The Fighting Agents

by W. E. B Griffin

  The next thought he had was that he would bring some of the dirty pictures back with him, to include them with his official report.

  “The photographs attached as Enclosures 16 through 26 are included in the belief that they might suggest exploitable character flaws in the Hungarian aristocracy possibly useful in future operations.”

  That would shake up the system. Dave Bruce’s near-glacial dignity would crack; he might even blush. He would certainly hem, haw, and stammer.

  And then he realized that he was already in enough trouble for having come to Hungary, without adding fuel to the fire. Did he need another demonstration that he didn’t have the right attitude? Hardly.

  Obviously, he thought, suddenly chagrined, he did not have the right attitude. Instead of sitting here drooling over dirty pictures like some high-school junior, he should be wondering how to get Eric Fulmar and Professor Dyer out of St. Gertrud’s prison without having to “terminate” them.

  He put the leather-bound albums back in their case and went to sleep thinking over what he had just about decided to do—the final decision to be made after talking it over with Ferniany and whoever London sent in to command the team.

  Ferniany would be here tomorrow, probably around noon. He would have with him two of his people, Hungarians he had recruited, and the signal panels, and the radio, and the Sten gun Captain Hughson had loaned him just before he left Vis. Canidy would be glad to have that back. There was plenty of room in the Lodge to put Ferniany and his men up for however long it took London to get off its ass and send him the team, and the worst possible scenario for that was five days.

  Von Heurten-Mitnitz and the Countess would return to Budapest tomorrow. Canidy saw no problem with that. He didn’t need the Countess now: She had told her servants they were to do what he asked. And he didn’t think there would be any suspicion directed toward the Countess and von Heurten-Mitnitz for having been in Pécs several days before the prisoners had escaped from St. Gertrud’s. Or several days before an unexplained explosion had destroyed a mine shaft in the Batthyany coal mine.

  It would be a coincidence, nothing more, that His Excellency had been enjoying the overnight hospitality of the Countess at the Countess’s rustic love nest ten or so miles away.

  The most serious potential problem, Canidy had gone to sleep thinking, was not how to get Eric and the professor out of the hands of Hungarians, but how to do it without calling a hell of a lot of attention to the operation. He had been disturbed by Standartenführer Müller’s report that the SS not only had not grown bored with looking for Fulmar and the professor, but quite the reverse, had intensified the examination.

  St. Gertrud’s prison would be swarming with SS and Gestapo just as soon as word got out that two prisoners had not only escaped but had been rescued by what it would take them about five minutes to figure out was a highly skilled team under the hands of either the SOE or the OSS.

  When he woke up smelling like a Hungarian courtesan, Canidy rested on his back in the dark for several minutes in the hope that, as sometimes happened, his subconscious had been working on the problem while he slept and that there would be new solutions, or new questions, or both.

  But none came.

  He fumbled for the bedside lamp, turned it on, then got out of bed and got dressed in the hunting clothes he had worn the day before. If nothing else, he decided, he would walk back through the woods to the drop zone and see for himself what it looked like at dawn.

  Then he would come back to the house and see about something to eat.

  He sensed, when he entered the main room of the lodge, that there was someone there, someone watching him.

  The room was lit now only by embers in the huge fire-place before which in happier times the aristocracy had staged their little tableaux vivants. He looked around, but he saw nothing.

  Then Alois, the chief hunter, rose out of a huge upholstered chair near the fireplace. Its bulk and high sides had hidden him. He was fully dressed and had apparently slept overnight in the chair as a sort of guard. He was wearing a heavy poncholike garment of gray wool, and he had his shotgun.

  “Good morning,” Canidy said, smiling.

  Alois grunted.

  “I need a flashlight,” Canidy said.

  There was confusion on Alois’s face.

  Canidy mimed a flashlight, and lighting a path with one.

  Alois grunted again and left the room. He returned with two flashlights, a square light with a handle, and a tiny two-cell that looked like a child’s toy. He extended both to Canidy, offering him his choice.

