The Soldier Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  Canidy’s delight with the western shore of Little Ross Bay had also caused the U.S. Navy Auxiliary Vessel Atmore YD-1823 to steam the previous evening across the very unpleasant Irish Sea from Liverpool to Little Ross Bay, where it now rode at anchor. Everyone from the skipper down was either seasick or saying unkind things about the idiocy of the Naval Service in general and whichever fucking idiot had dreamed this up. Or both.

  "This” was their orders, classified Secret. These, in addition to giving the location of Little Ross Bay and telling them where precisely they were to drop anchor in Little Ross Bay, informed them that they were to be “prepared to take aboard certain U.S. Military personnel who may be parachuted into the bay, or onto the western shore thereof.”

  Since the engineers had done a good job with the camouflage netting, the structure the engineers had built was not visible to the skipper or the lookouts of the Atmore, who consequently believed themselves to be sitting all by their lonesomes in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  And then, suddenly, a B-17 appeared.

  “Battle stations, battle stations,” the loudspeakers boomed. “Boat crews, man your boats. Davit crews, stand by to launch rescue boats.”

  The B-17 came right over the Atmore, so low they could see the engine exhausts, and so close that some of the crew swore that there had been no machine-gun turrets on it, or gun positions in the fuselage.

  The B-17 flew right into the cliffs on the west shore of Little Ross Bay and exploded.

  When the rescue-boat crews finally made their way to the crash site, they found they had been preceded by an Army Engineer lieutenant and eight men, and by a first lieutenant wearing a SHAEF Patch.

  Both the lieutenant (j.g.) commanding the rescue boat landing party and the lieutenant from the Engineer platoon were immensely relieved when the officer from SHAEF, a Lieutenant Jamison, told them that the crew of the B-l7 had parachuted to safety about an hour before, so it would not be necessary to search the crash site for bodies.

  Both junior officers had questions:

  The Engineer lieutenant wondered, If there was no crew in that thing, how come it hit that whatever-the-fuck-it-was we built right in the middle?

  The Lieutenant (j.g.) wondered, If that was an accident during a routine training flight, how come they sent us up here maybe twelve hours before that plane took off?

  And both of them were very curious about Lieutenant Jamison: How come a SHAEF officer, not even Army Air Corps, just happened to be on the western shore of Little Ross Bay when the B-17 crashed?

  And how did he know the crew had parachuted to safety?

  But Jamison hadn’t wanted to talk to them, and there was no one else they could think of who would have the answers, and the brass seemed hysterical about secrecy, so they kept their mouths shut.

  Chapter TWO

  Batthyany Palace

  Holy Trinity Square

  Budapest, Hungary

  1115 Hours 29 January 1943

  Beatrice, Countess Batthyany and Baroness von Steighofen, was wearing a sable coat that reached nearly to her ankles when she walked across the parquet floor to take the telephone call.

  Under the coat, she wore a tweed skirt and two sweaters. Her feet were in a pair of sheepskin-lined over-the-ankle boots that had once belonged to her late husband, and her legs were encased in knitted woolen stockings reaching over her knees. Her red hair was somewhat sloppily done up in a loose bun, into which she had just stuck the side pieces of a rather ugly pair of tortoiseshell spectacles.

  The Countess had been reading when informed of the telephone call, and Batthyany Palace was as cold as a witch’s teat. The palace, directly across Holy Trinity Square from St. Matthias’ Church, had been built at approximately the same time (1775-77) as the royal castle (1715-70) atop Castle Hill, and it had always been difficult to heat. Without adequate supplies of coal, it was now damned near impossible.

  The irony was, she had coal, lots of it. There were half a dozen coal mines running around the clock on Batthyany property. The problem was in getting the coal from the mines to Batthyany Palace. That required trucks. She had been allocated one truckload per month, and she didn’t always get that. Even when she did, one truckload was nowhere near enough to heat the palace.

  She didn’t bother trying to heat the lower floor, nor the upper two floors. They had been shut off with ugly, and really not very effective, wooden barriers over the stairwells. Only the first floor was occupied.

  The Countess was living in a five-room apartment overlooking Holy Trinity Square, but she often thought she might as well be living in the basement for all she saw of the square. Most of the floor-to-ceiling windows had been timbered over to hold in the heat from the tall, porcelain-covered stoves in the corners of the rooms. The two windows leading to the balconies over the square, and, in the rear, the garden that were not timbered over were covered with seldom-opened drapes.

  The telephone beside the Countess’s bed had stopped working two months before. When she had—personally, after her butler had gotten nowhere with them—called the Post Office people to complain, she had been rudely informed that there was a war on, and that they couldn’t tell her when there would be someone available to come fix it.

  “I regret, my dear Countess,” the man had said, “that you will be forced to use one of the other eleven telephones my records show you have available to you in the palace.”

  He was unmoved when she told him that eight of the twelve telephones in the palace were in the shut-off portions.

  The nearest working telephone to the Countess’s bedroom was in the corridor leading to her apartment from the first-floor sitting room. It was— like the porcelain stoves—American. The Countess was convinced that it was faults in the Hungarian Post Office wiring rather than in the American telephone that forced her into the corridor.

