Baker nodded.
‘‘Unless you’re willing to tell me more, my answer is no,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Canidy,’’ Chennault said, ‘‘Roosevelt would not have sent Mr. Baker here unless this was damned important.’’
‘‘Colonel Donovan told me to expect that Canidy would be difficult,’’ Baker said, smiling.
That surprised Canidy. He knew that Donovan was engaged in hush-hush work for the President. Baker was, therefore, sending him a message. He looked quickly at Chennault and Crookshanks. Their faces showed no sign that they knew Donovan.
‘‘How is the colonel?’’ Canidy asked dryly.
‘‘He sends his best regards,’’ Baker said. ‘‘He hopes to have dinner with you soon.’’
Canidy doubted that. But he understood he was being told that if he went along with Baker, he would be going to the States.
‘‘That would be nice,’’ Canidy said, dryly sarcastic.
What the hell is the matter with me? Canidy thought. All the questions of rushing to the bulwarks to defend the flag aside, my option is either to remain here, where I’ll likely be shot and killed, or to go along with whatever this guy has up his sleeve. The odds are that it will probably be less dangerous than what I’m doing now. Donovan probably needs a pilot, and I’m a pilot. It may be as simple as that.
What’s wrong with that theory is that the President would not send a high-level bureaucrat halfway around the world to recruit an airplane driver.
‘‘Can you tell me what my status would be?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘Oh, you mean who’s going to pay you?’’ Baker asked. "You would be a civilian employee of the U.S. government. There would be at least as much money as you’re making now. Including bonuses I understand you earned yesterday. ’’
Oh, what the fuck!
‘‘All right,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘What the hell, why not?’’
Baker nodded.
‘‘When does all this happen?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘You’ll go back with General Chennault and me,’’ Baker said. ‘‘Which raises the question of how we explain your departure around here.’’
‘‘What difference does that make? Let them ask Crookshanks if they’re curious.’’
‘‘The situation is such that we can’t let you tell your friends what you’re doing,’’ Baker said. ‘‘That means I have to come up with some sort of credible explanation why you suddenly vanished the day after you became an ace and got a medal.’’
‘‘The Cloud Banner is not common knowledge,’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘The only person who knows about it is Canidy’s wingman, Douglass.’’
‘‘That would be Douglas Douglass?’’ Baker said, brightening.
‘‘Yes,’’ Crookshanks said, surprised that Baker had that information.
‘‘The word you will spread about my visit is that I came to see Douglass,’’ Baker said. ‘‘To bring him a package from his father. Why isn’t Canidy’s medal common knowledge? >
‘‘That was Douglass’s suggestion,’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘I was going to make Canidy a flight commander, and planned to combine that announcement with the story of his kills and the medal.’’
Baker nodded.
He’s thinking profound thoughts, Canidy thought; you can almost smell the wood burning.
‘‘I have a somewhat unpleasant suggestion,’’ Baker said a moment later. ‘‘I think it necessary for Canidy to leave China in disgrace. People are less apt to talk about cowards than heroes. Thus we’ll have to alter the past a little. The word will therefore be spread that Canidy turned tail yesterday and fled, and that you consequently relieved him and sent him home.’’
‘‘A hero’s life is a short one,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘I don’t think Douglass would go along with that,’’ Crookshanks said stiffly.
‘‘I also have a letter with me from Douglass’s father,’’ Baker said. ‘‘It asks him to do whatever I ask.’’
‘‘His father’s a Navy commander, isn’t he?’’ Chennault asked.
‘‘Captain,’’ Baker said.
‘‘And he’s involved with you?’’ Canidy asked.
Baker ignored the question. ‘‘If we did this,’’ he said thoughtfully, ‘‘it would obviate the necessity of Canidy saying anything at all to anyone. He would simply walk out there on the airplane and be gone. Afterward, Douglass could reluctantly say that he didn’t know what happened. I think he could manage that.’’
‘‘Is this really necessary?’’ Chennault asked.
Baker ignored him, too.
"It’s up to you, Canidy,’’ Baker said. ‘‘I am open to other suggestions."
