'Lieutenant Ryan reporting, sir,' he said, standing straight as a board.
His commander was writing something and didn't bother to look up.
'Mr. Ryan, you have orders to report to NAS Miramar. Have your person and navy issue on board the COD at 1055 hours tonight. You are hereby summoned there on National Command Authority, that means the president of the United States, Lieutenant, clear?'
Ryan didn't miss a beat. 'No, sir, I'm not clear on this. I'm now a Jonah on board my own ship. I would like to stay and get this cleared up.' In his anger, he moved toward the commander's desk.
Finally the commander looked up. Ryan could see in his eyes he was still burning up about losing Derry.
'You are at attention, Mr. Ryan,' he said, pointing his pen at a spot in front of the desk. 'Evidently the powers that be, and they are the real power here, mister, want to hear your story, so someone pulled strings and had you transferred. But make no mistake, young Mr. Ryan, we will get to the bottom of this incident. Lieutenant Commander Derry was a close friend, he thought you were the best pilot in the squadron. Therefore, Mr. Ryan, I believe you when you say what you saw out there, but without evidence other than two lost aircraft and three dead men, there's not a whole lot I can do. Your shipmates will always judge you harsher than even yourself. Dismissed.'
Ryan deflated. He caught himself and stood up straight and saluted, then turned and left the office.
Once the door was closed, he stood there in quiet and stunned shock. In fifteen minutes he was going to be catapulted off the
As Ryan started for his cabin to quickly pack, he knew his days aboard the USS
The Ivory Coast Lounge was a gentlemen's club in the loosest sense of the word. The interior was made up in a gaudy African motif, complete with cheap imitation ivory tusks and actual bamboo huts covering the darkened and filthy vinyl-covered booths, giving customers a false sense of anonymity. Ugly plaster ceremonial masks covered the walls, along with shadowy cutouts of native women in erotic poses.
The dancers plying their trade at this dive were there because they couldn't find work at one of the finer clubs on the Strip; they were either too old or too young for the legitimate establishments to hire. This was the kind of place that the city fathers were trying to ban from Las Vegas. If they'd known the small club dealt in more than just the exhibition of flesh, they would have moved to close it down even faster.
The Frenchman had been sitting in the basement of the club for the past twenty minutes. He had arrived at least two hours before the Black Team was due. Every once in a while he would look up from the newspaper he was reading and glance at the closed-circuit television monitor on the desk a few feet away. He was reading a nice little article on a new advance in the software field by Microsoft when the manager of this little piece of Americana cleared his throat, asking for attention.
'What is it?' he asked without looking up from his article.
'What should I say to this man? Do I pay him or what?' the club manager asked. 'He's been waiting a long time and is real pissed.'
Farbeaux slowly looked up, seemingly showing little interest. He carefully folded
'So this is the man you dealt with before?' Farbeaux looked from the monitor to his host.
'Yeah, I'm positive; it's the same weasel that came in here couple a months ago.'
The Frenchman watched the man on the monitor for a moment. So, this was the traitor that worked for Compton and Lee. Well, he thought, whatever information he'd given Hendrix, he would soon know. And if this Purple Sage really was worth something, so be it. Also he wanted to know about personnel eliminations in the forties; yes, he would know that too.
Farbeaux was growing bored with working for Centauras and needed one final score to make his time with them worth his while. This might be just that nest egg he was waiting for. If Hendrix wanted him left out of the loop, there must be a reason why, and that reason smelled of opportunity.
'Send him a drink on the house and make sure one of your nicer whores delivers it.'
'Yeah, I can do that,' the man with the pompadoured hair answered.
'I'll be up in a moment,' Farbeaux said, thinking as he again watched Reese on the monitor.
The club manager smiled, exposing his crooked and stained teeth. When he saw the Frenchman ignore him, he left to do his business.
Farbeaux turned as three men in black dress entered from the back entrance. Hendrix's men had shown up earlier than he would have liked.
Achilles, the tallest of the three men, stepped forward. 'Why are you here, Mr. Farbeaux?'
'If you'll step outside I'll explain the change in plan I received from Hendrix.' He stood and patted the taller man on the shoulder.
As he walked toward the rear door that led out into a filthy alley, Farbeaux half turned. 'Your target may have something more to offer than originally thought,' he said as he opened the door. 'I'm here to find out what that is.'
'Is that what New York has requested we do, assist you?' Achilles asked.
The Frenchman fixed the man with an icy stare and his right eyebrow rose.
'It is what I request that should be paramount in your thinking,' he answered with a soft growl.
The three men exchanged looks and then the tallest man in black nodded his head and followed Farbeaux out of the door.
He was taken totally unaware when Farbeaux suddenly turned and shot him in the head. Then he quickly fired two more times at the men behind him. The third actually had time enough to pull his own weapon before he was felled with a nine-millimeter round to the forehead.
'Getting old,' the Frenchman mumbled.
The rented car the men had used was parked against a far wall next to the club. Farbeaux went to the prone body of Achilles and rummaged through his pockets until he found the car's keys, then he opened the trunk and carefully loaded the three bodies. Before closing the trunk, he shook his head. It was a shame, they had been good men and loyal to their company, but his action had committed him to a course that was now unchangeable.
Inside, Robert Reese watched the woman's swaying breasts as a new and much better looking topless waitress delivered him a drink. 'Compliments of the Ivory Coast,' she said with a broad smile, then slowly walked away, making sure he had a good view of the exaggerated way she swung her backside.
Reese followed the shapely figure of the waitress for a moment, then returned to his thoughts. It had never taken this long to receive his payment. Usually it was in and out and no words spoken.
Without Reese being aware of his approach, a man in a well-tailored white sport jacket and blue silk tie, which stood out against his white shirt, was now standing next to his booth. He wore expensive Italian shoes and his hair was combed straight back. He looked to be about forty. He eyed one of the girls for a moment, then looked over at Reese.
'Hello, may I intrude?' he asked, gesturing at the other side of the booth.
Reese cleared his throat. 'Actually, I'm just waiting on the owner to return.'
The tall man smiled. 'You mean the Elvis-looking character; I think we will leave him out of this for now.'
Robert Reese watched as the man deftly slid into the seat opposite him. 'My name is Tallman. Do you mind if I smoke? Mr....?'
'Reese. They're your lungs, not mine.'
'Very witty, Mr. Reese, and, yes, they are, as you.say, my lungs.'
Reese noticed the smile didn't make it as far as the stranger's eyes. 'What can I help you with... Mr. Tallman, is it?'
The man lit the cigarette and eyed his companion through the haze of smoke.
'It is not I that can help you, but you may be of great service to me... or so our friendly manager here tells
