Blue Madonna (9 page)

“It's a secluded spot, a clear field in a small valley off the beaten path,” Harding said. “We're dropping a number of equipment canisters, too, with weapons for the
Maquis
as well as for Noble. Food and medical supplies for the airmen.” The
Maquis
were Resistance bands that had taken to the hills, some eager to fight, others more eager to flee the Nazi roundups for forced labor camps.

“And, I assume, a radio,” Kaz said, leaning in to study the map.

“Yes,” Harding answered. “Your other man is a trained wireless operator. He'll take over communications for Noble.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to focus on the practicalities. “We touch down in a deserted pasture. This guy is waiting for us, and there's equipment canisters scattered all around. We collect them and lug them how many miles to this château?” I was eager to see Diana—I needed to get used to calling her Juliet—but I wanted to be sure this little journey actually made sense. Outside of a London office, that was.

“No, you carry out the wireless and your weapons. Hide the canisters as best you can, and organize a party to recover them once you've made contact.”

“Makes sense,” I said, checking with Kaz, who nodded. “Then we grab Switch, call for another Lysander, and head home?” I wanted to add Diana to the passenger list, but I doubted that was in the cards.

“Basically,” Harding said. “Once you know it's safe.”

“Colonel,” Kaz asked, “if it is safe for us to land, should it not be safe for us to depart as well?”

“We'll go over that on the way to Tangmere,” Harding said, glancing at his watch. “Right now, Boyle, the general wants to see you.”

I always enjoyed seeing Uncle Ike. For some strange reason, he'd taken a liking to me, even though I'd been in short pants at a family wedding the last time I saw him before the war. Out here, I think he liked having a relative around, someone he could relax with for an unguarded moment. He also didn't mind having a detective he could trust, which occasionally meant sharing a burden of truth with him.

But right now, I had my own burden—the certain knowledge that Colonel Harding was holding something back.

Chapter Eleven

I raised my
hand to knock on the door to the first floor conference room. As I did, it opened, and I nearly gave Deputy Supreme Commander Leigh-Mallory a rap on the nose.

“Steady on, Boyle,” Leigh-Mallory said as I tried to recover. He clutched a pipe in one hand and a thick folder in the other. He studied me, his clear blue eyes a perfect match to his Royal Air Force uniform. “They've finally demoted you, eh?”

“It was bound to happen, sir,” I said, stepping aside. He raised a feeble smile, not much interested in whatever story was behind the loss of my captain's bars. He had more on his mind.

“Ike's waiting for you. Be a good lad and cheer him up, will you?”

I shut the door behind me, entering a room hazy with tobacco smoke. Two wooden trestle tables were pushed together, surrounded by huge maps of France and Europe, mounted on boards and leaning against polished walnut walls. Uncle Ike stood at the window, gazing out at the road, smoking one of his ever-present Lucky Strikes.

“William,” he said, turning to greet me. “It's good to see you. Come, have a seat.”

“Thanks, Uncle Ike,” I said as we sat down next to each other, the huge map of northern France looming over us. I only called him
uncle
when we were alone, and if it looked as if he wanted me to. This was one of those days. His face was drawn, the bags under his eyes grey with fatigue. He smelled of ashes and stale coffee. “How are you?”

“I'm fine, William. I hope your time in the stockade wasn't too terrible.”

“No, not at all,” I said, surprised Uncle Ike knew about it. “Colonel Harding has been going over the next step in this mission.”

“I know,” he said. “That's why I wanted to talk to you. I need you to know how important this is, William. One thing we can't afford in this war is to let our own people work against us. I don't want anything to get in the way of supplying our fighting men with every single damn thing they need. And these gangsters and deserters are doing exactly that.”

“They're running a huge enterprise,” I said. “I knew there was pilferage going on, but this Morgan Gang is operating on a massive scale.”

“It's like dry rot, William,” he said. “You think everything is fine, and then one day the roof caves in. We can't let that happen. Our boys have to trust us. They have to know we're doing everything we can to give them the best odds in the coming fight.” He twisted his cigarette out and stood, walking to the window while the last wisp of smoke swirled and faded away. I gave him a minute. He was about to send thousands of young men into the unknown, invading Hitler's Atlantic Wall. Many wouldn't come back. I guessed Uncle Ike couldn't stand the thought of anyone sitting things out and getting rich while some kid died on a beach in France.

“Leigh-Mallory thinks the airborne assault may be a disaster,” Uncle Ike said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He fired up another Lucky. “He wants to call it off. Says the paratroopers will sustain seventy-five percent casualties. Worse for the glider troops.”

“That's horrible, General.” It was time to be military. Now I understood why Leigh-Mallory told me to cheer him up.

