Airship Page 5

  ‘M’sieur Brisset is on the line, sir,’ came Marie-France’s voice.

  ‘M’sieur Brisset? You wished to speak with me?’

  ‘Yes, M’sieur Renard,’ came a rather high-pitched yet cultivated voice. ‘It would be to our mutual advantage if we could meet somewhere soon for a discussion. Would this be agreeable to you?’

  ‘Are you in Paris?’ asked Renard.

  ‘Naturally, but I am willing to come down to St. Lô, to your project site, if that is easier for you.’

  Renard frowned.

  ‘You say this matter is to our mutual advantage?’

  ‘I can say no more at this stage, M’sieur Renard.’

  ‘Well,’ Renard flicked the pages of his desk diary, ‘perhaps you could join me for luncheon tomorrow?’

  ‘The rendezvous would be … discreet?’ The voice was slightly anxious.

  ‘Certainly. I know a little place called the Restaurant de Roches de Ham, it is in the countryside near Troisgots-la-Chapelle-sur-Vire, a few kilometres outside St. Lô. Would that be suitable?’

  ‘Eminently suitable. At about one o’clock then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, M’sieur Renard.’

  Renard replaced the receiver with a puzzled frown. What would a presidential aide want with him that needed a discreet rendezvous and could work to their mutual advantage? It sounded very mysterious. Then he sighed deeply. It was no use wasting energy trying to work out what it was all about. He flicked on his intercom and asked Marie-France to book a table for him for the next day and then turned back to his coffee and newspaper.

  It was a small news item on page three that caught his attention.

  It brought a thin smile to his lips.

  So Anglo-American’s chief test pilot was dead?

  Thoughtfully, he plucked at his lower lip and then whispered: ‘That’s going to put them behind a few months at least. We’re in with a chance after all.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Get up, pigrone!’

  Maria Terrasino walked across the bedroom and chucked a handy cushion at the head of her gently snoring husband.

  Terry Terrasino grunted and blinked.

  ‘Wha … what’sa matter?’

  ‘What’s the matter, he asks?’ jeered his wife in mock scorn. ‘Breakfast is the matter. What d’you want me to do, let you sleep all day?’

  Terrasino rubbed his eyes and grinned up at his wife.

  He was four weeks married and still found it hard to believe. Maria and he had met while he was on holiday in Florence. She was an English-speaking tour guide: a twenty-three-year-old Milanese — red of hair, with a soft olive skin, blue eyes and a figure which, he believed, would have rivalled the young Sophia Loren. After the tour of the city was over, Terrasino had invited her to dinner. She had refused. He had invited her to breakfast. She had refused. He had invited her to lunch. To put an end to the flood of invitations, she had accepted. By four o’clock that afternoon, he had proposed marriage. By six o’clock he had met her family, who seemed to label all Italian-Americans as mafiosi. Yet a week later, with only five days of the holiday to go, Maria had accepted his offer of marriage. In spite of the protests of her family they had been married and, when Terrasino returned to his job at Portland, he had brought his bride with him. At thirty-three years of age, Terrasino, a former Air Force intelligence officer, was the chief of security for Anglo-American Airships.

  Terrasino levered himself up in bed and held out a hand towards his wife. She took it and he drew her down to sit on the edge of the bed.

  ‘What’s the time, mia tresora?’

  ‘Ten o’clock. Time you were at work, no?’

  ‘No!’

  He suddenly pulled her down and tried to kiss her.

  She broke away, laughing.

  ‘I do not think you are a … a serious man,’ she said sadly, shaking her head. ‘My family were right. I get up, I make your breakfast, which gets cold, and all you want to do is play games.’

  Terrasino chuckled.

  ‘Is there a better way to start the day?’

  ‘Yes,’ she pouted. ‘With a cold shower. Now, I expect you in the kitchen in five minutes! Up! Mettiamoci al lavoro!’

  She disengaged herself from his embrace and left the room, smiling at his assumed woebegone expression.

  She was pouring coffee when the back door buzzer whirred.

