On the other hand, Senator Hiram Duquesne and several of his colleagues journeyed to the Vice-President’s office in the Executive Office Building that evening to offer their wholehearted support. They appeared before the cameras afterward and, in a rare show of unity, laid aside all partisan differences to praise the Vice-President’s handling of the crisis.
Most of the people in the nation spent the evening in front of their televisions. One of those who watched was T. Jefferson Brody. He was sneering at Duquesne’s image on the tube when the telephone rang.
The man calling he had never met, but he had heard his name several times and vaguely remembered that he did something or other for Freeman McNally.
“McNally’s dead.”
The news stunned Brody. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but since he didn’t know where the man was calling from — the line might be tapped — he refrained.
After cradling the instrument, he used the remote control to turn off the television.
Freeman dead! First Willie Teal, now Freeman.
T. Jefferson pursed his lips and silently whistled. Well, it’s a dangerous business, no question about that. That’s why they made so much money at it.
What was he doing for Freeman? Oh, yes, the senators. Well, that was spilt milk. But it was a hook he might use later on somebody else’s behalf. If and when. He would see.
And because his mind worked that way, Brody’s thoughts immediately turned to Sweet Cherry Lane, the big-titted, cock-stroking bitch who had conned and robbed him. Freeman had been unwilling to assist in that little project, but now Freeman and his reasons — whatever they were — were gone, leaving Brody in possession of the field. Bernie Shapiro hadn’t been very enthusiastic either, but he would approach him again.
So T. Jefferson sat staring at the blank television screen and thinking graphic thoughts about what he would like to do to Sweet Cherry Lane. His lips twisted into a smile. This Army curfew would be over in a few days, and then … Ah, yes. And then!
At nine that night Toad Tarkington and Jack Yocke sat in a military pool vehicle with the engine and heater going, trying to stay warm. Yocke was behind the wheel. Since he knew the city so well Grafton had appointed him duty driver. Toad sat in the backseat.
The two naval officers had spent the evening at the Pentagon drafting the orders and plans for the chairman to sign and had picked up Yocke at the Post fifteen minutes ago.
Through the windshield they watched Jake Grafton and an army officer huddled over a map spread out on the hood of a jeep. The jeep was parked on the sidewalk under an apartment house entrance awning.
The rain continued to fall, drumming on the roof of the car in which Toad and Yocke sat.
“Grafton seems like an awful quiet guy for a successful military officer,” Yocke said just to break the silence.
Toad snorted. “You’re a reporter.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“The guy can talk your leg off. You haven’t heard him at the office! What you gotta have to get ahead in the military is credibility. People have to pay attention when you voice an opinion, they have to believe that you know what you’re talking about. Grafton’s got credibility with a capital C.”
Yocke digested this information as he watched Grafton and the army officer. The army guy was wearing camouflage utilities, a thick coat, and a helmet. In contrast, Jake Grafton wore washed khakis, a green flight-deck coat, and a bridge cap with a khaki cover.
Yocke had had a good look at that green coat when Grafton got out of the car. It had grease stains on it in several places, no doubt souvenirs from one of the ships Grafton had been on. The trousers were no better. In spite of being washed so many times they looked faded, the grease stains were still visible. Sitting in the backseat, Tarkington was togged out about like Grafton, except that his heavy coat was khaki.
“Where do you navy officers get grease on your uniforms?”
“Flight deck,” Toad muttered, and declined to say anything else.
Yocke looked at his watch. He would like to find a few minutes to call Tish Samuels. Maybe after the next stop.
Grafton came back to the car and climbed into the passenger seat. His coat and hat were dripping. He left the door ajar, so the overhead courtesy light stayed on. The captain extracted a map from his pocket and studied it. After a few moments he held it so the other two men could see it.
“Okay. They are searching door to door in these grids here and here and here.” His finger rested on each in turn. “This third one they’ll finish in about a half hour. There’s just time for that battalion to do one more before knocking off for the night. Which one do you think they ought to do?”
Toad and Yocke stared at the map. “This is a little like roulette,” Toad remarked.
“Yep,” Jake Grafton said. “Go ahead. Pick a winner.”
Yocke pointed. “Why not this one? It has some warehouses and some public housing projects. Those are likely. These projects — you could run four or five Colombians who don’t speak a word of English into a room and they could stay for weeks with no one the wiser. And even if the neighbors are suspicious, they won’t call the cops. They know better.”
“Sold me.” Grafton sighed. He got out of the car and went back to the jeep with the radio equipment.
In about a minute he returned. “Drive,” he said.
With the car in motion, Jake turned to Toad. “Your wife home tonight?”
“Yessir.”
“Think she’d like to ride around with us?”
“Sure. If we swing by that way, I’ll run up and get her.”
Toad gave Jack Yocke the address. When they pulled up in front, Jake said, “Tell her to put on a uniform, as old and grungy as she’s got.”
Toad nodded and walked quickly into the building.
“Nice of you to think of that,” Jack Yocke said.
“She’s only got ten more days of leave left, and I can’t spare him.”
“Off the record, way off, what do you do over at the Pentagon, anyway?”
Grafton chuckled. “Well, I’m the senior officer in a little group of seven or eight people that do the staff work on military cooperation with antidrug efforts.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
“Hmm. For example, we more or less have one carrier in the Gulf of Mexico and eastern Caribbean on a full-time basis now. That was one of my projects. I lost.”
“Lost? Isn’t that a good idea?”
“That’s just the trouble. Sounds like a terrific idea on the evening news or when some politician makes a speech in Philadelphia. Have a shipload of planes fly around over the ocean looking for boats and take pictures and call the Coast Guard when they see one. So a carrier home from six or seven months in the Mediterranean has to forgo maintenance and go sail around down there. The squadrons have money for a limited number of flight hours for each crew during the turnaround between cruises. With that money they have to train the new guys and keep the experienced crews sharp. Instead they spend the money to fly around in circles over the water. No one gets trained. The ships and planes don’t get the proper maintenance. And when they’re finished down south, we send them back to the Med.”
“But it sounds good in Philadelphia,” Yocke said. “Honestly, that is important.”
“No doubt. But if we have to send untrained people into combat in Libya or the Middle East, they’re going to die. They haven’t had the necessary training. We’ll lose airplanes we can’t afford to lose. And even if we dance between the raindrops and don’t have to fight, the ships will need more maintenance later, a lot more. Prophet that I am, I can tell you that when that day comes the money won’t be available. Congress will say, Sorry about that. Haven’t you heard about the savings-and-loan disaster and the deficit and the peace dividend?