Dry Bones (19 page)

He finished the whiskey and ordered another. Two Brits at the bar played a game of darts. The casual precision of their throws—feathered tails crowded around the bull’s eye—was impressive. They went back to their drinks. That moment of triumph at war’s end had been just that: a
moment
, sweet and short. What followed was a collective letdown. Goods still rationed. Streets and people had a shabby, secondhand feel.

He’d have to write Roberta immediately and let her know his return to the States was delayed. She’d be as much angered as disappointed, especially since he’d have to leave the reason vague. He couldn’t mention Van Hull. Even if he could, she’d have no way to grasp the size of the debt he owed him.

Dunne hadn’t seen Van Hull since return from Prague, the previous May. He vividlly recalled how eager Van Hull had been to get into the streets and join the uprising. Their protector, Jan Horak, insisted they stay hidden. An intelligence officer with the Red Army, he informed Van Hull, had already grumbled about the presence of “American spies” with the partisans. “In order to avoid complications, you must stay where you are. You had your
war. This chapter belongs to us Czechs. We’ll celebrate when it’s over.”

They slept most of the next several days. The silence and darkness of their hideout added to their cumulative weariness and abetted the rest they both needed. They didn’t know about V-E Day and the German surrender or the final liberation of Prague until Jan Horak returned with Lieutenant Colonel Carlton Bartlett.

Bartlett was dressed in civilian clothes, brown ulster over brown suit. They didn’t recognize him at first, and he didn’t hide his surprise at their drawn appearance. “My God, you two look as though you’ve been washed, wrung, and hung out to dry.”

“We’ve been playing too much golf,” Dunne said.

Bartlett pulled a carton of Luckies and two bottles of champagne from inside his coat. He popped the cork on one, jovially apologized for not bringing glasses, and passed the bottle around. After several slugs, Horak left.

“It’s stuffy down here.” Bartlett removed his suit jacket. Dunne caught the scent of aftershave. Bay rum.

Van Hull and Dunne sat on their cots as Bartlett, unable to stay still, paced back and forth, stopping only when it was his turn for the champagne. “The general will be overjoyed I’ve found you. He’s not the kind to show any emotion—you know that, Dunne, having served under him in the first war—but you also know how deeply he feels the loss of each and every man. He could barely hide his reaction to what happened with Operation Dawson and with your drop.”

“What was the outcome with Dawson?” Van Hull wiped his mouth with his sleeve, lit a cigarette, and rested the champagne bottle on his knee.

“Mike Jahn and the others were taken to Mauthausen, as was Doctor Schaefer, who was also in the custody of the SS. There they were interrogated and executed. The sad fact is they’d already been shipped to Mauthausen by the time you were dropped.” Van Hull
guzzled the remainder of the bottle and dropped in the cigarette. He lay back, head on pillow, forearm covering his eyes.

Bartlett popped the second bottle. He continued his pacing. It seemed to be a habit, but if it was, it had done nothing to slim his pear-shaped, midbody bulk.

Bartlett explained that his mission had been entirely Donovan’s idea: “Wild Bill at his wildest and most daring!” Get into Czechoslovakia and rescue Dr. Herschel Cernak, Schaefer’s former business partner, prominent scientist, and Jewish layman, from the Nazis. That part of the mission was complete. The Russians would love to take credit for the rescue. They’d also welcome the chance to question some OSS operatives. “Trick is to get out of Prague pronto. Donovan is seeing to that. You two sit tight for now. I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

Dunne gave him back the bottle. He drained it. “It’s a sin to gargle such fine champagne, but with victory at hand, we’re entitled to certain liberties.” He looked down at Van Hull. “You men are the hidden heroes of this war. But now it’s the next one we have to prepare for. In war, as in life, intelligence is the ultimate weapon.”

He donned his jacket and folded the ulster over his arm. He turned and repeated himself on his way out, this time with a slight slur: “You two s-s-sit tight, and I’ll let you know when it’s-s-s time to go.”

The champagne left Dunne light-headed. The room felt more prison cell than hiding place. The residual discomfort in his ankle made him limp. He turned out the light and lay down on his cot. He woke in a sweat. His mouth was dry. He had an urgent need to pee. He used the flashlight to guide his way to the bathroom. On the way back, the peripheral play of the beam alerted him Van Hull’s cot was empty.

