by T. E. Cruise
“You think he’s going to make it easy for me?” Andy asked doubtfully.
“No, he’d never do that. You’ll still have to try your best, and it won’t be easy, but…” She trailed off. “I can’t explain what I picked up from Robbie earlier tonight. You’ll just have to trust me. After all, I know him pretty well.”
“That’s for sure.” Andy cursed himself for letting it slip out, but he just couldn’t help himself. He knew he had no right to be jealous or upset or anything at all concerning Gail’s prior relationship with Robbie, but knowing and feeling were too very different things.
“Andy, is this going to be a problem for us?”
He’d been braced for a justifiably angry retort, but instead, when Gail spoke, her hesitant tones had betrayed her own vulnerability.
“Andy, you didn’t ask me back here… to… to try and get even with Robbie?”
“Oh, no, babe,” Andy said, shocked. How ironic it all was, he thought to himself as he hugged her tightly. She’d volunteered no particulars concerning her relationship with Robbie beyond what she’d confessed in the alley, and earlier, just after their lovemaking, it had been on the tip of his tongue to ask her how he’d compared. But, of course, he couldn’t bring himself to be so crass, and anyway, he was a little bit afraid to hear the truth. He’d already lost twice to Robbie today. A third loss in this particular arena would have been truly unbearable.
And for the last few hours he’d imagined that Gail considered herself in the catbird’s seat, when all along she’d been just as paranoid.
On the radio. Rod Stewart was crooning “Tonight’s the Night” as Andy asked Gail, “What did you mean before, at the ice-cream parlor, when you said that in a way I’d already beat Robbie?”
“What did you think I meant?” she challenged.
“That maybe I…” Andy was finding it hard to speak. He didn’t want to make a fool out of himself, and yet he had to take the chance of revealing his own feelings. “I guess I’m hoping that you meant that you’d kind of forgotten about Robbie because of me, and that—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Yes, that’s what I meant.”
He kissed her.
She asked, “When are your roommates going to be back?”
He said, “About a half hour.”
“Then we have time to do it once more?”
“If we start now.”
CHAPTER 17
(One)
Gold Residence
Malibu, California
25 June, 1978
“Yeah, Don, I understand, and I agree with you,” Steve Gold said into the telephone.
It was a Sunday morning. Gold was in his study in his home, wearing nothing but bathing trunks and a canvas billed cap to protect his scalp from sunburn. The telephone call from Don Harrison had summoned him from his deck over-looking the sand and surf of Malibu, where he’d been spending a little quiet time with his wife and the Sunday papers.
“Okay,” Gold said. “I’ll meet you at the office this afternoon. Yeah. No problem. On the contrary, I’m looking forward to this. Talk to you later.”
Gold hung up and then left the study, moving through the rambling three-bedroom beach house into the living room, which was casually furnished in glass and bronze, natural rattan, woven leather, and white wicker. The house had more furniture in it than when it had been Gold’s bachelor digs, but not much more. Neither he nor Linda liked clutter, and you didn’t need much in the way of decoration when your living room had a glass wall looking out onto a wide swatch of beach leading down to the ocean. A sliding door set into the glass led out onto the deck, which stretched the length of the ocean side of the house. Gold could see Linda out on the deck. She was wearing a black two-piece bathing suit, and was lying on her back on a chaise longue, the newspapers and a mug of coffee within easy reach.
Gold gazed fondly at his wife. He was lucky to have her, and he knew it. Linda had stood by him like a friend, helping him keep his perspective throughout the hellish days since the GC-600 had crashed at the Paris Air Show.
In the two weeks since the crash, GAT had fought for its survival on two fronts. In France, where it was announced that no criminal charges would be filed against GAT or its officers until all the facts were in, GAT had pushed hard for a speedy and thorough conclusion to the on-site crash investigation. In America, Don Harrison had combated the media firestorm that had resulted over the L.A. Gazette’s publication of the incriminating memo suggesting that GAT management knew the GC-600 was unsafe by publicly branding the document a forgery and then threatening legal action against the Gazette for publishing it. The Gazette, unable to substantiate the forged memo, quickly backed off, publishing a front-page apology to GAT. Meanwhile, in Burbank, GAT used its outrage over the forged memo to justify to the company’s employees a no-holds-barred, hard-hitting housecleaning to ferret out Icarus.
