Page 179 of Cry Havoc
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, get out of here and mull over what I said. It’s been a bloody year. The war is entering a new phase. I could use you.”
“I’ll think about it,” Tom said, getting to his feet.
The two men shook hands.
“But right now, I’ll take you up on the Caravelle.”
CHAPTER 66
St. Michaels, Maryland
USA
September 1968
EVEN THOUGH ALLISTER DESMONDgot lost twice, the drive from NSA headquarters at Fort Meade to the town of St. Michaels on Maryland’s Eastern Shore took just under two hours.
He had told his wife that, due to the escalating situation in Vietnam, he was being called to Washington, D.C., for a series of important meetings over the weekend. She had been so proud of him. All Desmond could think of was that he was about to spend an entire weekend with Clara Müller.
Months earlier he had overheard one of the secretaries, who never gave him the time of day, talking about how her boyfriend had whisked her away for a romantic weekend at a quaint bed and breakfast where he had proposed as the sun set over the Chesapeake Bay. She was showing off her diamond to her co-workers when Desmond caught the name of the establishment.
Now, he was on his way to Wades Point Inn for his illicit getaway. He raced east, passing Crownsville and Annapolis, then crossed the Bay Bridge and sped through Stevensville, Chester, and Queensville, before turning south through sparsely populated farmland and then traversingwest along the Miles River through the town of St. Michaels. He felt pangs of guilt when he drove under the shadow of the town’s Christ Church Episcopal Church, but those feelings dissipated as the Victorian Gothic spire receded in his rearview mirror. He was so eager and driving so quickly along Maryland Route 33 that he missed the right turn onto Wades Point Road and had to turn around at some sort of boat repair yard when he realized he had gone too far. He slowed down once he got to the dirt lane that dead-ended at the inn. Fields to his right and left were divided by long rows of trees separating the properties. He figured each field was owned by a different family living in farmhouses at the end of long dusty driveways branching off to either side. He wondered what they were farming. He passed a large pond and then pulled up to the impressive brick home that was his destination.
The Georgian-style building, with its magnificent porch, was painted white with thick black shutters to shield it from gusting winds and storms. It was nestled amongst oaks, pines, maples, and sycamores, giving it an air of seclusion. He did not see another car. Clara had probably taken a taxi.
He picked up his brown felt trilby hat from the passenger seat and placed it on his head, grabbed his Hartmann attaché case, and exited the vehicle. A late-afternoon breeze off the bay brought with it the smell of salt and seaweed. Dark clouds loomed in the distance. The waterfront location on the point gave the inn unobstructed views of the Eastern Chesapeake to the north, east, and west. There should be just enough time to settle in with Clara before enjoying the sunset together. He spotted two Adirondack chairs on the lawn that would be perfect.
If Clara had not yet arrived, maybe he would read a few chapters ofThe Salzburg Connectionthat was in his briefcase. The Wades Point Inn looked like an ideal place to dive into the new novel by Helen MacInnes, one that was sure to be a winner.
He removed his suitcase from the trunk and walked up the front steps, feeling the weight of the rotor reader in the left pocket of his tweedjacket as a flock of canvasbacks in a V-formation passed overhead. Clara was always so impressed when he handed her the device that copied the keying material so vital to her work.
A kind young woman met him in the entryway and informed him that his guest was waiting in the dining room on the other side of the home. She said he could leave his luggage, and she would have it brought to his room. He thanked her and left his suitcase, but he held on to his attaché. She led him through a hallway tastefully decorated with paintings and artifacts that spoke to the property’s history with a pedigree going back to the original thirteen colonies through the Revolution and War of 1812, when it was razed by the British, after which the farm had flourished, producing tobacco, apple cider, brandy, wheat, and rye.
“Just through there, sir,” his hostess said, bowing her head slightly and indicating the entrance to the dining area.
“Thank you,” Desmond said, as she turned back to tend to his luggage.
Desmond stepped into a room where four tables were already set for the evening meal. A large window ran along the far wall with a view north across a beautiful lawn to a long wooden dock. The whitecaps were picking up and the clouds looked closer than when he had parked just a few minutes earlier. If a storm kept them inside all weekend, it would not be the end of the world. He wondered if there would be time for a quick tryst before dinner.
Desmond shifted his gaze to the far table where he expected to see Clara sipping a glass of champagne. Instead, he was surprised to see a middle-aged man in a khaki overcoat, a cup of coffee next to a folded copy ofThe Washington Poston the table in front of him.
Desmond looked back down the hall wondering if he had been shown to the wrong room. When he turned back around the man was walking toward him. He heard footsteps to the rear and twisted his head to see another man in a similar khaki coat approaching.
He rotated back to the first man, who now held a badge in his lefthand, his coat pushed to the side with his right, revealing the checkered walnut grips of a .38 Special Smith & Wesson Model 10.
What struck Desmond was how calm he looked.
“FBI. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He had a New England accent, his voice almost soothing.
Desmond tried to speak, but nothing escaped his lips.
He dropped his briefcase and was vaguely aware that the footsteps had stopped in the hallway. His right hand and then his left were pulled behind his back and placed into what he knew were stainless-steel handcuffs. He felt them tighten around his plump wrists, hearing the distinctive clicks as they locked into place. Hands then went through his pockets and removed his wallet, car keys, and the rotor reader.
The man from the table had stopped in front of him at an uncomfortably close distance. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and Desmond saw that under the overcoat he was wearing a dark suit.
When he spoke again his voice was almost a whisper. There was no shouting, no malice. It wasn’t even cold. It sounded factual.
