Crossword (13 page)

"There's always serious risk," Larry said in a
monotone.

"Yes, but this time it would be different. Crossing
into enemy territory is dangerous, we all know that. But in this mission the
greatest menace would come from what has to be carried out on someone's back.
It's a new kind of poison and just being close to it is likely to kill that person."
Larry stood there listening, not completely comprehending, and wondering why he
was being told all this. He had nowhere to go and yet he felt in a hurry, his
legs anxious to get moving. The Captain continued, "Headquarters knows
about your situation, they've spoken with the doctor and understand what the
outcome will be. That's why they've asked me to talk to you."

Although Larry was functioning at far less than optimal,
warning relays were tripped at some deep, barely conscious level, and even though
he couldn't make all the connections in his current condition, he nonetheless
experienced an increase in anxiety, a warning that reached into awareness and
made his legs even more restless. He knew he should leave, get out, run away.
Larry stood there and nodded, silently.

"I know this is like kicking a man when he's down, but
I've got to ask you if you would be willing to take on this operation. It's
strictly voluntary. They realize it's a lot to ask and everything must seem
like it's happening all at once, but you're the only one who ... " His
voice trailed off as Larry's expression morphed into one of loathing, full
comprehension of what was being asked of him flooding into consciousness. Words
and emotions, brought instantly to a boil, threatened to explode. His lower jaw
dropped, his eyes widened and he seemed on the verge of speech, but no
indignant words sallied out to face the abomination that had been hurled at
him. Slowly closing his mouth Larry turned and walked off toward his cabin.

Darnell called after him, "Larry, think about it. It
may seem contemptible, but in times like these, situations like this, we all
have to do whatever we can."

* *

Eight kilometers from the camp, in the outskirts of Altstatten, Dr.
Benjamin Jonson Miller sat in the rear of a small café in a working class
neighborhood. In a country that was home to people of various ethnic
backgrounds who had relatives and connections throughout the world, the site of
strangers was nothing particularly unusual. Moreover, the Swiss had a tradition
of letting everyone mind their own business, and besides, customers being
somewhat scarce these days, the owner and the other patrons were content to
give the occasional foreigner their privacy. Why should they care if the rest
of the world had gone mad and were killing each other as long as they were left
at peace to conduct their affairs? After all, business was business, and why
make someone uncomfortable when they might help the local economy. And so no
one paid much attention to Miller as he sat alone at a booth sipping his second
Schnapps, a drink he didn't particularly like, but the strongest one that was
available. If anyone gave him any notice at all it was more because it was so
early in the day to be drinking and not because he wasn't a local. Nor did any
eyebrows shoot up when a second stranger, wearing a well-tailored suit,
entered, nodded a casual hello to the owner standing behind the small bar, and
walked back to join Miller.

"A little early in the day isn't it, doctor?"
Julian said as he removed his hat and sat down across from the doctor.

"Ah, Mr. Smith, welcome. I thought you left yesterday.
Once I pushed that young man over the cliff I didn't think you'd stick around
to watch the impact. My compliments to you for your follow through." He
raised his now empty glass in mock salute.

"Doctor, I know this has been tough for you, but it
really is important."

"Important enough to trick someone who's barely more
than a kid into killing himself?"

Templeton lowered his voice and leaned forward slightly to
convey to the doctor that discretion was required in these matters. "I'm
not at liberty to discuss details, you know that, and you also know my
credentials so I hope you'll believe me when I say that this is a matter of the
utmost importance to our country and will save thousands of lives. You're not a
soldier, you've never commanded men in the field, never had to send boys who
should be home worrying about how to get the girl next door into the sack, into
battle with the full realization that some of them were not coming back. That
takes a lot out of a man. But, doctor, our country is at war and like it or not
we're all soldiers and we all have to make sacrifices. That doesn't mean it
hurts any less, but sometimes in this life we're going to feel shitty and
there's nothing to be done about it. I'm telling you this had to be done."

