Pat Frank - Forbidden Area

Osborne tapped a pen on his desk, thoughtful. “I won’t say that’s preposterous,” he said, “because we have been attacked without warning before. But I will say that it is most presumptuous of you to try to force your personal opinion upon me, and upon the Bureau, and upon the whole executive branch of government. You have failed to implement your directives. You were instructed to sit in with that group and answer questions when required, and act as their security officer. You aren’t supposed to engage in a crusade, or stick the Bureau’s neck out. Felix, I’m really afraid you’ve compromised your status.”

Felix said, calmly as if asking for the afternoon off, “Does that mean I’m fired? I rather hope so, because it would give me a chance to get my family out of the city before Monday.”

He really believes it, Osborne thought, incredulously. He really believes the Russians are going to start dropping bombs in our laps Monday. Yet firing Fromburg without charges or an investigation was out of the question. After all, there were the Civil Service regulations. But it would be better if Fromburg left Washington, because if he kept on milling around he might get the Bureau into trouble. “Fire you? Don’t be silly,” he said. “Plenty for you to do, and I want to say that Ginter may have been off base when he suggested that a man of your experience and seniority do field security checks. Now, I take it that you’re impressed by the exodus of some of the Russian diplomats and consuls?”

“I am.”

“Frankly, I’m not,” said Osborne. “It could be nothing more than coincidence, or a result of this new shakeup in the Kremlin. So far as I can see, there has been absolutely no change in their main policy, conciliation, non-aggression. Why are you so suspicious?”

“No reason,” said Felix. “I’m no more suspicious than I would be if the Capone mob, or the Jersey syndicate, all started studying to be scoutmasters.”

“You can forget the sarcasm. I just wanted to tell you that I have an assignment along the lines in which you’re interested. That is, people getting out of the country. There’s a Pennsylvania banker, name of Robert Gumol, down in Havana. Claims that he was rolled for three hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars. I want you to go down there.”

“Sounds like a job for Treasury.”

“The bank examiners are working on it,” Osborne said, “but that isn’t the point. His wife—they live in Upper Hyannis—called our agent-in-charge in Philadelphia last night. Said she wanted to report him missing. She hasn’t heard from him since he arrived in Havana and thinks he may have been kidnapped by the Commies. She believes he’s had money dealings with the Commies for years. He and his father both. She used to hear them talking, sometimes.”

“Could be desertion,” said Fromburg. “And yet—” He recalled the Tass man’s flight to Mexico.

“I don’t know what it is,” said Osborne. “Up to you to find out. Ginter will get together the file on this case. Have my girl draw up some travel vouchers. You ought to be able to leave for Havana at, say, three.”

“I’ll be ready,” Fromburg said. The thought of activity was welcome. Anything was better than waiting around, frustrated and helpless, in a vacuum.

That evening, while his wife, Sarah, helped him pack, and the children had come in from play and were monopolizing the bathroom and being unusually confusing and disorganized, he wondered what to do about his family. For fifteen years, in the Fromburg household, sudden trips, never explained until his return and sometimes never explained at all, had been common procedure. Sarah accepted these conditions of his employment, and expected them. He and Sarah had been sweethearts since their childhood together, grandchildren of Jewish immigrants, in a section of Baltimore, little better than a slum, not far from the Pennsylvania station. The white steps in the row of red brick houses on their street were of cheap pine, and were not replaced until rotten and hazardous. In Baltimore white marble steps are respectable, white limestone steps acceptable, and whitewashed pine a certificate of poverty. That they had burst out of this environment into the sunlight of security, comfort, and even luxury that goes with a well-paid government job was always a little wonderful to both of them. At twenty Sarah had been petite and vivacious. As she neared forty her eyes were still bright, but her skin was darkening and wrinkling like a prune. Except to Felix she was not a particularly attractive woman.

Ever since the end of World War II, Fromburg’s duties had become increasingly secretive as he was assigned to the more sensitive areas of counter-espionage. It had been Sarah who had decided that Felix should never tell her anything of his work. “If there should ever be a leak,” she’d said, “you’ll never be worried that it was me.” That’s the way it was, and had always been, but now, even as he realized it was necessary to tell her everything, the habit of secrecy inhibited him. He considered suggesting that she take the children to visit her mother over the holidays, but Baltimore was a primary target also. Sarah had a sister in Pittsburgh. That was just as bad, perhaps worse. Sarah was tucking his white saddle shoes into the corners of the suitcase when he spoke. “I wish to God I could take you and the children to Havana with me, but I can’t.”

She straightened, startled by the calm gravity of his voice. “Take the children away from home at Christmas? Why, sweetheart?”

Felix tried to explain, but the phrases would not form themselves. All he could say was, “Yes, out of Washington on Christmas. Out of Washington before Christmas Eve.” He grabbed her by the shoulders.

“But why in the world—” And then she knew. “Do you mean it, Felix?”

“I mean it.”

“When?”

“I believe on Christmas Eve.”

“Why hasn’t an evacuation been ordered?” Two hours a week, Sarah worked for Civil Defense. Not as a spotter. Glasses couldn’t correct her eyesight, except for reading. All Sarah did was sweep out the Civil Defense shack, far down the river, and keep things neat.

“Because—” he knew the futility of explaining to her the intricacies of government—“because opinion is divided. The big boys don’t believe it. Most of them haven’t even heard of it, and probably won’t. Now don’t argue, Sarah. Just trust me. Get the kids out of the city. I don’t know where. Try to find a safe place. You know as much about it as I do.”

She said, “All right, Felix. I’ll take them away in the car Sunday morning. When I find a place I’ll wire you. But where?”

“Care of the consul-general. I’ll have to check in there.”

That’s the way he had left his family. It wasn’t until too late, when he was aboard the night non-stop for Havana, that he began to wish he had told Sarah to follow him to Cuba instead of driving off, with the children and the responsibility, into the unpredictable countryside. 4

General Keatton and Colonel Lundstrom had taken over the base commander’s working space at Hibiscus, and so Brigadier-General Charles Conklin was using his exec’s office when Jesse Price arrived to check in, as courtesy required. An officer without orders does not come to live in somebody else’s bailiwick without making his presence known, particularly when that bailiwick is approximately in a state of siege.

Conklin was only four years older than Jesse, and but for the caprices of two wars their rank might have been identical. In 1943, as lieutenants, they had flown B-24’s to Africa, wingtip to wingtip. Conklin’s curse was a snub-nosed, freckled face that refused to age, and golden hair that refused to gray and insisted on curling no matter how closely cropped. His nickname was Buddy, after Buddy Rogers, the actor who for two generations had managed to remain a juvenile film star. That Buddy Conklin was a brigadier-general at thirty-nine, in spite of these manifest handicaps, attested to his courage as a pilot, his great skill as a tactician, his executive ability, and his luck.