The Saboteurs

by Griffin, W. E. B. ; Butterworth IV, William

  Dick saw Ann finally dart out of the shadows of themagnolias, glance at him over her shoulder—her long blonde hair catching the moonlight—and laugh as she went to a side entrance of the Lodge.

  As Dick approached, he could see that she was pulling on the wood-frame screen door but that it would not open. The flimsy door was being held shut from the inside by a small hook-and-eye latch, and every time she pulled, the hook gave only a half inch or so—and the door then slammed back into its frame.

  Dick came closer, and the bam, bam, bam became louder with Ann repeatedly pulling at the door—and laughing hysterically. The top of her silk pj’s slid off her right shoulder.

  Dick grinned mischievously, his heart beating rapidly as he closed in on her.

  Ann laughed, and the door slammed bam, bam, bam….

  And a man’s muffled voice called, “Mr. Canidy?”

  Canidy shook his head, trying to shake off the fog that clouded his thought.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  “Room service, Mr. Canidy.”

  Canidy cracked open an eye and saw that he wasn’t at the Plantation in Alabama but still at the Gramercy in New York.

  The clock on the bedside table showed three minutes past eight.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  “Mr. Canidy?”

  I didn’t call for room service.

  He slipped his right hand under his pillow, found his .45, then got out of bed and in only his boxers and T-shirt went to the door.

  “I didn’t request room service,” he said, staying to the side of the doorframe, away from the door itself.

  Using his right thumb, he pulled back the hammer on the pistol.

  “It’s complimentary, sir.”

  Canidy rubbed his eyes. He shook his head.

  Complimentary?

  Wait…that’s right. Instead of a wake-up phone call, they send up coffee and tea and the morning paper at the requested time.

  He took his left index finger and thumb, grasped the hammer, squeezed the trigger, and carefully uncocked the pistol.

  “Just leave it at the foot of the door, please.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “That’ll be fine. Your gratuity will be on the tray when you come back for it.”

  “Very well, sir,” the voice said, and then there was the clanking of cups and saucers as the tray was placed on the floor.

  Canidy walked to the bathroom, put the pistol on the top of the toilet tank, and took a long leak.

  He flushed, glanced at himself in the mirror over the sink—Smooth move, Casanova. The minute you fall for one girl, you can’t even get laid in your dreams—and washed his hands and face.

  He took the white terry cloth robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, put it on, slipped the pistol in the right pocket, and, somewhat sure the gun wasn’t going to fall out, went back to the door.

  After he unlocked it and went to open it, he found that there was some resistance. He got it open enough to peek out and saw that the resistance was because his clothes from the trip aboard the fishing boat had been cleaned and returned and were now hanging from the doorknob.

  He pulled open the door completely, retrieved the clothes, and put them on the couch, then went back and picked up the tray and brought it in the room, pushing the door closed with his foot.

  Canidy put the tray on the coffee table in the sitting room of his suite and looked at the New York Times as he poured steaming coffee into one of the two cups.

  The biggest headline above the fold read: U-BOAT ATTACKS IN ATLANTIC ON RISE AGAIN.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he said disgustedly.

  He sat in the armchair, unfolded the paper, and scanned the other headlines on the front page.

  There was a long piece, with a large photograph showing strewn wreckage, about a train derailment in Oklahoma on Saturday. Beneath that, a report on the Luftwaffe’s attack on London with twin-engine Heinkel He 111 bombers. A short piece reported that the rate of pregnancies among American teenagers had spiked. And—some really good news—the rest of the page was devoted to progress on the war fronts: the Germans withdrawing from Tunisia, the RAF bombing the hell out of Berlin, and the Australians and Americans kicking the goddamned Japs’ asses in the Bismarck Sea.

  He decided to start with the U-boat article and went back to it.

  It reported that both of the convoys that had left the New York area in just the first week of March had been attacked, with a loss of four ships carrying matériel and one troopship.

  “Shit,” he said and drained his coffee cup.

  He moved on to the London bombing piece and that caused him to wonder—and worry—if Ann Chambers was right now knee-deep in rubble interviewing rescuers for her profiles.

  Jesus, I’m getting nowhere sitting here, he thought, frustrated. I need to do something.

  He poured more coffee, grabbed the newspaper, and started for the head.

  He glanced at the clock. Eight-twenty.

  To hell with it. Close enough.

  Canidy put down the paper and picked up the phone receiver. He then asked the operator to connect him to a Washington number he gave from memory.

  “Switchboard oh-five,” a woman’s monotone voice answered.

  “Major Canidy for Chief Ellis. Is he available, please?”

  “Major Canidy? One moment.”

  Canidy took a sip of his coffee as he heard a click and another dial tone and then ringing.

  “Ellis,” came the familiar voice.

  “How they hanging, Chief?” Canidy said.

  “One lower than the other, Major. Got a heads-up for you—I overheard the boss asking if you were having any success and when you’d be headed over there. Sounded like he wanted whatever done yesterday….”

  Shit, Canidy thought.

  He said, “Any chance you’re with the boss?”

