Airship

by McAlan, Peter

  This time he had not picked up much. He had seen Doctor Villemur briefly and Charles Renard had attended one session, but there had not been any way of pumping them about the progress of Dirigeable-Commercial. Still, judging from what the aerospace correspondents were saying, the Albatross was far in advance of the Charles de Gaulle, which had not even made its first test flight yet.

  By coincidence Charles Renard entered the room at that moment and weaved his way unsteadily to a waiter, lifting a glass of champagne off his tray. It was obvious that he had been drinking already and the young girl with him was tugging at his sleeve and seemed to be trying to persuade him to leave, gesturing towards the door. Ashton frowned. Rumour had it that she was Renard’s mistress. Renard shook off her hand angrily. As he did so he caught Ashton’s eye. The Englishman was about to turn away when Renard hailed him.

  ‘Hello, Ashton! And how is my rival, eh?’

  Ashton assumed a mask of tolerant diffidence.

  ‘Good evening, Renard … Ma’mselle.’ Ashton bowed slightly to the embarrassed-looking girl.

  Renard reached forward and patted his arm.

  ‘So when is the Albatross going to make its maiden flight across the Atlantic?’

  Ashton arched an eyebrow.

  ‘It was announced in the newspapers yesterday, Renard. Next Thursday.’

  Renard gave a little giggle.

  ‘Well, I’ll make a bet with you, eh? I’ll bet you that my Charles de Gaulle will make the Atlantic run before the Albatross, eh?’

  Ashton showed no expression.

  ‘Really, Renard?’

  ‘Really, Ashton,’ smiled Renard. He turned and reached for another drink, ignoring Tanya’s protest.

  ‘If you will excuse me, Renard … ’ Ashton was backing away.

  ‘No,’ Renard snapped. ‘You at Anglo-American think that you are in advance of me. Well, I’d like to let you into my little secret … ’ He giggled again. Tanya looked at Ashton and made an apologetic grimace. Renard ignored her.

  ‘How would you like a little trip to New York at the expense of Dirigeable-Commercial, Ashton? How would you like to fly on the maiden flight of the Charles de Gaulle?’

  Ashton suddenly realised that Renard was deadly serious.

  He smiled, coldly polite.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Renard. It would be a most interesting trip. But I understand you have not yet started on your test flights. Perhaps you will let me know when … ’

  Renard jabbed him in the chest with a finger.

  ‘When? I’ll tell you when. The Charles de Gaulle will take off at seven o’clock on Monday, that’s when. Be at St. Lô at three o’clock.’

  Ashton looked at Renard curiously.

  ‘You are seriously telling me that the Charles de Gaulle is ready to make a Transatlantic flight?’

  Renard nodded with a smug smile.

  ‘You are going on Monday?’ Ashton asked.

  Renard poked Ashton in the ribs.

  ‘You thought we were held up with our supplies of helium gas, eh? Oh, I know you have your informers. Well, you’re wrong. We are going to beat your Albatross across the Atlantic. Monday. Be at St. Lô at three o’clock and I’ll reserve you a stateroom on the Charles de Gaulle.’

  Ashton made a lightning decision.

  ‘Very well, Renard. I’ll be there.’

  Renard grinned and then allowed Tanya to guide him unsteadily away. For a few moments Ashton did not move from the spot. Then he shook himself and, with a muttered apology to one of the reception’s organisers, he went out into the hotel lobby and found a phone booth.

  ‘Get me a person-to-person call — John G. Badrick, chairman of Pan Continental Airways in New York City.’

  *

  Helen Carson and Maria Terrasino were sitting in Maria’s kitchen having coffee. Maria was studying Helen with some surprise.

  ‘It’s strange,’ she was saying, ‘but Terry and I always thought you and Garry had a good marriage.’

  Helen shrugged ruefully.

  ‘Well, that’s the situation, Maria. I’m sorry to inflict it on you. I know I have a nerve but I couldn’t really think of the next step.’

  ‘Well of course you can stay with us for a few weeks, Helen,’ she replied warmly. ‘Stay as long as you like while you sort things out.’