  She picked up the telephone, and as she did, she glanced at herself in the gilt-framed mirror on the wall. She shook her head at the way she looked.

  “My dear von Heurten-Mitnitz,” the Countess said. “How nice to hear from you! Are you in Budapest?”

  “I have been appointed First Secretary of the Embassy,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  “May I offer my congratulations?” the Countess said.

  “That’s very kind of you, Countess,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  “How long have you been here?” she asked.

  “I arrived last night,” he said.

  “Beastly train ride, isn’t it?” she said. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Actually, I drove,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “Standartenführer Müller has also been assigned here, and I brought his car down for him.”

  “That’s your friend? That plump little Hessian, the one who looks like a pickle barrel? ” the Countess asked.

  Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz laughed.

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “The situation—I won’t say ‘politics’—” the Countess said, “makes for strange bedfellows, doesn’t it?”

  It was a rather snobbish thing for her to say, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought.

  But she is a countess, and my brother is no less a snob.

  And then he thought of something else, and said it.

  “That’s an Americanism.”

  “Is it really?” the Countess said.

  “I realize this may well be an imposition,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said,“and I will certainly understand if you have other plans—”

  “But?” she interrupted.

  “What I had hoped to do, on this very short notice,” he said,“was to ask you to take lunch with me—”

  “I accept,” the Countess interrupted again.

  “—following which,” von Heurten-Mitnitz went on,“would you be good enough to serve as my guide around town? I’ve been given the addresses of several available flats, and I—”

  “But of course,” she said. “Offer me a good meal, and I am yours.”

  Helmut von Heurten-
Mitnitz laughed, just a little uneasily.

  “I’m at the Imperial,” he said. “To judge by dinner last night—”

  “Not what it once was,” she interrupted once again,“but passable.”

  "Precisely,” he said. “What time would be convenient for you?”

  “Come by at quarter to one,” she said. “You know how to find it?”

  “Holy Trinity Square,” he said.

  “Quarter to one, then, my dear Helmut,” the Countess said.

  She hung up the telephone and went back into her apartment.

  She opened one of three ceiling-high wardrobes and selected from it a dress meeting two criteria, warmth and style, in that order. She settled on a black wool dress and laid it on her bed. Then she went to a chest of drawers and searched through her alarmingly dwindling selection of lingerie. She chose in the end to go all black, although there was a temptation to go all red. There was still a rather nice red silk chemise and slip.

  She considered a bath and decided against it. For one thing, there was barely time. There was no longer hot water on demand. The hot-water heater in the bathroom was fired up only when a bath was planned. And, she thought, there were some men, and she suspected Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz was among them, who preferred the smell of woman to the smell of soap. Or, she corrected herself, the smell of a perfumed woman. Besides, she still had adequate supplies of scent. When Manny had gone to Paris, he’d bought everything he could lay his hands on for her.

  She laid on the bed one of her remaining half-dozen pairs of silk stockings beside the black dress and the black underwear. Then, taking a deep breath as if facing an ordeal, she very quickly slipped out of the sable coat and the sweaters and the skirt. Then, naked save for the knitted stockings, she ran to her dressing table and liberally anointed herself with Chanel #5. Her skin was covered with goose bumps, and her nipples grew erect.

  She ran back to the bed and quickly put on the underwear, the dress, and the sable coat. Then she returned to her dressing table and did her hair and her face. When that was done, she spun around on the stool, removed the boots and the knit stockings, and pulled on the silk stockings. Finally, she hoisted the skirt of her dress out of the way and hooked the stockings to the garter belt. Then, on the balls of her feet, she walked to one of the wardrobes, selected a pair of pumps, and slipped them on.

  Then she rang for her maid

  “I’m going out for lunch,” she said. “When I return, I’d like these rooms warm. I will more than likely have a guest with me, so clean the place up. Put some decent sheets on the bed.”

  “Countess,” the maid, a gray-haired woman in her sixties, said,“we don’t have all that much coal—”

  “I have an idea my guest may be able to remedy that,” the Countess said. “Just do what I tell you.”

  The maid nodded.

  “And bring me the silver fox, the knee-length one,” the Countess said. “And the matching hat. I look like Catherine the Great, at seventy, in the sable.”

  “Yes, Countess,” the maid said.

  Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz was five minutes early, but the Countess was waiting for him. When the Opel Admiral pulled to the curb, she rushed out and stepped in before he could get out.

  “I suppose that makes me look dreadfully eager,” she said.

  “Not at all,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  “But I didn’t have breakfast, and I’m famished.”

  She smiled at him. He was discomfited, but not much. He was a man of the world, and God knew, there were damned few of them left. She was pleased that she had chosen the black underwear; she suspected he would like that.

  They had a very nice luncheon in the Hotel Imperial dining room. The Countess ate delicately but heartily as von Heurten-Mitnitz told her the latest gossip from Berlin.

