chapter four
A silver Mercedes 300D pulled up alongside promptly at eight the next Friday morning, and the back right door swung open as the sedan stopped. The driver jumped out and took Callahan's suitcase, put it in the boot then shut the door as Harry settled in. To his surprise he saw a man in the back seat with him, a middle-aged man with an attache case shackled to his left wrist.
"Diplomatic pouch," his seat mate said while patting the leather case. "You'll be flying with me today. Here's your passport."
Callahan took the green booklet and opened it, saw his name and date of birth inside before he realized it was a US passport. "Is this legit?"
"Oh, yes," the courier said, adding, "it came in last night from DC. Cutting it a little too close, I think."
Harry put the passport in his sport coat's interior pocket beside his wallet and looked on as the Mercedes swung out into traffic, making its way through the city for the one-o-one and, he presumed, SFO. The driver and his front seat companion -- who looked like a commando of some sort -- said not one word all the way to the airport, though the commando-sort got out at the main terminal entrance and swept the scene before letting anyone out of the sedan.
Callahan and the courier walked inside and straight up to the red and white TWA counter, and the courier handed a pre-printed slip of paper to the smiling agent standing there. She smiled, printed-out two tickets and, with a black grease pencil, two boarding passes as well. She took Callahan's grip and put a baggage tag on the handle and Harry looked at the airport codes and made a quick mental note of them before his bag disappeared down the rolling conveyor. New York Kennedy, Geneva, Tel Aviv would be the ones most likely used, Bullitt had told him as they went over all the possibilities for commercial transport from San Francisco International, and that was indeed what had been printed on his bag just now.
They walked to the departures concourse and then straight out to TWA's Ambassador's Club; the courier showed their IDs and boarding passes and he then escorted Callahan to a table that had a great view overlooking the the tarmac below. Callahan took a seat as a hostess came over to see if they wanted coffee or juice, and moments later Harry tried not to look as Bullitt and a very attractive woman came in and presented their papers to the girl at the check-in desk. They went to the far side of the room and sat; the courier managed to not smile.
A half hour later the Israeli commando came in and walked directly to their table, the look in his eyes all-business.
"The aircraft is secure. Let's go."
The courier stood and beckoned Callahan to follow; the three of them walked out a side door and downstairs to another waiting car, this time a nondescript Ford sedan, and, after Callahan got in, the car sped off across the ramp towards the air cargo facilities on the north side of the airport. The courier was no longer with him, and the only aircraft visible was a small jet, a Lockheed Jetstar.
As the sedan pulled up to the Lockheed the airstair opened and Callahan saw a hostess standing in the doorway; the stairs performed a fascinating mechanical dance on their way to the concrete as the Ford stopped and the commando got out and opened his door.
"We've advised the police inspector that we have made alternate travel arrangement," the commando said, now opening grinning.
"Swell." Callahan looked the jet over quickly -- he vaguely remembered this was the same type of jet Pussy Galore had flown in Goldfinger -- only this one was almost solid white and with little decorative ornamentation or other markings. There was a small Star of David on the tail, and registration numbers on the outer engines, but no other identifiers he could make out as he made his way up the airstairs.
"Good morning," the rather stunning hostess said as he stepped inside, "could I take your coat, sir?"
Callahan slipped out of his coat and handed it over to the girl, then he turned to walk aft -- and there was the old man from the hovel behind his apartment. Only now the man was busily engaged pouring over stacks of papers.
"Well, well," Callahan said as he walked up to the old man, "hi, Dad."
"Hello, Harry. Sit down, would you? Do you need coffee? Tea? I'll be with you in a moment," before the old man sighed and then stood and walked forward to the cockpit. A moment later the engines on the right side of the aircraft began starting, then those on the left. His ears popped once, then again, and a blast of chilled air suddenly hissed out of the overhead vents. Callahan reached up and twisted his shut just as the old man returned to his seat.
"So, where are we going?" Callahan mused out loud. "Blofeld's mountaintop hideaway?"
"Blofeld?" the old man asked, his uncomprehending eyes rimmed with fatigue.
"Never mind. So, I take it we're not off to see the sights in Jerusalem?"
"Ah, no, not at all. Tel Aviv first, to visit with your mother for a few days, then we have a small request to make of you."
"Of me? Really? Do tell..."
The old man shuffled through a few open file folders on his tray table, then stopped at the one he was looking for. "Yes, it concerns your time in Vietnam, as a matter of fact. We have some people who would like to talk to you about what transpired on the tenth of February, 1968."
Fingers of icy-cold dread ran down Callahan's spine, though he did his best to appear momentarily confused. "February sixty-eight? I was stationed outside of Hué then, if I remember correctly. Flying medevacs in and out of C-med, I think."
"Well yes, that much we know. Yet we'd like to talk to about events surrounding the eighth through the tenth, before you returned to Phu Bai."
"I'm sorry, but I..."
The old man held up his right hand. "Please, stop," he said as he took a photograph from the folder spread out on his lap; he tossed an 8x10 black and white photograph to Callahan and tried not at all to suppress his smile.
And there it was, all of it; an unwelcome memory brought to life once again for his amusement. Callahan standing by the open doors of black Huey -- along with all the other members of the insertion team, including Jim Parish. The thick, low clouds off to the west, blanketing the mountains to the west of Hué city, the electronics 'package' mounted over the cockpit, the support troops gathered beside the second 'slick'...all of it right there, a nightmare he couldn't forget...if only because it seemed no one was going to let him.
Callahan had no idea the photograph even existed, but now he thought how it ended up here on this jet had to be a story for the ages.
He heard the engines spooling up, then turned his head and looked out the little square window just as the jet leapt down the runway. He craned his head a little and looked at the terminal, saw the TWA 707 just pushing back from the gate, and while he hope more than anything else in the world that Frank Bullitt was onboard that airliner, all he could see in his mind's eye was Jim Parish sitting in the bar at the Caravelle, still sitting there with oozing blood all over his hands.
+++++
"So," Parish said as Callahan looked over his orders, "off to Phu Bai?"
"Looks that way," Callahan sighed as he looked after the indescribably gorgeous cocktail waitress.
"Cute enough for you?" Parish added.
Callahan shook his head as he slipped back into the present, though he felt his pulse hammering when the girl turned and looked at him. "Man, that gal is something else."
"How long's it been since you had any?" Parish said through a deep grin.
"High school," Callahan said, shaking his head.
"High school? What the fuck!" Parish howled. "What's wrong with you, man? Did it fall off, or are you one of those goddamn closet faggots?"
Callahan turned and glared at Parish, the look on his face apparently enough to shut the guy up. "Bad experience," was all he said.
"So? Did you have to go and join a monastic order?"
