The Starlifter taxied slowly, as was appropriate, and stopped fifty yards from a long low cement building near the wire. The pilot shut down her engines and sat in silence. Ground crew in full uniform marched slowly towards the belly of the plane, dragging a fat cable behind them. They latched it into a port under the nose and the plane’s systems kicked in again under the airfield’s own power. That way, the ceremony could be conducted in silence.
The honour guard at Hickam that day was the usual eight men in the usual mosaic of four different full-dress uniforms, two from the United States Army, two from the United States Navy, two from the United States Marine Corps, and two from the United States Air Force. The eight slow-marched forward and waited in silent formation. The pilot hit the switch and the rear ramp came whining down. It settled . against the hot blacktop of American territory and the guard slow-marched up its exact centre into the belly of the plane. They passed between the twin lines of silent aircrew and moved forward. The loadmaster removed the rubber straps and the guard lifted the first casket off the shelves and on to their shoulders. They slow-marched back with it through the darkened fuselage and down the ramp and out into the blazing afternoon, the shined aluminium winking and the flag glowing bright in the sun against the blue Pacific and the green highlands of Oahu. They right-wheeled on the apron and slow-marched the fifty yards to the long, low cement building. They went inside and bent
their knees and laid the casket down. They stood in silence, hands folded behind them, heads bowed, and then they about-turned and slow-marched back towards the plane.
It took an hour to unload all seven of the caskets. Only when the task was complete did the tall silver-haired American leave his seat. He used the pilot’s stairway, and paused at the top to stretch his weary limbs in the sun.
TWELVE
Stone had to wait five minutes behind the black glass in the rear of the Tahoe, because the loading dock under the World Trade Center was busy. Tony loitered near by, leaning on a pillar in the noisy dark, waiting until a delivery truck moved out in a blast of diesel and there was a moment before the next one could move in. He used that moment to hustle Stone across the garage to the freight elevator. He hit the button and they rode up in silence, heads down, breathing hard, smelling the strong smell of the tough rubber floor. They came out in the back of the eighty-eighth-floor lobby and Tony scanned ahead. The way was clear to the door of Hobie’s suite.
The thickset man was at the reception counter. They walked straight past him into the office. It was dark, as usual. The blinds were pulled tight and it was quiet. Hobie was at the desk, sitting still and silent, gazing at Marilyn, who was on the sofa with her legs tucked underneath her.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Mission accomplished?’ Stone nodded. ‘She got inside OK.’ ‘Where?’ Marilyn asked. ‘Which hospital?’ ‘St Vincent’s,’ Tony said. ‘Straight into the ER.’
Stone nodded to confirm it and he saw Marilyn smile a slight smile of relief.
‘OK,’ Hobie said into the silence, ‘That’s the good deed for the day. Now we do business. What are these complications I need to know about?’
Tony shoved Stone around the coffee table to the sofa. He sat down heavily next to Marilyn and stared straight ahead, focusing on nothing.
‘Well?’ Hobie said again.
‘The stock,’ Marilyn said. ‘He doesn’t own it outright.’
Hobie stared at her. ‘Yes he damn well does. I checked it at the Exchange.’
She nodded. ‘Well, yes, he owns it. What I mean is, he doesn’t control it. He doesn’t have free access to it.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘There’s a trust. Access is regulated by the trustees.’
‘What trust? Why?’
‘His father set it up, before he died. He didn’t trust Chester to handle it all outright. He felt he needed supervision.’
Hobie stared at her.
‘Any major stock disposals need to be co-signed,’ she said. ‘By the trustees.’