Manfred found himself staring into the void, facing oblivion yet again. He felt the hatred and rage build in his gut, spreading through the pathways of his body, tightening the sinews, constricting his chest.
‘I’ll kill him myself.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m trained, aren’t I?’
It sounded pathetic, even to his own ears, which only annoyed him more.
There might have been some truth in the words, but his training wasn’t a patch on Labarde’s. And as for his combat experience, the whole purpose of Fighter Direction was to guide others into warfare from the safety of the Combat Information Center. There had been hairy moments in the Solomon Islands, relentless night bombing raids by the Japanese, the odd barrage from an enemy battleship. He had even seen live rounds fired when the Marines flushed out a handful of enemy troops left behind on the island of Rendova. That ‘invasion’ had lasted no more than half an hour, and they’d quickly set up their big SCR-270 radars, feeding vectors to their own air crews to help them zero in on the Japanese planes.
This was how he’d spent a large part of the war, sitting in front of a cathode-ray tube, helping the Navy leapfrog its way towards the Philippines. As things went, it was about as good as it got. He was a lieutenant attached to the 1st Marine Air Wing; the radar technology over which he lorded was new, exciting, even glamorous; and there was the added cachet of always being on or about the front line. Okay, so it was the pilots of the old P-30s and P-40s who actually laid their lives on the line every day, but you were there with them, at their side, assisting, always in the thick of it, always safe back at base.
Maximum credibility, minimum risk. His father had judged it well, though they’d never discussed the details of the strings he had pulled.
It was a war record beyond reproach, an essential stepping stone toward the prize, playing the long game. The question was just how deep the dream ran in his father. After all his work—all the planning, the foresight—was he really going to throw it away now?
In his heart Manfred knew there was only one answer, though for a moment he doubted the assumption—the moment his father strode back into the drawing room from the garden. He walked straight up to Manfred, his eyes blazing, and slapped him hard across the face.
‘You stupid boy,’ he spat.
Manfred could only think how much worse his reaction would have been if he’d been told the whole truth.
His father walked to the sideboard, helped himself to a cigarette and lit it with a trembling hand.
‘This fisherman, Labarde, does he have a telephone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes,’ said Richard.
His father made for the door.
Richard intercepted him. ‘What are you going to do, George?’
‘What you should have done in the first place—pay him off.’
‘I don’t know about this one.’
‘Name me one man who couldn’t be bought?’
‘Then let me handle it,’ said Richard. ‘For your own sake, you should stay out of it.’
It was a good point, though not the real reason Richard didn’t want him speaking to Labarde.
‘You should have come to me,’ snapped his father as soon as Richard had left the room.
‘Come to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Since when have I ever been able to come to you?’
His father glared at him.
‘It’s true,’ Manfred went on. ‘You know it is.’
He lit a cigarette. His father wandered to the French windows and looked out over the garden. They both smoked in silence.
His father turned. ‘He’s with you for ever now—Richard, I mean. You know that, don’t you? This is his ticket.’
It hadn’t occurred to Manfred before that Richard might have an agenda all of his own. And he drew comfort from it. If he’d done wrong, it was because his hand had been guided by a man thinking only of himself.
At that moment, Richard returned to the drawing room.
‘He wants two hundred thousand dollars for the document. Tonight.’
‘Two hundred thousand!?’
‘It’s cheap at that price,’ said George Wallace. ‘Though I daresay it’s doubled since you tried to steal it from him.’
‘Where are we going to find that kind of money on a Saturday?’ said Richard.
‘After everything else you’ve arranged,’ snarled Manfred’s father, ‘I can’t imagine it poses too much of a problem.’
Thirty-Six
Hollis had come prepared with two handkerchiefs. By midday, when the first cars started to arrive, one was already sodden from mopping his brow, and he’d laid it on a nearby hedge to dry in the sun; the second was well on its way to reaching its saturation point.
Another car tried to park on the verge and he moved it on.
Christ, it was hot, the windless heat roasting him in his uniform.
‘Ambulance! Ambulance!’
The urgent call came from behind him and he spun round.
Abel triggered the shutter of the Speed Graphic. ‘That’s great,’ he said, appearing from behind the camera. ‘I can just see it on the front page of the Star: Deputy Chief Hollis, Moments Before His Sad Demise.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Jesus, Tom, you look like you just went twelve rounds with Rita Hayworth.’
Easy for him to say in his sleeveless open-necked shirt and his cotton slacks.
‘So, how’s it going?’ asked Abel.
‘How’s what going?’
‘The fair, Tom, the ladies’ fair.’
‘Great. Attendance is up this year.’
Abel looked at him askance. ‘Tell me you’re kidding.’
‘I’m kidding.’
‘Christ, for a moment there I thought they had you in their clutches.’
‘No danger of that,’ said Hollis. ‘Where’s Lucy?’
‘Sulking. We had an argument. She thinks I’m seeing someone on the side.’
‘Are you?’
‘I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you if I was. But no, as it happens, I’m not.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘How’s the President?’
‘The President?’
‘Mrs Calder. You remember, the one who invited you to a party, the one you were spotted with in Springs the next day.’
‘We went walking,’ said Hollis. ‘She likes to walk.’
‘You’ve got to start somewhere, I guess.’
‘I guess.’
‘Why the hang-dog expression? No, don’t tell me—you fucked it up.’
‘I might have.’
‘You idiot, Tom.’
‘Coming from you?’
‘Well, go and sort it out. Tell her she’s invited to dinner over at my place later. You can come too…assuming you survive.’
‘What about Lucy?’
‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Abel, ‘she’ll be okay by then.’
Hollis waited till three o’clock before making his move. The fair was in full swing, the village green thronging with people clustered around the booths, the gypsy caravans, the wishing well and the wheel of chance, or waiting in line for boat rides on Town Pond. Mary’s little entourage had thinned out, and she was sipping a drink in the shade of a tree, the glass beaded with sweat.
‘Hi.’
‘Here—’ said Mary, handing him the glass.
He took a gulp of the cold lemonade.
‘Finish it,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Believe me, I’m sure.’
He drained the glass, dabbed at his face with his handkerchief and looked around. There were some children playing nearby, romping and running about.
‘Edward…?’
‘The big one with the stick chasing the small one without a stick.’
‘Seems like a nice kid.’
Mary laughed, and he felt his heart soar.
‘How have you been, Tom?’
‘Oh, you know…terrible.’