“Yes. As will be the casualties if we don't have airborne troops in place to block German reinforcements. The French Resistance will do what it can, but it won't be enough without the airborne divisions.”

“I get the idea it's getting too close to call that operation off,” I ventured.

“The clock is ticking, William, for us all. I have to get down to Southwick House on the coast. Time to check in with the weatherman.” I stood, and he gave me a wan smile as he placed his hand on my shoulder. “Godspeed, William. I'm entrusting this mission to you because it's that important. I know you can do it. Bring that fellow back safe and sound.”

“I will, General. Don't worry, sir.”

“William, at this point all I can do is worry. The entire enterprise is about to be placed in the hands of brave young men. Commanding officers will sit and worry while these boys do the fighting and dying. Now go finish up with Colonel Harding. I've taken enough of your time.”

The busiest man in Europe had apologized for taking a few minutes of my time. I rubbed my eyes, which stung from the thick cigarette smoke, then squinted and tried to find Dreux on the map. There it was, west of Paris and due north of Chartres. Not a big city, but a number of roads converged there from the south and east. Roads German reinforcements might take on their way to Normandy, roads that would need to be blocked to ease the pressure on the bridgehead.

I had a good idea what might keep us from making this a quick round trip.

“Kaz and Sam
are waiting for you out front,” Big Mike told me when I returned from Ike's office. “We're going to the Red Cross Club in Piccadilly Circus for some chow.” He had Blake in tow, freshly bandaged, and we walked downstairs.

“You guys going to be bunking together?” I asked as we exited the front door, standing aside for a couple of admirals.

“Yeah, a coupla sergeants at SHAEF,” Big Mike said. “Hiding in plain sight.” Blake frowned, but stayed close to him.

We stood on the front steps as I scanned the curb for Kaz and Harding. Olive-drab staff cars were a dime a dozen in Saint James's Square, and it took me a few seconds to spot them. I waved and turned to say my farewell to Big Mike.

A second later, a shot echoed against the buildings. Granite flaked behind us as two more shots rang out. Big Mike dove on top of Blake. I knelt and searched for the source of the gunfire, trying to focus as people scattered and screamed all around me.

I spotted a truck at the far side of the square. The rear canvas flap came down as it pulled away, heading fast for a side street. I ran after it, drawing my pistol and pushing aside a couple of slow-moving colonels as I tried to keep the truck in sight. I heard honking and turned the corner in time to see my quarry disappear in a cloud of smoke.

Smoke grenades. The street filled with thick white clouds, traffic halted, and panicked pedestrians began running in my direction. I holstered my weapon and stood aside, letting the crowd pass. On the other side of the smoke screen they had probably already switched vehicles. Pursuit was useless, so I made my way back to Norfolk House.

Big Mike was holding Blake upright while Kaz stood guard, Webley at the ready.

“Is he hurt?” I asked.

“Only where I fell on him,” Big Mike said.

Blake's face was pale, his eyes wide with fear. “How'd they know I'd be here?” he asked. It was a good question.

“No idea,” I said. “But be thankful they're not marksmen. Those shots were high.” Still, Blake was rattled, and with good reason. We knew CID was compromised, which was why our small group had taken over. Yet word had leaked out, or the Morgans had somebody at SHAEF on the payroll.

“Change of plans,” Harding said, coming out of the building. “I made a call. We have a safe place to hide Blake.”

“Where?” I asked. Harding didn't answer. He whispered to Big Mike, who nodded his understanding. He said his goodbyes to Kaz and me, telling us we'd better come back in one piece, then hustled Blake around the corner.

“Let's get out of here. I'll drive,” Harding said. He took the wheel of the big Plymouth staff car, and we maneuvered through London traffic, me up front and Kaz in the back. We both kept our pistols drawn until we were well clear of the city.

“Where did you send Blake?” I asked, holstering my weapon.

“To Archie Chapman,” Harding said. “He'll keep him safe and well guarded.”

“Are you sure he can be trusted?” Kaz asked.

“I know he can. He has a personal as well as a professional interest,” Harding said. “The third member of your team is Topper Chapman.”

“Good Lord,” Kaz murmured. “What a coincidence.”

I didn't believe in coincidences. Topper's old man was Archie Chapman. We'd sparred in London awhile back, when Topper was still nothing but a gangster helping Archie run his territory. But Topper had that British itch to do his bit, and he ended up being recruited by Kim Philby, who last I heard was running SOE down in Italy.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Archie had a condition for playing that part in my court-martial.”

“He did,” Harding said. “It was Archie who alerted CID to Alvin Blake in the first place, hoping to do some damage to the gang that was moving in on him.”