  Frowning slightly, she opened the door and was faced by two sombre looking men in light-coloured lounge suits. They were both in their late thirties, with close-cut hair and clean-shaven faces. Maria thought they looked like the stereotype American — what was it Terry called the type? Ivy Leaguers?

  ‘Mrs. Terrasino?’ The taller of the two men smiled. ‘Sorry to disturb you but is your husband at home?’

  Terrasino entered the kitchen, straightening his tie.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, joining his wife at the door.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Terrasino. I’m Agent Hayes of the Portland office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and this is Ken Vambrace of the Federal Aviation Authority, Investigations Department. Sorry to get you at home but we were told by your office that you were here and we wanted a word with you.’

  Terrasino nodded, a little puzzled, turned and motioned them into his den. Maria followed with a tray of coffee and left them there.

  ‘Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?’ asked Terrasino as he helped them to coffee.

  The FBI man glanced at his colleague.

  ‘As Hayes here has told you, Mr. Terrasino, I’m with the FAA and you’ve probably guessed that we are investigating the crash which killed Major Westbrook.’

  Terrasino made an affirmative gesture.

  ‘Sure, the evening editions were screaming about sabotage.’

  ‘What’s your reaction to the news?’ demanded Vambrace.

  Terrasino sat back and looked thoughtfully at them.

  ‘I gather you are confirming this? Westbrook’s aircraft was sabotaged?’

  ‘That’s so,’ Vambrace nodded.

  ‘Do you have any details?’ pressed Terrasino. ‘The only official news that I’ve had is what I read in the Evening Express.’

  ‘Your office will be getting a detailed report from our department but, briefly, our reconstruction showed that the controls of Westbrook’s Mitsubishi had been tampered with … and tampered by an expert.’

  Terrasino bit his lip.

  ‘I see,’ he said softly.

  Hayes, the FBI man, leaned forward.

  ‘Have you been experiencing sabotage connected with the project that Anglo-American are working on?’

  ‘With the airship? No,’ Terrasino shook his head. ‘We’ve had one or two odd incidents during the period we have been constructing it — unresolved incidents, details of which I have on file at my office — but nothing which would make us unduly worried about the prospect of sabotage.’

  He scratched his nose with a forefinger.

  ‘What makes you think that the sabotage is directed against the project and not against Westbrook personally?’

  ‘No reason at all,’ returned Hayes, easily. ‘At the moment we are pursuing all lines of enquiry. We thought we’d start with the easy options first. I would imagine that a lot of people would be against the airship project?’

  ‘There are always a few nutcases about, those who are against things for the sake of being against them,’ admitted Terrasino. ‘Oh, we’ve had our share of threatening letters. Most of them are what you’d expect: a project of this sort attracts them.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ interposed Vambrace, ‘we would like to check them out.’

  ‘Certainly. They’ve all been kept on file.’

  ‘But, so far as you are aware, there has been no indication of sabotage connected with the project?’ pressed Hayes.

  ‘None,’ affirmed Terrasino.

  ‘And what about Westbrook himself?’ asked Vambrace. ‘Did he have any en
emies that you know of? Any private threats, people he rubbed up the wrong way on the project … that sort of thing?’

  Terrasino shook his head.

  ‘Alec and Jane Westbrook were liked and admired by everyone on the project site. Westbrook was a nice, friendly guy, easy to get on with. Everyone was deeply shocked at the news.’ Hayes smiled abruptly and stood up.

  ‘We’ll drop by your office this afternoon to go through the files of threatening letters. Could we also look at Westbrook’s personal file?’

  ‘Yes; but I can tell you that there are no references to any personal enemies or anything like that. I was going through the file only yesterday to bring it up to date.’

  Terrasino followed the investigators to the door.

  ‘Will you keep me posted with developments?’

  Vambrace nodded.

  ‘We’ll be co-operating very closely, Mr. Terrasino, and — naturally — will expect a similar co-operation from your office.’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ agreed Terrasino as he showed them out.

  As the door closed, he turned to Maria and smiled apologetically.

  ‘You were saying something about breakfast?’

  He had to duck the wet kitchen cloth she hurled at his head.

