citizens.'
On the plane we had the first-class accommodation to ourselves. I settled down with the Reid-Kennedy, Inc., file.
The Reid-Kennedy dossier was an American success story: local boy makes good by inheriting his father's factory. The sort of electronic equipment the Reid-Kennedy laboratories designed and made was not secret, they were on sale to anyone who wanted to buy. Included in the dossier there were some beautifully printed booklets that were sent to any potential purchaser, at home or abroad. I read the advertising carefully.
Telephone conversations — and a lot of other communication material — can be all jumbled together. One single wire can carry a hundred or more conversations simultaneously, providing that you have the 'time division multiplex switch' that Reid-Kennedy's laboratories designed (or, the brochure omitted to say, one from some rival manufacturer). These switches chopped the continuous transmissions into pieces one ten-thousandth of a second long, and then reassembled the pieces so that the human ear could not tell that it was receiving only 'tiny samples' of the voice at the other end.
Most of Reid-Kennedy's profits came from telephone users, and latterly from the commercial satellites that, on a 24-hour orbit 22,300 miles away from Earth, appear stationary. Hovering somewhere over Labrador, such satellites link London with Los Angeles. But the big breakthrough when it came would be from a 'time division multiplex switch' that could pack together the wider bands of frequencies that you need in order to transmit TV pictures. Phone users will endure a human voice that sounds like Donald Duck inside a biscuit-tin, but a flawed TV picture is useless. R.-K., Inc., were working on it, promised the brochure.
'But no military secrets,' said Mann.
'Not that I can see,' I said.
'Does a guy with this kind of gravy moonlight as a hit man?' Mann held the photocopy at arm's length as if trying to discern something new there. 'Does he?'
'I left the ouija board in my other pants.'
'A man running a multi-million-dollar corporation takes a weekend in Europe in order to kill that family in Drogheda?'
'Don't go limp on me,' I said.
'A jury will need a lot of proof — better than an Irish hitch-hiker recognizing a rented car.'
'But you agree Reid-Kennedy must be the one who killed those people in Ireland?' 'You just bet your ass,' said Mann. 'You've a wonderful way with words, Major.'
Chapter Fourteen
The need for medical care, security and isolation were all met by moving the Bekuvs to the Commodore Perry U.S. Navy Psychiatric Hospital, half an hour's drive out of Newport News, Virginia. There had been a hospital there before the word psychiatry was invented. It was an ugly sprawl of buildings on a desolate site near the water. The north wing was still used as a naval hospital, but all mentally disturbed sailors had been moved out of the inner compound that had been built to hold them. That was now a high security area, used by the C.I.A. for debriefing American agents, interrogating enemy agents, and sometimes for deciding which were which.
A U.S. Navy car met us at the airport. It came complete with uniformed driver and an 'official use only' sign stencilled on the door. Mann fumed, and at first refused to get into the car. 'Did you bring party hats and whistles, sailor?'
'There are no plain cars in the pool, sir,' said the driver. He was an elderly man with Second World War ribbons on his chest.
'Well, maybe we'll take a cab,' said Mann.
With commendable restraint, the sailor refrained from telling Mann that standing outside an airport building arguing with a uniformed sailor was more conspicuous than riding away in an official car. Instead, he nodded solemnly and said, The trouble with taking a cab is that they won't let you through the main gate without one of these stickers on the windshield. So you'd have to walk right through the hospital to the inner compound — it's about a mile.'
'O.K., smart ass,' said Mann. 'Just as long as you don't use the flashing light and siren.' He got into the car. It didn't have a flashing light, and probably didn't have a siren either.
'You're a lousy loser,' I told him quietly as I got in beside him.
'Yeah,' agreed Mann. 'Well, I don't get as much practice as you do.'
We watched the scenery go past. Mann put his documents case on his knees as if about to do some paperwork, but then put it down again unopened. 'I should never have agreed to them putting the Bekuvs into this nut-house.'
'Calm down,' I said. 'You over-react.'
'How the hell do you know if I over-react — you don't even know what I'm reacting to.'
I decided to let him cool down, but I suppose he wanted to get it off his chest. 'We're losing control of this operation,' he said.
'Speaking personally,' I told him, 'I never had control of it-you did.'
'You know what I mean,' he said. 'I've got these Washington know-alls crawling all over me like bugs. You know what the P.A.D. is?'
'Yes, I know,' I said. The Psychological Advisory Directorate was a cosy assembly of unemployed head- shrinkers who knew how to avoid every mistake that the C.I.A. ever made, but unfortunately didn't tell anyone until afterwards. 'Twenty-twenty hindsight,' said Mann after one of their cryptic admonishments.
'P.A.D. are moving in on Mrs Bekuv. They are taking her down to that farm near St Petersburg and Red Bancroft will be with her.' He reached into his waistcoat, found some Bufferin tablets, and swallowed two without water, 'Headache,' he said. I knew it was that sort of headache that comes through official channels from Washington.
'Red Bancroft,' I said. I looked at him, waiting for some explanation.
'Red Bancroft works for the department — did you guess that?'
'No, I didn't guess that,' I said. 'And I don't remember any prompting from the studio audience.'
'Now don't get mad,' he said. 'I'm disobeying orders by telling you. I'm breaking orders because you're a buddy, and I don't want you caught in the mangle.'
'Why the hell didn't she tell me herself?' I said.
'Me and Bessie have known her a long time,' said Mann.
'She's had a lot of lousy breaks, and it's left her in a tangle — you know what I mean?'
'No.'
He leaned forward and gripped my arm. 'Stay loose. She's a nice girl and I'd like to see her settle down — but not with you.'
'Thanks.'
'For your sake,' he added hurriedly. 'She's a tough girl. She's a damned good operative and she can look after herself. Two years back she infiltrated a Marxist group in Montreal. She nearly got herself killed — she went into hospital for three months — but she put three conspirators into hospital too, and another five into jail. This is a very special kind of girl, and I love her very dearly — but do yourself a favour: move on.'
'She's working for P.A.D. and going down to the farm with Mrs Bekuv?'
'Right,' said Mann. The car slowed as we got to the main entrance of the naval hospital. A sentry checked our identity cards and waved us through to the inner compound where another sentry checked them all over again.
The car stopped outside the eight-storey building that had been designed to house violent patients. Still the faded signs and steel shutters could be seen on the lower floors. Inside there would be that depressing institutional look to it: hard floors, a lack of ornaments, doors that opened automatically and hissed like Japanese slaves, too much light and far too many bright red fire extinguishers. Even the art reproductions on the walls would have been chosen to dull the senses.
'I get out here,' said Mann. 'I'm in the duty-surgeon's accommodation, top floor. You're in the V.I.P. block.'