A GAT engineering team was sent to France armed with data that made a strong argument that pilot error had been the cause of the accident. GAT’s rigorous test flights of the two remaining GC-600 prototypes, and computer simulations run in the lab, indicated that the pilots of the ill-fated 600 had turned off certain safety controls built into the fly-by-wire system to allow them to perform the severe air maneuvers that led to the crash.
As soon as Gold had heard the explanation, he knew in his gut it was true. He’d been a jet pilot. He knew that the men who flew the fast movers could often exhibit a foolhardy side. Most important, he’d known the crashed airplane’s pilot, Ken Cole. Ken was a natural daredevil. Why else would he have chosen to become a test pilot? Gold knew that it was Ken’s impulse decision to shut down the safety controls built into the GC-600 and to execute those fancy maneuvers for the crowds watching that had led to this tragedy.
The French anti-GAT hysteria finally began to abate four days ago, with the conclusion of the examination of the GC-600’s wreckage and the recovery of the intact black boxes that re-created for the investigators the events in the cockpit in the seconds before the crash. The Air Ministry released a statement supporting GAT’s assertion that the pilots had shut off the safety controls. The investigation was closed with the GC-600’s reputation cleared, and orders for the jetliner again began to filter into GAT, but only a trickle where initially there had been a flood.
Yeah, GAT was alive and well, Gold now thought, but that didn’t mean the company hadn’t taken some hits.
For one thing, its stock price had dropped dramatically in response to the controversy surrounding its new jetliner and its fly-by-wire control system. That same control system ran the Stiletto, and a refined version of it was meant for the World-Bird Project. Many nations that already flew the Stiletto grounded their aircraft and put their spare-parts orders on hold during the investigation. Other countries outright canceled their orders for the fighter craft. What was even worse, some participants in World-Bird where now evidencing doubt about whether they wished to continue their involvement….
GAT would eventually get back some of its Stiletto and GC-600 lost business. Gold knew, but no way would the company get back all of it. What would happen with World-Bird it was still too soon to say. The worst thing of all, however, was that no matter what GAT now did, there was no way it could erase the last glimmerings of doubt about the company from the minds of the world. Like a man acquitted after a lengthy murder trial, GAT had come out of its ordeal vindicated, but with its reputation forever tarnished. The bottom line was that GAT had been wounded. The wounds would heal, but slowly. GAT would walk with a limp for some time to come.
Or maybe forever. Gold brooded as he stepped out through the sliding door onto the deck.
“Was that the boys calling?” Linda asked.
“No,” Gold replied. His stepsons called home every Sunday from their prep school in New England. They would be home for the summer at the end of the month, or, at least, home for the month of July. In August, they’d be off to sleep-away camp. “It was Don,”
Gold said.
“What did he want?” Linda asked sleepily. “God, you’d think he could get along without you for one Sunday morning.”
“He called to tell me Otto Lane’s detectives have got Icarus,” Gold said.
“What?” Linda sat up. “When? Who is he? How did it happen?”
“Once a journalist, always a journalist,” Gold laughed as he sat down beside her in a deck chair. “You left out ‘where?’ and ‘why?’”
Linda pretended to glower. “Where will be your behind connecting with my foot, and why will be because you’re not answering my questions.”
“Okay! I surrender! Interrogate me.”
“That’s better.” Linda nodded, sitting up. “First of all, how did they catch Icarus?”
“They didn’t. He turned himself in yesterday afternoon. It seems the guy—”
“His name?” Linda interrupted.
“Oh, sorry. His name is Virgil Holloway, and no, neither I nor Don has ever heard of him,” Gold elaborated. “He’s an associate engineer—one out of a thousand—in our commercial aviation department. He told Otto Lane that he started this whole business of leaking stuff about GAT over two years ago when he became angry at the company because his section manager gave him a negative job rating on his yearly evaluation sheet.”
