Call to Duty (11 page)

“Compliments now!” Carroll laughed. “You must want some big favor.” He waved Mazie to a seat and sat down next to her. “No doubt, something to do with the abduction of Senator Courtland’s daughter,” he added.

“Am I too late,” she asked, “or do I have to get in line with all the rest?” He gave her a noncommittal smile. “You do play your cards close to the chest,” she told him.

“You know I’ll help if I can,” Carroll told her. He listened impassively as she recapped the situation. When she was finished, he turned and looked at a group picture on the wall labeled “Task Force Alpha.” “That’s Simon Mado,” he told her, pointing to a man seated in the middle. “He’s one of the most competent managers in the service and, without a doubt, the biggest asshole in the Air Force. Be careful how you handle him.” He looked at her, his decision made. “We’ve got agents in the area and can help you.” He stared at her. “That’s closehold information not to go outside this office.”

“Does the CIA know?” Mazie asked.

“You’ve got to be kidding. It was pure luck and a spinoff from another, very much approved operation, that got our operatives in place. We have no intention of losing these sources because of bureaucratic infighting over who controls them.” The CIA and many of the other intelligence-gathering agencies of the United States were experts at high-tech reconnaissance and monitoring communications. While they could count the tiles on the roof of buildings and tell when the lawns were watered or how many times the toilets were flushed, they knew little about what went on inside. The Air Force Special Activities Center under Carroll had a different philosophy of operations. “I’ll set you up with a contact,” Carroll said as he buzzed for his assistant.

Michael Cagliari, the assistant to the President for national security, took pains to corner General Leachmeyer, the Army Chief of Staff, alone during a cocktail party at the elegant Georgetown townhouse of one of the power brokers of Washington, D.C., society. The men spoke quietly and three minutes later, Leachmeyer had agreed to let the National Security Council use the services of one Lieutenant Colonel John Author Mackay, United States Army.

Tosh Pontowski was sitting up in bed when her husband walked in to share a morning cup of coffee. They exchanged looks and he knew immediately that the wolf was back. “It’s too soon to tell,” she said. Lupus, the disease that ravaged her body, came and went with frightening unpredictability and intensity. “I suppose ‘l’affaire Courtland’ still has top billing,” she said, changing the subject.

“Along with the balance of trade, a health care system that is crumbling, and a Congress that doesn’t understand the meaning of compromise or fiscal responsibility.” He made himself comfortable in a chair next to her bed.

“All can be dealt with.”

“In time, love, in time.” He smiled at her, as always, amazed at her unfailing optimism. “Unfortunately, time is the one commodity in short supply with Courtland. We are dealing with too many unknowns—”

“And given the uncertainty,” she interrupted, “who to rely on.”

“Yes,” he replied, “and when to act.”

“You’ve had to live with those uncertainties before.”

“Yes, I have,” he said, remembering.

1943
Off the Coast of Holland, near Zandvoort

Zack Pontowski lay in the bottom of the small boat in two inches of water listening to the urgent whispers of the two men who had pulled him out of the frigid waters of the North Sea off the Dutch coast. Why are they whispering? he thought. In the distance, he could hear the dog barking again. Zack strained to hear what they were saying, surprised that he was having trouble understanding them. Because his mother was German, he was fluent in that language and had been mistaken for a native German many times.

One of the men bent over him and examined the wound on his face while the other started to row. The pilot flinched as the man’s fingers explored the cuts on his face. Zack understood him to say, “He’s bleeding badly from two cuts. Probably smashed his face into the windscreen.”

The rower muttered something like “The patrol has moved south.”

Then it came to Zack—they were speaking Dutch, not German. “I’m an American and speak German,” he said in German. It was a mistake. The rower lifted his oar out of the oarlock and brought it down hard, knocking him out.

Dust filtered down through the cracks in the boards three
feet over Zack’s head and he sneezed, waking himself up. His head pounded and he tried to see in the darkness. He could feel a thick bandage wrapped over his head and under his chin. His right leg ached. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings. He was lying on a hard pallet in a crawl space between floors and could hear voices above and below him. He was thankful for the thick down comforter that covered him since he was naked. “What the hell…” he muttered in English.

