Too Bad to Die (7 page)

A
s darkness swept over Giza, the first flakes of snow began to fall fifteen hundred miles to the east, in the foothills of the Alborz mountains north of Tehran.

A thousand feet higher, snow already lay deep in the twining branches of the ironwood trees; it had been falling since September. The principal peak, Mount Tochal, rose to thirteen thousand feet, and its height would not be free of ice until June. But here, in the forest at the head of the Jajrood River, they'd been lucky, Skorzeny thought—it was not yet winter when they'd set up camp and begun to fight the Persian leopards for their prey. Those clement days were dwindling as November came to a close.

He was tending a small fire in the lee of a rock outcropping, standing watch while his five men slept. The remains of a roasted ibex lay on a canvas tarp; they'd eaten as much meat as they could hold, aware that it might be days before they hunted again. He would toss the bones off a cliff to draw the leopards and wolves away. The fire helped protect the encampment, but the snow might douse the fire soon. Until it did, he would warm his hands, gazing toward the outskirts of Tehran, some fifteen miles distant.

Lights still burned in the city; unlike Berlin, there was no curfew. No blackout. No bombers screaming out of the west. It must be nice to be an occupied country, he thought acidly. Relieved of the duty to fight. Like all those French he'd seen in Paris a few months ago, dawdling in their cafés. That was why the Reich would win the war: they did not know what it was to relax.

Skorzeny, at least, never had.

He'd been ten when the Austro-Hungarian Empire fell and the Kaiser had surrendered to the Allies in defeat. The years that followed—his schoolboy years—were shameful in their privation, or would have been, if his father had not showed him the higher purpose of suffering. The Skorzenys were a respectable, middle-class family whose landholdings in the last century had been in what was now called Poland. Versailles had redrawn the map of Europe, taking from the losers and labeling them criminals. Versailles had made the Skorzeny family poor.

It's a good thing you've never tasted butter,
his father said when Otto complained.
Be glad you've got bread.

He rose and threw a piece of wood on the fire. The flakes were falling faster now, but the rock offered some protection from the wind, and the flames leapt briefly as the coals shifted, licking at the new fuel. The old man had known what he was talking about. Otto was thirty-five years old and he'd come to crave the tests of discipline and pain that filled his days as a colonel in the Waffen-SS. He could not live without physical combat, or constant danger, or the adrenaline rush that filled his blood as he crouched on the edge of an open fuselage, ready to step out into the night sky.

He'd learned to channel pain as a young man in Vienna, where he'd dueled his way into college legend—thirteen affairs of honor, a record for his year. It was the tenth duel that had scarred him for life. But the lessons of fencing—of combat with a sword—he still carried with him.

You cannot waste time on feinting and sidestepping,
he thought.
Decide on your target. Go in.

Otto stood for a moment, rubbing his back, which was almost impossible to find beneath the layers of his clothes. He burrowed among the cuffs of his sleeves for his wristwatch: nearly three o'clock in the morning. He glanced at the night sky. The storm had clouded the lights of Tehran and blotted out the rifts and crags of the landscape. If it kept up, they would have difficulty breaking camp in a few hours. To move in darkness and snow, however, would be deadly.

There was a noise behind him.

He turned with instinctual speed, his right hand already on his gun. He was a giant of a man at six-foot-four, broad-chested and powerful, with a head as square and heavy as a St. Bernard's. His size was one reason the Führer had chosen him as a bodyguard; his kill rate was another. But then he relaxed. It was only Fuchs. Up early, like Otto.

Fuchs was compact and lean, barely five-foot-eight, the last man anyone would expect to carry the heavy radio on his back when they'd parachuted into the Caucasus. He'd turned nineteen last week, far from his hometown of Hamburg. Skorzeny had chosen the boy for this duty himself. Knowing Fuchs probably wouldn't get out alive. But Fuchs had made it this far. Thirty of Skorzeny's men hadn't.

The Russians were waiting on the edge of the drop zone when the Nazis' parachutes slipped amoeba-like from the night sky. He still didn't know whether they'd been betrayed in Tehran or Berlin. He'd been the last to jump—as commander he'd wanted to make sure everyone got out of the plane—and by the time his legs buckled beneath him he was surrounded by the sounds of hand-to-hand fighting. The plane and the wind had carried him to the far edge of the drop zone, and as soon as he was free of his chute, he'd strangled the man who tried to take him and ran for the woods as fast as he could go. Fighting the Russians further was dangerous. If he were captured, he had a capsule of cyanide. Each of them did. No Russian would make Otto Skorzeny talk.