  ‘Thanks a million, Maria. I guess my first job will be to start searching for an apartment and then a job.’

  Maria was pouring more coffee.

  ‘Do you want me to keep things from Terry?’

  Terrasino was out at the project site.

  ‘That’s hardly possible,’ smiled Helen.

  ‘I don’t mean about your leaving Garry. I meant what you said about Tom Saxon.’

  ‘Oh,’ Helen hesitated. Then: ‘Well, it might be best that he doesn’t know. You see, my leaving Garry has absolutely nothing to do with my feelings for Tom. Perhaps Tom and I will never ever get it together. That’s a million years in the future. Tom has to sort his own life out first.’

  Maria nodded.

  ‘I know that Terry doesn’t really like your Tom Saxon,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’ Helen was suddenly defensive.

  ‘He calls him a beone.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A drunk, how you say in America, a lush?’

  ‘Tom has a problem,’ admitted Helen, ‘but I hope he will be able to overcome it.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Maria. ‘It’s understandable, how you told me. I feel sympathy, eh?’

  Helen was still defensive.

  ‘Tom doesn’t need sympathy — he basically needs to be shocked out of his guilt and self-pity, that’s all.’

  ‘Sure he does. Tell me, Helen, do you really love him? Is he worth what you are doing for him?’

  Helen shook her head.

  ‘What I am doing, Maria, is firstly for myself. I’m not leaving Garry for Tom. I’m leaving Garry because it is wrong that I should be with Garry. But as to your first question — yes, I love Tom. Very, very much. But things can’t happen between us until he has worked out his own problems. I’m a little older and maturer than I used to be, Maria. I’m not going to run from one goddam mess into another.’

  Maria smiled sympathetically and reached forward to press Helen’s arm.

  ‘I pray you do the right thing, Helen.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  When the call came from John G. Badrick, Harry Maclaren was still in his office on the project site, trying to catch up on the paperwork before the weekend. He listened in astonishment as the chairman of Pan Continental outlined his telephone conversation with Sir Ashley Ashton.

  ‘So Ashton is accepting Renard’s offer?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Badrick. ‘In one way it will be the perfect opportunity for one of our men to study the Charles de Gaulle and its potential at first hand.’

  The project manager whistled soundlessly.

  ‘Well, this certainly puts the French in advance of us by four days.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Not necessarily. Harry … I want the Albatross ready to take off a day in advance of the Charles de Gaulle. I don’t want Renard using his cowboy tactics to beat us.’

  Maclaren exploded in protest.

  ‘Take off for the Transatlantic run on Sunday? There is absolutely no way that we can do that. Fuelling, maintenance checks, victualling … even rushing it we will need at least forty-eight hours. No, the way our schedule is arranged, Thursday is the day.’

  ‘To hell with the schedule!’ Badrick retorted angrily. ‘This isn’t a request, this is an order. I can make it a board decision within the hour.’ His voice became calmer. ‘Look, Harry, I appreciate your problems. Okay. You say you need a minimum forty-eight hours? Right. You have it. The Albatross must be scheduled to take off at one o’clock Monday afternoon. That will make us level pegging with the Charles de Gaulle. If Renard wants to play race games, we will damn well give him a race to remember.’

&nb
sp; ‘Why one o’clock?’

  ‘Because the Charles de Gaulle will take off at seven o’clock French time … that’s one o’clock our time.’

  ‘What about the state of readiness of our people in England? Can their airfield be prepared for the arrival of the Albatross in time? And what about Air Traffic Control clearance?’

  ‘You concentrate on getting the Albatross ready and I’ll concentrate on those details,’ Badrick assured him.

  ‘Well, frankly, I don’t like the idea of getting involved in some goddam publicity race.’ There was still annoyance in Maclaren’s voice.

  ‘Nor more do I, Harry,’ Badrick’s voice oozed charm. ‘But Renard has thrown down the gauntlet. We’d cut our own commercial throat if we let him get away with it. Don’t forget what is involved with making that first Transatlantic crossing.’

