Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

Five minutes later, he had three phone numbers to call, and had decided, and quickly rehearsed, how he was going to handle them. The first number he dialled was engaged. The second answered after three rings.

‘Hello?’ a woman’s voice answered.

‘Hi, this may seem like a very odd call, it’s not a sales call, though, okay?’

‘Who is this?’

‘My name is — ’ it occurred for the very first time to Chris that it might be wise to start being a little bit more careful ‘- Jason Schwartz, I’m from the New England Fishermen’s Union. We arrange, from time to time, reunion gatherings for crews, and get-togethers from various social clubs. I’m trying to track down one of our members, his old crew are looking to meet up, you see… so I’m trying to get hold of Tom Grady. I was told he had family living out in New Buxton. But I’ve got no record of his current address see, so… there you go, hence the call.’

There was a pause as the lady absorbed Chris’s story, and in turn Chris held his breath in anticipation. It had sounded okay in practice, but just now it had sounded forced, as if read from a script. Chris reminded himself not to rehearse next time; busking this kind of thing always ended up sounding more natural.

‘Tom Grady? That’s a name I’ve not heard in a long, long time.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Tom Grady was my uncle.’

‘Was? Oh dear, I’m sorry — ’

‘Oh, don’t be. I don’t know if he’s passed on, young man, I haven’t seen him in sixty years. I guess he probably must be dead by now. He moved out of state with his son. I guess that was… not long after the war. I think only a few days after the war, thinking about it.’

‘Oh… why do you think he moved away?’

‘I heard he came into some money, but I think that’s just hearsay. More likely he knew, with our boys coming home soon, that they would fill up the places on the trawlers once more, and he’d have trouble finding work any more. There’s not a lot else to do in Port Lawrence, other than fish, you know? I guess that’s still the way?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Fishing, and processing fish, that’s pretty much what we got over here,’ replied Chris, wary that he was exaggerating the drawl too much. He decided to try another angle — after all it was always his mum who was the one who bothered to write out and send the Christmas cards each year.

‘Did you ever hear from Mrs Grady?’

‘Oh, there was no Mrs Grady, Mr Schwartz. My aunt died some years earlier, before the war.’

Shit.

‘Well, I must say it is a surprise to have someone ask after Tom and his boy after so many years,’ she added after a moment or two.

‘You never heard from them again?’ Chris probed.

‘Well, thinking about it, yes. I think it was a year or so after they disappeared, we received a letter from Tom. He said that they’d moved to Florida, and he was working again and they were happier down there, and not to worry, that he would be in touch again when they had settled into a home.’

‘Do you have an address?’

‘No, not any more. I replied to his letter, but he never wrote again. I think they must have moved home once more and just… well, you know how it is with family. Sometimes they just give up on each other. Tom and I were never that close, not even when we all lived in Port Lawrence.’

Damn. This was feeling like a dead end.

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear about this. I’ll have to let Tom’s crewmates know he can’t be found. I do apologise for disturbing you.’

‘Not a problem, young man.’

He said goodbye and hung up.

The woman seemed, at least to some degree, to have confirmed McGuire’s little tale. That his childhood buddy, Sean, and his father had been gently hustled out of town… and probably with enough shut-up money for them to start over very nicely, thank you very much. And that, along with McGuire’s tale of navy ships at sea and the cove cordoned off with barbed wire and soldiers, that… and the fact that there were two Luftwaffe bodies lying off the coast of New England, inside a B-17 riddled with bullets. When it came to writing up the story, the old boy McGuire might well prove useful — he’d definitely get something out of it. But it was a shame he couldn’t track down this boy, Sean… an old man now, of course.

Chris decided following up on Sean Grady could wait until he was done with the diving up here. Then that was a line of enquiry he could pursue later on… just to add a bit more meat and gristle to the story.

Somewhat oddly he was thinking about the Department when it rang him. He had been thinking how best to deploy what remained of the legacy budget. There was just under 300,000 dollars left, and it was arguably approaching the time when he could look to start wrapping things up. Bob Palantino, the last man left on the payroll, was approaching his mandatory retirement age. Bob had been a good desk man, reliable, discreet and very organised. When Bob served up his last day, he wondered whether it would be wise to bother enrolling a replacement. The old guy knew most of it.

But not everything.

Bob knew enough, but then he had worked down there on that windowless mezzanine floor for a long time now, nearly forty years. If he took on a replacement to continue as the ‘caretaker’ after Bob hung up his hat, then it would mean bringing someone new in on the secret, and that meant introducing an unnecessary element of risk. The fewer in the know the better, especially now, after such a long time. After all, the secret, ‘Truman’s legacy’ as he sometimes liked to refer to it, was very nearly dead and buried.

Or so he had thought.

Then there had been that damned call from Bob. After all this time it looked like someone had snagged their nets on the bomber, Medusa.

He had spent some time pondering what to do over that.

Well, now, what it didn’t require was a rushed, ill-considered response… absolutely no need to panic here. It was just the wreck of a wartime plane sitting at an acceptable depth in uncomfortably cold water; hardly the sort of destination for casual holiday snorkellers, and not exactly a big story; just a small item of interest in a local rag.

But, he reflected, it would need to be dealt with in due course. It would need tidying up.

He had enough money left in the budget to hire in some freelancers. A couple of divers hired in to go down there and collect the offending item. No questions asked. Probably ex-servicemen, ex-agency bagmen, professional enough to just get on and do the task and leave the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ to someone else.

That would wrap it up nicely. He would have them retrieve it carefully and have them take it out into deeper waters and drop it there.

He had begun to discreetly organise this ‘tidy-up’ job, once more returning to DC and the dark dungeons of the Department floor, at least for a few days, providing old Bob with a bit of company while he set about making the necessary calls to start the wheels turning when, as an old acquaintance of his had the habit of saying, the proverbial hit the fan.

He discovered there was some damned journalist poking around in the town near the crash site. Poking around and asking questions. God knows if the nosy shit-stick had access to diving equipment and been down below to take a look at the plane.

He hoped to God that this guy hadn’t.

Agitated and unnerved by the thought, he distractedly rubbed his temple, attempting to ease away the tension building up there. He didn’t need this. Not now. After so much hard work on his part, for so long… so much dedication, it could all unravel if this nosy sonofabitch managed to spot what was down there in the plane. If he sat back and did nothing, there was just enough out there to be pieced together. There was enough there to tell the tale; enough goddamned skeletons to crucify the Department.