  He did not seem surprised at her curiosity about Standartenführer Müller. He told her that Müller had just been summoned to the Wolf’s Lair, Hitler’s secret command post, in Rastenburg, where General Kaltenbrunner thought it might be a good idea, if it could be arranged, that he meet the Führer personally.

  “There seems to be some question, Countess,” he said,“of Hungarian devotion to the alliance. I suppose the real purpose for Müller and I coming here is to reassure von Ribbentrop and others that these fears are groundless.”

  “I am sure you will find, Helmut,” the Countess said,“that there has been no change in Hungarian opinion.”

  If he detected a double entendre in her reply, he gave no sign.

  He’s really quite good-looking, the Countess thought. And although he’s doing his very best to be a Pomeranian gentleman, he has not been able to keep his eyes off my bosom.

  When they left the hotel, the Countess suggested that she drive.

  “Splendid idea, if you don’t mind,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “One gets to see so little when in an unfamiliar city.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked when they had moved away from the hotel.

  “Could we start at St. Ann’s Church?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked. “Then I could use that as a base point until I find my bearings.”

  When they reached the Vizivaros and St. Ann’s Church, the Countess circled the church and pulled the Opel Admiral in to the curb, nose first, in front of it.

  He looked at her curiously.

  “Might I have a cigarette?” she asked. He produced his case, took one out, and then lit it for her. She held his wrist in her gloved fingers as he did.

  “I don’t know him, you know,” the Countess said.

  “I beg your pardon?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked, confused.

  “I don’t even know what he looks like,” the Countess said. “Eric Fulmar is Manny’s first cousin, or second cousin, or whatever. But when he was at Marburg, we weren’t at Schloss Steighofen. Or vice versa. I never laid eyes on him, and they haven’t given me a description. Until you showed up, I was afraid I was going to have to just hang around here looking for a young SS officer with a familial resemblance to my late husband, and a middle-aged man who looked both professorial and just a little nervous.”

  “You are a truly remarkable woman!” Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  The Countess Batthyany and Baroness Steighofen smiled at Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz’s discomfiture.

  “Tell me, Helmut,” she asked,“do you think you’ll be given a heating coal allowance, or can you get one?”

  The question made no sense to him, but he answered it.

  “As a matter of fact, I was told I would be. They said it would make a difference to landlords.”

  “Yes, it does,” she said. “There are two apartments on the first floor of my place. Providing you have a coal allowance, I’d be willing to make you an attractive price.”

  He hesitated a moment.

  “Questions could be asked,” the Countess said. “But you do know me— you were even at Manny’s funeral—and the Housing Office has been after me to make the other apartment available for use.”

  “You’re a remarkable woman, Countess,” von Heurten-Mitnitz repeated.

  She put the Admiral in gear and backed away from the curb.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” she said, “how is it you never married?”

  Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz was now growing used to her rapid changes of subject and odd, probing questions.

  “There has never been time, I suppose,” he said.

  “But you’re not queer?”

  “No,” he said, then:“Did you think I was?”

  “I thought I should ask,” she said. “Unless your heating coal ration will be much larger than I think it will be, we will have the option, now that we’ll be living together, of keeping two apartments just above freezing, or one apartment as warm as toast. Or am I shocking you?”

  “I am afraid, my dear Countess,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, “of believing my incredible good fortune.”

  He reached over and caught her gloved hand and kissed it.

>   “How gallant!” she said, pleased. “And since it will not be necessary for you to spend the afternoon looking for an apartment, may I assume that you’re free?”

  “Yes,” he said,“I’m free. What did you have in mind?”

  The Countess Batthyany laughed deep in her throat.

  Chapter THREE

  The Baseler-Frankfurter Express

  Eric Fulmar lowered the Gestapo agent’s body to the floor. He was breathing heavily, and his heart was beating rapidly.

  He looked at the body for a moment, then stepped over it and fastened the latch on the compartment door.

  “Shit!” he said, in German.

  He stepped over the body again, then turned and bent over it and, grasping the back of the head with one hand, tried to draw the thin-bladed knife out of the head. It wouldn’t come. Either when he had twisted it—to scramble the brains—or when he’d lowered the Gestapo agent to the floor, the bones, or the muscles, or the sinews, or all three, had shifted, locking the blade in place.

  For a moment, he considered just leaving the fucking knife where it was.

  This hadn’t been “projected” as a “possible difficulty.”

  Neither was the knife included in the planning. They hadn’t brought the subject up. And, since he had already made up his mind to bring the knife with him, he hadn’t brought it up either. If he had, they might have kept him from taking it.

  He had bought the knife from an English sergeant at SOE’s Station X. All British commandos had one, the sergeant had told him. It had a blade about six inches long, and a handle just big enough to be wrapped in the fingers. The knife, which had been invented by an Englishman, then running the Shanghai police force, a man named Fairbairn, came in two versions. The “regular” one was larger and was intended for use in combat. Its scabbard was sewn either to the trouser leg or the boot.

  The one sunk to its hilt behind and under the Gestapo agent’s ear was the “baby Fairbairn.” It was small enough to be carried hilt downward, hidden between the wrist and the bend of the elbow.