The Fighting Agents Part 38

He pointed to the "graveyard" where remnants of more than two dozen crashed and shot-up B-17s were scattered around.

"Without any whistling-in-the-dark self-confidence," Kennedy went on, "what are our chances of getting that 17 back?"

"That will depend on how much you can teach Doug," Fine said.

A Follow Me jeep had driven out to the taxiway to meet the P-38. Fine started to walk toward the revetment in which it would be parked, and Bitter and Kennedy followed him.

"I think I'll go along in the 17," Bitter said. "Maybe I could help Joe."

"No," Fine said, politely enough, but there was no mistaking it was an order. "We want to keep you around to fly the other new one."

They reached the revetment as the P-38 taxied up to it.

A ground crewman made a throat-cutting signal with his hand, and the engines died. A ground crewman laid a ladder against the c.o.c.kpit, and Lt. Colonel Peter Dougla.s.s, Jr., climbed down it.

He was wearing a pink Ike jacket, matching trousers, a battered, oil-spotted, fur-felt brimmed cap with the crown stiffener removed on the back of his head, half Wellington boots, and a parachute-silk scarf in the open collar of a gabardine s.h.i.+rt.

He is absolutely, totally, out of uniform, Fine mused. And then he corrected himself. Fine mused. And then he corrected himself. No, that is the uniform prescribed by fighter pilots for themselves. And there is no question that Doug is one h.e.l.l of a fighter pilot. There were j.a.panese meatb.a.l.l.s and German swastikas painted in three neat rows on the c.o.c.kpit nose, plus a submarine. No, that is the uniform prescribed by fighter pilots for themselves. And there is no question that Doug is one h.e.l.l of a fighter pilot. There were j.a.panese meatb.a.l.l.s and German swastikas painted in three neat rows on the c.o.c.kpit nose, plus a submarine.

And something brand new. Dougla.s.s had named his airplane "Charity."

"Where the h.e.l.l is my bra.s.s band?" Dougla.s.s asked, wrapping his arm around Commander Bitter's shoulders and (because he knew it annoyed Bitter immensely) kissing him wetly on the temple.

Fine and Kennedy smiled.

"Who's Charity?" Kennedy asked.

"As in 'Faith, Hope and,' " Dougla.s.s said. "if I don't get a band, how about lunch? I'm starved."

"You're going flying with Lieutenant Kennedy," Fine said. "You can have lunch when you come back."

"Where am I going flying with you, Kennedy?" Dougla.s.s asked.

"Up and down, up and down," Kennedy smiled. "Fine wants me to teach you to line an airplane up with the runway while you're still in the air."

"Only bomber pilots have to do that," Dougla.s.s said. "It's because their reflexes are so slow. You're serious about this, aren't you? Before Before I have lunch?" I have lunch?"

"If you're a good boy, I'll have a surprise for you when you get back," Fine said.

"I already talked to her," Dougla.s.s said, "which raises the question of Rank Hath Its Privileges."

"How?" Fine asked.

"A senior officer such as myself," Dougla.s.s said, "cannot be expected to share a room with low-grade underlings such as you guys. Do I make my point?"

"Oh, I think Commander Bitter will be happy to accommodate you, Colonel, Sir," Kennedy said, chuckling. "He already has had the troops spiffing up the transient female quarters. You'll notice the smile of antic.i.p.ation on his face."

"Doug," Bitter said very seriously, changing the subject, "if you really want something to eat, I'll have some sandwiches prepared and get them to the aircraft."

"Shame on you, Lieutenant Kennedy," Dougla.s.s said, "you are embarra.s.sing the commander."

For a moment, looking at Bitter, Fine was afraid the situation was going to get out of hand, but with a visible effort, Bitter finally managed a smile.

Dougla.s.s looked at his watch.

"The girls are due here at two-fifteen," he said. "That gives you just about two hours to teach me all you know, Kennedy. That shouldn't be a problem."

Dougla.s.s and Kennedy flew for nearly two hours before landing a final time and taxiing the B-17F back to the 402nd Composite Squadron area. As they stood by the aircraft with the crew chief, giving him a list of things to check to prepare the plane for flight, a small convoy rolled past the B-17 graveyard and stopped before the Quonset hut.

The convoy consisted of an Austin Princess limousine, a Packard limousine, and a three-quarter-ton Dodge weapons-carrier. The Packard and the Austin Princess were driven by sergeants of the WRAC, and the canvas-bodied Dodge by a U.S. Army sergeant.

Lt. Colonel Ed Stevens and Lt. Charity Hoche got out of the Princess, and five men in olive-drab U.S. Army uniforms got out of the Packard.

"Let that be a lesson to you, Lieutenant Kennedy," Dougla.s.s said, " 'Virtue is its own reward.' If you had allowed me to land this aerial barge when I wanted to, I wouldn't have had to stand around panting until just now."

"One gathers that the Colonel would be panting over the blond lieutenant?" Kennedy asked. "Who the h.e.l.l is she, anyway?"

