Romanov Succession Read Free Page A

curiosity, “Okay. Where are you right now?”
    â€œBOQ.”
    â€œI’ll get back to you in ten minutes.”
    He held the hook down long enough to break the connection. Then he made one more call, kept it brief and went back into his cubicle to make a final check of things he might have forgotten to pack. He hadn’t forgotten anything of course; he never did. But it was a clue to his unease and he deliberately stood to attention and drew several long measured breaths to calm himself.
    He answered the phone on the first ring.
    â€œYou’re all set. Be at El Paso airport at eleven sharp—twenty-three hundred hours. There’s a half-squadron of brand new bombers ferrying through to Washington. I’ve got you a lift with them. Talk to the lead pilot, a Captain Johnson.”
    â€œThanks, John.”
    â€œDrop me a postcard now and then.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œGood luck, Alex.”
    He heard the car draw up, crunching gravel; Carol Ann’s horn blasted cheerfully—shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits. He gathered up his uniform coat and musette bag, glanced finally around the monastic cell and went out.
    The dazzling brilliance made his eyes swim. He crossed the yellow-brown patch of lawn and tossed his things in the back seat; he slid in beside the girl and threw his arm across the back of the seat while she put the open Chevy roadster in gear.
    â€œTime’s your train?”
    â€œTen-fifteen,” he said, compounding the lie. He didn’t want anyone to know about the plane ride. Spaight would keep it under his hat.
    â€œI know a place to fill your belly.” Her long brown eyes flicked toward him. “Unless you’ve got anything else in mind you’d rather do?”
    Alex shook his head.
    Carol Ann had a shrewd quick way of smiling. “The Way the trains are these days you’d better get yourself around a good’ Southern meal.” She was a self-confident girl, a bit of a cynic and not much of a talker; they had met four weeks ago in a roadhouse bar and in a casual way they had filled needs in each other without talking about it. She didn’t know much about him and didn’t seem to want to.
    The setting sun veined the clouds with streaks of marble pink. The hot wind raked his face and Carol Ann took the dips in the road too fast for the springs on the little car.
    The Rio Grande was muddy and sluggish on his right. The landmark hills guided them into the dusty outskirts of El Paso—scrubby brush and the occasional billboard for Prince Albert Tobacco and the Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous. The car’s passage flushed a covey of quail.
    Detour. Through a dry arroyo where flash floods had undercut the road. On the job a half dozen convicts in stripes worked with shovels and rakes and tar buckets, their dull Indian faces aglisten with oil sweat, and two flaccid killer guards with riot shotguns sat horseback. Their heads all turned to watch the girl behind the wheel.
    She pulled into the dusty lot beside a stucco café festooned with red-and-white Coca-Cola signs. He held the screen door for her and went inside and let it slap shut on its spring. A deep-fried smell ran along the counter and the radio was twanging, Jimmie Rodgers the Singing Brakeman. They were all men at the counter, Mexicans at the back, all of them in Levi’s and high-heel boots and flannel shirts with the backs of their necks creased like old leather.
    They took the booth at the front by the window where there was a little air. Fried steak, shucked corn, buttered green beans, a huge dollop of mashed potatoes with a two-spoon crater filled with lumpy gravy. The notice above the counter said We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone and beyond that there was a placard: Discussion of the President Is Prohibited. On the radio now an announcer was talking about Hank Greenberg.
    Carol Ann said, “Well then, Coop.” She fancied he resembled Gary