded.
‘I’ll be along later.’
Macmillan and Billy Heath exchanged glances and left. Carson waited until they had gone before he looked at Saxon.
‘Thanks, Tom.’
Saxon was puzzled and said so.
‘Thanks for pulling yourself together for this trip. I hope it keeps up. You’ve been worrying me, and Maclaren, about your fitness to fly.’
Saxon’s features suddenly became moulded in anger.
‘How did Maclaren hear?’
‘I didn’t tell him, Tom. But Harry is pretty attuned to project site gossip. Anyway, you did fine. I’m glad you’re laying off the booze. See you up at the party.’
He turned and left before Saxon could reply.
‘The hell with them!’ he muttered as he grabbed his kitbag. Bloody pious bastards. Well, he wouldn’t go to their pain-in-the arse party. He’d have his own.
*
‘Sorry to drag you away from the celebration,’ Hayes apologised as they entered Terrasino’s office. The security chief grunted as he switched the light on. He was still carrying a glass half-filled with bourbon. He sprawled in his chair and motioned Hayes to take a seat.
‘Well,’ said the FBI man, ‘that’s one headache less.’
Terrasino looked annoyed.
‘Not for me, it’s not. Because our mad bomber didn’t strike on this occasion does not mean to say that he’s given up. I wouldn’t want to go through the last twenty-four hours again. The tension nearly killed me.’
Hayes lit up a Lucky Strike.
‘You don’t think the fact that the mad bomber didn’t strike is at all significant?’
‘I’d have thought that he would have made his move on our first flight. But maybe that’s what he figured as well.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Maybe the guy is a little too clever. He knew that we were waiting for him to strike and that we had a security blanket on this first flight. Maybe he thought — hell! Let ’em stew a while. Spend all their time and energy sweating it out for me to drop the big one while I simply put my feet up and smile. Then, when they have grown tired of waiting, when they least suspect it … zowie!’
Hayes looked at him hard and then slowly nodded.
‘It makes sense, I guess,’ he said.
‘Sure it does,’ replied Terrasino. ‘Our mad bomber is highly intelligent. We know that. He’ll wait until the time is right for him. not for us. In the meantime, the boys on the project have been getting a little jumpy since poor Jack Lane was killed. Badrick and Maclaren keep pestering me for results.’
‘My chiefs too,’ rejoined Hayes moodily.
‘No luck in tracing a connection between Max Prüss and any of our men?’
‘Not so far,’ admitted the FBI agent. ‘But our computer is only as good as the information we feed into it.’
‘It’s an angle that doesn’t seem to make sense,’ replied Terrasino.
‘We haven’t got much else to go on. Since you discovered Van Kleef was in Ottawa when the Westbrooks were killed that seems to rule him out. Though one thought … it depends when the electronic scrambling device was planted in Westbrook’s aeroplane. Van Kleef took the flight to Ottawa on the morning that Westbrook was killed. Still, Van Kleef is so tied up with the Albatross project that the whole thing would be unlikely. He doesn’t even have time for his wife.’
‘Is that why she left him?’
‘Seems so.’ The FBI agent shrugged. ‘Let’s face it, our checks show that Van Kleef leads a comparatively blameless life. The same with Nieman and with Keller — except that Keller is young, woman-crazy — but they all three seem nice guys.’
Terrasino did not look convinced.
‘Our mad bomber is going to be precisely that sort of person, Hayes. He will have led a blameless life. He will look pretty ineffectual and the very opposite of what most people think is the type who goes round planting bombs and killing people.’
*
Helen Carson was just about to have a shower prior to going to bed when the telephone rang.
‘Is Colonel Carson there?’ asked a male voice. She didn’t recognise it.
‘No, he’s still at the project site. They’re holding a celebration party there.’
‘Oh,’ the voice sounded blank. Then: ‘Is that Mrs. Carson?’
‘Yes.’
The voice became apologetic.
‘You don’t know me, Mrs. Carson. My name’s Ed. I’m the barman at the Black Eagle Bar on the corner of Congress and Locust.’
He paused to let the information sink in and then hurried on: ‘We have an English guy down here … his ID says his name is Saxon, Tom Saxon. He’s had a mite too much to drink. If I let him out of the bar he’s either going to get rolled, arrested or killed trying to drive home. I went through his billfold and the only local telephone number I came up with was Colonel Carson’s. Do you know the guy?’
Helen felt an odd sense of resignation.
‘Yes: yes, I know him.’
‘Well,’ said the barman called Ed, ‘I don’t like bothering a lady but is it possible you could pick him up before the cops do?’