"A senior officer such as myself," Dougla.s.s said, "does not of course discuss either ladies or his personal affairs with a junior officer. But I will say this, Kennedy. If it were to come to my attention that anyone-say, a lowly reserve swabby officer-paid any but official attention to a certain WAC officer while I am off saving the world for democracy, I would feed him his b.a.l.l.s."

"That's Charity," Kennedy said.

"That's Charity," Dougla.s.s confirmed possessively.

"I hate to tell you this, Colonel," Kennedy said. "But the lady doesn't seem p.r.o.ne to throw herself in your arms."

"That's because she doesn't want to make you feel jealous, " Dougla.s.s said.

They smiled at each other.

"Thanks for the lessons," Dougla.s.s said. "How did a fair-to-middling airplane driver like you wind up flying aerial barges?"

"Just lucky, I guess," Kennedy said. "And just for the h.e.l.l of it, Colonel, if that were a check ride, you would have pa.s.sed it."

They smiled at each other again.

"Let's go see if we can make Bitter blush again," Dougla.s.s said.

4.

BUDAPEST, HUNGARY 0350 HOURS 19 FEBRUARY 1943.

Canidy didn't see the policeman with his hand held up until he was almost on him.

He had been too busy watching the road in front of him. It had been a long time since he had ridden a bicycle, and while it was true, he had found out, that once you learned how, you never forgot, it was also true that pedaling a bicycle required muscles he hadn't used in a long time. Even moving as slowly as they had been riding, his calves and upper thighs were heavy with exhaustion.

And the road was covered with frozen slush, which caught the wheel of the bicycle when it rode in one of the ruts. He had taken four spills, and one of them was a bad one, throwing him heavily on his right shoulder and bruising his right knee.

There was no chance to stop before he got to the policeman, although he made a valiant effort. And, he saw, there was no place to run either, no corner to duck around. The policeman had appeared from nowhere because he had been inside a small, wooden guard shack almost hidden by the b.u.t.tresses of the arpad Bridge. There was nothing ahead but the bridge itself, and if the policeman couldn't run him down on foot, which seemed likely, then he would have no trouble shooting at him.

The policeman got out of his way, as Canidy locked the hand brakes and skidded to a stop on the icy slush, the bike slipping out from under him.

He heard Ferniany laugh behind him as Canidy fell to his knees.

And then the policeman said something. Canidy had no idea what he said, but he thought there was a tone of laughter in it.

Canidy got to his feet, picked up the bicycle, and walked to where the policeman was now examining Ferniany's ident.i.ty doc.u.ments. Canidy rested the bicycle against his leg, reached inside his ragged shepherd's coat for his papers, and held them ready in his hand until the policeman was ready to take them.

He looked toward the far end of the bridge. He could not tell if there was another policeman in another hidden shack at the far end. Probably not. The arpad Bridge crossed a branch of the Danube between Pest and Margit Island. The Margit Bridge crossed the other branch of the Danube to Buda. If there was another guard shack, it would be on the Margit Bridge, not at the end of this one.

If it became necessary to kill this policeman-by breaking his neck or cutting his throat-it would still be possible to continue across the Danube here.

The policeman handed Ferniany's papers back and turned to Canidy. He was shaking his head. He said something. Canidy had no idea what it was, but he shrugged.

The policeman took his papers. Canidy saw Ferniany take his garrote from his pocket.

The policeman returned Canidy's papers with what could have been a courteous bow. Then he turned Canidy around and unfastened the straps of the rucksack Canidy had on his back. He came out with a small cheese and a small sausage.

Canidy gestured that he was welcome to it. The policeman smiled and then politely fastened the straps on the rucksack. Then he went to Ferniany's bicycle and began to unfasten the straps holding a limp rucksack over the fender. Canidy put his hands up his sleeves, hoping it looked as if he were trying to warm his hands. He jerked the strap around the hilt of his Baby Fairbairn free and tested to see if he could quickly get it out of its sheath. It was a dagger that had been developed by Captain Bruce Fairbairn of the Shanghai Munic.i.p.al Police. The "Baby" was the smaller of two versions and was used when concealment was desirable.

Fulmar and Whittaker had given him a quick course in a.s.sa.s.sination. Neither of them liked the garrote. ("What if the wire gets hung on a b.u.t.ton or something?" Fulmar had calmly argued. Fulmar had calmly argued. "Or if he gets his fingers under the wire before you can bury it in his neck? Put your hand over his mouth and stick him behind the ear. As soon as you scramble his brains, you can let him go. It takes a h.e.l.l of a long time to strangle somebody." "Or if he gets his fingers under the wire before you can bury it in his neck? Put your hand over his mouth and stick him behind the ear. As soon as you scramble his brains, you can let him go. It takes a h.e.l.l of a long time to strangle somebody.") Whittaker's preferred technique of a.s.sa.s.sination was throat-cutting. ("Once you cut into the throat, all they can do is gargle," Whittaker had said. Whittaker had said. "I don't trust the ittybitty point on the Fairbairn, especially the little one. You hit a bone or something, and it breaks, and there you are with your hand over the mouth of some highly p.i.s.sed-off character you can't put down." "I don't trust the ittybitty point on the Fairbairn, especially the little one. You hit a bone or something, and it breaks, and there you are with your hand over the mouth of some highly p.i.s.sed-off character you can't put down.") Canidy had decided the Fairbairn was best, because it was far more concealable than a throat-cutting knife, and because Jimmy Whittaker had somewhat reluctantly conceded that there was a lot of blood when you cut some-one's throat and very little when you scrambled his brains.