  “No chance. Sorry.”

  “Well, if it comes up again before I speak to him, tell him I said, ‘Some, and very soon.’”

  “Will do. He’s at home. The captain has me babysitting.”

  Canidy knew that Colonel Donovan’s home was a town house in Georgetown, just off of Wisconsin Avenue, and that when Ellis said he was babysitting for the captain, that meant that Douglass had him keeping watch over someone at the house on Q Street.

  “I was going to ask him if I could get Ex-Lax to work with me.”

  Ellis knew that Canidy’s lower gastrointestinal tract was not the subject at hand. It was, instead, Eric Fulmar. “Ex-Lax” had been the code name that “Pharmacist”—Canidy—had assigned him on their last mission, the one in Hungary that almost killed them all.

  When Fulmar learned of the code name, he did not find it at all fitting—and sure as hell not humorous—which, of course, only caused Canidy to continue referring to him by it.

  Ellis didn’t answer immediately.

  Canidy went on: “What do you think the chances are of that?”

  “Not good, Major.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  “Donovan?”

  “No, Ex—” Ellis began, then caught himself. “Fulmar. He’s right here.”

  Canidy heard the phone being passed.

  Fulmar’s voice came through the phone: “How about cutting out that ‘Ex-Lax’ shit, ol’ buddy?”

  “Good morning, Eric. Nice to hear your voice, too. And you don’t have to thank me again for saving your ass.”

  The line was quiet a moment, then Fulmar said, “You know I’m grateful. But you’re not going to let me forget, are you?”

  “Never. That way, you’ll always come running when I call.”

  Fulmar chuckled. “Like now? What’s on your mind? Everything okay?”

  “So far. But I’m in New York, up to my neck, and soon quite possibly over my head, and was hoping to maybe get a hand from you.”

  “Not possible. Sorry. The boss has me…let’s just call it ‘busy.’”<
br />
  “Anything I know about?”

  “Only if you’ve listened to the radio or read a newspaper lately. It’s hot.”

  “You’re the one responsible for the spike in knocked-up teens?”

  “Very funny. All I can tell you is that I’ve been up for what seems like hours doing nothing but wading through more bullshit FBI reports. I’ve never read so much that said so little in my life. Except maybe your English essays at St. Paul’s.”

  “When do you think you could break free?”

  “I can’t, I told you. I have to…Hang on a moment.”

  Canidy guessed that Fulmar had moved the receiver away from his head, because he could faintly hear Fulmar asking Ellis something and Ellis grunting a reply. Then he could hear Fulmar more clearly.

  “Where are you?” Fulmar asked Canidy.

  “New York.”

  “No, where are you staying?”

  “Gramercy.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah. Plenty of room. I got a suite.”

  “Look, I can read these files anywhere. And I need to run down a lead there.”

  “Great!”

  “I can be there by—what?—after noon or so.”

  “Room six-oh-one.”

  “Six-oh-one. Got it.”

  [ TWO ]

  Robert Treat Hotel

  Newark, New Jersey

  0815 7 March 1943

  Richard Koch was sitting among a small crowd in the lobby. He was reading the Trenton Times and smoking a cigarette when he noticed one of the two young hookers from the night before come out of one of the elevators and start across the lobby.

  He smiled at the blonde as she caught a glimpse of him, but she would not make eye contact.

  Still wearing the same clothes from last night, mein Liebchen? Business must be good.

  He was admiring the sway of her hips as she went out the main doors when another elevator opened and Kurt Bayer got off.

  Koch glared at him and thought, It’s about time you showed up, you bastard.

  He folded the newspaper, got to his feet, and started walking toward the main doors. He nodded for Bayer to follow.

  Outside, Koch waited for Bayer to catch up.

  “Good morning,” Bayer said pleasantly.

  “I got your note in the room,” Koch snapped. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Bayer looked at him before replying.

  “I can ask the same: Where the hell have you been?”

  “Getting rid of the car. Like I told you.”

  “You also told me that that was going to take only a half hour to do.”

  Koch started walking. “Come. There’s a coffee shop around the corner.”

  As they walked, Koch added, “I had to take extra care with the car.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of this.”

  He swung the newspaper, hitting him in the chest.

  Bayer looked at him crossly, then took the paper, unfolded it, and scanned the headlines.

  He came to the picture of a train wreck, and read the caption.

  “Ach du lieber Gott!” he whispered.

  “Yeah,” Koch said.

  They turned the corner and came to the door of a coffee shop.

  “Read the story,” Koch said. “It just gets better.”

  He pulled open the door and went inside. Bayer quickly followed.

  The noisy small restaurant, with its open kitchen behind the counter, was quite warm, the air saturated with the smells of toast and coffee and grease. They took one of the two empty booths toward the back and, after the waitress brought them water and coffee, placed their order.

  Bayer flipped the pages of the newspaper until he came to the article on the train derailment. It was a long one.

  After a moment, he said, “It says they believe the derailment is connected with the explosions in Dallas.”