It was a moment before Canidy replied.
‘‘I don’t much give a damn what people think of me,’’ he said.
‘‘Mr. Crookshanks,’’ Baker said, ‘‘would you send someone for Douglass, please?’’
Ksar es Souk, Morocco December 22, 1941
Eric Fulmar, el Ferruch was surprised to see, was not at all unhappy at the palace at Ksar es Souk. He had expected him to almost immediately grow bored with life in the middle of the desert and to promptly start wheedling to be taken to Rabat and put safely into the hands of American diplomatic personnel.
He had to be watched around the clock, of course, in case it should enter his mind to take his chances and make for Rabat on his own. That would involve stealing a car, as well as breaking his word, and el Ferruch thought that was unlikely. But he was a prudent man, and it was not difficult to have Eric watched by the Berbers, discreetly, ‘‘for his own protection.’’
Since they had not been able to walk out of the Hôtel d’Anfa carrying suitcases, the only Western clothing Eric had with him was what he had worn under his burnoose. Once in the palace at Ksar es Souk, he had no choice but to dress in Moroccan clothing, and from the third day, not by intention, he had grown a beard. With his modern American safety razor in Casablanca with his clothing, he had borrowed el Ferruch’s English straight razor. One slice in his cheek was enough to encourage him to let his beard grow.
But before long his golden-blond beard pleased him, so he didn’t shave it off when his things finally arrived from Casablanca. And because that amused him too, he continued to wear Moroccan clothing.
They rose early in the morning, when it was still quite cool, mounted horses, and hunted (quail, with shotguns and dogs, and peccary—a type of wild pig—with machine pistols borrowed from the guards) until the sun sent the temperature up. Then they returned to the palace and spent the rest of the day deep inside, where the thick stone-and-mud walls kept the temperature comfortable.
One afternoon Fulmar came across a book by T. E. Lawrence in the small collection of European-language books el Ferruch had inherited from his father. There was a faded photo of Lawrence at the front wearing Arab garb and sitting cockily astride a horse.
‘‘You will henceforth refer to me as Lawrence the Second, ’’ Fulmar said, showing the book to el Ferruch, ‘‘and treat me with the appropriate respect.’’
‘‘When the Turks caught Lawrence,’’ el Ferruch said, ‘‘they buggered him.’’
‘‘You’re kidding,’’ Fulmar said, disgusted.
‘‘No,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘And he finally killed himself riding a motorcycle drunk.’’
‘‘Forget I brought it up.’’ Fulmar laughed.
El Ferruch thought—but did not say—that astride a stallion, in flowing robes and burnoose, carrying a machine pistol and bandoliers of ammunition, Eric looked more capable of taking on the Turkish Army than Lawrence, who had been a small, slight, sickly faggot.
In his role as pasha of Ksar es Souk, each afternoon el Ferruch had to receive his subjects in the main hall of the palace. He sat on cushions and drank (and offered) tea while hearing his Berbers’ complaints and giving (or denying) his permission for marriages and business transactions. After these audiences were over he evaluated with Ahmed Mohammed the information
that had come into their possession, then dispatched a daily synopsis to Thami el Glaoui in Marrakech.
While el Ferruch was engaged in what Fulmar called, sarcastically but not inaccurately, the discharge of his King Solomon duties, Fulmar himself, trailed by Berbers awed by his ability to handle (dead) electric mains that (live) knocked them down, practiced the profession he’d learned in Germany and went around the palace doing what he could to improve what he called the Edison Model #1 electrical system.
To do so required copper wire, transformers, switches, and other electrical devices. The Berbers were of course willing—even delighted—to acquire the necessary supplies by stealing them from the French and Germans. But after they kept bringing back the wrong equipment, and several of them were knocked unconscious grabbing the wrong wire, Fulmar asked permission to go along with them on their nightly forays.
At first el Ferruch wanted to say no. But then he realized that Fulmar was speaking fluent Arabic, and that while he was no Berber, still, in his blue robes and blond beard and deeply tanned skin, he could not be told from one.
