“Well, which is it? Are you and your spook friends incompetent or unlucky? Let me tell you straight, you’d better not be unlucky because in my world you make your own luck.” Senator Harpenden pushed up his glasses and sipped black coffee, keeping his eyes fixed on the fidgety Johnson. The special agent took a small white pill from an envelope in his pocket and washed it down with a glass of Florida orange juice.
“Mind if I smoke, Senator?” Johnson tapped a Marlborough from the packet and lit up, not waiting for a reply. “My line of work has a lot in common with yours. Just when you think a deal is all sewn up, a new player comes and hits you on the blind side.”
The two men sat at opposite ends of an oval table in the private dining room of the Hotel Astor. Breakfast for two had been set and served at one end of the table, but not yet cleared away. One of the two places was untouched, a rolled napkin and empty coffee cup attesting to a late riser.
The senator leaned his big head forward. “We’re talking about the safety of American citizens. This is about the future of the aviation industry, the economic prosperity of this nation of ours. It’s not a game to me, Agent Johnson.”
“Let me tell you what we know,” said Johnson. “I’ll keep it simple like you politicians want it. We know the De Havilland flight test data on the new Comet 4 is gold dust. It’s an instructional manual on how to build a jet airliner that doesn’t kill the passengers. Your friends in Douglas and Boeing need the data to make sure they don’t fall behind. You promise them you can fix it for them… in return for a donation to campaign funds.”
“You are telling me what I already know,” said the senator, yawning.
“So you contact your friend Mr Vanderbilt in the South African Secret Service and you cut a deal with him. They do the legwork for you and get to see the data too because every country wants to build a jet plane now.”
The senator banged the table and the cutlery jumped. “It was going perfectly well until you stuck your nose in.”
“As instructed by the Vice President and the Clandestine Affairs Committee. He decided we should keep an eye on the operation. It’s just as well we did. Mr Vanderbilt’s courier fouled up.”
There was a tap on the door and a slim woman in a silk dressing gown slipped into the dining room.
“Honey, give me a minute. I’m busy just now.” The woman patted the rollers in her hair, ignored his instruction, and marched over to the undisturbed breakfast setting.
“Oh, you just go on. You know your work means zip to me. I’m so exhausted.” She poured herself coffee and arranged toast on her plate.” She looked up at Johnson and smiled at him, as if noticing him for the first time. “Hi, my name’s Chrissy.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, ma’am.”
“Chrissy is a dancer on Broadway,” said the senator. “She’s an understudy on three different shows.”
“I sure am. Last night I was in the chorus of West Side Story. It was so wonderful I’m sure I’ll never sleep again. Have you seen it, Mr…? Maybe I could get you a free ticket?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll be leaving for Paris later today, if that’s okay with the senator.”
“Paris? Why Paris again? You said the documents were on their way to Cape Town.”
“I guess a French woman came up on the blind side. The French have a nice little jet of their own, the Caravelle.”
A waiter knocked and walked in carrying a silver tray with a telephone on it. He put the phone down in front of the senator and plugged a long wire into a socket by a lamp.
“Telephone call from the Vice President for you, Senator.” He turned and left the room smartly.
Senator Harpenden picked up the handset, his eyes fixed on Johnson while he talked.
“Yes Richard… you don’t trust them? Well neither do I. So why are we…? I just don’t see what makes it special…”
“Bad news?” asked Johnson.
“The Limeys have woken up to what’s going on in their patch. They’ll do anything to stop the French getting the data. It seems you're free to go to a show tonight after all. Which one do you suggest, Chrissy?”
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