by James R Benn
Or maybe my time would come. I headed over to see Kaz, wondering what an SOE interrogation might be like. If Snow brought in some heavies from SOE headquarters, things might get dicey. As I approached the hospital wing, I stopped and pulled my right hand out of my pocket.
Steady as a rock.
I’d forgotten about the shakes when the gunfire started, or they’d forgotten about me. I didn’t like not knowing when they’d start up again, but dead bodies seemed to be a giveaway. Hard to ignore them in the middle of a war, even if that war was being waged by a person or persons unknown within the perimeter of Saint Albans.
I put aside my own worries and took the stairs up to Kaz’s room. It was empty. The bed was stripped and the floor freshly mopped. I went hollow inside. The room swirled, and I had to steady myself, resting my hand on the doorframe.
I felt the tremble.
No, I told myself. There’s no dead body. It’s only an empty room. Go find Kaz.
Five minutes later I did. In what passed for the VIP suite on the top floor. A corner room with views of the walkway and a victory garden thick with cabbages and the leafy greens of potato plants.
Kaz sat in an armchair by the window. Off in a corner, an American major stood talking with two army nurses, both lieutenants. The major was tall and square-jawed, with thick red hair and an imposing presence. He folded his arms, stroking his chin as he listened to the women, each seeming to give her opinion about something he was considering.
“Billy,” Kaz finally said, noticing my hovering presence. “Come in, tell me what has happened. I heard shots fired, but no one will tell me anything.”
“I don’t want to interrupt,” I said, pulling a chair close to him. “You sure?”
“Yes,” Kaz said, keeping his voice low. “These three have been at it for ten minutes. Deciding on my future, I imagine. The major is Dr. Dwight Harken, and his two nurses, Lieutenant van Brackle and Lieutenant Shirley.”
“Did Big Mike tell you about Cosgrove?”
“Yes. About his death, but also how he was responsible for Dr. Harken coming to Saint Albans. I certainly owe him for that. Help me repay that debt by discovering who killed him.”
“I hope I can,” I said, wondering if Kaz would be so gracious if he knew Cosgrove had chosen to leave Angelika in Ravensbrück. I gave him a quick rundown on Densmore, just as the medical convention in the corner broke up.
Kaz made the introductions. Shirley van Brackle, her hair blazingly blond, stood next to Addie Shirley, with her shock of brunette hair. Otherwise they were of similar build and age, both scrub nurses that Harken said he relied on for every important operation. I gave up my seat and grabbed another chair from the hallway.
“We call them Blond Shirley and Dark Shirley,” Harken said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Helps to eliminate confusion.” The Shirleys smiled. So far, so good. “Now, as to your request, Baron.” Ah. Kaz had played the baron card. It worked well with maître d’s, so now we’d see how it went over with surgeons.
“Dr. Hughes told me this surgery has never been attempted,” Kaz said, seemingly steeling himself against rejection.
“Well, it has been performed once,” Dr. Harken said. “By a British surgeon, Henry Souttar. He had a patient whose mitral valve disease was like yours. Dr. Souttar went in through the left atrium and repaired the damage. The patient survived and lived several more years before dying of other causes.”
“What’s the problem, then?” I asked, then apologized for butting in. This wasn’t my affair.
“Good question, Captain Boyle,” Dark Shirley said. “Dr. Souttar’s colleagues were unhappy that he broke the cardinal rule of medicine and operated on the heart. They refused to allow any further surgeries.”
“You have to understand that the medical community is inherently conservative. Most doctors still live by Billroth’s dictum from the last century,” Harken said. “He stated that a ‘surgeon who decides to suture a heart wound deserves to lose the esteem of his colleagues.’”
“Aristotle claimed that the heart was the only organ that could not withstand injury,” Blond Shirley said. “Which is understandable, coming from ancient Greece. But we have to deal with modern-day physicians who think we’re practicing witchcraft.”
“Excuse me,” Kaz said, raising one finger. “This is all fascinating, but are you going to operate on my heart or not?”
