Call to Duty (15 page)

After Kamigami had signed the paperwork that took him off Army rolls and put him on the Directed Assignment Roster, he asked for a training schedule and saw that a team from A Squadron was scheduled for a fifteen-mile cross-country march. “I don’t have a rucksack with me,” he told Caz, “but maybe someone will lend me one.” Caz told him that he would get the word to A Squadron.

When Kamigami walked out to meet the team, he sensed the conspiratorial mood and sighed inwardly, resigning himself to what was coming. It was the good-natured get-the-CSM type of attitude he had experienced before. He looked around to see whose rucksack had been loaded down with rocks and would magically appear in front of him when he asked to borrow one for the march. He decided to play the game. “Can I borrow someone’s rucksack?” he asked. On cue, a rucksack was produced and he was puzzled for it looked normal and had no unusual bulges indicating it had been packed with rocks. Then he picked it up and estimated it weighed close to 150 pounds. They had raided the physical conditioning room and packed it with weights. They are resourceful buggers, he decided. The CSM easily shouldered
the rucksack and moved out, the team from A Squadron following.

The first five miles went at the usual pace and Kamigami moved among the men, asking about their backgrounds and what operations they had been on. About half had been on Special Operations in the Persian Gulf War and he detected a certain smug confidence among that group that worried him. Then he changed into a higher gear and picked up the pace. Two miles later, the first complaint was heard but the voice was quickly smothered. Now the men started to spread out and only the most determined kept pace behind Kamigami. He heard someone ask, “Did he get the right rucksack?” The answer was obscene.

Kamigami again picked up the pace. “What the hell’s goin’ on,” one of the trailers moaned. “He’s an old man.” Again, the answer was unprintable.

Green headbands, commonly called drive-on rags, started to appear and the march began in earnest. “Look at him,” a voice said, now full of awe, “he’s hydroplaning the earth.” The stragglers started to encourage each other, determined not to be left behind, and most of the men were able to follow their new CSM into the compound in more or less good order. Half of them sank to the ground, thankful the ordeal was over.

“What asshole said he was an old man?” came from ankle level. “He smoked us.”

“Normal rules don’t apply to CSMs,” a sergeant, still able to stand, said.

Kamigami handed the rucksack to its owner, careful to keep his face impassive and not show the pain he felt. “Enjoyable,” he said. “We’ll do better tomorrow.” He left the men in stunned silence and headed for his office. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and sank into a chair. You are getting old, he thought. That hurt more than it should have. It is time to retire. But not until I fix what’s wrong.

Then he allowed a smile, certain that he had found the perfect assignment to end his career, pulled the local phone book out of a drawer, and searched the yellow pages until he found the section he wanted: livestock dealers.

The White House, Washington, D.C.

The President was silent as he slipped the three photos back into the folder. The director of central intelligence, Bobby Burke, cast a furtive glance at Leo Cox, taking his cues from the President’s chief of staff. Cox gave a slight shake of his head, warning Burke not to talk. Pontowski stared at the painting of Theodore Roosevelt, his favorite President, hanging over the fireplace. It was so much different in your time, he thought. Or was it? Perhaps the moral choices were easier to see. He tried not to think about the grisly photos of Troy Spencer, mute testimony to his savage and brutal execution. He let the light and airy atmosphere of the Oval Office work its magic and calm his racing emotions. He focused on the seal of the United States in the center of the rich royal-blue carpet that covered the floor.

“How reliable is the source?” Pontowski finally asked, tapping the folder, once again the master of his emotions. “Is this really Troy Spencer?”

“We cannot get a positive ID from these photos,” Burke replied. “And we have no secondary sources for confirmation.”

“Is the source good enough to act on?” Pontowski probed.

Burke dropped his head and took a deep breath. Acting on one source of intelligence grated on every conservative instinct in his bones. “I can only tell you that this source has been absolutely reliable in the past,” he said, hedging his answer.

“What other resources does the CIA have in place?” Cox asked. Burke only shook his head in answer.

“Do you have the resources to mount a covert rescue operation?” Cox was like a pit bull worrying its dinner.

