Night Over Water (37 page)

 

 

 

 

T
he Clipper was approaching the point of no return.

Eddie Deakin, distracted, nervy, unrested, went back on duty at ten p.m., British time. By this hour the sun had raced ahead, leaving the aircraft in darkness. The weather had changed, too. Rain lashed the windows, cloud obscured the stars, and inconstant winds buffeted the mighty plane disrespectfully, shaking up the passengers.

The weather was generally worse at low altitudes, but despite this, Captain Baker was flying at close to sea level. He was “hunting the wind,” searching for the altitude at which the westerly head wind was least strong.

Eddie was worried because he knew the plane was low on fuel. He sat down at his station and began to calculate the distance the plane could travel on what remained in the tanks. Because the weather was a little worse than forecast, the engines must have burned more fuel than anticipated. If there was not sufficient left to carry the plane to Newfoundland, they would have to turn back before reaching the point of no return.

And then what would happen to Carol-Ann?

Tom Luther was nothing if not a careful planner, and he must have considered the possibility that the Clipper would be delayed. He had to have some way of contacting his cronies to confirm or alter the time of the rendezvous.

But if the plane turned back, Carol-Ann would remain in the hands of the kidnappers for at least another twenty-four hours.

Eddie had sat in the forward compartment, fidgeting restlessly and looking out of the window at nothing at all, for most of his off-duty shift. He had not even tried to sleep, knowing it would be hopeless. Images of Carol-Ann had tormented him constantly: Carol-Ann in tears, or tied up, or bruised; Carol-Ann frightened, pleading, hysterical, desperate. Every five minutes he wanted to put his fist through the fuselage, and he had fought constantly against the impulse to run up the stairs and ask his replacement, Mickey Finn, about the fuel consumption.

It was because he was so distracted that he had allowed himself to needle Tom Luther in the dining room. His behavior had been very dumb. A piece of real bad luck had put them at the same table. Afterward, the navigator, Jack Ashford, had lectured Eddie, and he realized how stupid he had been. Now Jack knew something was going on between Eddie and Luther. Eddie had refused to enlighten Jack further, and Jack had accepted that—for now. Eddie had mentally vowed to be more careful. If Captain Baker should even suspect that his engineer was being blackmailed, he would abort the flight, and then Eddie would be powerless to help Carol-Ann. Now he had that to worry about as well.

Eddie’s attitude to Tom Luther had been forgotten, during the second dinner sitting, in the excitement of the near-fight between Mervyn Lovesey and Lord Oxenford. Eddie had not witnessed it—he had been in the forward compartment, worrying—but the stewards had told him all about it soon afterward. To Eddie, Oxenford seemed a brute who needed to be brought down a peg or two, and that was what Captain Baker had done. Eddie felt sorry for the boy, Percy, being raised by such a father.

The third sitting would be coming to an end in a few minutes, and then things would start to go quiet on the passenger deck. The older ones would go to bed. The majority would sit for a couple of hours, riding the bumps, too excited or nervous to feel sleepy; then, one by one, they would succumb to nature’s timetable and retire to bed. A few diehards would start a card game in the main lounge, and they would continue drinking, but it would be the quiet, steady kind of all-night drinking that rarely led to trouble.

Eddie anxiously plotted the plane’s fuel consumption on the chart they called “the Howgozit Curve.” The red line that showed actual consumption was consistently above the pencil line of his forecast. That was almost inevitable, since he had faked his forecast. But the difference was greater than he had expected, because of the weather.

, He got more worried as he worked out the plane’s effective range with the remaining fuel. When he made the calculations on the basis of three engines—which he was obliged to do by the safety rules—he found that there was not enough fuel to take them to Newfoundland.

He should have told the captain immediately, but he did not.

The shortfall was very small: with four engines there would be enough fuel. Furthermore, the situation might change in the next couple of hours. The wind might be lighter than forecast, so the plane would use less fuel than anticipated, and there would be more left for the rest of the journey. And finally, if worse came to worst, they could change their route and fly through the heart of the storm, thereby shortening the distance. The passenger would just have to suffer the bumps.