Miller tilted his glass on edge and stared at it. The anger
in his face faded, replaced by a profound sadness as he looked back up at the
OSS man sitting opposite him and said, "Up till now I've spent my entire
professional life trying to help people, to do my best to keep them out of
trouble or fix them up when that failed. In the beginning of this war I was in
a forward hospital. I may not have sent our boys out to meet the enemy, but I
sure as hell saw an awful lot of them come back from those encounters. Shot up,
cut up and maimed in every way imaginable. A lot of them died, but Goddamn it,
Smith, not one of them died because of me. I did everything I could and if it
wasn't enough and they didn't make it, it was like a knife in my heart. The
pain was real. Only it didn't last. Before any one failure could get to me, I
had to move on to the next poor bastard. By the end of most days it was all a
blur. Some triumphs and too many defeats." He hung his head in dejection
and spoke into his glass, "This one won't be a blur, though. It'll be
burned into my memory. And you're right about having to feel shitty sometimes
and there's not a God damn thing you can do about it." Looking at the
drained glass, "Not a God damn thing."

"You'll be OK. I was wrong; you are a soldier and you
know what's got to be done."

Looking Julian in the eyes, the barest hint of a wry smile
showing at the corners of his mouth, Dr. Miller went on, "Now, Mr. Smith,
or whatever your name is, why are you really here? Surely not to give me a pep
talk."

Templeton felt like he was on more solid ground now, back to
operational issues; what he did best. "I have to report to the higher ups,
the people in charge of starting this operation, and I have to make sure I have
all the details straight, I have to know what the variables are and I need to
do some contingency planning just in case."

"What more do you need from me? Tell me specifically. I
don't want any of this to feel like something I did on my own. Order me to do
whatever it is you need."

"The medicine you gave him when he first came to you
saying he was getting a cold, that's what actually caused his symptoms to get
worse, to start to wheeze and cough, is that correct?"

Miller nodded, his face like stone.

"So as long as he takes it, he still feels sick and
believes he has a fatal disease."

"He feels ill because of what I gave him, yes, but he
thinks he's dying because of what I told him."

"The boy really looks like shit; could barely walk
twenty feet without panting. He could never do what needs to be done to
complete the mission we have in mind. You said, though, that you can control
his symptoms, keep them real light so his function will be only minimally
impaired but he'll still feel enough of a twinge to believe what we told
him."

"What 'I'
told him, not 'we'."

"What I ordered you to tell him. Listen, doctor, I know
this is onerous to you, and maybe it's easier for you to cry in your schnapps
if you think it was all your fault but that's really not the way it is. Fact
is, you were ordered to do it; you didn't like the orders, didn't agree with
them but you followed them like thousands of other guys follow orders they
don't like, and you're just going to have to deal with that. Soon your part in
this will be over, so please tough this one out. It's more important than you
can imagine. Now, how will you control and manage his symptoms?"

"He's going to get medicine to help his symptoms. It
will just be the same thing he's on now, only a lower dose so his symptoms
will, in fact, improve."

"And this will be a pill of some kind, something that
he can easily carry with him?" The doctor nodded silently. "OK, keep
him on the same dose for now. I'll let you know when to switch. Oh, when you do
change his medication how long before he begins to improve?"

"A few days."

"Good. I'll be in touch through the C.O. Remember, we
need him to be in as close to top form as possible; just a hint of
disease." The absurdity of that last remark escaped Templeton as he placed
his hands on the tabletop and stood up, his eyes fixed on the doctor the whole
time, hoping to impress on him the importance of what he had said. Miller did
not flinch from his gaze but remained impassive, not acknowledging the farewell
nod of Julian who turned and walked out. The doctor stared after him after him
for several minutes, lost in his thoughts, before signaling the bartender for
another drink.

It was late when Kent returned to Bern and, in spite of the alpine
chill and the dampness of the air, he walked from the train station to his
apartment. The streets were deserted and the sidewalks wet from a cold
afternoon rain that blew in across the mountains, drenched the city in a frigid
deluge and then moved on, the dark, angry clouds not yet done with their
mischief. He kept his head down, staring at the pavement, the occasional puddle
reflecting his visage, which always seemed on the verge of speaking to him,
only to be suddenly obscured by the frosted breath he exhaled, the about to be
spoken words lost in the mist. His own thoughts tumbled through his mind.
Guilt, fear and shame on the one hand, and a way out of his lower echelon
existence on the other. Could he go through with this plan of Julian's? Would
he forever be a pariah in his own mind, a traitor to his country? Worse yet,
would he be caught? Conscience was one thing, malleable and sometimes
ephemeral, but federal prison was a harsh reality that could not be rationalized
away. That would put a quick end to all his dreams of wealth and power in the
world of Washington politics. The answer to his dilemma was waiting for him at
his apartment although he didn't know it at the moment, and so Kent continued
his march across the center of town lost in thought. By the time he reached his
building the cold night air, so different from the almost balmy conditions in
Lugano earlier, had penetrated to his very core and numbed his mind as well as
his body.