“Yes, we do,” Burke answered, brightening. “But to employ them, we’d have to get approval from the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. They take their watchdog responsibilities over our covert operations very seriously. They’ll approve it—eventually—after they’ve covered their political behinds.”

“How long to get approval?” Cox asked.

“Two, maybe three weeks, to get their blessing,” Burke answered, glancing at Pontowski, trying to gauge his reaction.

Pontowski touched the folder. “I want this report sanitized
for dissemination to the key players. Just say that we have an unconfirmed report from a highly reliable source that Mr. Spencer was killed by his guards while attempting to escape and that we are trying to confirm through second sources. Bobby, I don’t want these photos to go beyond this office.” He shoved the folder with its grisly contents across his desk. “Get with your people and come up with a rescue plan to get them out. Start putting it together but keep it strictly in-house. Don’t go to the committee looking for approval yet.” Burke nodded and left, eager to get to work.

After the door had closed, Pontowski studied TR’s portrait, wondering what he would have done. “I don’t think the CIA can do this,” he said. “I’m thinking of using Delta Force.”

“It’s tailor-made for them,” Cox agreed. “But we have to solve the basic problem first.” Pontowski’s heavy eyebrows arched at this. “We don’t know,” Cox continued, “where the hostages are. Once we do, everyone’s going to want a piece of the action. You know the military, always looking for a way to justify their existence. Too many cooks, et cetera.”

“And this from an old warhorse,” Pontowski said, a sardonic grin splitting his face, recalling Cox’s career in the Air Force.

“Fact of life, sir.”

“This is one of those times I worry about our intelligence services,” Pontowski said. “Why can’t we match the Israelis or the standards set by Allied intelligence during World War Two?”

1943
The Rhine River, near Rastatt, Germany

Chantal found a small rowboat behind a shed less than fifty feet from the Rhine River. She concealed Zack in the shed while she guided the old horse and carriage deep into the dense woods a half mile back from the river. She unhitched the horse and hobbled him so he couldn’t wander away. Then she ran back to where she had left Zack, relieved to find his fever going down, and dragged the rowboat down to the water. She deposited Zack into the bow and used a narrow six-foot-long plank to scull them out into the current. The
early-morning mist provided a welcome cover and she let the current do most of the work. They bumped against French soil near the small town of Seltz, three miles downstream from where they had put in. There, Chantal simply made a phone call and established contact with the French Resistance. Two hours later, they were hidden in a safe house miles from the Rhine.

“Mademoiselle,” the woman who lived in the house said, “I wish we could get him to a hospital—” she gave an expressive shrug—“but this is the Alsace and loyalties are not always what they seem. We are too close to Germany.” Chantal told her that she understood. “Also,” the woman continued, “we should move him before the Boche start a search.”

“What did she say?” Zack asked in German, not understanding French.

“Don’t speak German in my house,” the woman rasped at Chantal.

Chantal nodded. She recognized the deep and total hatred that many of her countrymen carried for the Germans and everything German. She also appreciated how the same hatred was mother’s milk to the resistance movement, nourishing it, keeping it alive in the dark winter of early 1943 when only a fierce hatred could motivate ordinary people to rise above themselves and willingly take risks they would never contemplate in normal life. In quiet moments she had come to terms with her own feelings and had totally committed her life to the liberation of her country, partially out of personal dedication, but also to erase the stain of her father’s treason when he had thrown in with the Nazis. But she had a problem: German was the only common language she and Zack shared. They had to leave. “The Germans will be searching for us by tomorrow. We must move on tonight.” The woman jerked her head in agreement and left to arrange it.

“Don’t speak German,” Chantal told Zack in German.

“I hope you speak English then,” Zack said.

“I’ll learn,” Chantal replied. She had a flair for languages and had always wanted to learn English. That was the beginning of the English lessons that would fill the long hours of hiding during the next weeks.

Zack touched her hand. “Hand,” Chantal said. He pointed to her eyes. “The—”

“Don’t say ‘the,’” Zack corrected.