A hatch near him popped open and the head of a teenage girl appeared. “Are you feeling better?” she asked, her voice marked with the harsh guttural consonants of the Dutch language.

“Yes,” Zack answered. “I think so. I’m hungry…” The hatch dropped closed and he could hear the girl asking her mother for food. Then she was back, passing him a large bowl of soup and a spoon. “
Danke schon
,” he said in German.

“It is better if you say, ‘Dank u,’” she said in passable English. “Speaking German almost got you killed.” She pulled herself into the hatchway and sat on the edge of the opening, and obvious interest in her eyes.

“What happened? Where am I?”

“You’re far from the sea,” she explained. “They brought you here to avoid the search.” She paused, studying him in the faint light. “You were lucky…two young men were trying to escape to England in a small boat and saw you crash in the sea…. They got to you before the Germans…. When you spoke German, they almost threw you back into the water. Then you started speaking English, mumbling a name. You were in a daze. They were going to drown you but thought twice and came back to shore.”

“Ruffy,” Zack said. “I was asking about Pilot Officer Andrew Ruffum. Have they found him?”

The girl shook her head. The news drove a wedge of unbearable sadness into Zack, his face clouded and he took three quick breaths. Another, more positive emotion eased the pain in his chest as he refused to believe that Ruffy was dead—his best friend was missing in action, much better than being a known casualty. The girl watched him as he struggled
with his inner turmoil. Then she said, “Finish your food. A man will come to talk to you tonight. I’ll get your uniform.”

“What’s your name?”

“Never ask names,” she said. “It is better that way.”

The girl was back in moments with his freshly laundered and mended uniform. He almost passed out when he sat up. “I can’t believe I’m so weak,” he muttered. The girl scooted across to him and helped him dress, now very interested in his body. “How long was I out?” he asked.

“You’ve been delirious with fever for four days. You are very badly hurt. Rest for now.” She disappeared down the crawl hatch and left him in darkness.

The ‘man’ that came to see him that night was a stout woman in her fifties. She quickly explained that she was from the Dutch underground and they had to move him. “An informer…the Germans know you are around here…hurry.” She helped him out of the crawl space and into the kitchen below. A man was there to catch him when he fell through.

“Where is the doctor?” the woman demanded. Zack could hear a hardness in her voice and she almost spat when she said “doctor.”

“She’s waiting in the car,” the man answered. They helped Zack change into civilian clothes, don a heavy topcoat, and then walk outside to enter the backseat of a large black Mercedes. They made no attempt to hide him and covered his legs with a blanket.

The man slipped behind the wheel to drive and the older woman was beside him in the rear seat. “Your name is Jan van Duren. You’re my son and were attacked and beaten by Dutch bullies. You suffered head injuries and we’re taking you to a specialist clinic for treatment. When we get stopped by a patrol or come to a checkpoint, say nothing and let her do the talking.” Zack could only see the dark silhouette of the doctor’s head in the front seat.

They drove in silence through the night until they reached a well-lighted and permanently constructed roadblock. An officious-looking German sergeant approached the car as the doctor stepped out with their papers. In the light, Zack could see she was wearing a heavy cape. The sergeant jerked the papers out of her hand as she explained their business. She spoke with a distinct French accent. The sergeant scanned
their papers and he suddenly became courteous and respectful. “A moment, please, Frau Doktor,” he said and disappeared into the guard shack. The woman stood patiently and another guard came up and offered her a cigarette, which she declined. The guard was not offended and stood there, shifting from one foot to another. Then she turned and Zack saw her face in the light for the first time.

She was beautiful. Her dark hair was pulled severely back in the manner of nurses and accentuated her high cheekbones and finely arched eyebrows. Her mouth was set in a grim line but held the promise of a beautiful smile. With a rush of emotion, he realized what made the guard so uncomfortable. “She’s the flame unto the moth,” he said in German.

The older woman glanced at him. “Men,” she fumed. “You speak excellent German. Remember, you have a serious head wound so slur your words and act dazed.”

