"Mount a team, fly to Nuremberg, and take Dr. Hans Traupman.
Kidnap the bastard and bring him to Paris."
obert Durbane sat at the desk in his office next to the sealed-off Communications Center, a troubled Rman. It was more than a feeling, for feelings were abstract, based on anything from an upset stomach to an early morning argument with one's wife. His stomach was perfectly normal and his wife of twenty-four years was still his best friend; the last time they had argued was when their daughter married a rock musician. She was for it; he was not. He lost. The marriage was not only successful, but his long-haired son-in-law "hit" something called "the charts," and made more money performing for a month in Las Vegas than Bobby Durbane would make in half a century. And what really rankled the father-inlaw was that his daughter's husband was a nice young man who drank nothing stronger than white wine, didn't do drugs, had a master's degree in medieval literature, and completed crossword puzzles faster than Bobby. It was not a logical world.
So why was he so uncomfortable? he mused. It probably started with Colonel Witkowski's requisition for a computer printout of all telephone and radio calls made from the comm center during the past seven days. It was then compounded by the subtle yet still fairly obvious behavior of Drew Latham, a man he considered to be a friend. Drew was avoiding him, and it was not like the Cons-Op officer. Durbane had left two messages for Latham, one at his rue du Bac apartment, which was still in the process of being restored, and one at the embassy message center. Neither had been returned, and Bobby knew that Drew was in the embassy, had been there all day, sequestered in the ambassador's upstairs quarters.
Durbane understood that calamitous events had taken place, that Courtland's wife was so severely wounded during the terrorist attack the night before last that she was not expected to live, but withal, it was not Latham's way to ignore messages from his friend "the egghead" who filled in those "detestable crossword puzzles."
Especially considering Bobby had saved his life several nights before.
Something was wrong; something had happened that Durbane could not understand, and there was only one way to find out what it was. He picked up his telephone, a phone that could access any other in the embassy regardless of restrictions, and pressed the numbers for Courtland's living quarters.
"Mr. Ambassador, it's Robert Durbane in the comm center."
"Hello .. . Bobby," said Courtland hesitantly.
"How are you?"
"I think it's my place to ask you that sir." Something was wrong.
The usually unflappable State Department man was uncomfortable.
"I refer to your wife, of course. I hear she was taken to a hospital."
"They're doing everything possible, and that's all Ican ask.
Other than your well-known courtesy, which I appreciate, is there anything else?"
"Yes, sir. I know no one's supposed to know Drew Latham is alive, but I work closely with Colonel Witkowski. Therefore, I also know that Drew is up-there, and I'd like very much to talk to him."
"Oh .. . you rather startle me, Mr. Durbane. Hold on, please."
The line went on Hold, the silence unnerving, as if a decision was being made. Finally, Drew's voice came on the phone.
"Hello, Bobby?"
"I left a couple of messages for you. You didn't call me back."
"I didn't write either. Besides having been shot and gone on to a far better world, I've been up to my ass in confusion, plus a few other less attractive things."
"I can imagine. However, I think we should talk."
SS5
"Really? About what?"
"That's what I'd like to find out."
"Is this double crostics? I'm no good at those, you know that."
"I know I want to talk to you, and not on the phone. May I?"
"Wait a minute." Again the silence was pervasive, but shorter than the previous one.
"All right," said Latham, back on the line.
"There's an elevator I never knew about that stops on your floor. I'll be on it, escorted by three armed marines, and you're to clear the corridor. We'll be there in five minutes."
"It's gone this far?" asked Durbane quietly.
"Me? I'm suddenly a danger zone?"
"We'll talk, Bobby."
Seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds later, Drew sat in the single chair in front of Durbane's desk, his office having been swept by the marine contingent, and no weapons found.
"What the hell is this?" said the comm. center's chief of operations.