Helen hesitated only a fraction.
‘Yes; yes, I’ll be down there in ten minutes.’
‘Thanks a million, lady. The poor bastard seems to have a problem. He’s been sat alone at the same bar stool
for the past three hours tossing back bourbon like the world was ending.’
‘I’ll be down there.’
Helen went to the mirror to patch her make-up. She wouldn’t bother to leave a note for Garry. After all, he didn’t like driving when he had been drinking and knowing how late the project site party would doubtless finish, Garry would probably spend the night there. It occurred to her in passing to wonder why Tom Saxon was not at the project site party and instead drinking alone in a bar on Congress and Locust. Puzzled, she took her car keys and went out to her Chevrolet.
The Black Eagle Bar was nearly empty when she went in. Tom Saxon was perched at the end of the bar, head slumped forward in his arms.
A pudgy, dark-haired man was wiping glasses behind the bar.
‘Mrs. Carson?’ he asked as she entered.
She nodded and went across to Saxon. The barman reached over the bar and shook him by the arm.
‘Wakey-wakey, mac. Your chauffeur is here.’
Saxon groaned and half-raised his head.
‘I didn’t order a bloody chauffeur!’
The barman, Ed, grinned apologetically at Helen.
‘He’s a bit cantankerous, Mrs. Carson.’
She smiled thinly and laid a hand on Saxon’s arm.
‘Come on, Tom. I’ll take you home.’
Saxon raised his head and blinked blearily at her.
‘Home? What home … oh, why it’s Mrs. Carson.’ He laid an emphasis on the prefix. ‘Hello to you, Mrs. Carson … have a drink … let’s all have a drink. Come, landlord, what kind of hostelry are you running?’
He suddenly slumped forward, laughing stupidly.
Helen glanced at the barman.
‘Can you help me get him out to my car?’
‘Sure,’ returned the barman. ‘Will you be able to manage him at the other end?’
‘I’ll manage him,’ she replied.
They heaved Saxon, protesting but too helpless to do anything, onto his feet and out of the bar, across the sidewalk, and pushed him into the back seat of her car. Helen thanked the barman and climbed behind the wheel.
Saxon was trying to sing.
‘Drink today and drown all sorrow;
You shall perhaps not do it tomorrow!’
Helen sighed as she drove through downtown Portland and out on the South Portland road towards the Sheraton. Looking in her driving mirror she saw that Saxon had levered himself into a sitting position and was trying to focus on her.
‘Why … dear old Helen … love of my life! What are you doing here?’
‘I’m driving you back to your hotel, Tom,’ she replied evenly.
‘Saving my life again, eh? Everyone wants to save me … poor Helen. You know I love you Helen? That’s the saddest thing of all. I love you and yet I can’t love you. Got to consider Jan. Got to consider Tom Junior. Jan … but she’s dead. Dead! It’s her damned ghost that I’m afraid of. Accusing me. Can’t get rid of it. Helen. Love you. But Jan’s always there … always … ’
Helen glanced into her mirror.
Saxon had slumped down in the back seat. His eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply in an alcoholic sleep.
Helen reached up to wipe away the tears which were stinging her eyes.
She drove swiftly through the city and across Portland Bridge into South Portland. At the Sheraton she enlisted the aid of a grinning porter to take Saxon up to his suite. The porter had to get help to carry the inert body. She tipped them both and ordered a pot of hot coffee to be sent up. The porter looked at Saxon and shook his head.
‘Coffee won’t bring him out of that, lady. The only thing that will bring that guy round is a twelve-hour sleep.’
An hour later Helen was forced to agree with him.
She left Saxon sleeping soundly on his bed and let herself out of his suite.
Driving home through the deserted night streets she realised that there were odd similarities between Tom Saxon and herself. Saxon would not face up to the realities of his life, would not lay the ghost of his dead wife and son, while she had not made any attempt to sort out her own problems. Oh, she had talked and thought about it for a long time. Yet, somehow, seeing Saxon’s helplessness, she suddenly found how amazingly simple it was to make the most important decision of her life. She had decided what she had to do long before she reached home.
Chapter Ten
‘I don’t believe it!’ gasped Charles Renard.
The voice on the other end of the telephone line was apologetic.
‘It’s true nevertheless. The consignment of helium for your airship was cleared by the suppliers three days ago, sent to the Yarmouth Docks for shipment and is now held up by a longshoreman strike which is effectively blocking the eastern seaboard ports.’
‘But this is incredible!’ shouted Renard. ‘Is there no way you can get that gas offloaded and put onto another form of transport?’