“Eyes,” Chantal said. They were bundled up in a hay loft on a remote farm in the Dordonne. The French Underground had conveyed them across France, hiding them in a series of houses and moving them in broad daylight when the roads were clear. Chantal had given him geography lessons about her country while they traveled and estimated they were about halfway between Limoges and Toulouse. Now they were south of the Dordonne River, well inside Vichy France and passing time with English lessons. Zack touched her elbow. “Elbow,” Chantal said. He pointed at her breasts, merriment in his eyes. “Tits,” Chantal said, catching the glint in his eyes and correctly interpreting it. “You’re making fun of me,” she scolded in German. Zack laughed and burrowed into the straw. “Tell me the correct word. This is important.” She bombarded him with straw.

He gave up. “Okay, okay. It’s ‘breasts.’” He crawled out of the straw and gave a little wince. He had used the last of the sulfa and his leg was bothering him again. He wiggled a finger, extended it toward her and barely touched her stomach.

“Belly,” she intoned. Then it came to her. “Tell me the correct word,” she demanded in German.

“Stomach,” he said. She repeated the word a few times and then looked expectantly at him, now well into the game. He pointed to her rear end.

“Tosh,” she said.

“Tush,” he corrected.

“Now what is the correct word?” she demanded, her features alive with amusement. A playful mood swept over her and he was enchanted by the young girl who flitted out from behind the reserved mask.

“Buttocks.”

She rolled the word around in her mind, forming her lips to pronounce it; then she scowled, the sound an assault on her French sensibilities. “I like ‘tosh’ better,” she announced.

Zack laughed. “So do I.”

That night his fever came back.

The small delivery van pulled into the courtyard between the house and the barn shortly after first light. A thin, nondescript man got out and spoke quietly to the farmer before they walked into the barn. Chantal heard their voices and sat up in the straw shivering, chilled by the cold air. She did not want the newcomer to think she was driven by fear and huddled in her cape.

“It’s time to go,” the newcomer said as he pulled himself up into the loft.

“I’m very worried. His fever is back and the infection in his leg…” Chantal’s voice trailed off.

“Yes, it is a worry. But we must go now. The police are looking for someone, but the Germans are not involved yet. Must be small cheese.” He helped Zack down the ladder. “Easy there, lad,” he said in English.

“You are not French,” Chantal said.

“No,” he replied, “just helping out.” He gave her a hard look. “Please be careful when you ask questions in this game.” He relented when he saw the look on her face. “My job is to get you into Andorra, where you’ll be passed over to a ‘friend.’ He’ll move you into Spain. There, you’ll be put in contact with the right people and we should be able to get Mr. van Duren here to hospital.”

Now Chantal was certain she was dealing with a British agent. The farmer had told her the Underground was in contact with the British. “What is your name?” she asked in English.

“Call me Leonard,” he answered.

“Damn,” the man called Leonard swore. “Too many roadblocks, too many patrols, and too bloody many Vichy.” They were hidden in a bedroom in the small town of L’Hospitalet in the Pyrenees Mountains, four kilometers short of the Andorran border.

“Can we cross at another place?” Chantal asked.

He shook his head. “This is the best place. The Andorrans have specialized in smuggling for centuries and are experts at outwitting the authorities. Our friend there”—he gestured at Zack, who was lying on the bed smothered in blankets—“is just another commodity to be smuggled for the right price.” He fell silent, thinking. “The Germans are pressing the Vichy
to find someone and I think it’s you and our friend here they are looking for. We can’t wait any longer. I’m going to try to arrange it for tonight.” He slipped out the door.

Chantal sat on the bed next to Zack and laid her hand on his forehead and then gently caressed his cheek. She held it there, concern on her face, and estimated his fever to be about 39 degrees, slightly over 102 degrees Fahrenheit. Zack’s eyes opened and he touched her hand, gently pressing it to his face. “I heard,” he said. “You’d better go on without me, escape while you can.” He dropped his hand away from hers.

A look came into her eyes that he did not recognize and she did not move her hand away. “No” was all she said.

“Why?”

“I can’t run away from you.”

Zack thought he heard more than just a professional concern in her words and cursed the language barrier that separated them. A strong emotion urged him to envelop her in his arms, hold her, to feel her body next to his. But more than language separated them. “Chantal, I’ve got to know about the real Jan van Duren…. You said you killed him.” Now it was out in the open. Slowly, she pulled her hand away and turned away from him, still sitting on the edge of the bed, clasping her arms about her.