  “I know. I read it,” Koch said, annoyed. “And of course they do. Who wouldn’t put the two together? They happened a day and maybe three hundred kilometers apart.”

  He sighed heavily.

  “Those bastards are out of control.”

  “I say it’s Grossman,” Bayer said, looking at him.

  “It doesn’t matter which one it is. Their actions require that we really have to be careful right now. There’re already cops everywhere.”

  The waitress arrived with an armload of plates. She took two off, placing a plate of ham and fried eggs and toast in front of Koch and a plate with a tall stack of pancakes in front of Bayer.

  Bayer poured syrup on his cakes, then kept reading as he ate. He shook his head.

  “‘Authorities declined to speculate,’” he read aloud, talking with a full mouth, “‘if there was any connection between these explosions and the ones last week on the East Coast.’ Damn!”

  Mashed pancake flew out of his mouth, and he washed down what remained with a swallow of water.

  “I think,” Koch said evenly, “that we are okay here.”

  Koch had noted that no one had paid him any notice as he had waited in the hotel lobby. Now his eyes surveyed the restaurant and its customers. And, again, no one paid them any particular notice.

  “We just have to not make a single mistake.”

  Bayer nodded.

  Koch tore into his ham slice with the knife, cut off a large piece, forked it into his mouth and chewed aggressively. He repeated the process, not saying a word until the plate was empty. Then, finished, he at once tossed the fork and knife on the plate with a loud clank.

  He looked at Bayer.

  “So, now you tell me where you were last night.”

  Bayer turned his attention to his plate. He casually cut more pancake and put it in his mouth and chewed slowly as he looked at Koch, then around the restaurant, then back at Koch.

  “I had a date,” he said, his mouth half full.

  “With that hooker?” Koch said, incredulous.

  Bayer frowned.

  “She has a name.”

  “I thought I told you to be careful!”

  “I was.”

  “No more,” Koch said firmly. “It must not happen again.”

  “What is the harm?”

  Bayer looked at him, and when Koch did not answer Bayer grinned, then leaned forward.

  “I think that I can get her friend the redhead for you as a date.”

  Koch ignored him.

  “What we are going to do,” he said as a matter of fact, “is stick with our original plan but wait at least an extra three, four days to see what Cremer and Grossman do—or what gets done about them and their work.”

  “Fine.” He shrugged and cut another piece of pancake. “I have something to fill my time.”

  Koch’s eyes narrowed. Steam practically came out of his ears.

  Koch thought, This whole time we’ve worked well together as a team—but bring in one lousy piece of ass…

  “I’ll be in the room,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “We will continue this conversation there.”

  Bayer watched Koch’s back as he went to the door and through it, then disappeared down the sidewalk in the direction of the hotel.

  He made a face, then looked back at his plate and saw that he wasn’t nearly finished.

  What the hell. I’ll take my time and eat in peace.

  He held up his coffee cup for the waitress to see.

  She came and refilled it, and his water, collected Koch’s plate and cup, and left the check on the table.

  Bayer cut another piece of pancake and went back to reading the newspaper.

  He did not really understand why Koch was so concerned about the explosions in Texas and Oklahoma. The other team of agents was having significant success with blowing up things and creating general disorder. That was what they had all been sent to do. Granted, not with such big bombings, but nevertheless…

  He shook his head and turned the page.

  He came to a full-page advertisement for Bamberg
er’s Department Store that showed new women’s spring fashions. The light-haired young model wore a very flattering formfitting blouse and it took no effort whatever for Bayer to picture Mary in it. He smiled, and with that warm mental image turned the page.

  Ten minutes later, he had finished with the pancake and washed it down with coffee.

  He reached into the right pocket of his pants and dug around for the roll of cash that he had bound with a rubber band. All he came up with, though, was the rubber band and a fistful of coins.

  Damn! All my cash went to pay for the room and Mary!

  After hearing about her money woes, he had advanced her almost a week’s worth of cash so that she could buy time with the club owner—and time that they could spend together.

  He grabbed the check, looked at the total, then quickly counted the coins in his hand.

  Just enough, but almost no tip.

  As quietly as he could, he put all of the coins on top of the ticket and slipped toward the door, avoiding the waitress and anyone else.

  Koch was sitting on his unmade bed in their room on the fourth floor. Bayer’s bed was still the way he had left it the night before, although now there were the two duffel bags on it.

  Koch had a newspaper spread out on the bed and was field-cleaning his Walther PPK 9mm semiautomatic pistol.

  “Any plans for that?” Bayer said as he locked the door behind him.

  “Just maintenance. When I’m finished, we can go over the plans for New York.”

  Bayer walked over to the duffels and starting digging in the nearest one.

  Koch glanced up from his gun. “Need something?”

  Bayer stopped digging and looked back at Koch.

  “Cash. I literally spent my last dime paying the restaurant bill.”

  “What? I gave you almost three hundred dollars two days ago.”

  “Right. And I spent it.”

  “On what, for chrissake?”

  “There was all that gas on the drive up,” he said. “And on food….”

  And—damn, he won’t like it—on Mary.