‘No way this side of hell. The gas is safely stored in the docks until the dispute is over.’
‘Alright,’ Renard was breathing heavily. ‘See what you can do.’
He slammed the telephone receiver back on its rest and gazed moodily across the desk to where his secretary, Marie-France, was sitting nervously, halfway through a dictated letter.
Abruptly, Renard banged the table.
‘I want Villemur, Le Braz and Barjonet in my office immediately.’
Renard realised that there was only one thing to do now if the Charles de Gaulle was going to be in with a chance against the Anglo-American airship. The Albatross had already caught world attention by making its first successful test flight. At the moment the Charles de Gaulle lay with only ten per cent of her gas capacity filled with helium. Now it seemed impossible that the rest of the helium supply would arrive at St. Lô in time to lift her off before the Albatross announced its first Transatlantic run. Unless … Even with a supply of gas it would still take seven days to ready the Charles de Gaulle for her first test flight, but Renard determined to ensure that the flight would be a spectacular one.
*
Tom Saxon moaned aloud in his dream-infested sleep.
Norfolk. A lonely whitewashed cottage with a yellowing thatched roof and small windows which let in hardly any light. A scene like an animated picture postcard. A structure like an Irish croft rather than an East Anglian cottage. So long ago. In another life.
Tom Saxon and Helen Carson lay curled up on the big couch before a roaring log fire which scattered now and again in a shower of sparks as the cold winds whistled across the chimney top. Outside the rain whispered against the dry thatch and tapped persistently on the window panes.
‘What should we do, Tom?’ Helen was asking.
‘Decision time,’ Saxon said solemnly. ‘Yes, we must make a decision.’
They both stared awhile into the crackling yellow glare of the fire. Then Saxon asked:
‘If I were free and you were free, would you marry me?’ Helen laughed.
‘That’s hypothetical.’
‘Seriously, though.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said tantalisingly. ‘But we have to deal with the realities of the situation, Tom, and not talk about our dreams.’
‘Perhaps we should put our dreams into reality.’
Helen gave him a serious glance.
‘Can we?’
‘Why not? It is simply a question of practicalities. Once the heart has decided, then the rest is easy.’
She was a little nervous now.
‘Are you sure, Torn? Is it what you want?’ it’s very much what I want.’
She leant forward and kissed him.
‘It’s going to be difficult. Garry won’t be home until the end of the week. I’ll tell him then.’
‘I’ll start the ball rolling by telling Jan tonight. Let’s not pretend that it’s not going to be difficult, or that Jan and Garry are not going to feel hurt.’
‘What shall we do then … afterwards?’
‘I’m still a serving R
AF officer,’ Saxon mused, ‘I’ll have to move out of my house but maybe we could hire a cottage or a flat near the airbase — just to start with. Then I’d like to get out of the service and get into civil aviation.’
‘Like Garry plans to do?’ Helen broke off and looked uncomfortable for a moment.
‘Yes, like Garry,’ Saxon smiled softly.
‘I wish we didn’t have to hurt people,’ Helen said.
‘It would probably hurt them more, and us as well, if we were not honest about our emotions, about what we feel for each other.’
‘I hope your wife will understand. No one meant this to happen.’
Saxon glanced at his watch.
‘I’d better be going back now. I’ll ring you in the morning.’
Then a kaleidoscope of images.
The deserted house. The note of accusation from Jan. She knew about his affair with Helen. She had taken Tom Junior and gone to her parents in Perth to think things over.
Then the nervous compassionate policeman.
The compassionate terrorist.
The mangled corpses in the wreckage of the helicopter. No, the wreckage of a car. The bloodied, distorted remains of Jan and Tom Junior. Everything merging into a misshapen whirlpool in which red was the predominant colour.
Tom Saxon moaned aloud in his sleep.
*
Helen Carson arrived at the Sheraton early the next morning and went unannounced to Saxon’s suite. She let herself in with his key, which she had retained from the previous night, and found him still asleep. She rang room service and ordered a light breakfast for two and plenty of coffee. Then she set about waking Saxon. He came unwillingly from his sleep and lay blinking in bewilderment at her.
‘Helen … what time is it?’
She told him as she sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Oh hell,’ he groaned. ‘I promised Maclaren I would be in early today to go over some specifications.’
‘After what I heard about last night’s celebration party at the project site, I would not imagine that anyone will be in early this morning. Anyway, you’d better ring up and say you overslept or something.’
Saxon stared at her for a minute and then groaned.
‘Christ, my throat is like sandpaper.’
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