“You know how the Polaris missile works, don’t you?”
“Compressed air fired from a submerged vessel until airborne then rocket effect takes over with a guidance system to the target. Where does that come in?”
“The Reds have been working in International waters about twenty miles off our coasts for years. There’s nothing we can do about it except keep them under surveillance. Supposing they developed a Polaris-type missile and located them on a permanent pad a few miles from our shorelines. A half dozen could destroy our major seaport cities, population and military bases with one touch of a button. They could sit there undetected until they were ready to be used and then we’d have it.”
“You said they were under surveillance.”
“Irish buddy, the ocean is a big place. Submarine development and underwater exploration has come a long way. They could have had decoys going while the real thing sneaked up past our screen and while we’re tangled in nuclear disarmament talks and peace treaties, playing big brother to all the slobs in the world, the Soviets are laying the groundwork for our own destruction if the surface negotiations don’t go their way. Like idiots, our military appropriations don’t allow for full protection. The jerks who handle the loot fight a war in Viet Nam with WWII aircraft, let our guys get killed, they yank out MacArthur who could have won the Korean thing, they make us look stupid around the globe and dig their own graves while they all try to soak up newspaper space so they can run for office when they get promoted up and out.”
“Get to the point.”
Bill Grady nodded and made himself another drink. He swirled the ice around in the glass and took a swallow from it. “From unauthorized sources, I hear Karen Sinclair was a Fed, all right. I checked her b.g. and she was an Oceanography major at a west coast university. She started out on an assignment with six others, all of whom have died under peculiar circumstances. A further check puts her with a relatively unimportant Navy department engaged in subsurface research, ostensibly charting the shelf off our coast. Let’s suppose her job was a secret one, to locate these possible underwater missile sites. Let’s suppose she did. You think the Soviets wouldn’t be aware of their presence and try to stop it? But let’s suppose she alone got away with a record of their positions somehow. They couldn’t afford to let her live. She couldn’t be left to make her contact. They would have put every resource at their command to nail her and it looks like they might have... and you, my friend, were entrusted with the goodies.”
I got up, my lips tight across my mouth. “Why me?”
“Because she had to do something and you look like you do.”
“Nuts!” I slammed the drink down and glared at him. “That’s too damn many suppositions. I don’t like any of them.”
Quietly, he said, “Suppose they’re true?”
“Why the hell do I have to get trapped in the middle?”
“Kismet, my friend. Maybe you’re lucky.” He took a pull of the drink again. “Or maybe all of us are.” Then he looked at me and waited.
“All right, Grady, cut it fine. If I go to the cops they slap my can in a cell for homicide. I sweat. If I tap the Feds they turn me over to the cops anyway. If I give them the story they won’t believe me because I can’t come up with a lousy capsule and Karen Sinclair isn’t able to talk. If she dies, I’ll be dead too. If I prowl the streets, either Big Step hits me or the cops do, so where does that leave me?”
For the first time Bill Grady let out a sardonic laugh. “I don’t know, old buddy, but it’s going to be mighty interesting. Even your obituary written from a speculative viewpoint ought to buy new readers.”
“Great. Thanks a bunch.”
“No trouble.”
“And where do you go from here?”
His grin got bigger. “Nowhere. I’m going to sit back and watch. I want to see a big war hero who digs the hood bit turn patriotic, not because he wants to, but because he has to. It will be an interesting study in human behavior. You’ve always been an enigma to everybody, now here’s your chance to be an even bigger one. All I want is the story.”
“Go screw yourself.”
“Physically impossible,” he laughed again. “It’s you who’s screwed. To make it worse I went and upset your weird idea of morality and now I want to see the action. You got no choice any longer, Irish. You’re the only one who knows all the facts you have to get out of the trap. If you do and when you do, I’ll rate a scoop bonus. How about that?”
I put my glass down and stood up. “Maybe, Bill, maybe.”
“What’s with the maybe?”
“I might need a liaison man. If you want the story, then you’re tagged.”
He licked his lips, slammed one hand into the other and said, “I might have figured it. So what do you want?”
“Get me in to see Karen Sinclair.”
“It can’t be done. You’ll be spotted. She’s got a uniformed police guard and a dozen of the pretty boys stationed around her room. It’s impossible.”
“So do it anyway,” I told him.
At ten p.m. a makeup man from NBC dropped a curly headed rug over my short hair, fitted me with a London mustache, clear-lensed glasses and with a Graflex in my hand, I passed for a Manchester newspaperman whose press card had been lifted from a passed-out owner an hour before. We both had to put down a gallon of ginger ale before he went out on double scotches, but it worked and we made the front desk where a police spokesman told us Karen Sinclair was still too critical to be interviewed. A group of other reporters gave us the laugh for making the try and went back to playing cards on an upside down tray set on their knees.
But Grady didn’t stop there. He got the plainclothes man down in the lobby. “Look, maybe she can’t talk, but all we want to do is make sure.”
The cop said, “Sorry, she isn’t to be seen.”
“Maybe there’s more here than we know about. Since when do innocent bystanders in a shooting get this kind of treatment? I think a little legwork might come up with a tasty bit.”
The young guy in the blue gabardine frowned. “Listen...”
“I don’t listen to anybody. I write, mister. I do a column and have carte blanche and if you want it that way, I can raise a lot of interesting questions.”
“Wait here a minute,” the guy said. He walked to a phone, dialed a number and spoke for a good two minutes. When he came back he nodded for us to follow him. “You can take a look... that’s all. She’s out cold and there’s nothing more to it than that. She has a police guard because of this Stipetto business and she might have been a possible eye witness to what happened.”
I picked it up quicker than Grady did. “What do you mean... what happened?”
The guy was trapped. All he could do was say, “Sorry but...”
Before he could turn away I grabbed his arm. “You mean there was more than the shooting?”
When he turned around he was composed again, his face inscrutable. “If you’re a police reporter you know what I mean about eye witnesses. Now if you want to see the dame, you have one minute to take a look.”
“Sure, but you know us,” I said. “Always questions.”
“Yeah, but keep it quiet. You’ll be the first ones allowed in for a look, and no pictures,” he added, pointing to my camera.
I acknowledged and slapped the Graflex shut. The elevator took us to the sixth floor where our guide led us past the others stationed at strategic points along the corridor. The doctor met us at the door, told us to be quick and make no noise, then turned the knob, spoke to the nurse inside and let us pass.
Somebody had taken off Karen Sinclair’s makeup and for the first time, I saw her as she was. Even lying there, her face waxen pale, she was a stunning woman, the sheets adhering to every contour of that magnificent body, the lustrous gleam of her chestnut hair framing her beauty. One shoulder was swathed in bandages and another bandage was outlined at her waist.