“And that’s what caused all this trouble?” Linda remarked in disbelief.
“Poor old Halloway didn’t get his seven-percent raise,” Gold explained. “He could have appealed his supervisor’s evaluation, but he was too timid, too afraid to make waves and maybe lose his job, so he brooded in private. swearing his revenge upon the scarlet and turquoise colors that had betrayed him.” Gold frowned. “It was all so stupid. So needless…”
“Talk about the mouse stampeding the elephant.” Linda shook her head. “But why’d he turn himself in?”
“Halloway was becoming increasingly distraught concerning the forged memo. His connection at the L.A. Gazette was threatening to leak on the leaker, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“You mean the reporter who ran the story concerning the forged memo was threatening to reveal Halloway’s identity in retaliation for Halloway having gotten his newspaper into hot water?”
Gold nodded. “I’ve heard that heads are going to roll at the Gazette over this.”
“No great loss to journalism,” Linda sniffed. “The Gazette never should have run that story without bothering to get second-source confirmation concerning the memo.”
“Meanwhile, Otto Lane’s in-house GAT investigation was proceeding along,” Gold continued. “Halloway figured it was only a matter of time until he was discovered, and that maybe things would go easier on him if he turned himself in to take his punishment.”
“So what happens now? I suppose Otto Lane has turned Halloway over to the police?”
“No…” Gold hesitated. “Otto waited to get our okay on that, and Don and I have agreed that there’s no point.”
“I don’t understand,” Linda said, frowning. “This man had been a thorn in your side for over two years. Why wouldn’t you want to turn Halloway over to the law?”
“What would it accomplish?” Gold asked. “I mean, a trial would just stir up a lot of old news that GAT would just as soon leave buried.”
“What about Halloway’s punishment?” Linda cocked her head, examining Gold with those big, beautiful X-ray eyes of hers. “You feel sorry for him, don’t you?”
“Who? Halloway?” Gold hesitated, and then nodded. “I guess I do, a little. According to Otto Lane, Halloway’s a broken man who wasn’t all that emotionally stable to begin with. Sure, at first Halloway thought he was great shakes socking it to us, but as the months wore on, turning to years, his anger vanished and he found himself trapped in a web of his own making. He’s suffered a nightmare of guilt, always looking over his shoulder, waiting for retribution.”
“Have you fired him?”
“We’re going to let him stay on at GAT,” Gold replied. “We’ll just steer him away from any security-sensitive projects. From here on in, Virgil ‘Icarus’ Halloway will likely be one of our most loyal employees.”
Linda looked at Gold with great seriousness. “You know, there was a time in your life when you would not have been so merciful.”
Gold blushed. “Ah, your mother wears Air Force boots.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes. I think I shall take credit for working this change upon you. I’ve been a good influence.”
“Maybe you’ve softened me up in my old age,” Gold smiled.
“I take credit for softening up a part of you in old age,” Linda replied. “However, I take even greater credit for keeping another part of you hard in your old age.”
“Talk is cheap, lady,” Gold growled.
“Well, then”—Linda smiled languidly—”shall we retire to the boudoir, where I might work some magic upon you?”
“So soon?” Gold pretended to complain. “We just had a magic show this morning.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun.”
As they were walking into the house, Linda mused, “So the Icarus case ends with the culprit going scot-free.”
Gold shook his head. “I never said that.”
(Two)
Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles
27 June 1978
It was ten-thirty on a sunny Tuesday morning when Turner Layten drove along Sunset Boulevard, past Hollywood High, eventually slowing to nose his Jaguar XKE convertible into the Sunset Burger Barn parking lot. The eatery was built back in the forties as a giant replica of a triple-decker cheeseburger, with windows cut into the bottom half of the bun where the bubble-gum-chewing carhops in their cheerleading skirts and roller skates had once placed and received their customers’ orders.
