IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY
by Fanon
Part II
My mind was working on three levels: Putting her at ease and establishing a friendly rapport; Finalizing details of her imminent demise; lastly – to appease my naturally high libido – how to get her into bed fast.
Suddenly releasing her hand I stepped back, backing humbly towards the door, muttering, “I’m so sorry. That was presumptuous of me.” Before she could formulate a reply I bowed, “Excuse me” and exited.
Entering 28, I imagined Sandra standing somewhat perplexed – hopefully feeling some sense of loss - then shrugging resignedly and dressing.
I called Reception: “Miranda my love, It’s George in twenty-eight. I need a special favour - A large bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses on a tray sent to my room - and one of your roses. I’ve got this client to impress. I need them delivering in exactly ten minutes. Bless you.” Replacing the receiver and showering quickly, I slipped on a casual shirt and trousers, then answered the door to the bell-hop…
Sandra answered my timid knock in her dressing gown: Eyes betraying her delight at seeing me. I noted her right hand relax in her pocket: She was armed. Holding the tray in my left hand, I proffered the rose in my right. “A single rose for a singularly beautiful lady. Please accept it as token of apology. Dare I hope you’ll forgive me and share a drink so we can make a fresh start?”
Taking the rose she briefly inhaled its fragrance before holding it to her breast, eyes closed, reliving a memory. Snapping back to the present she warmly assured me, “Thank you. There was no need – please come in a moment.”
It was eight-thirty when I left. The morning hotel life was in full swing. One drink had led to another. Apart from us both temporarily sating our carnal desires, she’d eagerly agreed to participate in my ‘Documentary’. We arranged to meet for lunch and take a preliminary look at the canyon. Meanwhile I’d things to check, phoning to do, items to purchase…
After blowing Rhona, I’d relieved him of his pocketbook. It held a number of business cards announcing HENRY KRUGER of W & H KRUGER HELICOPTERS LTD. WINSLOW. Piloted helicopters for short or long term hire. I phoned a CIA guy at LANGLEY that owed me a favour. He called back minutes later:
“Frankie? They’re of German origin. Henry was a Luftwaffe bomber pilot. William was a Gestapo Obersturmführer, wanted for war crimes. We re-habbed ‘em in return for favours – usual thing. William’s the clever one. That’s us even. Get off my case and forget I exist.”
A female voice answered my next call - “Kruger helicopters, may I help?”
“Give me Henry.” – I wondered if he’d been missed.
“Mister Henry is away on business. Can I take a message?“
“I need a chopper for three-four hours tomorrow, and Friday, to fly a couple of us around the area. Name’s Rogers, Independent TV Documentaries. Pick us up at Flagstaff airport ten in the morning. Any problems?”
“That will be fine Sir. We require payment in advan-“
I cut in “Hell, Henry and I go way back. Tell him it’s Georgie R. He knows I pay cash on delivery.” Not giving her chance to reply I finished, “That’s settled then. Ten tomorrow, Flagstaff airport. It’s important so make sure it’s on time. And make sure there’s a parachute, my partner won’t fly without one.” I replaced the handset…
We dined in WILLIAMS, then drove up route 64. We passed the 180 merge, and on past where I’d blown Henry, halting to enjoy the breathtaking views from the South Rim observation area.
Giving Sandra a cameras and crash course in using it, I set her to filming the area to either side, and the ranch and Colorado River below. The while I pretended to film her, giving occasional directions befitting a Film Director.
Presented with viewfinder close-ups of her flimsily clothed charms, made me impatient to further indulge. Whether my emitted pheromones transmitted my eagerness, or her natural carnal desires spurred her on matters not. After a mere half hour she lowered the cine-camera and walked slinkily up to me. Looking extremely sensual, she gazed up into my eyes declaring, “Damn, but this place makes me feel - Can we take a break, Frankie?” Her hand moving forward to caress my thigh left little doubt what she had in mind.
Returning to the car we drove East along the 64 and found a spot to pull off the road. It was past dusk when the rapidly chilling air put an end to our activities. We returned to the car. Driving to WINSLOW, we ate ravenously after our exertions, at one of the most unique hotels in the States – the LA POSADA HOTEL: A Spanish hacienda-cum-castle-like creation. Built around 1930, it belongs back in the sixteen hundreds.
Wined and dined, and energy supplies replenished, we returned to the SESAME to re-indulge in our pseudo-conjugal antics, with the ardour of lovers about to be parted for ever. Only I knew this was the case, but lack of this knowledge in no way dampened Sandra’s own rampant desires, or endeavors to sate them. Eventually, feeling consummately happy, we took a communal shower and requested an eight am call: Barely time for me to mix my homemade explosive, carry out ablutions and grab a coffee before hastening to the airport with Sandra…
We arrived, with quarter of an hour to spare. Our transport flew in just before ten. The pilot exited to locate his fares. Grabbing our bags we hurried towards him. I called out, “Where’s Henry?”
He slowed to a halt asking, “Mister Rogers?” on receiving confirmation he continued, “Henry’s away, I’m his brother.”
Reaching to shake his hand, I grinned – “You must be William. He swears you’re a better chopper pilot than a gun-running Puerto Rican.” That put him at ease and swelled his pride. I explained what I had in mind:
Today we want to fly from Bullhead up Lake Mead, following the North rim to Page and the Glen Canyon Dam construction. Then a low run down the Canyon to the main South Rim observation point. Tomorrow we want to do the Painted Desert, Death Valley and Vegas. Sound okay?”