“There is a significant risk,” Harken said.
“The Nazis have failed to kill me. And not for lack of trying,” Kaz said. “I must trust my heart to survive this challenge as well.”
“Are you sure you should take the risk, Doctor?” Dark Shirley asked.
“Do you have misgivings, Lieutenant?” Kaz asked.
“Not about the operation, no,” she said. “It is risky, but so is living with mitral stenosis. I’m talking about the issue of performing an unauthorized operation. If Dr. Harken gets into trouble over this, it could affect our work at the 160th General Hospital.”
“I won’t,” Harken said. “I have that covered. Dr. Powell has agreed to operate. I will observe and assist.”
“The same doctor who operated on Major Cosgrove,” I said to Kaz. “With Dr. Harken.”
“Exactly,” Harken said. “As I remember, Cosgrove was insistent, even though he ran a greater risk than you do, Baron. You’re in good physical shape other than your stenosis. But still, any heart surgery carries with it a risk factor. Are you certain you wish to proceed?”
“I have already told you about my family and the recent news that my sister was still alive. I swear to you, Dr. Harken, that nothing is more important to me than finding her. And I must have my health for that to happen. If I am reduced to a sickly civilian, I have no reason to live. And Angelika will have no one to care for her. So do your best. If you succeed, I will forever be in your debt. If not, I will have lost nothing but a meaningless existence.”
Harken looked at the two Shirleys. Blond Shirley nodded an emphatic yes. Dark Shirley sighed and gave her assent as well. Harken rubbed his jawline and studied Kaz.
“Fine. We’ll do it,” he said.
“When?” Kaz asked, his gaze fixed on Harken. I was glad the doctor hadn’t asked how Cosgrove was doing these days.
“Tomorrow morning,” Harken said. “Powell is taking the train tonight, and we’ll start early. I had asked Dr. Hughes to join us, but he isn’t a believer in surgery involving the heart.”
“He was fairly rude,” Blond Shirley said. “I’m surprised he authorized this at all.”
“I am sure he had a thousand good reasons,” Kaz said. “What I would like to understand is how difficult an operation this is, and how long it will take to recover.”
“Barring unforeseen complications, which is a physician’s way of saying that the unexpected can always occur, the surgery should be relatively straightforward. We make an incision and spread the rib cage apart,” Harken said. “I will then make an opening into the left atrium of the heart and insert my finger—a fine surgical tool—to correct the damaged valve. I basically work away at the scar tissue around the flaps to open it up.”
“And then I am fine?” Kaz asked.
“There is likely to be some mitral valve regurgitation, which is blood flowing backward into the heart. A mild case of that is negligible compared to mitral stenosis, so it’s nothing to be worried about. A severe case would require further treatment.”
“I sense that is one of the unforeseen complications,” Kaz said. “But I shall be concerned about that when and if the time comes. How long will I need to recover?”
Before Harken could answer, a knock sounded at the door. A US Army sergeant leaned into the room.
“Sorry to interrupt, Doc,” he said. “All your gear is squared away. You need anything else?”
“Yeah, I need you, Marty,” Harken said. “Sergeant
Marty Stuart, formerly of the 1st Infantry Division,” Harken said, introducing us. “Marty was wounded at Omaha Beach. He came to us after a field hospital had stabilized him, but he was riddled with shrapnel.”
“Doc Harken fixed me up,” Marty said. “Took a while, but he got it all out.”
“Including the last tricky piece lodged in his heart,” Harken said. “He’d had six surgeries already. I told him he could chance that piece never moving. Or we could go in after it, no guarantees.”
“I told the doc to go for it,” Marty said. “I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life worrying about the damn thing.”
“It’s a difficult procedure,” Dark Shirley said. “You’re looking through an incision into the heart chamber for a piece of sharp metal that bobs in the patient’s blood with each beat of the heart. When you have the culprit in the right spot, the pressure from inside the heart will shoot it out, like a champagne cork.”