‘‘Theft only, Eric,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘And that discreetly. No sabotage. No suggestion that what you are stealing is being used for its intended purpose. Let them think that the wire is being stolen to be melted down for the copper.’’
Fulmar nodded.
‘‘If, however, it should be necessary at some later time to sabotage the electrical or telephone systems, I would be very interested to know the best way to do that.’’
‘‘I’ll make the drawings,’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘No problem at all. And I can tap into their telephone lines, if you’d like. Or their telegraph and teletypewriter lines. You’d need a Teletype machine if I tapped those lines, or a telegraph printer. But we can listen to their telephone calls very easily. >
‘‘They couldn’t tell?’’
‘‘I was educated at Marburg,’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘Remember? Right about now I was scheduled to be Herr Doktor von Fulmar, Elektroingenieur.’’
Sidi el Ferruch rode with Fulmar on several middle-of-the -night wire and transformer raids, and proved to his own satisfaction that Fulmar could do what he promised.
As a reward, he satisfied Fulmar’s curiosity about his wives, whom Fulmar had never seen. He took them to the wives’ wing of the palace, and from behind a screened window he let Fulmar have a quick look at them without their veils. They were sitting together, sewing.
‘‘And they’re both pregnant?’’ Fulmar asked.
El Ferruch nodded.
‘‘And that’s how they’re going to spend the rest of their lives, that’s it? That’s all they get out of it?’’
‘‘That’s all they expect from it,’’ el Ferruch said.
‘‘Just when I think I’m beginning to understand things,’’ Fulmar said, ‘‘I realize I don’t understand anything.’’
‘‘The Koran says that is the beginning of wisdom.’’
Washington, D.C. December 31, 1941
It took Canidy and Baker nine days to travel from Kunming, China, to Washington, D.C. And they had hardly been out of each other’s sight from the moment they had left Kunming. Even so, Canidy knew no more about what he was expected to do when they walked through Union Station in Washington than he had when he left Kunming. Baker knew how to keep his mouth shut. Nor did he give any hint that their final destination was Jimmy Whittaker’s house on Q Street until their cab pulled up to the door in the brick wall.
‘‘Under happier circumstances . . .’’ Canidy said.
He wondered what had happened to Jimmy. He’d heard that the Air Corps in the Philippines had been wiped out in the first few days after Pearl Harbor, and they’d handed the pilots rifles and told them they were now in the infantry.
The poor bastard.
Canidy recalled their last meeting together in Washington, when they had gotten drunk and Jimmy had told him that he was in love with Cynthia Chenowith—even though she was screwing his uncle.
When he climbed out of the cab after Baker, he saw that there were two policeman types sitting in a black Chevrolet parked at the curb. A third policeman in plainclothes walked up to them.
Baker took a leather folder from his jacket, opened it, and showed it to the cop. He examined Baker’s face with a pencil flashlight.
‘‘We didn’t know when you were coming,’’ the cop said.
‘‘We just got here,’’ Baker said.
The cop held the gate open for them to pass through.
Canidy wondered idly what had become of Cynthia now that Chesty Whittaker was dead and the house obviously under the control of Colonel Donovan. Obviously, she would no longer be living in the garage apartment.
A silver-haired black man Canidy did not recognize opened the door, greeted Baker by name, then led the way to the library.
‘‘If you’ll just wait here, gentlemen, someone will be with you in a minute.’’
The furnishings were unchanged, so Canidy decided it would be worth chancing that whiskey would still be kept where it formerly had been. He opened the antique credenza. And when Baker saw what he was doing, his eyes went up, but he said nothing. There was whiskey and several bottles of soda inside.
‘‘Scotch and soda?’’ Canidy asked.
Baker nodded. Canidy made the drinks, then sat down in one of the leather-upholstered chairs by the fireplace.
Cynthia Chenowith came into the room a few minutes later. She was wearing a house robe, and sleep was in her eyes.
‘‘Hello, Canidy,’’ she said. ‘‘Welcome home. I see you found the whiskey.’’
‘‘Hello, Cynthia,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘How are you?’’
He was really surprised to see her.