Kent walked up the steps to the entrance, inserted the key
with frigid fingers barely able to feel the sturdy metal object they held,
twisted it and leaned his weight against the door, entering the foyer with a
lurching motion. He paused there for a moment waiting for warmth to return to
his body but the chill persisted, having insinuated itself even deeper than he
thought. With a profound weariness he forced himself to ascend the stairs to
his apartment, his muscles and joints protesting this final exertion. Mallory
fumbled for the door key on his key ring, dropping it twice before he was able
to let himself in. Shutting the door behind him, he looked around, perhaps
hoping to find some solace in the familiar surroundings, an arm around the
shoulder, an understanding nod, but there was none. He put the keys on the
small table by the door, next to a small pile of mail. The fact that all his
mail was delivered to 23 Herrengasse and that no one else had a key to his
apartment did not register at the moment in his unsettled state of mind. Kent
shucked off his coat, tossed it over the nearest chair and walked into the
small kitchen where he took down a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet next to
the sink. It was a relatively rare commodity in wartime Europe and he had been
parsimonious in its use. He held the bottle in one hand, stared at the label
for a moment as if admiring a fine wine, then reached for a glass that stood
next to the sink and poured himself three fingers of scotch, which he downed
without removing the drinking glass from his lips. The burning in his throat
cleared his head and allowed him to focus, to suppress, at least for the
moment, all the disparate emotions that seemed on the verge of choking off
conscious thought. He inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled, a slight nod of the
head, as if talking to himself, indicating that the Scotch had been just what
he needed. A central nidus of warmth that started in the middle of his chest
began to slowly expand as he walked back into the main room of the apartment.
Turning, he noticed the leather briefcase that he sometimes carried, laying on
the small desk next to the chair. It never contained anything of much
importance; written material pertaining to his real job remained at OSS
headquarters. However, since his cover was as a State Department employee he
was regularly given various documents and communiqués of little significance
that would serve to corroborate his position if, or more correctly when, since
it was a foregone conclusion that such an eventuality would occur, a German
agent or one of their paid informants stole a look inside. To the potpourri of
official pieces of paper Mallory added some personal items and an occasional
letter from his wife. He stood there staring at the briefcase, not quite sure
why; it reminded him of something but he couldn't make the connection. Another
deep breath.
Relax. Open your mind. Let it happen.
The link closed.

Kent spun around and strode to the entrance where he looked
down at several letters casually left on the table next to the green glass
ashtray he had purchased from the tobacconist at the corner. His first
reaction, one of fear and danger, a feeling that the sanctity of his home, as
it were, had been breached, quickly subsided when he realized that the presence
of the letters indicated the intruder must have been from the
"office" since no outsider could have had access to the mail that was
kept there.
It must have been Julian.
This surmise was reinforced when
he picked up the small packet and looked at each of the envelopes. The first
was from his wife, the second was from the State Department —— a
routine memo judging from the way it had been addressed —— and the
third bore only his hand written name on the outside of a plain white envelope.
He thought the handwriting might be Julian's, but he wasn't sure. As a matter
of fact, he wasn't even sure he had seen anything that Julian had put in
writing. Putting the other two aside he pried the corner up with his thumb,
slipped his forefinger in like a crude letter opener and tore it open. Inside,
a folded piece of typewriter paper without any header had two lines written on
it,
Hope you enjoyed your little shopping trip. I trust you are comfortable
with the fit of the new clothes.
Kent was not exactly sure about the
meaning; it seemed somewhat ambiguous. Was he inquiring how he felt about
Waldman living up to his end of the deal or could he be astute enough to
realize the continuing reservations he had, how difficult this was for him, and
was he really asking if Kent could still go through with it. Even more of a
puzzle was why Julian had left it here in the first place. He was too much of a
pro to leave a paper trail. Mallory shifted the note to the bottom of the group
of three envelopes he held, moving his wife's letter to the top. He stood there
for a moment holding the packet in his right hand and using his left thumb to
fan the letters repeatedly while he simply stared into space, momentarily lost
in thought.