Джон Болл - The First Team

After a few seconds the man recovered himself somewhat and pulled an ink pad and a thin piece of coated cardboard from his coat pocket. Proceeding with a duty he knew that he had to complete, he pressed the stiff fingers of the corpse against the ink pad and then, somewhat clumsily, pushed their cold tips onto the paper. He did it methodically; when he was not satisfied with the results from the right hand, he did the distasteful task once more to be sure. When he had finished he turned quickly away from the disfigured body and left the room as rapidly as he was able. Once outside of the funeral home he took a deep breath or two of fresh air, then jumped into a Mercedes-Benz sports car which was waiting at the curb and drove off with an abrupt, angry burst of speed.

Some seven hours later the fingerprints he had taken were delivered to the dignified Washington building which before the war had been the conqueror’s embassy. Because the premises were known to be totally secure, and were readily available, they had been taken over by the secret police — so designated only to distinguish them from the regular authorities. They were anything but secret and derived much of their strength from the combination of awe and terror in Which they were held in their own homeland.

In his office Colonel Rostovitch received the prints from Colorado. He adjusted the light on his desk for close work and then placed under it the fingerprint card he had obtained personally that same morning at the Pentagon. With the aid of a magnifying glass he compared the two sets of prints; he was not an expert, but in this instance he did not need to be. There was no doubt whatever; despite the inadequacy of the work done in Colorado, the two sets were clearly identical.

When the day was at last over and he was able to escape from the confines of his new job, Hewlitt congratulated himself that he had come through unscarred. He had, on this day at least, done everything that had been asked of him and had risked nothing. It would probably be a week or two before he could begin to probe for the cause of Bob Landers’ betrayal. By that time they might have him down as an ordinary employee prepared to do as he was directed and no more. That would suit his own plans perfectly.

He made his way out past the enemy’s security men and climbed into Frank’s cab with a sense of relief. He had a compelling desire to go somewhere away from the city where he could think his own thoughts or enjoy the simple luxury of talking to someone without having to feel that every word he spoke was being weighed and every idea he expressed judged.

“You look tired,” Frank said when they were well out into the traffic.

“I am,” Hewlitt admitted. “It’s a strain.”

Frank appeared to consider that answer as he edged his way into position for a turn. When he had completed it he seemed ready to say something, but before any words came out he evidently changed his mind.

“What is it?” Hewlitt asked.

“Well, maybe I shouldn’t,” Frank said.

“Go ahead, it’s all right.”

The muscular man behind the wheel still hesitated, then decided to try his luck. “I was just wonderin’ if you’d care to do me a real big favor.”

“If I can. Are you short on cash?”

Frank raised a hand and waved that off. “Nothin’ like that. You’ve heard me tell you about my friend Davy Jones — the electronics guy. Well, I’ve told him about you, working in the White House and all that, and he’d sure like to meet you.”

“I’d be glad to.”

Frank half-turned to show his appreciation, then his driving took over his full attention for the next two or three minutes. When he had broken out into the clear once more, he reopened the conversation. “Davy’s giving a little party tonight,” he said. “He’s got a big old house where you can let your hair down and enjoy yourself a little without havin’ to worry that someone’s listening all the time. Just five or six guys. We was wondering if you’d like to stop by for a little while. I’ve known you long enough to know that you aren’t concerned with color. There’ll be plenty of beer, Scotch, whatever you like, and one of the guys has got some nice film of pretty girls with no clothes on. You haven’t got anything against that, have you?”

“Hell no,” Hewlitt answered. For no good reason he thought of Barbara.

“Care to come?”

“How about for a little while? I’ve got some other things to do too.”

Frank turned his head and nodded. “How about if I pick you up a little after eight?”

“Fine.”

Having committed himself, Hewlitt remained silent for the rest of the trip. Once inside his apartment he showered, dressed in informal sports clothes, and turned on the news. He had no desire to go out for dinner; instead he chose a packaged meal from the stock he kept in his refrigerator and put it in the oven.

While the food heated he watched the news and gained nothing from it. The principal item was an obituary of Admiral Haymarket; with the aid of film clips his career was retraced without any reference to the disaster which had overtaken the Navy, and the rest of the armed forces, as well as everyone else. The enemy probably wouldn’t like it, but it was presented in such a way that it would be difficult to take exception to anything that had been said. Hewlitt took careful note and decided that there might be a contact worth making at the Washington station that had produced the program.

When his doorbell rang at eight-fifteen Frank was there, turned out as he had never seen him before, in well-cut sports clothes, very much the man about town. For just a moment Hewlitt wondered if the ladies who were to entertain would all be on film or not.

The cab, as usual, was outside. Frank ushered him in back and dropped the flag as he was pulling away from the curb. “That’s just for show,” he explained, “in case somebody gets nosy.”

Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a rambling old house in a neighborhood which was living on its memories. As he climbed out, Hewlitt noted the preponderance of Negro faces in the vicinity.

The man who admitted them was unusually tall, very slender, and urbane; a pencil-line mustache set off his features.

“Davy,” Frank said, “meet Mr. Hewlitt.”

The tall Negro smiled his welcome and held out his hand. “Please come in,” he invited. “I’m very glad you could make it. Frank has told me about you many times.”

Hewlitt liked him. He expressed his pleasure as he shook hands and followed his host inside. “Frank tells me that you’re an electronics expert,” he said.

“Expert is a rather strong word, Mr. Hewlitt,” Jones said. “I make my living fixing radio and TV sets, and do a little dabbling on the side. One thing: after what’s been going on, you might like to know that this house is free of listening devices — I can guarantee that.”

“Good,” Hewlitt acknowledged. He followed Jones down a short hallway and into a living room where four more men, all Negro and all moderately well dressed, were gathered. He was introduced around and offered a drink by a volunteer bartender. He would have been a little more comfortable if he had not been the only Caucasian present, but the warmth of his welcome was evident and he responded to it.

Someone turned on a stereo and presently the voice of a blues singer filled the room. Drink in hand, Frank rejoined him and led him to a corner where they could talk. “Mr. Hewlitt…” he began.

“My friends call me ‘Hew.’ ”

Despite his complexion, Frank appeared to flush slightly. “Thanks, I really appreciate that, Hew. I’m Asher.”

The initial crews of workmen who were brought in to blast out the underground headquarters for Thomas Jefferson were told, by means of some carefully planted rumors, that they were preparing a storage area for nuclear weapons. The need for strict secrecy was stressed and observed; the job was done with almost no leakage of information. Those who came after them understood that the facility was to be a supersecret alternate command post for NORAD, to be ready in case anything happened to the well-known installation near Colorado Springs. The men who installed the living quarters and all of the complex communications equipment were also worthy of the trust reposed in them; when they left the isolated mountain area the local people knew only that something had been going on. Since there were many classified defense projects in that part of the country, very little interest or discussion was generated. And since the visible traffic to and from the facility was very limited, it was assumed from the start that it was not of major importance.