By daylight, the ones who'd survived had found one another. Richter, a raw recruit. Hoffman, the lanky kid from the north. Lange, who could fire a rifle on skis. Braun, a veteran like Otto. And Fuchs—who'd managed to save both his skin and the radio. Skorzeny was beginning to think Fuchs was a fucking good-luck charm.

Fuchs saluted.

Skorzeny holstered his gun. “Come to the fire,” he said. “Can't you sleep?”

The boy shook his head. “I've had contact.”

“Berlin? Or Tehran?”

He couldn't trust either of them, Skorzeny thought. Berlin insisted their Tehran people were clean. But those Russian pigs had come from somewhere. And rounded up most of his men. A British informant? American?

“This was from Cairo,” Fuchs said.

CAIRO

F
RIDAY
,
N
OVEMBER
26, 1943

I
can't really say I've been here until I've had a Suffering Bastard at Shepheard's Long Bar.” Pamela Churchill gazed out over Old Cairo and pouted.

She was a trifle hot, having insisted on wearing her furs to the Citadel of Mahomed Ali. The temperature was close to sixty-five degrees, as it generally was in November. The furs—a sable stole, in this instance, sent by Ave from Moscow—dangled limply across her elbows. Her smart hat was cocked over one eye, and her strawberry-blond curls lay crisply on the lapel of her smart suit jacket. One glance at so much smartness, so much effortless luxury in the midst of desperate rationing, and every Tommy gazing up at them from below would be convinced the war was over.

The British garrison—complete with living quarters, stables, and tennis courts—was housed in the medieval citadel, in the heart of Old Cairo, between the gates of Bab el-Zuwayla to the south and Bab el-Futuh in the north. The Islamic University also lay in this quarter, which was filled with ruins and people, tourists and Egyptians clothed in white
galabeyas
; near it was the Khan el-Khalili Bazaar, where alabaster vases translucent as a young girl's skin could be bought for a bit of haggling. Also silver and rugs. Perfumes and beads. On this final day of the Sextant Conference the women of the Allied delegation had lobbied for a visit to
real
Egypt, as they called it—turning their backs on the Great Pyramid and the endless sand running to the horizon.

Commander Fleming had martyred himself and volunteered to escort them. So, too, had Elliott Roosevelt—who made sure that Madame Chiang was in the American car, not the British. Gil Winant had tucked himself into the jump seat next to Sarah Oliver, leaving Pam to sit opposite with Ian. But Michael Hudson had stayed behind at Mena House. And Pamela was bored.

She was trying to charm Ian so that he'd talk to her about Michael, but her patience was wearing thin. She found the hereditary coldness of Englishmen defeating, and Ian was the coldest of the cold. Possibly because he was actually Scots. She had no idea what Ann O'Neill saw in him. Pamela's friend had married a peer and taken a wealthy lover when her husband went to war—and now she was infatuated with
Ian
.
A mere
commander
. Not even in the real Navy. True, he was broad-shouldered and dark, with heavy-lidded blue eyes that promised all sorts of mischief. He came from a banking family and had been to Eton. But Pam guessed his fortune didn't run to much. Second son. She would have to invite Ann to a sherry party in Grosvenor Square when she got home. Talk some sense into her. Introduce her to a few Americans.

“Ladies aren't allowed in the Long Bar,” Ian said. “Joe won't have it.”

Joe was the Swiss barman who ruled all drink at Shepheard's, Cairo's most fashionable British hotel. Pam knew when she was outgunned.

“Your ducky friend Michael would bring me a drink in the Ladies' Lounge. Don't we have time to run over to Shepheard's in a taxi? I simply
must
have a Suffering Bastard.”

“Isn't Randolph enough? Or is he merely a stupid one?”

She drew a sharp breath, eyes dilating. “You cad.”

Ian grasped her arm, propelling her unwillingly along the ramparts. “Guilty as charged. But I've been meaning to have a word with you, darling, about my ducky friend. He's a good man and you're not to play with him. You've broken enough hearts.”

She stared straight ahead, all her effort focused on setting her high heels correctly on the uneven stone paving. The citadel was a ghastly place. Sarah and Winant had moved out of sight. Madame Chiang despised her, and besides, she'd disappeared with Elliott Roosevelt. Pam was restless and jumpy, and she desperately wanted someone to be
kind
to her. She'd chosen badly in Ian.