“Then he found out about Blake being shot down, and figured we'd go after him,” I said, trying to see things from Archie's perspective. “But why Topper? I thought he went with Philby to the Med.”

“Philby's back, running the XX Committee,” Harding said. Double cross, the symbol of the counterintelligence game. “Topper came with him. He's an explosives expert and trained as a radio operator. Talents in demand for missions to occupied France.”

“Damn, Archie doesn't miss an opportunity,” I said. “He knows Topper is in for dangerous work, so why not benefit the family business at the same time?”

“His words almost exactly,” Harding agreed. “He has a notion that Topper will command more respect among his criminal pals if he protects their territory at the same time he's killing Nazis. Everyone wins.”

“A strange family,” Kaz put in. “I am glad we never ran into Mother Chapman. She must be a nightmare.”

“I wonder how Topper's doing,” I said. “He's probably seen some fighting during the last few months.” Not the kind where two bruisers held a guy by the arms while you pummeled him, either. Topper could have sat out the war. He had a phony medical certificate to prove it. For a gangster, he had guts.

We continued south on roads that were normally filled with convoys and military vehicles of every description. Today we had the roadway to ourselves.

“We spend tonight at Tangmere and fly out tomorrow night?” I asked Harding.

“That's right.”

I did a quick calculation, counting on my fingers. “So D-Day is June fifth.”

“Why do you say that?” Kaz asked, leaning into the front seat. “Did General Eisenhower tell you?”

“No,” I said, watching Harding very carefully not saying anything. “Just think about what we know. We're BIGOTs, and no BIGOT is allowed in a combat area prior to D-Day.”

“Right.” Kaz nodded.

“We're going to have an easy trip in, or as easy as flying behind enemy lines can be,” I said. “Which means the invasion won't have started quite yet. By the time we land in the early hours of the fifth of June, things will have started. Paratroop landings first, I'd guess, then amphibious landings at dawn.”

“So we won't be violating the BIGOT policy,” Kaz said. “The invasion will have begun. And that will also complicate our leaving, since the Germans will be rushing reinforcements to the front. Obvious, now that you say it.”

“Your logic is sound. Some of the first troops are already aboard transports, stretched out along the coast all the way from Dartmouth to Portsmouth. They'll set sail tomorrow night and hit the beaches at first light,” Harding said.

“That's why there's no one on the roads,” I said, gesturing at the empty lane opposite.

“No one gets out of the restricted coastal area,” Harding said. “And everyone who needs to be in it already is. Except for us. Needless to say, mum's the word, even if everyone else seems to have figured it out.”

“What else can you tell us, Colonel?” Kaz asked.

“You're going in as Jedburghs,” Harding said. “That's the codename for three-man teams, a joint operation between SOE, the Office of Strategic Services, and the Free French. Boyle, you'll go in as a sergeant. Blake would naturally mistrust an officer, so you'll have the same rank as him: buck sergeant.”

“Are there many Jedburgh teams?” Kaz asked.

“We're dropping them all over France to hook up with the Resistance and provide weapons and support. You could meet up with others or their Resistance groups.”

“Why the cover story?” I asked.

“Our latest information is that at least one other member of Blake's B-26 crew is a member of the Morgan Gang. A goon, a real knuckle-buster. We don't want him to get suspicious. And your cover story is partially true, which will help. Topper Chapman is an excellent wireless radio and explosives expert. He'll work with the local Resistance and the Noble circuit. It's got to look like you are all there as a Jedburgh team, so you can keep Blake safe and wait until a rescue can be organized.”

“By Lysander, I assume?” Kaz asked.

“Yes. We can take four passengers out in a pinch,” Harding said. “Make sure Blake is in the first group. Once Noble is back in radio contact with London, plan to arrange an escape route for the rest across the Pyrenees to Spain. Or a Lysander pickup if the situation is stable.”

“General Eisenhower thinks this is pretty important,” I said.

“It is, rest assured,” Harding said. “GIs are going to be flooding into France. Once we get off the beaches and capture a port, there'll be thousands more. Some are bound to think about deserting.”

“There'd be plenty of places to hide in France, with bombed-out towns and refugees on the run,” I said. “It would be easy to desert and live off the supply chain.”

“Indeed,” Kaz said. “Everyone will be armed to the teeth.”

“Blake said he'd name names,” Harding said. “Now that his cousin is safe, thanks to us, we need him to keep his word. Show him this as soon as you can.” He tapped a file on the seat. Inside was the photograph of Kaz and me with Cousin Donald in front of Buckingham Palace.

“What if he keeps his mouth shut now that his cousin is safe?” I asked, folding the photo and stuffing it in my pocket.

“Convince him,” Harding said, staring at the green fields beyond, as rain began to streak the glass.