Free Ultimate Issue by George Markstein

he promised.
    Suddenly, unexpectedly, she pressed her body to his and kissed him hard on the mouth.
    “See you,” she said a little breathlessly, pushing him out the front door.
    “Sure thing, Laurie.”
    She stood in the doorway, watching him go to the lift. He turned and she gave him a little wave before shutting the door.
    He rode down from the third floor and reflected how little he knew about her. Sure he knew her body, the way she made love, her laugh, those curious eyes, that she had a Polish surname, came from Chicago, and was an air force employee. But that was all.
    Yet he didn’t care. He wanted to see her again, he wanted to hold her once, more.
    You’re making a big deal out of a one-night stand, his inner voice cautioned coldly.
    “Shut up,” said Verago aloud.
    Outside the early-June morning smelled good. A cab cruised toward him, its “For Hire” sign illuminated. Verago flagged it down.
    “Columbia Club,” he instructed.
    51
    The cab drove off.
    The two men in a black Chrysler parked opposite the block of flats didn’t follow. One of them merely made an entry in a notebook:
    “06:20 furs: Left the apartment.”

London
    “Here you are, sir,” said Pettifer acidly.
    He put a copy of the Visiting Forces Act 1952 in front of Daventry. “Is there anything else you require?”
    “Not at the moment, thank you,” said Daventry.
    Pettifer sniffed and went out of the study, leaving Daventry surrounded by Orders in Council and Crown Statutes, volumes of International Law and now the Visiting Forces Act for which he had asked urgently.
    No case that Pettifer had on his list for Daventry required those legal authorities. He was evidently reading up on something Pettifer did not know about, which meant that he was putting in valuable time … to do somebody a favor? And being wily and shrewd, Pettifer immediately suspected it had something to do with that curious visit Daventry had received from the Howard girl.
    She had preyed on Pettifer’s mind. It wasn’t social, he was sure. And it couldn’t have been business because he didn’t know about it. There had been no preliminaries, no solicitors. And yet
    …
    He had spent agonizing hours wondering whether he should challenge Daventry about it outright. As clerk of the chambers, he was not only entitled to know what was going on, it was his duty. Daventry’s time was valuable. A morning’s deviling on a case was worth a handsome fee.
    Not that Pettifer believed Daventry had taken on a case without his knowledge. Accepting a brief direct was the ultimate professional crime. It would mean disbarment and disgrace. It would be suicide, and he knew Daventry would never do that.
    Pettifer sighed. He was indeed a worried man, and he only hoped that Daventry knew what he was doing.
    In his study Daventry read through the thin 1952 act a second time. He glanced at the notes he had made.
    It was bad news. Very bad news.
    52

Essex
    The airman first class who drove the staff car to Laconbury was not talkative. Verago sat in the back watching the flat, monotonous least Anglian countryside roll past, wondering why he had a growing sense of foreboding.
    Kincaid’s curious interest in his security clearance, for instance. It had never happened to Verago before. All because he was to defend a guy who had cheated on his wife.
    “Are you stationed at Laconbury?” Verago asked the driver.
    The airman turned his head slightly. “Yes, sir.”
    “What’s it like?”
    The airman didn’t take his eyes off the country road.
    II right, I guess.”
    “What do they fly there? Bombers? Fighters?”
    Usir?~,
    “I’m army,” explained Verago hastily. “We know nothing about you people over here.”
    “Yes, sir,” said the airman, and left it at that.
    It was like questioning a piece of wood. Yet the airman was intelligent, alert.
    Verago decided to try again. “You know a Captain Tower?” he asked.
    He saw the airman’s back visibly stiffen.
    “Sir?” The same