New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  Now there’s a hell of a greeting. Good show, old sport, you walked halfway across France. Crossed one fascist dictatorship—Franco’s Spain—to another fascist dictatorship—Salazar’s Portugal. Only got taken in and interrogated by the Guardia Civil three times. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

  “What?” Hawkins said. “Bermuda! Then New York? And who the bloody hell is W? In Forty-Eight Land?” lapsing into British Secret Service slang for the US and its forty-eight states.

  “W? Can’t say.”

  “I need to go straight to London. Check in. Get new papers. Get back to Paris. We’ve got to get going, rebuild our networks.”

  “Perhaps they’re putting you back in from there.” Wilkinson indifferently shrugged. “Forty-Eight Land’s a neutral country, too. Just farther away.”

  “So that’s it, huh? New York. Then back in. And how long will that take? You know, it’s fine by me. Maybe I’ll just stay in New York if they want to run me all over the goddamn map. Hear a little music. Go dancing. Tell ’em to sod off.”

  Wilkinson glanced over with a real tinge of alarm. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know that I don’t.”

  As he chewed the paper he chewed over the orders. New York. It had been a long time. After all this, maybe I do have a break coming. Is that the idea? Well, no. Wilkinson’s probably right. Merely another neutral transit point. Just happens to be my other country.

  Then another thought. Madame Delage. The silver. New York. Maybe something will come of this hellish mess after all. Figured to sell the set in London. Now I can sell it in New York at peacetime prices. Even better, get American dollars free of wartime currency restrictions. Probably going to make a killing, actually. The dealers in New York are crazy about Louis-the-whatever anything, as long it’s gold and glitters. Amazing luck.

  Still—doesn’t feel right. And yet … well …

  With a bump Wilkinson changed onto the coast road west of town. Ahead lay the international flying boat base at Cabio Ruvio and the Pan American Airways terminal. They passed a car by the side of the road. Its lights flicked on, catching the rearview mirror, flashing back into Hawkins’ eyes.

  -9-

  A Citroën. Pulling out behind at a suspicious distance. Not too close. Not too far. Hawkins kept his voice low and calm. “We’re being followed. Don’t do anything sudden. Just start slowly speeding up.” Hawkins began digging into his bag for his Browning Hi-Power.

  “They tailing us again? Only a curious foreign colleague, checking up on their British counterpart.”

  “Uh-huh.” Hawkins could feel the weight of a full clip: thirteen 9-millimeter rounds plus one in the chamber, the longest load of any pistol in the world. He reflexively snapped the clip out. Checked it. Clicked it back in.

  “Nothing to be alarmed about,” Wilkinson said. He glanced over in a rather fatherly manner. “It’s the way the game’s played here.” As if they needed nothing more than a stiff upper lip to ward off danger.

  “Game. Right. Just pick it up slowly.”

  The genteel ways of the peacetime spy business had obviously persisted here in the relative obscurity of Portugal. Probably been rather enjoyable, too, slyly nodding at each other across a good travessa with a velvety glass of Colares in hand.

  Hawkins kept levelly watching the car close the distance, muscles tensing, Browning on his thigh—Any second now, he thought. An olive grove—no, not here. Pasty trees twirled by in the darkness like gray ghosts. A rocky cliff overlooking the shore. That’s it, here, he thought. The Citroën’s driver floored the accelerator, leaping forward, now only a yard or two from their bumper. A gunner with a submachine gun pivoted out the passenger door, one foot on the running board, aiming down for their tires. Muzzle flashes flickered in the darkness.

  One lucky hit and we’ll be off the cliff, Hawkins thought. Or do they only want to stop us? Wilkinson sharply swerved around a blind turn. The bullets bounded harmlessly off the cobblestones.

  “Stop the car!” Hawkins said.

  “They’re shooting at us! How dare they!”

  “I said stop the goddamn car!”

  Wilkinson stomped on the accelerator. “They’ll catch us,” his voice crackling and warbling on the edge of panic, tightly gripping the wheel with all his might, jerkily twisting it, as if squeezing it would force more speed from the old Daimler.