Canidy felt bile in his throat at the prospect that he might now have to put theory into practice, but it did not become necessary. The policeman helped himself to a tub of b.u.t.ter from Ferniany's rucksack and waved them on.

They rode to the end of the bridge and then crossed Margit Island. He could see what looked to him like an amus.e.m.e.nt park closed for the winter: small wooden shacks in a line; an oblong building that could have concealed a dodgem ride; a larger round building that almost certainly contained a merry-go-round.

There was no policeman at the Buda end of the Margit Bridge.

Two blocks into Buda, the cobblestone street became too steep and too slippery to pedal the bicycles, and they got off and pushed. And for some reason, here the slush had begun to melt (Canidy wondered about this and decided they were over a tunnel of some kind, maybe a sewer, that gave off enough heat to melt the frozen slush). So his feet, in rough leather work shoes and thick cotton socks, quickly became wet and then even colder than they had been.

Between the Margit Bridge and Batthyany Palace, they pa.s.sed two more policemen, but neither of them showed any interest in the bicyclists.

When Ferniany finally pushed his bicycle off the street and onto the sidewalk before the facade of what looked like a museum, Canidy was sweat-soaked from exertion and annoyed that Ferniany seemed immune to both fatigue and cold.

The doorbell was just that, a handle which when pulled caused a bell somewhere inside the building to just audibly tinkle.

By the time a small door built into the larger door opened a crack, Canidy had his breath back, but his sweat-soaked clothing had chilled, and he was s.h.i.+vering and his feet hurt.

A small old man with white hair and very bright eyes exchanged a few words with Ferniany, then opened the door to let them pa.s.s.

There were more cobblestones inside the door, and at the end of a pa.s.sageway a courtyard. The little old man led them into a huge kitchen and said something to Ferniany, apparently an order to wait. The kitchen, Canidy saw, was not in use. There was a huge icebox, and each of its half-dozen doors was wedged open. More important, none of the three wood-burning stoves held a fire.

A door opened, and a rather startling redhead came into the kitchen. Her hair, a magnificent mop of dark red, hung below her shoulders. She was wrapped in an ankle-length, somewhat bedraggled, Persian lamb coat. The hem of a woolen nightgown was exposed at the bottom, and her feet were in what Canidy at first thought were half Wellington boots, but which he saw after a moment were really sheepskin -lined jodhpurs.

She shook Ferniany's hand, and they had a brief exchange. Then she turned to Canidy. She spoke British-accented English.

"I am the Countess Batthyany," she said. "How may I be of service, Major?"

"I'm Pharmacist," Canidy said.

Her eyebrows rose in genuine surprise.

"You would be far more welcome," she said, "if I didn't suspect that you wouldn't be here unless there is trouble."

"Have you got any brandy?" Canidy said. "I'm chilled to the bone."

"Yes, of course," she said. "Forgive me."

She turned and motioned for them to follow her. There was a narrow, rather steep flight of stairs, and then a door. They stepped into a dimly lit room. The room was well furnished, and when Canidy glanced around, he saw that the door they had come through was cut through the paneling of the room so that it would fit in with the decor. A servants' pa.s.sageway, he decided.

When he turned around again, there was a man in the room. Tall, aristocratic, wearing a silk dressing gown. He held a Walther Ppk .32 ACP pistol in his hand. It was pointed at the floor.

"Was ist los?" he asked.

"Liebchen, this is Major Canidy," the Countess said, adding, "Pharmacist. Major, may I introduce His Excellency Brigadefuhrer-SS von Heurten-Mitnitz?"

Von Heurten-Mitnitz's expression did not change, but he spent a long moment examining Canidy before he spoke.

"The major and his friend look frozen," he said. "Could you ring for some brandy? Something for them to eat?"

"Yes, of course," the Countess said.

Then von Heurten-Mitnitz looked at Canidy again.

"You don't happen to know Putzi's son's name, do you?"

"I was wondering if you were going to ask," Canidy said, then gave his part of the prearranged countersign. "Ergon."

Von Heurten-Mitnitz nodded coolly and managed a brief smile.

"My next question," he said, "obviously, would be to ask what brings you here. But I'm a little afraid to ask."

"Eric Fulmar and Professor Dyer are in the munic.i.p.al jail in Pecs," Canidy said. "You didn't know?"

"Jesus, Maria, und Josef!" the Countess breathed.

"No," von Heurten-Mitnitz said, "I didn't."

"We're done for," the Countess said matter-of-factly.

"Can you at least get Helmut and me out? Is that what you've come for?"

"I came in to arrange for a site into which we can paradrop a team," Canidy said.