  Canidy took the larger light and walked to the door. Alois didn’t move, but by the time Canidy had unlatched the chains and dead bolts, he became aware that Alois had moved soundlessly across the room and was standing behind him.

  Somewhere, far off, there was the sound of aircraft engines.

  The beam of his light picked out their footsteps in the snow from the day before, and Canidy, with Alois following him, walked away from the lodge toward the forest and the meadow beyond it.

  Concentrating on not losing the path or his footing in the dark, Canidy didn’t pay much attention to the sound of the aircraft engines far away—until they suddenly seemed much closer.

  He looked up into the sky.

  Jesus! Those sound like Twin Wasps!

  He broke into a trot, slipping and sliding on the frozen snow.

  When he reached the meadow, it was light enough to see the meadow and the area beyond. But there was no aircraft in sight, and it was only when he strained his ears that he could convince himself that he could just barely hear the sound of faraway engines.

  Whatever it was, it was not for me. I should have known better. There’s no way that could have been a Gooney Bird; no way they could have gotten a team here this quick. Now I look like a horse’s ass in front of Alois.

  He met the large Hungarian’s eyes and shrugged.

  And then he was sure the sound of the engines receding had changed, that it was growing louder. And it kept going in and out, growing louder then fainter, then louder again.

  And all of a sudden, it was very loud. A Gooney Bird appeared at the end of the meadow where the trees had been cut, its engine roar now deafening, and flashed overhead no more than two hundred feet off the ground. And there was no mistaking the star-in-a-bar U.S. identification painted on the wing.

  “Jesus, Maria, und Josef!” Alois said.

  The Gooney Bird banked, then disappeared from sight.

  Canidy stuck two fingers in his mouth, then raised them over his head to confirm his suspicion that the wind was coming from the direction of the stream and the cut-over area.

  He ran to the pile of pine boughs. He could just make out a shining glint underneath that had to be the kerosene.

  He dug it out. It was a five-gallon tin can, bearing a Shell logotype. A sealed tin can, he saw when he unscrewed the cap. There was a seal over the hole he would have to pry out before he could pour the kerosene.

  He changed his mind and threw the can atop the pile of boughs. And then he gestured to Alois.

  “Shoot the sonofabitch, Alois!” he said.

  Alois looked confused.

  Canidy gestured.

  “Bang! Bang!” Canidy shouted as he mimed the action.

  Alois looked confused, but he raised his shotgun and looked to Canidy for approval.

  “Right! Yes! Ja! Schiessen!”

  The shotgun barked, and the can erupted. Canidy felt droplets of kerosene in the air.

  Alois looked at Canidy, as if he was afraid he had misunderstood him and done the wrong thing.

  Canidy smiled at him, then ran to him and reached for the shotgun. Alois debated for a moment parting with the shotgun, but finally handed it over. Canidy found a puddle of kerosene, put the barrel to it, and fired the other barrel.

  There was a dull flicker of fire for a moment, and then the kerosene that had vaporized when the can had erupted ignited in a whoosh. A th
ick cloud of black smoke quickly formed.

  Christ, I hope they just haven’t given up! That somebody sees that!

  The pine boughs were burning now, and noisily.

  Canidy had just about decided that he could not hear the Twin Wasps at all anymore, when the Gooney Bird appeared, flaps and wheels down, right on the edge of a stall.

  And then very quickly, surprising him, something fell— five somethings fell—from the door. And then the first canopy opened, and the second, and then one at a time all the rest, and five parachutes floated toward the ground.

  The Gooney Bird pulled up its flaps and its gear and was gone.

  A Gooney Bird! How the hell did they get a Gooney Bird this far?

  Canidy ran toward the first parachutist, who was just about to touch down. He heard Alois plodding behind him.

  The parachutist, a big guy, landed badly. He screamed.

  Canidy ran to him.

  “I broke my fucking ankle again!” János said furiously. “Jesus Christ!”

  “Was hat ihr gesacht?” Alois asked in rough German.

  “I said I broke my fucking ankle,” János said in Hungarian.