  Hawkins butted into him, struck his foot over and jammed down on the brakes. The car stalled, skidding, spinning about, screaming to a halt sideways across the road. The Citroën slammed into the Daimler’s side, pushing it down the road. The sudden stop threw the driver and shooter hard into the dash. Hawkins aimed through the side window past Wilkinson’s face. The two men bounced back from the impact. Point-blank range. Impossible to miss. Hawkins shot each man once in the head.

  They were easy targets, mouths open wide like hungry baby crows from the shock of being flung forward and back. It was all over in a split second. Each bullet’s entry into the mouth flipped its victim’s head back over the seat. Their eyes now stared straight up, mouths still open with surprise, filling and overrunning with blood.

  Hawkins started getting out, then leaned back with a tired sigh, gesturing with the Hi-Power. “Wilkinson—Christ almighty. Never try and shoot it out in a moving car. You can’t hit a goddamned thing. This isn’t some bloody Hollywood flick.” Wilkinson wheezed and shuddered, still panicked.

  Hawkins darted around to the Citroën and yanked a handkerchief from the driver’s pocket, trying to keep the rapidly spilling blood off his hands. The dead man’s jacket yielded a Finnish passport. Mikael Tuomomen. Helsinki. Maybe, Hawkins thought.

  He ran around and began rifling the other man’s pockets. Now some Turkish papers. Göker Celik. Istanbul.

  Oh, now this is disgusting, Hawkins thought. That came from a professional’s decent sense of respect for his craft. Individually, maybe plausible. If it was Istanbul and Izmir, or Helsinki and Espoo, possible, too. But taken together, Finland and Turkey—my, my, what a coincidence. That almost screamed fake. What were they thinking? Not thinking, is what it is. But I’ll get nothing off these two.

  “Hey! Wilkinson! Over here!”

  Wilkinson slowly slid out, holding on to the door and then the fender, steadying himself, panting heavily. Hawkins grabbed the dead driver’s hair, lifting the face for Wilkinson to see, spilling blood down the man’s chin. Wilkinson stared like he’d seen an apparition, an expression of horror in his eyes as they wandered from Hawkins to the dead man and back.

  “What the hell’s with you?” Hawkins said.

  “How can you be so bloody casual?”

  “What—”

  “We almost got killed. And those men—”

  Hawkins glanced at the driver, puzzled. Yes, we could’ve been killed, Hawkins thought. They’re dead instead. Hawkins looked back at Wilkinson. He really did seem stunned and rattled.

  “So what?” He shook the dead man’s head again, splashing more blood. “Come on, know him? Gestapo? Abwehr? SD? Maybe the Italians?”

  Wilkinson finally responded, “No. Not the Italians, I shouldn’t think.”

  “Ah, God dammit—”

  So, who were they? Hawkins thought. Thieves trying to steal papers? No—had to be foreign intel men. Not very professional, though, especially for Gestapo or Abwehr. And yet … every intelligence service was rushing to expand. Inexperienced men were bound to start filtering into everyone’s organizations. Green as hell to get so close behind, in either case. Always shoot from the side. What a mess.

  Hawkins whipped a good gold Swiss pocket watch from the shooter’s vest by the chain, popping it open, checking for engraving. Nothing. A quick search of the pants yielded up a fat money clip—always handy. But the man’s jacket brought the real prize: a Pan Am Clipper ticket and a matchbook.

  Hawkins held the ticket under the headlights to inspect it. “This bastard was booked on my flight.”

  Wilki
nson finally found his voice. “Might be black marketeers in papers. That neutral American passport of yours—”

  “These weren’t freelancers. They had forged papers. And where’d he get the new Schmeisser?”

  The ticket was blank. No one had filled it out yet. Maybe they weren’t intel men. Had they stolen it? Planned to sell it? Or pass it to someone else? That would explain why every line was empty. Did they need two? Maybe they were agents, had two important people they needed to move out. Or were they planning to scalp this if they couldn’t get mine? No way of knowing.

  Hawkins held the ticket in hand a second, studying it. Disgusting, the number of people dying every day for lack of an incredibly expensive Clipper ticket. But no one’s going to use it now. What’s so important the Service is digging into its threadbare pocket to buy one for me?