The sergeant hurried out of the guard shack and handed their papers to the woman. He gave a short bow and held the car door open for her. She settled into the seat and from the look on the sergeant’s face, Zack was certain she had given him a smile. He stood back at attention to let them pass. “Everything is in order,” the woman said over her shoulder, her voice soft and lyrical with its heavy French accent. Zack wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice, and look at her while she answered.

“Of course,” the older woman snapped. “The only thing false is the patient. Drive on,” she ordered as the barrier in front of them lifted. As it came up, Zack could see the distinctive plaque announcing “Zoll” mounted on the bar. They were crossing a border.

“What country are we in now?” he asked.

“Germany,” the woman answered.

“This is crazy,” Zack protested. “I want to escape from the Germans, not jump into their arms.”

The woman started talking in a low voice. “The manhunt for you in the Netherlands is closing in and this is the quickest way to get you to safety.” There was pain in her words. “My husband is working with the Nazis…”

“Madeline!” the driver barked, “that is enough. No more.” The woman nodded. She would not tell the American that her husband was fiercely loyal to the House of Orange and was
using his position in the headquarters of Reichskommisar Arthur Seyss-Inquart to pass information to the Dutch underground.

“Our son was brutally beaten by Dutch students because of my husband’s activities. He suffered head injuries and it was arranged to transport him to a special clinic in Baden-Baden, Germany, for treatment…” It was becoming harder for the woman to continue, “But we are moving you in his place…. It has all been arranged.”

“But what’s going to happen to your son?” Zack asked.

“He was murdered yesterday as he slept in his room. That’s when it was decided for you to take his place.”

“I’m sorry,” Zack murmured. Then more strongly, “Who killed him?”

“Her,” the woman said and jutted her chin in the direction of the woman in the front seat.

Confusion swirled through Zack’s head as he tried to tie all the loose ends together. Supposedly, he was in the hands of the Dutch underground but he was now in Germany traveling in the guise of a Dutch traitor’s son who had been murdered by a beautiful French doctor sitting less than three feet from him. His head ached with it all.

A sign announced they were entering Monchen-Gladbach. “You board a train here,” the older woman said, “for the rest of the journey. We have to return to The Hague.” Zack said nothing as he was helped into a wheelchair that had been strapped to the back of the Mercedes. The older woman pushed him into the train station while the young doctor walked briskly ahead. The driver followed carrying two suitcases, As they entered the main concourse, the doctor asked two young German soldiers for directions and they willingly escorted the small group to the correct platform. The soldiers gave the group an appearance of authority and the conductor ushered them to an empty compartment on the waiting train.

The woman and driver left and Zack found himself alone with the doctor as the train started to move. She raised her chin and turned her gaze onto Zack, studying him. Her pale blue eyes were incredibly bright and drew him in. “You are Jan van Duren,” she reminded him. “I am your attending doctor. Please remember you have a serious head wound.” For the next twenty minutes she filled him in on the real Jan van
Duren. Occasionally, she would pause and have him repeat back all she had told him.

The conductor knocked on their door and entered to examine their tickets and travel papers. “We’ll be stopping at Düsseldorf in a few minutes before continuing to Cologne,” he explained. “You need to change trains at Cologne for Mannheim. Change trains again at Mannheim for Karlsruhe. From there, you can transfer to a train to Baden-Baden. So far it is quiet and the British are staying home tonight.” The train slowed as they pulled into Düsseldorf. “I must go,” the conductor said. “I’ll try to ensure your privacy.”

“What’s your name?” Zack asked his traveling companion when they were alone. He was captivated by her accent and wanted to hear her talk. She ignored him and stood up, lowering the window to their compartment as the warning shriek of an air raid siren started to build. A sense of utter helplessness and fear cut through Zack as the wail filled the small compartment. All the lights in the train went out and the woman sat down and huddled in a corner.

He stood at the side of the window so he could see forward. “We’re pulling into the station,” he said. “We’ll be okay.” He was surprised at how calm and assured his voice sounded. Then he realized that the sixth sense that warned him of danger was quiet, sending no signals.