  ‘I know. I am also thinking of our mad bomber.’

  ‘Terrasino and his men will have to make sure maximum security is given to the preparations.’

  It was obvious that Badrick had made up his mind and had the backing of the board. Maclaren sighed deeply.

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘Right,’ acknowledged Badrick. ‘Now let’s get the show on the road, Harry. We go with just a selected group of press and VIPs on board. No cargo.’

  ‘The press we can arrange,’ muttered Maclaren. ‘Samantha Hackerman will have to start work briefing them on the new date, but you can’t start mucking about with VIPs’ schedules.’

  ‘Leave that to me. There’s some British government official over here visiting our Secretary for Air. I know the Secretary very well. I might be able to persuade them to take a little trip. Leave it to me.’

  Maclaren hung up and sat gazing down at the telephone for a while.

  ‘Sonofabitch!’ he breathed at last. ‘Forty-eight hours!’

  *

  FBI agent Hayes, accompanied by the FAA investigator Vambrace, entered Terrasino’s office and exchanged greetings with the harassed-looking security chief.

  ‘What brings you by so late in the evening?’ demanded Terrasino, glancing at his wall clock.

  Vambrace eased himself into the only spare chair while Hayes perched on the deck and lit up a Lucky Strike. Terrasino sat back and watched him quizzically.

  ‘Just to report a big fat zero,’ sat Hayes, exhaling smoke.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘The device we took off the Albatross at Washington. No prints. No traceable components.’

  ‘And,’ added Vambrace, ‘we’ve come to the end of the computer checks with the name Max Prüss. No connections with any members of the project staff. We tried to trace all known descendants and relatives of Prüss. Negative. We might know who Max Prüss was but that does not solve our problem in connecting him with the mad bomber.’

  Terrasino sighed and reached for the coffee percolator.

  ‘I didn’t really think our man would give himself away quite so easily,’ he said. ‘An immediate connection with Max Prüss would be too much of a miracle. Your forensic guys have been able to come to no conclusion on the explosive devices?’

  Hayes shook his head.

  ‘I reckon our Max Prüss is playing with us,’ said Vambrace.

  ‘Well, playing or not … I’ve just had Maclaren, my boss, on the phone. The Albatross is scheduled to make its first Transatlantic flight in forty-eight hours. I reckon that if Max Prüss hasn’t been caught by then, he is really going to pull the plug on the Albatross, and perhaps a hundred lives along with it.’

  Hayes let out a low whistle while Vambrace’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Can’t the flight be delayed?’ he asked.

  Terrasino shook his head.

  Hayes drew deeply on his cigarette.

  ‘Well, I have a whole section working round the clock. We’ve interviewed the members of the project site twice on average and each time … zero!’

  Terrasino swore abruptly.

  ‘I bet our mad bomber is laughing up his sleeve at us … wherever he is.’

  *

  Jules Keller had difficulty being put through. Finally Renard’s voice answered. Keller thought his speech sounded slurred, and wondered whether it was some distortion of the Transatlantic telephone cable. Keller did not identify himself.

  ‘Anglo-American know about the flight of your ship,’ he said tersely. ‘They have scheduled their own ship to take off within forty-eight hours. They plan to give you a race.’

  There was a long pause. Then:

  ‘Listen carefully, my friend,’ said Renard. ‘I want Anglo-American delayed by at least twenty-four hours. Do you understand?’

  Keller was silent.

  ‘Are you there?’ asked Renard.

  ‘Yeah,’ Keller acknowledged. ‘It will cost you.’

  ‘I had no doubt it would. How much?’

  ‘One hundred thousand dollars.’

  ‘That’s very high.’

  ‘So are the risks. It’s very dangerous now. Police and security activity on the project is pretty frenzied after the killing of Jack Lane.’

  ‘Very well. It will be paid into the account in Geneva.’

  ‘I want a cable of confirmation from the bank before I act.’

  ‘You will have it.’

