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54.
Montgomery Field sits atop Kearny Mesa. During Superbowl games it houses half a dozen to a dozen blimps that circle the statium in Mission Valley. Year around, it is a moderate size airfield and a very busy one, bearing much of the local small plane traffic as well as prop-driven commuter flights to Los Angeles and other neighboring counties. Some amount of small cargo goes in and out.
Lee Collwood flew into Montgomery Field. He climbed from his converted LearJet and strode across the windy, sunny air strip toward a waiting van. The van had the legend Sunny Cleaners and a bunch of fake phone numbers and web page addresses on its sides. If anyone did call or email, they'd be put on hold or rerouted by answering services and webmasters until they gave up. It was a good cover for Blake's men. Their weapons were in a false floor in the van, under buckets and mops and other cleaning supplies.
Beside the van, Martin Delavalle stood waiting. Delavalle wore a sharp gray suit, light pink shirt, and dark reddish-blue tie, along with dark Oxfords and a plaid linen cap, sometimes called a newsboy cap, with a slouch top pinned to its visor and hanging over one ear like a beret. Natty dresser, Collwood thought.
As Collwood approached, the van's side door opened. Inside sat Thomas Blake's five surviving mercenaries. Blake himself got out of the driver's side to meet with Collwood and Delavalle.
"Well?" Collwood demanded. "Any action? News? Results?"
Blake shook his head. "We've gone to almost all the crew members' homes. The result is always the same. Nobody has seen the crew member. They know he's back from the sea, but he has called with some excuse to say he won't be showing up for a week or two. Some important mission, usually to get extra dough and make everyone happy."
Delavalle nodded. "Nobody's going to say no to that."
"Not good enough," Collwood said. "I need to locate everyone of those men. You see what this plague did to Lo. It infects men, turns them into walking spores for this mushroom pest, and they kill more people as they start to deteriorate."
"I want to go back to the Lima Voyager and start tracking from there," Blake said. As Collwood glowered at him, Blake said: "You ordered us to go house to house, looking for crew members. That's what we're doing. I tried to tell you you are micromanaging this operation."
"You get paid to do what and how I tell you," Collwood said.
Blake shrugged. "Hire a professional, then don't let him follow his nose? You're right—I get paid. I don't think we're doing this the right way."
"What's do you suggest?" Delavalle asked quietly.
"I would make this assumption," Blake said as he drew a diagram in the dirt at their feet with a long twig. "This circle is the city. Over here is the point of origin. Assuming they are still in the city, I would assume they have some kind of common meeting point. Some place of assembly when all else fails. If we could find that place, we might even be able to call them together—and then kill them all."
"Oh Lord," Delavalle said, turning suddenly away.
"What's the matter? Weak stomach?" Collwood said coldly.
"I didn't sign up for mass killing."
"These things aren't human any longer," Collwood said.
"Still—"
"Still what?"
Delavalle shook his head.
Collwood grinned. "Tell you what. We won't kill them. It's too late to cover up any longer, anyway. We find 'em, we notify the Government and become heroes."
Delavalle took a deep breath. "That sounds a lot better."
"For a minute there I thought we were losing you," Collwood said.
Delavalle said: "There are limits, even for me."
"Okay. Glad we know your limits now. Blake—"
"Yes, Mr. Collwood?"
"Do what you feel you need to do and keep me informed."
"Yessir, thanks."
As Blake drove off in the van, Collwood turned to Delavalle. "You know that I'm in a lot of trouble, don't you?"
Delavalle nodded as he stubbed pebbles with the toe of one Oxford shoe. "Yes. I understand the Congressional committee that Louise Trost answers to has overriden Metrick's stay order, and has officially seized the Volcan Mountain facility. How long can you dance away from them, Collwood?"
"They are investigating me," Collwood said, poker faced. "They aren't anywhere close to the truth yet. Neither are you."
"You're probably right."
Collwood watched the other man's flicker of expressions. Delavalle was about as loyal as a paycheck, if that. Right now, it was a good bet Delavalle was weighing whether he should quit and leave town, stick around and help Collwood in hope of cashing in as the ship sank, or else going to Louise Trost and becoming state's evidence. On the latter, there was little that he could bring, other than an unprovable allegation about the murder conversation they'd just had with Blake. Collwood bet that Delavalle would stick around a while.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Keep the operation going here in San Diego for me. I'll take care of my end. At year's end, we'll talk about whether you want to take the job permanently or some other option."
