Page 244

“ ‘Howard’s Saints’?”

“They’re Mormons. Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. They don’t drink, they don’t smoke, they don’t even drink coffee. They protect Howard from all sorts of threats—some real, some imagined. He pays them very well.”

“Do they carry guns? Can they help Fischer guard Frogger?”

Graham nodded.

“Can we get Howard on the phone while Fischer and Frogger are on their way to the airport? Give him a heads-up?”

Graham nodded and said, “You’re not going with them?”

“Let him worry what you and I are up to,” Frade said. “And then be dazzled by the airplane while he’s waiting for us.”

Graham considered that, then nodded. “Okay.”

Frade walked to the staff car. Frogger was in the backseat, his hands handcuffed behind him. Fischer was standing by the door.

“Get Colonel Frogger out of the hot sun, Major,” Frade ordered. “Put him on the plane. Cuff him to one of the seats halfway down the fuselage. If he tries to escape, shoot him in the foot; try very hard not to kill him. What I don’t need right now is a noble martyr to the

Nazi cause.”

“Yes, sir,” Fischer said.

[FOUR]

Bolling Air Force Base Washington, D.C. 1730 6 August 1943

Clete didn’t know, of course, whether Oberstleutnant Frogger was impressed with his tour of the Eastern Seaboard from Connecticut to Washington, D.C.— with a side trip to North Carolina to Pope Air Force Base and Fort Bragg—but as Frade lined up the Constellation with the runway at Bolling, he didn’t see how Frogger could not be. He had been dazzled himself.

After the flyover of Bragg and Pope—and they had been lucky there; an enormous fleet of C-47s was in the process of disgorging a regiment of paratroopers as they flew over—they had flown to north of New York City, where Hughes had called Air Traffic Control and reported they were having pressurization problems, and requested an approach to the field at Newark at no higher than five thousand feet.

That allowed them to fly at that altitude over Manhattan Island. The Hudson River was full of ships, and they got a look at the bustling shipyards in New Jersey. Taking on fuel at Newark gave them forty minutes on the ground, which in turn gave them—and, more important, Frogger—that long of a time to see row after row of glistening new B-17 and B-24 heavy bombers preparing to fly to Europe.

Hughes again called Air Traffic Control, reported they were still having pressurization problems, and requested—and received—permission to fly to Bolling at five thousand feet.

Their routing took them over Delaware, then Baltimore, and finally Washington. It was a sunny day and all the buildings of the capital were on clear display, every one untouched by any sign of bombing.

They were third in the pattern to land at Bolling, after a B-26 light bomber and a four-engine Douglas C-54 transport. Frade then greased in the Constellation. He really thought it was a combination of a nice day, a low, slow approach, and a lot of beginner’s luck, but was nonetheless pleased when he heard Howard Hughes say over the intercom, “Not bad, Little Cletus.”

The tower directed them to the tarmac before a remote hangar on the opposite side of the field from Base Operations. The hangar was under heavy guard—submachine-gun armed MPs on foot and others in a three-quarter-ton weapons carrier and a jeep. Frade was curious about that and even more curious to see that a dozen or more men were in the hangar polishing the aluminum skin of a C-54.

Hughes answered his question before Frade could put it into words.

“The Sacred Cow,” he said.

“The what?”

“The Sacred Cow,” Hughes explained, “is the President’s personal aircraft. He really should have one of these; they’re faster, have a longer range, and are more comfortable. But Lockheed makes these, Charley Lindbergh works for Lockheed, and our commander in chief is cutting off his nose to spite his face because he’s got a hard-on for Charley.”

“You’re serious?”

“Don’t tell anyone, Little Cletus, but our noble commander in chief can be a vindictive sonofabitch. Ask your grandfather.”

Ground handlers pushed steps against the Constellation’s rear and behind the cockpit doors. A closed van backed up to the steps rising to the door behind the cockpit. On its sides was a sign: CAPITOL CATERING. A 1940 Packard limousine pulled up to the stairs leading to the passenger compartment. A chauffeur got out and the rear door opened.

Frade walked down the aisle to Frogger, who was handcuffed to one of the seats. A fold-down shelf on the rear of the seat ahead of him held a coffee cup and an ashtray.

Frade squatted in the aisle.