  He angrily crumpled it up, started pocketing the matchbook, remembered it wasn’t his, and checked it, too. Gitanes. Nothing special. But inside he discovered writing: ludwig hotel, lisboa.

  “Wilkinson, is there a Ludwig Hotel here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Hawkins threw it all in the car, kicked the door shut and started pushing the vehicle off the road, down the hill and off a low cliff. After a moment of hesitation Wilkinson pitched in to help. In the distance the huge four-engine flying boat bobbed at its mooring in the estuary at Cabo Ruivo. Floodlights lit the plane like a silver mirage floating in the darkness.

  The car picked up speed, flipped end over end and landed upside down in the tide. As it floated out, it slowly sank. They soberly watched until it was gone, then ran back to the Daimler.

  “Are you armed?” Hawkins said.

  “No, I never—”

  “You are now. Take this.” Hawkins handed Wilkinson the Browning. “I won’t need it where I’m going. You’re going to have to be more careful. They’ve changed the rules. Get that? They’ve changed the rules. Nothing’s going to be the same. With France gone, this place is now the front trench. Remember to pull the slide to chamber it.”

  Hawkins watched the Clipper grow larger as Wilkinson drove around the bend in the Tagus. It’s a great day when blithering idiots try to kill you and you’ve got no idea who they are or why. A fitting farewell to Europe.

  -10-

  The Yankee Clipper hummed across the mid-Atlantic toward Bermuda. It hit some turbulence. Hawkins fitfully rolled in his sleep. Faces, he could see them. Benoît … Marcellin … and Stéphanie. Running into an orchard, pulling a wire overhead, grabbing an apple off a tree on the way. Takes a bite. No! Don’t! Snow White’s apple! She slowly melted to the ground. The Eiffel Tower. Marie. An angry face. You promised! The Oberstleutnant. Smiling. Germany und Amerika can be truer friends, Ja? Benoît. Tearing strips of stationery. LaDue nervously plucking one from the closed fist. A look of horror on his face. It’s short! His skin starts to shrivel, mummify, turning to dust, his bones falling to the ground with a rattle.

  The droning plane plunged into another patch of turbulence. Hawkins woke with a gasping start, flinching, blinking. He grabbed a drink from the tray and took a big gulp. He snapped the curtain back. Nothing yet. Just endless ocean. Even with sunglasses the intense light hurt his eyes. He snapped it shut again, half stood, stretching his spine, then forced himself back down into his seat. He leaned out into the aisle. The tall Danish woman at the front was still asleep. No chance for conversation there. Must have had a rough trip to Portugal. It was lights out the moment she hit the seat.

  Lucky at that, he thought. Several whiskey sours and the monotonous flight via the Azores had outwardly quieted him, but a fitful sleep came hesitantly. It wasn’t the seats or the comforting drone of the engines. Always, the faces—Benoît … Marcellin … Blanchard, all of them, especially Stéphanie. So many weeks working together, might as well have deserted her on the other side of the Rhine. Instead of rest sleep left an agitation, an itch to get moving. To what end, though?

  When they were boarding there’d been rumors the Duke and Duchess of Windsor were about to join them—the disgraced former king and his American spouse had been in Lisbon. The man who’d resigned the Crown to marry his mistress. And then—as if that wasn’t enough—doubly disgraced himself by making friends with the Nazis. Seeing them board would have been something different. But apparently they’d gone out by ship.

  Hawkins jumped up and paced back into the next cabin. Another passenger sitting at a table held up a deck of cards. “Wanna play?”

  “Sure.” Anything.

  The man dealt. With a popping squeal, the overhead speaker abruptly clicked on. A little cheer echoed through the cabins—they were finally coming within radio range of the continental US.

  Hawkins threw a chip down. “Hope it’s music. Think the Dane’d be interested in a little spin around the cabin?”

  “No,” the dealer said. “She’s a refugee. She’s not in a very good mood.”

  “Well, she’s not alone.”

  A tall, thin, fiftysomething man with a wiry dark goatee ambled over from the opposite side of the cabin. “Mind if I watch?”

  “Don’t play poker, Doctor?”

  “No. Frankly, I’ve always found studying games, creating them, writing the rules, more interesting than playing myself.”