“Then you have to suture the wound before the patient bleeds out,” Blond Shirley said. “Time is not our friend.”
“They got the shrapnel out?” I asked Marty.
“Damn right they did. For me and near to one hundred other guys by now,” he said.
“How long before you were on your feet, Marty?” Harken asked.
“Next day. Doctor’s orders,” he said with a chuckle. I began to think this was the standard routine with these guys. “Hey, I wasn’t doing the Saint Louis shag, but I was getting around the hospital ward all right. When I was released, Doc Harken said he needed a driver, so I signed on to keep him out of trouble.”
“Major Cosgrove said something about exercise,” I said, remembering his description of Harken’s regime.
“Movement is good for the mind and body,” Harken said. “You’ll be out of bed as soon as possible. Once the stitches are out, in about a week, you can pay us a visit at the 160th. We’ll give you the once-over. Ask for Marty, everyone knows him.”
“Remember,” Dark Shirley said. “This is off the books. Don’t talk to anyone but Marty, okay?”
“I understand,” Kaz said. “Thank you all.”
“Thank us when it’s over,” Harken said. “Now, let’s see if we can find a decent place to eat in town, Marty.”
“No can do,” Marty said. “The place is locked up tight. We’re here until you finish up tomorrow.”
“Who says?” Harken wanted to know.
“The Home Guards say it’s a British officer named Snow. Got a bee in his bonnet.”
“There have been some incidents,” I said, sugarcoating it as best I could. “Major Snow takes his job seriously, and, to be fair, this isn’t your typical hospital. Saint Albans has more than its fair share of top secret types.”
“Wonderful,” Dark Shirley said. “British hospital food, the worst of both worlds.”
The small surgery team began to file out of the room, giving Kaz cheery assurances. Harken waited until the three of them were in the hall and extended his hand to Kaz.
“I will do my absolute best, I promise,” he said. “If it is within my power, I’ll have you up and walking in no time. But it will be Dr. Hughes’s call on a return to active duty.”
“I am not worried about Dr. Hughes,” Kaz said, grasping his hand. “I place my faith in you and your people. Tell me something, though.”
“What?”
“Tell me what it feels like to hold a human heart in your hands.”
“It’s strong. Muscular. But since it’s hollow, it’s also surprisingly soft and light,” Harken said, as he leaned down and placed his right hand on Kaz’s chest. “It lies here, inches from my touch, beneath the sternum, which comes from the Greek word sternon, which means a soldier’s breastplate. The warrior’s shield.”
He smiled, withdrew his hand, and quietly took his leave.
We sat in silence for a moment. I didn’t know what to say, so I looked outside at the swirling branches, their leaves borne skyward by strong winds that buffeted the tall windows. I thought about the first time I’d set eyes on Kaz, hunched over his desk reading reports. I thought about his agonies after Daphne had died, the suicidal risks he’d taken, until finally he’d come around to the notion that life might be worth living.
I thought about finding him in Paris, near death.
“Are you sure about this, Kaz?” I asked, my eyes on the upswept branches.
“I am certain there is no other course,” he said. I pulled my chair closer and sat facing him. “I was always ill as a youth. I have no desire to spend the rest of my life with that sort of weakness. You have given me a taste for life, Billy, as strange as that sounds amid this madness and carnage.”
“We’ve seen some things,” I said, the memories flitting across my mind. “Done some things.” I almost smiled. Some of those things were good memories. Others were best forgotten, or at least not celebrated. “But what about Angelika?”
“I have thought much about her. If I do not have this operation, there will be nothing I can do but wait. Wait for the chance that she survives, wait for her to find her way home, although no such thing exists for her on the Continent. Wait for her to search me out, which would be extraordinarily difficult. Almost impossible. Can you imagine all the refugees and stateless people this war will leave once it finally ends? It will be chaos.”
“You have to take this chance, then,” I said.
“Yes. If I die from the operation, it would be the same as not having it. Angelika would be on her own. But if it succeeds, I will be back in uniform with at least some chance of finding her. Do you understand, Billy?”