  *

  ‘It’s a helluva job, Harry,’ observed Garry Carson, accepting the whisky which Maclaren had just poured for him and sprawling back in the leather chair opposite Maclaren’s desk.

  ‘The project must go on,’ sighed Anglo-American’s project manager. ‘The French are too damned near completion and there is the old saying — first is best, second is nowhere. There’s a lot of investment in the form of commercial contracts tied up with the first safe Transatlantic crossing, and I have pressure from above to ensure that the Albatross makes it.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Harry,’ Carson said, sipping his drink, ‘but airship pilots don’t fall out of the sky.’

  He paused in surprise, chuckling at his unconscious humour. ‘Let’s hope they don’t, anyway.’

  Maclaren’s voice assumed a deep tone of woe.

  ‘Your head isn’t on the chopping-block, Garry. Pan Continental have put a lot of money in this development and I am the one left carrying the ashcan.’

  Carson smiled pacifyingly.

  ‘Understood, Harry. I’m sure there will be someone around somewhere with training enough to catch up with the Albatross development. You just need someone with some basic rigid hull dirigible experience and then put him through simulator training.’

  ‘During the last twenty-four hours I have had our personnel team working round the clock. Everyone we have on file with airship experience is contracted to other development companies. I gather John G. has talked with Ashton in London and we are going to have to start checking out the European countries. It’s going to create problems if we wind up with a non-English speaker for a second pilot … ’

  Carson suddenly frowned.

  ‘Are you trying outside of the States?’

  Maclaren raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Why? Have you got a touch of nationalism or something?’

  ‘No, no. It just didn’t occur to me … ’

  ‘We are an international corporation,’ went on Maclaren, a trifle sarcastically. ‘Anglo-American, remember?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Carson drank some whisky. ‘It’s just that I wasn’t thinking straight. If you are looking outside the States then I might be able to help you.’

  Maclaren glanced at him with interest.

  ‘Shoot,’ he invited.

  ‘About three years ago I was stationed in England when I was in the Air Force. I was commanding the Thirty-Third Pursuit Squadron which was based at Syderstone, an air-base in Norfolk. We were part of the NATO strike squadrons and we shared the base with an RAF squadron. The RAF liaison officer attached to our squadron was a guy called Saxon, Tom Saxon. We were pretty good buddies in those days. My wife, Helen, myself, Saxon and his wife … we would form a foursome every now and again.’

  Maclaren made a gesture of impatience.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m coming to the point. Saxon had worked on British military “blimps” — non-rigid airships … ’

  ‘We can get the services of any amount of non-rigid airship pilots or balloonists. What I want is a man with rigid frame airship experience,’ interrupted Maclaren.

  ‘Sure,’ went on Carson, ‘and this guy has. He was test pilot in a number of RAF experiments with small-scale dirigibles. I haven’t seen him in three years. We never kept in touch after I was posted back Stateside but I did hear that his wife died and he left the RAF and went into civil aviation. A year ago there was an article in Flying about some experiments in producing small-type airships in Britain and it carried a photograph of Saxon. Said he was chief test pilot on the project.’

  Maclaren was looking interested.

  ‘It doesn’t mean that we would be able to get him — he might be committed and he might not even want to join the project,’ he said slowly.

  ‘But it might be worth a try,’ insisted Carson.

  Maclaren buzzed for his secretary, Jean.

  ‘Get a cable off to Ashton at our London office. Ask him to find out the availability of … ’

  He looked a question at Carson.

  ‘Wing Commander Tom Saxon, RAF retired,’ supplied the pilot.

  ‘Got that, Jean?’ enquired Maclaren.

  The girl repeated the name.

  ‘Good, let me know the moment you get a reply.’

  Maclaren turned back to Carson who was hauling himself to his feet.

  ‘I’d better go and start minding the shop. Got a lot of work to do since … ’

  He shrugged awkwardly.

  ‘The FAA and FBI are working with our security on the sabotage aspect. Terrasino wants a head of department conference this afternoon to see if we can tighten up on security.’

  Carson bit his lip.

