“I’m sure it would.”
Smith peeled another peanut and popped it in his mouth. He stared straight ahead thinking for a minute or so.
“That’s it? An airplane and pilot?” he said sarcastically.
“For now,” Keegan answered pleasantly. He sensed that Smith secretly enjoyed the challenge although he would never admit it.
Smith ate another peanut and sighed. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. And without another word he got up and left the ferry boat cabin.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Keegan mumbled to himself.
Back in his apartment, Keegan fixed himself a drink, put on a Count Basie album and sorted through the material in the black briefcase. He was impressed. There was a leather folder about the size of a wallet containing credentials identifying him as a member of the “White House Security Staff, Investigation Division” with a space for a photograph; a stapled, typewritten list of all government agencies with the un1istd phone numbers of the directors; a temporary pass to the ‘File Section” of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; a pass permitting him on U.S. military bases; and a White House business card ambiguously identifying Don Smith simply as “staff” with his day and night numbers on the back; and a note:
Mr. Keegan:
Please affix a current photograph in the proper places on both the White House and military credentials. No glamour poses please, a simple passport photo will do.
Memorize the phone numbers and dispose of the card.
Your contact at the FBI is Glen Kirbo, 4th floor of the bureau building in Washington. He doesn’t know what you are up to and doesn’t want to know.
Your military clearance will give you access to all unclassified material.
Discretion is the soul of valor.
Smith
The next day Dryman showed up.
He did not walk into the Killarney Rose, he swaggered. There was arrogance in every step as if he were defying everyone in the bar
In his early thirties, Keegan guessed, tallish and well built with auburn-red hair and a pleasant, cherub face, a cocky grin and twinkling blue eyes; a man who looked like he had the world where it hurts. He swaggered straight to the back end of the bar and took a bar stool across from Tiny.
“Canadian on ice in a highball glass, General, Coke on the side,” he said, then spun the stool around and sat with his back to the bar, checking the place out. His eyes fixed on Keegan. He smiled and pointed a finger at him.
“I’ll bet you’re Francis Keegan,” he said. His accent was soft Boston, not quite the long A’s and E’s, but enough of a twang to root him somewhere in New England.
“What makes you think so?” Keegan asked, returning the smile.
“Well sir, you look like you own the place and since Keegan owns this place, I figure you must be him,” he said.
“That’s pretty good, pal. And who might you be?”
He walked over to Keegan’s table, put his two glasses down and stuck out his hand.
“Captain John Dryman, United States Army Air Corps.”
“It’s a pleasure, Cap’n,” Keegan said, looking over the flier’s clothes. “Are you on furlough?”
“T.D.,” he answered and took a long pull at the whiskey.
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“Here”
“In New York?”
Dryman looked surprised. “Right here. In this bar. With you. I am on temporary duty here as of,” he looked at his watch, “one hour from now.”
Keegan’s brow furrowed. “To do what?”
“I was hoping you’d tell
“Maybe you haven’t heard, there’s a war going on in China.”
Dryman winked. “Yes sir, sure is. Ever hear of Major Claire Chennault? The Flying Tigers? He’s started his own little air force over there. As of January 1, I will be in Kunming, teaching the Japs a few tricks. Meantime I have been assigned to something called White House Security and I’m to take my orders from you. And Boss,” he looked around and giggled joyfully to himself, “I can’t think of a better place 1o finish out my tour. The plane’s out at Mitchell Field.”