“I do, Kaz. I do.”
What was I supposed to say? That Charles Cosgrove had possessed the power to put Angelika’s name on a list, but wouldn’t do it? That Diana might come out safely, but Angelika would be left in Ravensbrück? That his chances at surviving the operation were better than Angelika’s in that concentration camp?
“I’ll find her,” I said. “If you can’t. I promise you.” I laid my hand on his, and he clasped it tightly.
“You are a good friend,” he said. I struggled to meet his gaze. I didn’t like the secret I was keeping from him, but I had no choice. The truth would crush him.
“Hey, have you heard the latest?” I asked, leaning back in my chair and changing the subject. “I didn’t want to spook Dr. Harken.”
“Everyone heard the gunshots,” Kaz said. “An orderly said it was target practice, which was not very convincing.”
“Lieutenant Paul Densmore was found dead in his room. He was in the VIP section, third floor of the north wing,” I said. I wanted to fill Kaz in on what I saw there, but I remembered the room with the recording devices. I had no idea how many hidden microphones there were.
“Who is Densmore?” Kaz asked.
“Colonel Blackford’s assistant,” I said, as I reached over to the nightstand for pencil and paper. “Densmore had been suffering from nervous exhaustion but was about to be released. Blackford was going to meet with him this morning before he left, but instead he got to talking with Angus Sinclair.”
“The wheezer and dodger chap,” Kaz said.
“Yeah. Apparently Blackford had some technical questions for him, and Sinclair flew off the handle. He took off, bowled over one of the Home Guards by accident, and picked up his rifle. He enjoyed himself firing a few shots into the air before I got it away from him. Right after that they found Densmore’s body.” I handed Kaz the note I’d scribbled.
I snuck in and found Densmore. Red horse drawn in blood on window. Got out fast. Saw room with listening devices.
“Densmore and Cosgrove, both connected to Colonel Blackford of the German Section,” Kaz said, his eyebrows raised as he read the note. “Murdered.”
“One by a knife thrust, the other by a twist of the neck,” I said. “Quick and efficient.”
&nb
sp; “The way SOE trains agents to kill,” Kaz said, ripping the note in half and giving one to me. “But it also occurs to me a physician would know where to pierce the heart and how to break a neck. Not an easy thing, either of them.”
We both tore our paper into tiny bits and dumped them in a cup, the crumpled pieces soaking up the dregs of Kaz’s tea.
“Why here, and why now?” I said.
“Densmore and Cosgrove were both here at the same time,” Kaz said. “Perhaps that was important to the killer. Or the killer is a patient and couldn’t reach them anywhere else. You said Densmore was about to be released.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking it through. I leaned closer, whispering to Kaz. “There’s one place I’m sure they bug. Robinson’s office. He has people spilling their guts in there.”
“Except,” Kaz said, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah. Neither Cosgrove nor Densmore were patients of Robinson. Well, Cosgrove wasn’t for sure. Maybe Robinson did talk with Densmore. I’ll find out.”
“And Holland, the first victim, did not speak. It would have been difficult for him to say anything, much less utter something so earth-shattering that it led to three deaths,” Kaz said.
“One thing that bothers me is Blackford enlisting Sinclair’s help. I mean, the guy has half a dozen screws loose. Aren’t there plenty of professors still working for the Directorate of Miscellaneous Weapon Development?”
“What did he want him to work on?”
I whispered to Kaz what Blackford had been shopping for. A foolproof way to fake a parachute malfunction and ensure a high-speed landing in Nazi Germany. The design for something called a squirt transmitter to send compressed bursts of coded messages.
“The first item seems clearly to be an execution,” Kaz said, keeping his voice low. “The latter would be extremely useful. Sending encrypted messages via Morse code is terribly time-consuming. The Germans can listen in and track down the source if the operator stays on the air long enough. Perhaps Sinclair was the lead boffin on such a project. If so, it stands to reason Blackford would consult with him, even here. Perhaps you should ask more of Sinclair.”