  ‘Let’s hope they catch the swine,’ he said softly. He had been a good friend of Alec and Jane Westbrook. He was almost through the door when Maclaren called him back.

  ‘Just a thought, Garry. If this Saxon guy is available but needs some persuasion, are you prepared to act as head-hunter, go across to London or wherever and talk him into accepting the job?’

  Carson hunched a shoulder indifferently.

  ‘If it’s necessary, Harry. But don’t pin all your hopes on Saxon. It was just a thought. Maybe he won’t want a job.’

  Maclaren smiled absently.

  ‘I’ll let you know how it pans out but we’ve got to dig up a pilot from somewhere, and in a hurry.’

  Chapter Seven

  Sir Ashley Ashton turned his Daimler onto the Lewisham Way at the New Cross Old Town Hall, heading for the A21 and Kent. As he did so he glanced quickly at his daughter from the corner of his eye. She sat back in her seat, hands quietly folded in her lap, eyes staring forward and mouth set in a thin line. She had not spoken since Sir Ashley had picked her up from New Scotland Yard a short while ago. The woman police officer had been considerate and sympathetic. It had been three days since Claire had been arrested at Allie Gray’s flat. The police had made their enquiries and had come to the decision that there was no case to be proceeded with against Claire. Nevertheless, the policewoman had delivered a stern lecture to the girl about the company she was keeping. Throughout it all Claire had remained impassive. She had hardly acknowledged her father and Ashton had left her alone for the first hour of their journey back to the Ashtons’ home at Heaverham.

  Now, as he drove into Lewisham, Ashton cleared his throat. ‘I think we should talk, Claire.’

  ‘Why?’

  The girl’s retort was like a pistol shot.

  Ashton bit his lip.

  ‘Something has to be done … ’

  ‘All men are pigs!’ the girl interrupted him.

  Ashton frowned.

  ‘Your behaviour is not exemplary, young lady,’ he said. ‘You have had everythi
ng you wanted. No other child has had the freedom … no, the licence … that your mother and I have given you. All I expected in return was respect and obedience.’

  ‘Yes,’ the girl’s tone was a jeer, ‘respect, obedience … never love! Who wants love and understanding?’

  ‘Alright, Claire,’ he said tightly, ‘we won’t talk about this unsavoury affair. However, the fact of the matter is that the story has appeared in several gutter newspapers. I don’t suppose it even occurred to you that your actions would be seized upon by the press because of my position in society? It never crossed your mind how your actions would affect my standing?’

  Claire said two words which she had never used to her father before.

  Ashton whitened and gripped the wheel hard. He tried not to show how he felt. He hated showing emotion; he felt it was vulgar to display one’s feelings in public.

  ‘Listen, young lady,’ he continued, trying to keep his voice even. ‘You have brought enough disgrace on your family and made quite a spectacle of us. I have decided that the best course of action is for you to go abroad for a while. I have informed your mother.’

  Claire remained silent, indifferent.

  ‘I have had a word with Harry Maclaren, who is head of Anglo-American in Portland. As a very personal favour to me, he is going to fix you up with a job in the company’s press office. Your ticket is already booked. You will fly to Portand via New York next week.’

  Claire shrugged.

  ‘I suppose it is as good a place as any other to go.’

  The way she felt she did not care where she went. She just wanted to get away from the whole damned mess. She had never been so shocked and humiliated in her life as during the last three days. She did not blame Allie Gray so much as she blamed her father. Somehow, everything was his fault. She could not reason out why, it was simply an emotional judgment. She half-turned away from him and continued to stare out of the window, watching the built-up areas of the city lessen into the greener roads of suburbia until, once past Bromley, with a breathless abruptness, they were out in the country and into the Kent villages of her childhood — Pratt’s Bottom, Badger’s Mount, turning off the main A21 roadway to Otford and along the Pilgrim’s Way to the hamlet of Heaverham. They drove up to the front of the old Restoration mansion and as the car halted Martha Ashton came out to greet them. But Claire was out of the car and brushing by her mother without a word. The girl ran straight up to her room and slammed the door.