"You think you'll still be around by then?" Delavalle said with an impish, carrot-topped grin.
"You can lay money on it. Speaking of which—I'll have some for you shortly. Just to sweeten the pot a little."
Collwood winked and walked away, sensing Delavalle's stare at his back. Halfway to the jet, he glanced back and saw Delavalle slowly getting into his car—thoughtfully. Frowning. There was a man not to be trusted, Collwood thought as he leaped up the jet's stairs and waved for the pilots to take off.
Within the hour, Collwood's jet was in the pattern above Los Angeles—one of dozens of aircraft of all sizes and types circling to await their turn at landing instructions.
Syd Appelbaum met him on the private runway and whisked him away in a posh Lincoln Continental limousine. Syd was a small man in his upper 70s. He wore a business suit though he was retired, and leaned on a cane. His face retained a certain humor that came with age and the endlessly repetitive folly of human nature. He'd been in corporate as well as criminal law for many decades and had seen what he called the human cycle— predictably not pretty. "You're not dead yet," he told Collwood.
"I'm glad to hear that," Collwood said as he mixed himself a Campari and Soda on ice from the wet bar. "Drink?"
Appelbaum closed his eyes briefly, and shook his head. "I had lunch late at the Club."
Collwood sipped until he felt refreshed and braced. He sat back and nursed his drink. It was nice to smell the bitter liqueur with its sweet subtleties, and to hear ice crackling as the soda ate away at it. "So what's your scheme, Syd?"
"Oh, not a problem. I already have a call in to Metrick. He'll meet me for lunch tomorrow, and I'll spell out what he needs to do so we don't go ahead and publicize the story about his adventures with the latest Hollywood madam." He gave a dry, old-man chuckle through yellowed teeth. "We have at least 32 hours of him on camera with two dozen different women. There's more, but why wear ourselves out? It's tiring. He'll do what we want."
"And that is?"
"He will authorize a project. We'll backfill the details, because you know this will end up in a House subcommittee hearing even as it hits the press."
"Yes?"
"We'll say that Anaconda Chemicals had a secret Government project to do humanitarian pharmaceuticals research, and that something has gone horribly wrong but—and here's the important point—it's not your fault. We'll figure out a way to make some low-flying Air Force lackeys have to retire early. We might even pay them off so they aren't too unhappy. It will all work out, Lee." He patted his nephew's shoulder. "My boy, I saved your father's ass and his grandfather's ass more than once. We'll do it again, don't worry."
"If you can make a few San Diego cops unhappy at the same time," Collwood said darkly, "all the better."
Uncle Syd gave him that look he didn't like, nor understood, as if pitying him. "Don't push it farther than you have to, Lee."
Angrily, Collwood downed his drink, threw the cup aside, and he sat with his arms folded. He glowered at the back of the driver's seat. Uncle Syd calmly looked out the window. "I'm fixing your cash problem for you, sonny."
"Sorry."
"Keep your anger in check. You need to be cool. I'm going to move some money around through the travel office of the Chicago and New York facilities. In their cash pot, and then out to travelers' checks so that you'll have about a million bucks in walking-around money. You'll need it. Oh, and—"
"Yes?"
"Get rid of Delavalle. He made a phone call to Louise Trost's office to see what kind of information she needs. Just a probe, but it tells me he stinks."
"Yeah, I know that. I just need someone to run the San Diego operation. We're still a going concern, after all."
"You need someone else. Cut him loose before he learns anything more."
"If I fire him, with or without cause, he'll be over at Trost's office within the hour. He heard me talking with Thomas Blake about killing the mushroom men."
"Ouch. That wasn't wise, Lee."
"I know. I thought the more I get him sucked into what I'm doing, the more he incriminates himself."
Uncle Syd, usually calm, clapped himself on the knee. "That sets him up for a plea bargain, dummy."
"Okay, I'll send him to Peru."
Uncle Syd raised an eyebrow. "If he'll go—"
"Make it two million in travelers' checks. Money talks. Delavalle is more mercenary than Blake and his bunch."
"Ah yes. Morton brought him on board. Surprising. Wonder how and why Morton picked him up."
"Naïve. Morton didn't know anything."
"I hope you're right."
Collwood grinned. "He's a mushroom man now. I doubt he cares much about human affairs anymore. Probably doesn't remember me at all."
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