  “What kind of games? Card games?”

  “Oh, all kinds of games. Didn’t you make up games when you were a child?”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. You’re right, it was fun.”

  The doctor, who had a slight German accent, sat down facing Hawkins, resting his arms on the edge of the table.

  “Oh, Dr. Ludwig, this is …” The dealer looked at him expectantly.

  Hawkins had put on his poker face when they’d started playing. Even so, he caught himself in a very slight double take. The name in the matchbook? Careful, he thought. Maybe Ludwig at Hotel Lisboa? A coincidence? Or is he connected to those gunmen? Or could he be a target, too? Given the circumstances, that ticket was more likely stolen than not. Still …

  “Roy Hawkins.”

  “Hawkins, this is Professor Hans Ludwig. Fred Farrell, here.” They all shook hands, Hawkins carefully glancing at Dr. Ludwig.

  “Hello. You’re—”

  “Swiss,” Ludwig said. “I’m actually not at university anymore, I’m now in the reinsurance business.”

  In fact, quite possible. Who else but neutrals were free to travel these days? It was awfully risky or arrogant if he was a German agent. It might be an American flag plane, but there was no guarantee the authorities in Bermuda wouldn’t lose their heads, say sod off to the Yanks and grab him.

  “Ah.” Hawkins gestured lightly at Ludwig. “You’re sitting in a very scarce empty seat, there, Doctor!”

  “Yes. Seems someone missed their flight.” Blasé, unconcerned.

  No, slim chance of it, Hawkins thought. He probably is what he says he is.

  A loud buzz of radio static drew everyone’s attention, then a broadcast finally came in over the speakers.

  -11-

  “So mentholated means fine tobacco, personally preferred by three out of four surgeons surveyed!” A lone musician began playing a traditional version of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” on a fife. The band leapt in on the third stanza, exploding into an upbeat, jazzy swing version of the old Civil War ditty, soon joined by a baritone soloist.

  The men will cheer

  the boys will shout

  Followed by a boogie-wooging trio of women.

  the ladies they will all turn out

  and we’ll feel gay when

  Then the man reaching for his lowest note.

  Johnny comes marchin’ home!

  Ending with a long, low trombone blast. By now Hawkins was tapping his toe under the table as he sorted his cards.

  The MC intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, Walter Ventnor!”

  The live studio audience burst into a frenzy of applause. No aces, Hawkins thought, not paying much attention.

&nb
sp; “He’s going to come home in pieces, that’s wha—Hey! Walter Ventnor here, folks.” A big burst of applause interrupted him. “Thank you, everyone,” Ventnor said. “You know, folks, if Roosevelt gets his way, every fourth American boy’s gonna get plowed under—and it’s already over, over there! The British haven’t figured out they’re licked, that’s all.” That got Hawkins’ attention. More applause from the radio. “Folks, you know what I did last night? I took a pair of scissors to an old copy of the Geographic. I cut Britain out and slid it around the map of Europe. It rolls and rolls all over Europe, like watching a pea rattle around inside a can.” The audience oohed. “You could put dozens of Britains inside the new Europe Hitler’s created. And the British government thinks they’ve got a chance against all that?”

  “NOOOO …” the crowd echoed. Hawkins’ hand started lowering, then he caught himself before he tipped his cards.

  “We need to build a new Fortress America, stick to ourselves and—”

  The crowd joined in a thunderous spoken chorus, “Go! It! Alone!”

  “That’s right! America first, America last, America always!”

  “What the hell?” Hawkins said.

  Fred glanced back, shrugging indulgently. “You been out of the country awhile?” Hawkins nodded. “Walter Ventnor’s the hottest thing on radio. Overnight sensation. Came out of nowhere. Set up his own network last winter to broadcast his programs. Bigger than Father Coughlin or Gerald L. K. Smith ever were.”

  “He thinks the war’s over?”

  Fred tipped his head slightly to the side, as if to say, Well, don’t look at me. “A lot of folks—” He caught and quietly corrected himself. “Probably most people back home think it’s all over.”

  Ludwig smiled very slightly. “With Herr Hitler in Paris one would reasonably draw that conclusion, wouldn’t one?”