“Dick?” Dunne whispered. No answer. He switched on the overhead light. Van Hull was gone. He went into the corridor. “Dick!” His shout echoed through the marble emptiness. He went
up the stairs, flashlight puncturing the dark. The clock on the wall in the office in which Van Hull and he had found the radio indicated 4:30.

He wandered more hallways. He called Van Hull’s name but knew he was gone. Mulholland’s warning resurrected itself, a haunting refrain:
Once the cork is popped, there’s no putting it back.
No use going into the street. No way to contact Horak or Bartlett. All he could do was wait until one of them returned.

It was an agonizing several hours before there was a shuffled commotion of voices and footsteps in the hallway. Arms draped over their shoulders, Van Hull was supported by Horak and a companion. Bartlett, red-faced and in full uniform, was behind them.

Horak and his helper lowered Van Hull onto the cot. Pacing beside it, Bartlett ran his hand through his hair. “Jesus H. Christ!” he exploded. “He’s supposed to be a professional soldier, the epitome of the American fighting man, and instead he acts like a drunken circus clown! If Horak here hadn’t been alerted there was a boozed-up American busting up a tavern, the Russians would have grabbed him, and then we’d be in some fix!”

Van Hull lay unconscious, mouth agape, arms spread like a crucified man. Dunne patted his cheek. “Dick, it’s Fin. You all right?”

“All right? Look at him! His pathetic antics came within a hairsbreadth of drawing the Soviets’ attention and scotching our chance to get out of Prague.”

Without stopping his relentless pacing back and forth, Bartlett let Dunne in on the arrangements General Donovan had made to land a plane full of medical supplies that would whisk them to the west. Tonight, Bartlett would leave his quarters on the pretense of joining the celebration of the reopening of the Prague State Opera House. He would have already sent Dr. Cernak ahead to the plane. His car would swing by the museum. “Horak will
have Van Hull and you at the side entrance, and you’ll hop in. There better not be any slipups. I’m counting on you, Dunne.”

After Bartlett left, Dunne and the two Czechs carried Van Hull to the bathroom, sat him in a chair, put his head in the sink, and ran cold water over him. Horak went upstairs and came back with two sets of fresh clothes, suits, shirts, and shoes. They stripped off Van Hull’s old clothes, re-dressed him, and laid him on his cot.

Dunne changed into his new clothes. He gathered his and Van Hull’s discarded outfits and checked the pockets before he stuck them in the tall garbage pail. In the pocket of Van Hull’s trousers was a badly creased, tattered photo of a handsome, youthful lieutenant with blond wavy hair. His lips were parted as if he were about to speak or sing or ask a question. Van Hull must have had it with him since they left Bari. Dunne strained to make out the faded handwritten inscription on the back:
Dick, One man loved the pilgrim soul in you / And loved the sorrows of your changing face. Mike.

He lit a cigarette, exhaled through his nose. He should be anxious, worrying whether they’d be intercepted and detained by the Russians. But he wasn’t. Operation Maxwell was over. The war with the Japs was still on. But the OSS was undoubtedly readying a new set of field operatives for that mission, highly trained, eager men—crème de la crème—their enthusiasm not yet curdled by experience, memories not yet tainted by the memory of those who never come back.

Van Hull was motionless. Dunne gently lifted Van Hull’s hands and folded them on his chest. He’d learned almost nothing about Van Hull in their time together, none of the details of childhood or prewar life and career, yet he knew everything he needed—or wanted—to know, everything important.

Dunne tucked the photo he’d found into the pocket of Van Hull’s jacket. His handsome face was relaxed, peaceful. The cold water left it with a rosy glow.

Jan Horak appeared at the door. It was time to rendezvous with Bartlett. They carried Van Hull upstairs into the waiting car, raced to the airport, and boarded the plane, which took off immediately. Once they were aloft, Bartlett broke out a fresh supply of champagne. Van Hull abstained. He sat beside Dr. Herschel Cernak, a frail, shy, white-haired man in his seventies, the horror he’d witnessed imprinted in his wide, anguished eyes. He and Van Hull spent the entire flight to Paris conversing in German.

They landed in Paris and spent the night at the Ritz, a luxurious but very brief interlude for Van Hull and Dunne, who were flown to London the next morning. Dunne expected an intense debriefing. Except for an hour’s conversation with one of Bartlett’s aides, there was none. A doctor examined Dunne and advised him that unless he wanted to walk with a limp for the rest of his life, he required a corrective operation on his ankle.