Of course, the carhops were long gone, so that now you had to get out of your car and go up to the windows to fetch your own greasy garbage, Layten thought as he prowled the parking lot in his growling Jaguar, looking for Virgil Halloway’s beat-up, orange Volkswagen Karmen Ghia.
But Halloway wasn’t here yet. How irksome for the man to keep me waiting, Layten thought. Especially since it had been Halloway who had called him, to plead for this meeting, claiming he had something urgent to discuss.
Breakfast was over at the Burger Barn, and the lunch rush had yet to begin, so the lot was fairly empty. Over near the rest rooms there was a dark-blue Ford Econoline van, its side lettered ACE DELIVERY. The van’s drivers were drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes; goofing off on their employer’s time, Layten thought. The man behind the van’s wheel stared at Layten as he drove by. Layten gave the slackard a scowl of disapproval, just to show the fellow that Layten knew what was what.
Other than the van, there were just a couple of nondescript cars: a white Chevy Impala hardtop and a green Ford something or other. Each had a single, youngish man in a tie and jacket inside. Layten guessed they were salesmen, killing time until their next appointments with a cup of coffee and the sports pages.
After Layten had cruised the lot looking for Halloway, he parked in the rear corner of the lot, as far from the other vehicles and the restaurant as he could get. His meeting with Halloway called for privacy, and besides, the grill smells wafting from the Burger Barn’s ventilators were disgusting. He shut off his engine and waited. The sun was beating down, and, of course, his white Jag’s black leather upholstry just soaked up the heat. Should have gotten the cream-colored leather, Layten chided himself.
He was wearing a blue-and-white-striped seersucker suit, pink cotton button-down shirt, and blue paisley bow tie: all from Brooks Brothers, of course. It was just about the coolest outfit a man could wear and still be dressed in a businesslike manner, but in heat like this even if Layten were stripped down to his boxers, he’d still be sweating like a pig. He wished that he could remove his jacket, but a man had to make sacrifices when he carried a gun.
Where the blazes was Halloway? Layten shucked his tan and green houndstooth-check
cap to mop his brow. An underling had ought to know better than to keep his superior waiting in this heat. Layten would speak to Halloway about it. Yes, he would lay down the law. That imbecile Halloway could do with a little less of Layten’s velvet glove and a dash more of his iron fist.
Ensnaring Halloway a little over two years ago had been pathetically easy, Layten remembered. When Tim Campbell had presented Layten with the task of infiltrating GAT, Layten had asked around among the engineers at the El Segundo Amalgamated-Landis plant if they knew of any GAT engineering people dissatisfied with their careers. He’d told them that A-L was looking to hire some engineering talent, so that if they knew of anybody at GAT who was looking to make a switch, that person should call Layten’s office.
Every profession has a grapevine, an informal professional network where job information is exchanged, and so it wasn’t long before the calls started coming in. Layten was forced to sit through an interminable number of phony job interviews before a certain individual by the name of Virgil Halloway showed up. Within a few moments of meeting Halloway, Layten knew that he had found his man.
Poor Halloway had come to the El Segundo office thinking he might be offered a job, and so he was, but not one like he’d expected. During the interview, it had been child’s play to draw the fellow out. Layten lent a sympathetic ear and soon Halloway was spilling his tawdry little tale of woe concerning how his talents were not being sufficiently appreciated at GAT. Halloway wanted revenge upon GAT for slighting him, and Layten offered to pay the lowly engineer for exacting that revenge, cloaking the endeavor in intrigue to inject a little excitement into Halloway’s miserable existence. At first Halloway leapt eagerly to the task, but as the months wore on his anger cooled, as did the draw of the money Layten was paying him. After all, Halloway could not actually spend his ill-gotten gains without drawing attention to himself. GAT, by that point, was trying to sniff out Icarus’s identity. Eventually, Halloway came to Layten seeking to end their relationship. Halloway explained that he was no longer angry at GAT, that all he now wanted was to remain working there in peace, that he would no longer spy on the company.