On his left the radio operator, Ben Thompson, was transcribing a Morse code message, his bald head bent over his console. Hoping it would be a forecast of better weather, Eddie stood behind him and read over his shoulder.

The message astonished and mystified him.

It was from the F.B.I., addressed to someone called Ollis Field. It read:

What did it mean? Did it have something to do with the kidnapping of Carol-Ann? For a moment Eddie’s head spun with the possibilities.

Ben tore the page off his pad and said: “Captain! You’d better take a look at this.”

Jack Ashford glanced up from his chart table, alerted by the urgent note in the radioman’s voice. Eddie took the message from Ben, showed it to Jack for a moment, then passed it to Captain Baker, who was eating steak and mashed potatoes from a tray at the conference table at the rear of the cabin.

The captain’s face darkened as he read. “I don’t like the look of this,” he said. “Ollis Field must be an F.B.I., agent.”

“Is he a passenger?” Eddie asked.

“Yes. I thought there was something strange about him. Drab character, not a typical Clipper passenger. He stayed on board during the stopover at Foynes.”

Eddie had not noticed him, but the navigator had. “I think I know who you mean,” said Jack, scratching his blue chin. “Bald guy. There’s a younger fellow with him, kind of flashily dressed. They seem like an odd couple.”

The captain said: “The kid must be the prisoner. I think his name is Frank Gordon.”

Eddie’s mind was working fast. “That’s why they stayed on board at Foynes: the F.B.I., man doesn’t want to give his prisoner a chance to escape.”

The captain nodded grimly. “Gordon must have been extradited from Britain—and you don’t get extradition orders for shoplifters. The guy must be a dangerous criminal. And they put him on my plane without telling me!”

Ben, the radio operator, said: “I wonder what he did.”

“Frank Gordon,” Jack mused. “It rings a bell. Wait a minute—I bet he’s Frankie Gordino!”

Eddie remembered reading about Gordino in the newspapers. He was an enforcer for a New England gang. The particular crime he was wanted for involved a Boston nightclub owner who refused to pay protection money. Gordino had burst into the club, shot the owner in the stomach, raped the man’s girlfriend, then torched the club. The guy died, but the girl escaped the fire and identified Gordino from pictures.

“We’ll soon find out if it’s him,” said Baker. “Eddie, do me a favor. Go and ask this Ollis Field to come up here.”

“Sure thing.” Eddie put on his cap and uniform jacket and went down the stairs, turning this new development over in his mind. He was sure there was some connection between Frankie Gordino and the people who had Carol-Ann, and he tried frantically to figure it out, without success.

He looked into the galley, where a steward was filling a coffee jug from the massive fifty-gallon urn. “Davy,” he said, “where’s Mr. Ollis Field?”

“Compartment number four, port side, facing the rear,” the steward said.

Eddie walked along the aisle, keeping his balance on the unsteady floor with a practiced gait. He noticed the Oxenford family, looking subdued in number 2 compartment. In the dining room the last sitting was just about finished, after-dinner coffee spilling into the saucers as the gathering storm buffeted the plane. He went through number 3, then up a step to number 4.

In the rear-facing seat on the port side was a bald man of about forty, looking sleepy, smoking a cigarette and staring through the window at the darkness outside. This was not Eddie’s picture of an F.B.I., agent: he could not see this man with a gun in his hand bursting into a room full of bootleggers.

Opposite Field was a younger man, much better dressed, with the build of a retired athlete putting on weight. That would have to be Gordino. He had the puffy, sulky face of a spoiled child. Would he shoot a man in the stomach? Eddie wondered. Yes, I think he would.

Eddie spoke to the older man. “Mr. Field?”

“Yes.”

“The captain would like a word, if you can spare him a moment.”

A slight frown crossed Field’s face, followed by a look of resignation. He had guessed that his secret was out, and he was irritated, but his look said in the long run it was all the same to him. “Of course,” he said. He crushed out his cigarette in the wall-mounted ashtray, unfastened his seat belt and stood up.

