he suggested.
“No,” she said fiercely.
He regarded her gravely. “You sure?”
“Quite sure,” she said firmly.
She held out her hand. “Tomorrow. One o’clock.” Then she was gone.
He returned to his desk. He sat down and looked at the entry in his diary.
He knew one thing. He had made a big mistake.
London
They’re all alike, thought Verago, sitting at his table in the corner. The Columbia Club was like the Casino club in Frankfurt, and the Von Steuben in Wiesbaden, and all the rest of them. And the people were the same. Well scrubbed, cast out of the same mold, talking the same talk, eating identical food.
When he first came to Europe, in fifty-nine, he couldn’t understand what a major had meant when he’d said that if you stayed within the confines of the U.S. military complexes it didn’t matter what country you were stationed in. France, England, Germany, Italy, they all looked identical from inside the fence.
You could get born in the base hospital, be educated at the base school, meet a girl in the club or at the base movies, marry her in the base chapel, break the law and get tried on the post, serve your time in the stockade, die and have the autopsy done on your body in the base mortuary. You didn’t have to leave to cash checks, or go shopping, go bowling, go dancing, change your religion, have an affair, or commit suicide.
There was only one time you did have to leave the base. When you died they didn’t bury you. For that you got shipped into the outside world.
The major had been right, Verago thought as he glanced round the room. Although Hyde Park was out
41
side the window, they could all be having dinner in Heidelberg or Frankfurt.
He finished his chopped steak and house salad with roquefort dressing.
“Was everything all right?” asked the waiter in the red monkey jacket. Verago was a new face in the officer’s open mess and might be a good tipper. One never knew. It was worth investing a little special attention.
“Fine,” said Verago.
“You care for some dessert?”
“Just coffee.”
There were a lot of civilians around. At least they wore civilian clothes. English-type blazers with brass buttons, club ties, and tweed coats. They spelled “headquarters” in great big letters. Verago had to grin.
The waiter put the cup and saucer in front of him, ready to pour coffee, but Verago stood up.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I think I’ll go to the bar.”
It was crowded. People were sitting in little groups. A two-star admiral was holding court, surrounded by a fawning group of naval officers dutifully smiling at his jokes.
Verago managed to find a niche at the bar. “Scotch,” he ordered. “Make it a double.”
He felt restless. It had been a frustrating day.
He wondered what sort of man Captain Tower would turn out to be. Not popular, he was sure of that. Nobody gets charged with adultery whose face fits. Maybe the guy had fallen foul of somebody. Maybe he had screwed the colonel’s wife. A sardonic smile crossed Verago’s face at the thought.
They were in a hurry to get him tried, that was obvious. They had rushed through the Article 32 hearing, so that the courtmartial could be set up as quickly as possible.
“Give me another,” Verago told the barman.
He had an etiquette problem on his hands too. The counsel Third Air Force had appointed would hardly welcome his arrival. Tower was fully within his rights to ask for his own counsel, and an army lawyer at that. The other fellow was bound to resent it.
Verago had already decided to play it softly. He didn’t want to antagonize the man. He hoped they could work
42
together, it wouldn’t do Tower any good to have his de” tense feuding.
He picked up his glass and then stopped, his hand frozen halfway. At a table by the wall sat the girl with the violet, almondshaped eyes. Kincaid’s secretary.
She was smiling at something the man sitting opposite her was saying. He was a big,
“No,” she said fiercely.
He regarded her gravely. “You sure?”
“Quite sure,” she said firmly.
She held out her hand. “Tomorrow. One o’clock.” Then she was gone.
He returned to his desk. He sat down and looked at the entry in his diary.
He knew one thing. He had made a big mistake.
London
They’re all alike, thought Verago, sitting at his table in the corner. The Columbia Club was like the Casino club in Frankfurt, and the Von Steuben in Wiesbaden, and all the rest of them. And the people were the same. Well scrubbed, cast out of the same mold, talking the same talk, eating identical food.
When he first came to Europe, in fifty-nine, he couldn’t understand what a major had meant when he’d said that if you stayed within the confines of the U.S. military complexes it didn’t matter what country you were stationed in. France, England, Germany, Italy, they all looked identical from inside the fence.
You could get born in the base hospital, be educated at the base school, meet a girl in the club or at the base movies, marry her in the base chapel, break the law and get tried on the post, serve your time in the stockade, die and have the autopsy done on your body in the base mortuary. You didn’t have to leave to cash checks, or go shopping, go bowling, go dancing, change your religion, have an affair, or commit suicide.
There was only one time you did have to leave the base. When you died they didn’t bury you. For that you got shipped into the outside world.
The major had been right, Verago thought as he glanced round the room. Although Hyde Park was out
41
side the window, they could all be having dinner in Heidelberg or Frankfurt.
He finished his chopped steak and house salad with roquefort dressing.
“Was everything all right?” asked the waiter in the red monkey jacket. Verago was a new face in the officer’s open mess and might be a good tipper. One never knew. It was worth investing a little special attention.
“Fine,” said Verago.
“You care for some dessert?”
“Just coffee.”
There were a lot of civilians around. At least they wore civilian clothes. English-type blazers with brass buttons, club ties, and tweed coats. They spelled “headquarters” in great big letters. Verago had to grin.
The waiter put the cup and saucer in front of him, ready to pour coffee, but Verago stood up.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I think I’ll go to the bar.”
It was crowded. People were sitting in little groups. A two-star admiral was holding court, surrounded by a fawning group of naval officers dutifully smiling at his jokes.
Verago managed to find a niche at the bar. “Scotch,” he ordered. “Make it a double.”
He felt restless. It had been a frustrating day.
He wondered what sort of man Captain Tower would turn out to be. Not popular, he was sure of that. Nobody gets charged with adultery whose face fits. Maybe the guy had fallen foul of somebody. Maybe he had screwed the colonel’s wife. A sardonic smile crossed Verago’s face at the thought.
They were in a hurry to get him tried, that was obvious. They had rushed through the Article 32 hearing, so that the courtmartial could be set up as quickly as possible.
“Give me another,” Verago told the barman.
He had an etiquette problem on his hands too. The counsel Third Air Force had appointed would hardly welcome his arrival. Tower was fully within his rights to ask for his own counsel, and an army lawyer at that. The other fellow was bound to resent it.
Verago had already decided to play it softly. He didn’t want to antagonize the man. He hoped they could work
42
together, it wouldn’t do Tower any good to have his de” tense feuding.
He picked up his glass and then stopped, his hand frozen halfway. At a table by the wall sat the girl with the violet, almondshaped eyes. Kincaid’s secretary.
She was smiling at something the man sitting opposite her was saying. He was a big,
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