She gave him her hand. It was soft and warm, and her breasts moved unrestrained under the housecoat. She was a very good-looking female. It would be nice to get her out of that housecoat.
Jimmy has told me he loves her, he realized. Only a prick would try to jump his best friend’s lady love. Ergo, that makes me a genuine prick.
He glanced at Baker and saw on his face that he, too, admired Cynthia Chenowith’s unrestrained bosom and other physical charms.
‘‘You don’t seem very surprised to see me,’’ she said.
‘‘Nothing much surprises me anymore,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘We didn’t know when you were coming,’’ Cynthia said to Baker. ‘‘The last we heard was that you were in Lisbon.’’
‘‘We?’’ Canidy asked. ‘‘Are you involved in whatever this is?’’
‘‘Mrs. Whittaker has turned the house over to the colonel for the duration,’’ Cynthia said.
‘‘That wasn’t what I asked,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘I know it wasn’t,’’ she said. She looked at Baker. ‘‘Well, I expect you’re tired. He’s here. You can go home.’’
‘‘Yeah, Eldon,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Take a walk. The lady and I want to be alone.’’
Neither Cynthia nor Baker seemed amused.
‘‘Is the captain going to be available in the morning?’’ Baker asked.
‘‘After nine,’’ Cynthia said.
‘‘I’ll be here then,’’ Baker said. ‘‘Is there a car?’’
‘‘Yes. You need a ride?’’
‘‘Please,’’ he said.
‘‘I think the driver’s in the kitchen,’’ Cynthia said.
‘‘Then I will head for home,’’ Baker said. ‘‘Good night, Canidy. Good night, Cynthia.’’
‘‘Good night, good night,’’ Canidy said cheerfully. ‘‘Finally parting with you, Eldon, is such sweet sorrow.’’
‘‘He’s yours, Cynthia,’’ Baker said, ignoring him.
‘‘Entirely,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Heart and soul.’’
‘‘Oh, shut up, Dick,’’ she said, but didn’t quite manage to suppress a smile.
‘‘I was sorry to hear about Mr. Whittaker,’’ Canidy said after he was sure Baker was out of
hearing.
‘‘It was a stroke. The day the war started.’’
‘‘I know how much he meant to you,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘What do you mean by that?’’ she asked.
‘‘Just the way it sounded,’’ he said. ‘‘Has there been any word about Jimmy?’’
‘‘Not a word,’’ she said. ‘‘Except a letter he wrote to his aunt a week or so before the war started.’’
She seemed genuinely concerned.
‘‘What’s going on around here?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘I suppose you’ll have the chance to ask about that tomorrow, ’’ she said.
‘‘And what’s your role in all this?’’
‘‘Can I get you something?’’ she asked, ignoring the question. ‘‘Something to eat?’’
‘‘I ate a sandwich on the train,’’ he said. ‘‘I asked, what’s your role in all this?’’
‘‘I knew you were probably going to be difficult,’’ she said. ‘‘Can’t it wait until morning, Dick?’’
‘‘And if I said no, you would say ‘It’ll have to,’ right?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ She grinned. ‘‘Now, is there anything I can get you? Or can I take you to your room?’’
‘‘Is there a phone in my room?’’
"Why?"
‘‘I want to call my father,’’ he said.
‘‘You’re not supposed to do that,’’ she said. Then she saw the look on his face and quickly went on. ‘‘You’re under certain restrictions here, Dick. They’ll be explained to you in detail in the morning. Until they are, you aren’t supposed to use the telephone or mail letters. . . .’’
‘‘For Christ’s sake!’’ Canidy fumed. ‘‘That’s absurd!’’
‘‘That’s the way it is,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
He started toward the library door. ‘‘Nice to have seen you again, Cynthia,’’ he said.
‘‘And you’re restricted to the property,’’ she said. ‘‘You can’t leave.’’
He stopped. ‘‘Those cops, you mean?’’
‘‘Dick, I can get you an outside line to call your father,’’ she said. ‘‘Provided you don’t tell him you’re here. Just to say hello, that’s all. And I’ll have to listen. If you say anything you shouldn’t, I’ll cut you off.’’
The Last Heroes Page 29