“Follow me, please,” Eddie said.

On the way back, passing through number 3 compartment, Eddie saw Tom Luther, and their eyes met. In that instant Eddie had a flash of inspiration.

He was so struck by the explanation that he stopped, and Ollis Field bumped into his back.

Luther stared at him with a panicky look in his eyes, obviously afraid Eddie was going to do something that would give the game away.

“Pardon me,” Eddie said to Field, and he walked on.

Everything was becoming clear. Frankie Gordino had been forced to flee the States, but the F.B.I., had tracked him down in Britain and got him extradited. They had decided to fly him back, and somehow his partners in crime had found out about it. They were going to try to get Gordino off the plane before it reached the United States.

That was where Eddie came in. He would bring the Clipper down in the sea off the Maine coast. There would be a fast boat waiting. Gordino would be taken off the Clipper and would speed away in the boat. A few minutes later he would go ashore at some sheltered inlet, possibly on the Canadian side of the border. A car would be waiting to whisk him into hiding. He would have escaped justice—thanks to Eddie Deakin.

As he led Field up the spiral staircase to the flight deck, Eddie felt relieved that at last he understood what was going on, and horrified that in order to save his wife he had to help a murderer go free.

“Captain, this is Mr. Field,” he said.

Captain Baker had put on his uniform jacket and was seated behind the conference table with the radio message in his hand. His dinner tray had been taken away. His cap covered his blond hair, and gave him an air of authority. He looked up at Field, but did not ask him to sit down. “I’ve received a message for you—from the F.B.I.,” he said.

Field held out his hand for the paper, but Baker did not give it to him.

“Are you an agent of the F.B.I.?” the captain asked.

“Yes.”

“And are you on Bureau business right now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What is that business, Mr. Field?”

“I don’t think you need to know that, Captain. Please give me the message. You did say it was addressed to me, not to you.”

“I’m the captain of this vessel, and it’s my judgment that I do need to know what business you’re on. Don’t argue with me, Mr. Field. Just do as I say.”

Eddie studied Field. He was a pale, tired man with a bald head and watery blue eyes. He was tall, and had once been powerfully built, but now he was round-shouldered and slack-looking. Eddie judged him to be arrogant rather than brave, and this judgment was confirmed when Field immediately caved in under pressure from the captain.

“I’m escorting an extradited prisoner back to the United States for trial,” he said. “His name is Frank Gordon.”

“Also known as Frankie Gordino?”

“That’s right.”

“I want you to know, mister, that I object to your bringing a dangerous criminal on board my airplane without telling me.”

“If you know the man’s real name, you probably also know what he does for a living. He works for Raymond Patriarca, who is responsible for armed robberies, extortion, loan-sharking, illegal gambling and prostitution from Rhode Island to Maine. Ray Patriarca has been declared Public Enemy Number One by the Providence Board of Public Safety. Gordino is what we call an enforcer: he terrorizes, tortures and murders people on Patriarca’s orders. We couldn’t warn you about him, for security reasons.”

“Your security is shit, Field.” Baker was really angry: Eddie had never known him to swear at a passenger. “The Patriarca gang knows all about it.” He handed over the radio message.

Field read it and turned gray. “How the hell did they find out?” he muttered.

“I have to ask which passengers are the ‘associates of known criminals,’ ” said the captain. “Do you recognize anyone on board?”

“Of course not,” Field said irritably. “If I had, I would have alerted the Bureau already.”

“If we can identify the people I’ll put them off the plane at the next stop.”

Eddie thought: I know who they are—Tom Luther and me.

Field said: “Radio the Bureau with a complete list of passengers and crew. They’ll run a check on every name.”

A shiver of anxiety ran through Eddie. Was there any risk that Tom Luther would be exposed by this check? That could ruin everything. Was he a known criminal? Was Tom Luther his real name? If he was using a false name he needed a forged passport too—but that might not be a problem if he was in league with big-time racketeers. Surely he would have taken that precaution? Everything else he had done had been well organized.