  Keller replaced the telephone receiver and went to the window of his apartment to stare thoughtfully out on the city. Delay the Albatross twenty-four hours. That was going to be a tall order. He took out a wooden toothpick and absently began to pick his teeth. Twenty-four hours delay. It was risky. But he needed that money badly.

  *

  Danny Macmillan had enjoyed the last two weeks in the company of Claire Ashton, enjoyed them as he had never enjoyed a relationship with a woman before. Who was it who had said that friendship was a contract in which people rendered small services in expectation of big ones? That was nonsense. His friendship with Claire had developed without any end or obligation in sight and without the slightest inclination for a physical consummation of that friendship. He had nursed her over the first twenty-four-hour period after her overdose and, being young and physically healthy, she had recovered quickly. Even Anglo-American did not know the cause of her two days away from the office. Just a flu bug, Claire had explained to Samantha Hackerman.

  When Claire felt up to it, Danny embarked on a series of trips to the beaches and picnics to Bradbury Mountain, Wolf Neck State Park, Scarborough Marsh Nature Centre and Crescent Beach. Evenings were fully booked too, spent in the Lyric Theatre, the Portland Stage, or the City Hall Auditorium to listen to the Portland Symphony Orchestra. Claire was not given a chance to be alone and dwell on her problem.

  Danny had come to know a great deal about Claire and to suspect a great deal more. There were certain areas of her past, experiences that were pertinent to her behaviour, that she would never dwell on. He knew that she disliked her father, Sir Ashley, that he was a remote, cold man and that Claire was a very emotional and warm girl who was starved of a father’s natural love. In her search for the affection of older men, father figures, she had had bad experiences and had grown cynical about all men and their motivations.

  Macmillan realised at the end of the second week that he was falling in love with Claire; it was a slow realisation. He tried to suppress it, but he had to admit it eventually. Even so, he knew that he must hide it from Claire. Claire needed more than anything a simple and ordinary friendship. She had had lovers before but never friends. She needed someone who was concerned for her but wanted nothing in exchange, someone who made no demands on her. Macmillan’s amateur psychology was right. All the support and concern that Claire had never received from her father when she was a child, or from the men who had used her for their own ends, came as a surprise to her when supplied by Danny. She had never experienced the pleasure of being taken out for her own sake. Gradually she became used to unwinding and not waiting for her companion to make the inevitable suggestion or merely to grab her at the earliest opportunity. For
the first time she found herself feeling loose and relaxed, enjoying life.

  Late that Friday evening they returned to Claire’s apartment after a concert of the Portland String Orchestra at the Phyllis Thaxter Theatre in South Portland. Claire offered him a coffee.

  ‘Yeah,’ smiled Macmillan, ‘but I can’t be late. I have some flying training schedules to go over with Carson tomorrow.’

  As Claire went into the kitchenette the telephone rang.

  ‘See who it is, Danny,’ the girl called.

  It was Maclaren. He was surprised at finding Macmillan at Claire Ashton’s apartment. He didn’t think that Macmillan was the type to … well, from what he had heard Claire Ashton had been behaving herself during the last two weeks. That had been one worry less.

  ‘I did want Claire,’ he explained, ‘but I’m glad I caught you, Danny. Has Carson been in touch with you during the last hour or so?’

  ‘No,’ Macmillan was puzzled. ‘We’ve only just come back from a concert. What’s up?’

  Maclaren told him. Macmillan was unable to suppress his astonishment.

  ‘We’ve all got to hustle this weekend, Danny, so I’ll see you at the project site early. Can you tell Claire what’s in the wind? Samantha Hackerman is going to go mad tomorrow with the extra work reorganising press schedules and so forth. Claire will be needed in the office all weekend, I’m afraid. Also, she will have to accompany Samantha on the trip to wipe the noses of the press people and generally look after them. Okay?’

  Macmillan put the telephone down in a daze.

  ‘What was that all about, Danny?’ demanded Claire, bringing in the coffee.

  He told her.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ she groaned. ‘I don’t know how I’ll cope.’

  ‘You’ll cope fine,’ grinned Macmillan. ‘Sam’s a real pro, she’ll not put too much on you.’