To her horror, tears were welling under her lashes, and that meant they would smear. She would visit the Cairo Bazaar with charcoal smudges all over her flawless skin. She hated Ian for it.

“Pammie!” He stopped short. “What's this? Has no one ever said
no
to you?”

“Why should they? I don't ask for much,” she gasped. “You haven't an earthly idea what it's like, do you? All you've heard is the
lies
. How I took Randolph for his name and dropped him as soon as I was pregnant. How if the baby
hadn't
been a boy I'd have been
much
more faithful until I'd produced an heir. How I'm a social climber who'll use
anybody
. Did you know, Ian, that Randolph beats his women when he's drunk? Or that he's drunk all the time? Did you know he's never met a wager he wouldn't take—and has wretched luck? He lost two years' income in a single night at cards a few weeks after we were married—and reported for duty the next day, without so much as a line to me! I was nineteen years old and abandoned, Commander Fleming, without a shilling to my name—”

“Pregnant, friendless, and forced to throw yourself on the mercy of the Prime Minister of England,” Ian intoned. “Not to mention a billionaire old enough to be your father.”

She slapped him.

He enfolded her gloved hands in both of his and held them, smiling. “How conventional. The decent girl outraged. Don't disappoint me, Pammie—I was sure you were the best at what you do.”

“And what is that?”

“Anything for money.”

She stared at him, her color mounting and her throat constricting.

“Have you been talking out of school?” he went on. “Sharing secrets you oughtn't to know? For a nominal fee—say, a couple of gold bracelets and enough silk stockings to see you through the war?”

“I can't help it if men like to give me things.”

“But what do you give them in return? Besides the odd orgasm.”

She might have raged. Or struggled against him. But instead she went suddenly limp. Pamela
sagged
. And Ian was forced to free her hands and catch her before she fell to the ground. She could feel his astonishment through his coat sleeves, and it amused her. He
didn't
know everything there was to know about Pamela Churchill, after all.

He helped her to a stone seat carved into the wall of the Citadel and offered her his handkerchief.

“Ave's not a billionaire,” she said sulkily. “He's only worth a hundred million. Most of it tied up in rolling stock. It's a railroad fortune, you idiot.” And then she burst into tears.

—

T
HE STORY
, as Ian understood it, was simple.

Pamela was in love.

And it was going to cost her everything she had.

“He's such an extraordinary man,” she murmured. “So
honest.
Such
integrity.
He was born in a log cabin, Ian, without running water or electricity! This war is absolutely killing him, you know, because he won't spare himself—he's up all night, reporting on the bombs and the hideous destruction, even though he might be blown to pieces himself. And when he speaks!” She grasped his lapel, spurred upright by the purity of her love. “He commands a nation!”

He
was Edward R. Murrow. An American radio reporter the BBC had given a microphone and a booth in the hope he'd galvanize his U.S. audience with dramatic broadcasts from burning London. Pam had met Ed ages ago but had only realized he cared in the past few months. They'd been meeting secretly, because of his wife. Max Aitken had been very kind. He'd had them down to Cherkley for weekends. Perfectly natural for Pamela to visit, of course, because her small son, Little Winston, was living there, safely out of the dangers of London bombing—but Ed was a delightful addition.

Max Aitken was Lord Beaverbrook. Ian knew him slightly—he was a friend of Ann O'Neill's, too. Ann ran in newspaper circles; she doted on press barons. Max liked to foster love affairs among his hangers-on, but Ian was surprised he'd sponsored Pamela's latest mess. Ed Murrow seemed like a good man. Ian had run into him in London; they were the same age, thirty-five, and they knew the same people. And Ed Murrow had seemed to love his wife.

Everyone was familiar with the sight of Janet and Ed, arm in arm, walking from the BBC headquarters after midnight for a drink at the neighboring pub. Until it had been leveled by a German bomb, of course, along with a score of reporters. Janet hadn't been around as much after that.

“Must you be a home wrecker?” Ian chided Pamela. “First Harriman, now Murrow. You'll end the poor sod's marriage and then you'll end him. Stick with your railroad tycoon, my child. He won't divorce his wife, either, but he'll make it worth your while to wait.”

“You don't understand,” she breathed. She could look infinitely beguiling with tears on her face; other women got red and ugly, but Pamela glistened. “I can't bear to think of meeting Ave in Tehran tomorrow. It's absolute torture! Being claimed as his . . .
chattel . . .
when I love
Ed. Only think, Ian—he's penniless! Or as good as. A log cabin! And yet I'd follow him anywhere. That's how profoundly he's changed me. I've never felt this way before.”

