The Kremlin File

I said, “In that case, the three of us shouldn’t appear to be together. Thomas Sawyer’s daughter would not travel with a flunky as a companion and neither would Dr. Fleming. I’ll leave it to you to handle the matter.”

I had her drop me off and caught a cab so we could arrive at Kennedy separately. Also, I had good reason for not wanting her along on my next errand. I hunted up the airline office in Manhattan, showed my ID to the president, and had him check by phone with AXE’s Washington headquarters. I had to board the plane with my weapons and I didn’t want any disturbance at the gate to call attention to me.

The man was impressed with Hawk’s answer and called his manager at the airport so that when I arrived, I was personally escorted onto the plane.

Tara Sawyer was already there, talking with a scholarly, handsome blue-black man in the window seat of a three place row. I assumed that was Dr. Randolph Fleming, Thomas Sawyer’s expensive new president of Grand LaClare Island. I glanced at him as I sat down beside the girl and saw compelling level brown eyes and an aura of leadership and integrity. He gave me one brief look then dismissed me as a simple necessity. I read his mind. Once he reached the island, he would feel secure; but until he was in the presidential palace, he was an easy target.

I wondered why a dollop of Sawyer s millions had not been used to get us a private plane and decided on the pride Tara had talked about — probably, Fleming wouldn’t accept that precaution; it smacked of a coward’s return.

Fleming’s voice was soft, his words measured and he talked to Tara Sawyer with a restrained solemnity. They could pass for strangers making casual conversation. We got into the air and the stewardesses brought blankets and pillows. Soon most of the lights winked out and the ship settled down to sleep.

Except for Tara and me. Being so close together for a long night created one hell of a temptation to both of us, but there wasn’t a thing we could do about it except sit and sweat it out. Fortunately it kept us awake.

I didn’t get an introduction to Fleming until after the skyjacking incident was under control. Then he grudgingly admitted it was a fortunate coincidence that the Sawyer Grand LaClare’s new security officer happened to be taking this flight. He hoped I would like his island and his people.

Then, as an example to the still jittery passengers, he tipped his seat back and went peacefully to sleep.

Three

The Grand LaClare airport wasn’t as big as O’Hare but it was as crowded as if the Chicago field had dumped all its passengers there. It was so modem I thought General Hammond might have gotten the financing for it out of his Sawyer casino-hotel deal. The native mob was in multi-colored costumes, kept back from the plane by a cordon of soldiers in dress shorts and short-sleeved shirts. They looked like Boy Scouts except for the side arms. A solid rank of them surrounded the plane and stood around a waiting group of limousines.

A stewardess announced that all of us must keep our seats until Dr. Fleming had left the field. The ladder was run out and the door opened. I had seen the huge crowd from the inside; now I heard a roar rise to a crescendo as the new president of the island stepped into sight. He looked every inch the head of state.

Beside me Tara Sawyer whispered, “Look at that man. I wish we were on the ground to see him come down.”

“You won’t get trampled to mush up here. Be thankful,” I told her.

Watching from the window, we saw Fleming again as he reached the bottom of the steps and lifted a paternal hand to the islanders. A thickset man in a bright uniform snapped to sharp attention, threw a crisp salute, then stepped close to shake the Doctor’s hand. Fleming smiled.

“Colonel Carib Jerome,” Myra said. “Chief of Staff of the army. The man who engineered Fleming’s return.”

That was my contact. I looked him over closely. The black face was not Negroid. His eyes slanted Oriental fashion, the cheekbones were high, the ripe olive skin marked him as a descendant of the Brazilian Indians who had invaded Grand LaClare in prehistoric times. He could pass for a taller, darker Vietnamese. Jerome put his lips near Fleming’s ear to be heard above the happy hysteria. From his watchfulness I judged he was warning of possible danger. He took Fleming’s arm to turn him directly toward the waiting cars.

Fleming smiled, shook off the hand and went confidently into the crowd. He walked beside the cordon of soldiers, reaching for the hands enthusiastically stretched through it. The pandemonium didn’t diminish even after he entered the long black car with the official flags on its fenders; some of the crowd surged after the motorcycles that crawled to the road.