Van Hull came to see him while he was recuperating. He was thin but otherwise his old movie-star self. General Donovan had called him back to Washington to help make the case for keeping the OSS in business. He held out a soft, circular package wrapped in plain brown paper.

Dunne tore off the wrapping. Inside was a roll of toilet paper.

“I promised, remember?”

“I’ll keep it as a reminder of our vacation in Slovakia with Maxwell Tours.”

“Minute I found that photo of Mike Jahn in my pocket, I knew who put it there.”

“Figured you went to a lot of trouble to keep it.”

“The quote on the back is from Yeats.”

“Whaddaya know? My favorite poet.”

Van Hull laughed. “Mine, too. ‘When You Are Old and Grey’ is the title.” Van Hull handed Dunne a second package in the same brown wrapping.

“What’s this?”

“Open it and see.”

Inside was a book. He read the title aloud: “
The Oxford Book of Modern Verse
.”

“A first edition. Yeats edited it. Given your newfound love of poetry, I thought you’d enjoy it.”

That was the last Dunne saw of Van Hull. He’d believed their paths had permanently diverged until Bassante’s phone call.

The pub had filled up. The crowd made it feel less gloomy. He resisted having another scotch. Didn’t see much use in waiting until tomorrow to give his answer.

When she opened the door to Columbia Casualty & Life, Miss Thompson couldn’t hide her surprise. “Why, you caught me just in time.”

He stepped inside. The office was as empty as it had been earlier. “Everyone has left for the day. I was just closing up.”

“The answer is yes.”

“I’ll convey it right away.” Her wide smile gleamed with alabaster teeth.

L
ONDON

S
EVERAL TIMES
B
ASSANTE SCHEDULED MEETINGS AND EACH TIME
postponed because of “urgent business.” His patience at an end, Dunne was surprised to find Miss Thompson at his door, pert and pretty in fur-collared coat and gray hat, brim turned up, with a bottle wrapped in Christmas gift paper. “’Tis the season. Major Bassante hopes this ration of French bubbly will keep you in the holiday spirit. He also asked I convey his personal regret at the unavoidable nature of these delays.”

“Tell him thanks, but I’m on my way home.” He forced an unconvincing grin. “Merry Christmas.”

At the landing, she wiggled the fingers of her right hand, a nonchalant good-bye. “I trust you’ve been good so Santa won’t feel compelled to shove a lump of coal up your … your”—she put forefinger to lips as if searching for the right word—“stocking.”

Christmas Eve, he went solo to midnight Mass at the Jesuit church on Farm Street, a long ceremony, three priests, clouds of incense, and a well-trained boys’ choir. Before Mass, he’d shared with Bud Mulholland the bottle of Dom Pérignon Bassante had sent via Miss Thompson. He dozed during the sermon. In a suddenly empty church, Miss Thompson did a stripper’s strut down the aisle, hips swaying rhythmically, fingers wiggling enticingly. She let her coat drop to the floor. Besides a sparkling, champagne
smile all she was wearing were coal-black stockings and black high heels.

He woke with a start. No kind of dream for church. The altar boys repeated the concluding words of the Suscipiat with clarity and emphasis: “
… totiusque Ecclesiae suae sanctae.
”

He waited until Christmas morning to open the present Roberta had sent: blue-and-white-striped shirt and tie from Rogers Peet that matched perfectly. The accompanying letter was affectionate and understanding. She knew he wouldn’t have put off his return if it hadn’t involved business of real consequence. She just hoped it would be over very soon. “It feels like forever, Fin:
Long the skies are overcast / But soon the clouds will pass / You’ll be here at last.
”

Rush of homesickness surged from stomach to throat.
Long ago and far away.
Goddamn Bassante and his last-minute pitch.

Dunne wore the shirt and tie to the Christmas dinner Mulholland had booked in the private dining facilities of a high-class hotel.
No greasy, skinny-assed goose, I promise
, Mulholland wrote on the invitation.
This will be an
American
affair from soup to nuts.
He’d hired his own cook—a colored sergeant who boasted he’d helped run General Eisenhower’s kitchen—and had him prepare a Yuletide feast, centerpiece an outsized rib roast liberated from the larder of the General Staff.

The guests comprised a mix of former OSS men, Army Air Corps, and Naval Intelligence, several accompanied by slim, wan, impossibly polite English girls in their late twenties. The girls fussed over the hors d’oeuvres. The men mustered at the bar. Mulholland handed the cook the carving knife and jokingly threatened to use it on him if the roast were overdone. “Better be the American way, medium rare, or else!”