  Alois smiled sympathetically, then stooped over and scooped János up in his arms like a baby. He looked at Canidy and nodded at the forest and then looked stone-faced at Canidy.

  When there was no immediate response, he spoke to János, who translated:

  “He wants to carry me into the woods, okay?”

  Canidy nodded his head. “Ja!”

  The other parachutists were on the ground now, and they ran over to Canidy. They were all armed, he saw, with .30-caliber carbines with folding stocks.

  “Who are you?” one of them demanded.

  “That’s Major Canidy,” another said, recognizing him.

  “Pick up your chutes and put them on the fire,” Canidy said. “And then—”

  He interrupted himself. The sound of the Twin Wasps was back.

  The equipment drop. Why the hell hadn’t the jumpmaster kicked that crap out the door after he dropped the jumpers?

  The Gooney Bird appeared again over the cut-down area, its flaps and gear down again. He was now even lower than he had been before, when he’d buzzed the meadow.

  If you stall it, friend, you’re going to land here in this meadow!

  The Gooney Bird didn’t stall. But the pilot chopped the engines, and the Gooney Bird touched down. He bounced once, then stayed down, and Canidy saw smoke from the gear as the pilot braked it.

  Dolan, you sonofabitch! If I had wanted you to land here, I would have said so. You’re too fucking old to be a hotshot pilot!

  Canidy ran down the meadow and to the rear door of the Gooney Bird, and looked in.

  And Lt. Commander John Dolan, USNR, lying on the cabin floor, looked back at him out of sightless eyes.

  2

  CROYDON AIRFIELD LONDON, ENGLAND 1130 HOURS 21 FEBRUARY 1943

  It was raining, and there had been fog, and there had been serious doubt that the Washington courier would be able to get in that day at all. Late the previous day, the ATC C-54 had managed to make it into Prestwick, Scotland, ahead of the front, but too late to try for London.

  There had been a break in the weather, and an arctic blast of dry air moving down over Scotland had cleared the skies enough at 0930 for the C-54 to take off. But by then London had been socked in. The question had then been whether the break would close in again at Prestwick before the fog cleared at London.

  It was decided in the end to take off and head for London in the hope that it would clear.

  At Croydon, it had been necessary to “light the burners.” The theory was—and damn the cost—that if enough gasoline were burned in devices set up alongside a runway, the heat generated would cause the air mass and the fog it contained to rise, clearing the runway. In practice, as now, what the burners did for pilots was serve as sort of a super-beacon. If you could see the glow of the burners, you knew that the runway was somewhere down there, and with a little bit of luck, when you went down low enough, you could find the runway.

  The C-54, flown by a commissioned TWA pilot who had lots of experience finding San Francisco in the fog, came in low and slow toward the glow on his horizon over London and found the Croydon runway on his second pass.

  As he taxied toward the terminal, it was raining so hard that he had trouble seeing out the windshield. The ground crew who came out to meet them were wearing yellow rubber coats, hats, and trousers, and looked, the pilot thought, like so many misplaced sailboat sailors.

  The first passenger to come down the ladder was a chief petty officer of the U.S. Navy. He had a Valv-Pak in each hand and smaller pieces of luggage under his arms.

  As he came down the stairs, an Austin Princess limousine drove up close to him. The chief opened the front door and tossed the luggage inside, then backed out and held the rear door open.

  “Get in, Ellis!” Colonel William Donovan said as he came down the stairs from the C-54.

  “In here, Ellis,” Lt. Colonel Edmund T. Stevens said, motioning with his hand. “You’re getting soaked.”

  Ellis got in the backseat, and a moment later Donovan got in beside him and closed the door.

  Donovan gave Stevens his hand.

  “Well, Ed,” he said, “how are you?”

  “Just fine, thank you, Bill,” Stevens said. “David said he hopes you will understand that he would have met you if he could.”

  Donovan’s reply surprised Stevens. Donovan was usually not only polite but manifested the lawyer’s ability to say the unpleasant in the nicest possible way.

  Donovan said, “I didn’t want to see him anyway. Not just now.”

  And then Donovan leaned forward and cranked down the divider separating the backseat from the chauffeur’s compartment.