“I suppose it's easier to be noble,” Ian observed, “when Ave is paying your rent.”

“He
is
a lamb,” she conceded. “But as you said, Ian, old enough to be my father. So I ask you—what am I to
do
?”

“Move out of Grosvenor Square.”

“Oh, probably. But not—not
immediately.
I'm sure something will be arranged. Once Ed breaks the news to Janet. And we're able to live for ourselves. He'll have nowhere to go for a while, of course, so he
may
have to doss with me. But that would only be temporary—”

Ian contemplated the picture of Pamela welcoming one American in a flat financed by another, and said gently: “But where will your Suffering Bastard go?”

Her face hardened. “If you mean Randolph—to hell, I hope. By the fastest road possible.”

“Why did you marry him, anyway?”

“He asked. The first night we met. Nobody had ever asked before.”

It was, Ian thought, the most pathetic admission he'd ever heard. Girls of Pamela's class—genteel, poorly educated, with generations of forebears but no money behind them—had only one respectable course in life. Marriage, as soon as possible. She had been, what—nineteen? Twenty?

“He'd asked at least eight other women before you, to my knowledge,” Ian said drily. “His record was three in one night.”

“So tell me,” she retorted. “Which of us is really the Suffering Bastard?”

She turned on her heel and went in search of the others.

—

I
AN SMOKED
a cigarette alone and gazed out from the Citadel's heights. It was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, and the shadow of the mosque's great dome was moving slowly across the outer courtyard. The vast complex had been built on a promontory below the Muqattam Hills by God knows whom, long ago, but it was Saladin, that hater of Crusaders, who made it a fortress to be feared. Ironic, Ian thought, that the sons of Crusaders now owned the place.

While he smoked and considered the twelfth century, deeper in his brain he was thinking about Pam Churchill's story. He had behaved badly to her. Hudders would be shocked. He had definitely been a cad. He felt no remorse, however. He was convinced that Pam Churchill was what his mother called a “thorough wrong-un,” and Eve should know. If Pamela wasn't selling information to the Enemy, she was certainly profiting from the war—by offering the only commodity she had. Sex. For the exchange of valuable goods. It was a form of profiteering Ian found as distasteful as the gouging of industrialists, in the markets for guns and steel.

The intriguing piece of her tale, from his point of view, was not how she felt about Murrow or Harriman but the meddling of Beaverbrook, who was not only a publisher of immense power and some wealth, but a minister in Churchill's government. Beaverbrook was a friend of Harriman's—so why had he helped Pamela two-time him? Because Beaverbrook liked being in Pam's pocket? Liked the tidbits of gossip—or intelligence—she gave him? Pamela must drop a lot of it—from Churchill, Harriman, and now Murrow. In return, Beaverbrook encouraged her to follow her instincts—into whatever powerful bed they led her . . .

If she was the Kitten, who was her Fencer?—Beaverbrook?

Not likely. Too divorced from Cairo and Tehran.

Ian drank in his cigarette smoke.

What of the obvious? What of Averell Harriman?

He was one of the wealthiest men in the United States, and he moved freely all over the world. He had the President's ear: Harriman had spent the past two years in England as FDR's point man on Lend-Lease. His charm and generosity were legendary—and they opened every door. Even Churchill invited him to Chequers most weekends, despite the fact that he'd made a cuckold of Churchill's son. Hitler couldn't ask for a better agent.

Only a few months ago Roosevelt had sent Harriman as his ambassador to Moscow and upended his cozy London life; Ave hadn't loved the change, but he'd gone. From the heart of Russia and the heart of the American government, he could supply Hitler with any amount of intelligence. Even if it meant losing his mistress . . .

Which brought Ian to Ed Murrow. The hero of a million American households for his tense nightly broadcasts from London. The man who dispatched a team of cub reporters all over England and Europe to ferret out information. The trusted authority on world war. That, too, wasn't a bad cover job for a Nazi spy.

But Ian balked at the idea that either Harriman or Murrow could be a traitor; and he knew if he voiced his suspicions to Churchill or Roosevelt, they'd have him committed. If Alan Turing was right, the Fencer was a friend at the Mena House table. On that ground alone, Murrow and Beaverbrook ought to be struck from the list; but Harriman was joining them all in Tehran. And if Pamela was indeed the Kitten, why couldn't
she
be sending the messages Turing had intercepted? Did she have a radio transmitter hidden in her room at Churchill's villa—and could she speak German?