“One thing Mister, this ain’t no camel - It needs a drink every once in a while. At a guess you’re talking 1,000 miles plus. We’ll need three stops to gas up. That takes time, man.” I did a hasty re-calculation. “Okay. Let’s cut straight to the North Rim, East to Page, then fly low down the canyon to the South Rim main O P, and back here. That’s what - four hundred miles max? One stop for gas at Page will see us home and dry, right?”
“Suits me. Flying through the Canyon is restricted though-“
“I know that, but Henry said you’d fly through the Reno Welcome Arch for a thousand dollars. This job pays five big ones a day, plus expenses.” I half turned away, “But hey, if Henry’s wrong and you’re not up to it-“
“Hold on there pardner. I just said it was restricted, not that it couldn’t be done. For five grand I’ll fly with the skids underwater.”
Turning with an enthusiastic “Whee, atta boy,” I placed an arm over his shoulder aiming him back to the helicopter, “Let’s get these cameras rolling then. You got ‘chutes in there?” He sniggered,
“You’ll be flying so low it’s water skis you’ll want, not parachutes. Ya, we got a couple stashed in back.”
Airborne, we headed North at eight hundred feet. Within the hour we’d crossed the canyon at its widest point. Dropping to two hundred feet we turned East to follow the North Rim. It was noisy in the four-seater. Gesturing hands helped us convey the messages of loudly raised voices. I estimated we’d reach the new bridge and Page in less than thirty minutes.
Sandra stood on the left, busily filming the scenery below through her open window. I‘d impressed on her to shoot one to two second bursts of film about every thirty seconds. These clips I could use with the main film I was shooting from the opposite window. I watched as she concentrated religiously. I tapped William’s shoulder, indicating for him to move more inside the canyon, gave him a ‘thumps up’ and yelled that he was doing a great job. He relaxed and concentrated on his flying.
Moving to Sandra I smiled encouragingly, told her she was doing fine, and to stick at it. I eyed the parachute I’d insisted was placed on the floor within her reach. Moving back to the window, ostensibly to resume filming, in fact I was scanning the area for other craft and looking for my first sight of the new Glen Canyon Bridge.
A glance forwards and another across showed William and Sandra engrossed in their respective tasks. Then I spotted the bridge some six, seven, miles ahead. I drew ‘Little Jessie’, moved swiftly to Sandra’s side, whipped open the door and bundled her out in one concerted movement. William jerked round – only to gaze dumfounded into the automatic’s menacing barrel.
I indicated for him to hover. Feeling for the parachute, I slipped it on, the while my menacing gaze never left William. I felt for the other bag, removed the bomb and pressed the timer. Grabbing the bag I indicated for William to dive quickly into the canyon. As the nose dipped steeply I fired a prolonged burst of dum-dums into his body, and exited, kicking hard away from the open door on the opposite side to the tail rotor…
Jerking the cord opened the canopy. Drifting down, I watched the chopper explode into assorted fireballs below. I maneuvered to land on a sandy strip of riverside. Either side towered the canyon walls. Changing into overalls and boots, I burned everything else and tackled the arduous upriver walk to mingle with the dam workforce and hitch a lift North into Utah…
The fictitious Rogers and Goodchild would never be traced. It was most unlikely anyone had seen the crash in that deserted area. At least the bulk of the charred, twisted remains of the chopper and its contents had fallen to be swallowed by the raging Colorado River. Henry and William - the Nazi war criminals aided like so many others by the CIA – were no loss to humanity.
Kitted out In Salt Lake City, I called Room 47.
“Dear boy, hoping you’d call. Got another little job for you in Arizona, don’t you know.” There was no mistaking ‘Mister Brown.
“Count me out, I’m in Salt Lake City. I’ve booked a sleeper on the overnight train to Reno. The other jaunt’s completed. Two CD’s (Collateral Damage victims.) - Your messenger and his brother. No FA. (No ‘Fall-out – ie: nothing would hit the fan.) Call you from Tahoe.”
“Hold it” The steel in his raised voice would have chilled a Farrier’s forge.
“I’m listening.”
“Of course you are, dear boy.” He was his amiable self again. “She went rogue, you know – Agent RARY - offered to furnish our friends with a list of Ministry agents. Contacted LANGLEY HQ. Fortunately it was one of ours took the call.” He sighed, “Such a waste of good Pussy. Henry was a Queer, so no loss there. His brother was-”
I cut in, “Ex- Gestapo.” My voice hardened, “Next time you want freebie blowjobs ask - or you may lose a good one.”
“Just testing, dear boy, but point taken. About this Phoenix Prison jaunt-" I replaced. the receiver. I was heading home to Lake Tahoe and family…
Drifting into sleep to the rhythm of the railcar wheels, I found myself humming the old wartime song, ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’. As sleep overtook, the memory of Agent Rary’s seductive smile morphed into that of the more homely smile of my only true lover…
Footnote: That was a very brief holiday. Within the week I was a prisoner in PHOENIX ARIZONA working undercover to expose a Soviet spy ring, and within the month doing sabotage and a blowjob in the steaming jungles of President SUKARNO’s KALIMANTAN (Indonesian Borneo.)