  “Young lady, would you drive up to the terminal and get out, please? I’m sorry, but you’re about to be put out in the rain.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the driver, a WRAC sergeant, said.

  “You call the office and have them send a car for you,” Stevens said.

  “There’s a bus, Sir,” the WRAC sergeant replied. “I can take that.”

  “Do what Colonel Stevens said,” Donovan said. “The bus doesn’t go near Berkeley Square.”

  The WRAC pulled the nose of the Princess close to a door of the terminal, pulled on the parking brake, jumped out, and ran into the building. Ellis climbed over Donovan and got in the front seat behind the wheel.

  “She forgot her purse,” Ellis announced.

  “No problem,” Donovan said. “We’ll probably be at Berkeley Square before she gets there. Get us off the field and drive in wide circles.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Ellis said, and backed the Princess away from the terminal building. “Colonel, you put the window down.”

  “It’s all right, I want you to hear this anyway,” Donovan said.

  But then he didn’t say anything else until they had left the field and were driving through Thorton Heath toward the Thames on Highway A235.

  “Get off the highway, Ellis,” he ordered.

  Ellis made the next right turn.

  “The ostensible purpose of my visit,” Donovan said, “is to smooth things over between you and SOE. ‘Representations have been made at the highest levels’ to the effect that you are not only being uncooperative but are interfering with their smooth operation. All of which proves that you are doing what I told you to do.”

  “Anything specific, Colonel?” Stevens asked.

  “No, just general allegations about your being uncooperative, which I interpret to mean you have both locked them out of our cupboard and have turned a deaf ear to the pronouncements of the professionals,” Donovan said. “But you’ll have to arrange for me to see them, as soon as you can.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “Fine,” Donovan said. “And let’s do it on our turf. Either at Berkeley Square or at Whitbey House. I don’t want to give them the impression
that I have been summoned for a dressing-down on their carpet.”

  “What about the apartment in the Dorchester?”

  “Fine,” Donovan said. “And let’s do it over drinks and hors d’oeuvres. As fancy as we can manage.”

  “I’ll get Helene Dancy to set it up,” Stevens said. “Better yet, Charity. She’s at Berkeley Square.”

  Donovan grunted approval.

  “Ellis,” Stevens said, “there’s a radio up there.”

  “I can hear it, Sir.”

  “We’re Birddog,” Stevens said. “Call Foxhunt, Captain Dancy’s monitoring it, and tell her to have Charity set up a fancy do for half past five at the Dorchester, details to follow. ”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Ellis said, and reached for the microphone.

  “Napoleon said,” Donovan said, “that an army marches on its stomach. This one marches on hors d’oeuvres.”

  Stevens chuckled.

  “My real purpose, of course,” Donovan said, still conversationally, but very seriously, “is to be near what’s happening in Hungary. So you better start by telling me what is happening, Ed.”

  “You got the message where Canidy asked for a team?”

  Donovan nodded.

  “It went in at 0500 this morning, or thereabouts,” Stevens said. “We’ve had no word how that went.”

  “This morning? God, that was fast! How did you arrange that?”

  “We flew the team—specifically Stan Fine and young Douglass flew—the team to Cairo in one of the new B-17s we got for Operation Aphrodite.”

  “And then used Canidy’s B-25 to drop the team? That’s why you involved young Douglass, to fly the B-25?”

  “That was the idea, but something went wrong. The last radio from Wilkins said that the team was being dropped by a C-47, flown by Dolan and a C-47 pilot we borrowed from the Air Corps, and that the B-25 with Douglass and Fine in it was going to Vis.”

  “Where’d you get the C-47?” Donovan asked. And then went on without waiting for a reply, “I didn’t know a C-47 had that kind of range.”

  “It doesn’t,” Stevens said. “I called Joe Kennedy and asked him about that, and he said that it’s possible to refill the main tanks of a C-47 from barrels of fuel carried in the cabin. He also said that it’s dangerous as hell, but apparently that’s what they have done. Wilkins borrowed the C- 47 at Cairo.”