Call to Duty
Page 42
Group Captain Percy Charles Pickard listened quietly as the two men recapped the planning and Zack presented his idea about using Mosquitoes on a daytime Intruder mission to distract the German wing at Abbeville. He stood and walked to the window, thinking and taking the gauge of the weather. “No, it’s not on,” he finally said. “The Intruder mission, that is. A day Intruder is too dangerous and the Tiffies can do the job. I was hoping we could do it tomorrow but the weather is beastly and the weather prophets don’t see any improvement in the next forty-eight hours.” They discussed a few more details and Maitland said he would have the Navigation Section finalize the route into and out of the target area. On the way out of Pickard’s office, Zack asked if Maitland would drop him off at Rickmans Worth.
“The Swan and Partridge, no doubt,” Maitland said. “Lovely place to meet a popsie. Use it myself from time to time.” He laughed at the bright red that spread across Zack’s face.
Maitland pulled in behind a bright red roadster parked in front of the Swan and Partridge. “Nice machine, Morgan,” he said. “I make it a 1937 Four-Four. Wouldn’t mind having one myself. Wonder where they came by the petrol?” Zack had never heard of the car but did like its classic lines. Maitland waved him goodbye and pulled away, heading back to Uxbridge.
Willi was waiting for him in the lounge. She was dressed in her Wrens uniform and smiled in relief when he sat down. “You would be late,” she said. “An American colonel”—she glanced at a man standing at the bar—“was most annoying.”
“My fellow countrymen,” Zack grumbled and headed for the bar to get them drinks.
The colonel summed Zack up with a quick look and decided to pull rank. “You’re not wanted here,” he said.
“Then we’ll leave,” Zack replied.
Zack’s American accent surprised the colonel. “What the hell! A Yank in the RAF. If that don’t beat all. Ashamed of your own country, mac?”
“No,” Zack replied. “Not at all.”
“Look,” the colonel said, “why don’t you go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under and I won’t turn you in as a deserter. Leave the bird here.”
“As you wish,” Zack said and returned to the table. “I think we had better leave,” he told Willi. “He’s been drinking and is in an ugly mood.”
“Yes, let’s,” she said and stood up. “I do have plans for us—elsewhere.”
Zack helped her on with her coat and they headed out the door. The colonel was right behind and caught up with them outside. “Hey, mac!” he yelled. “I thought I told you to leave the bird here. You stupid or deaf?”
“Are you talking about me?” Willi asked, her voice arched and frosty.
“Yeah,” the colonel grunted.
“Really,” she said, “if you are in rut and do wish to stand at stud, may I suggest a barn down the road. I’m quite sure you will find the beasts there most appealing. But on the other hand, they don’t really deserve someone like you, do they? So please feel free to take matters into your own hands.”
It took a moment for the words to sink through the man’s drunken stupor. His face flushed. “British bitch…” He swung his arm to slap Willi.
Zack’s left hand flashed out. He grabbed the colonel’s arm and twisted, almost dumping him to the ground. “You had better go back inside,” he said.
“Who do you think you are?” he growled and jerked free. He started to walk away and then turned and swung a haymaker at Zack’s head. It was a clumsy move and Zack stepped back, easily avoiding the punch. The man tried again but this time Zack blocked it with a hard sideways chopping motion to his forearm. The man grunted, surprised by the pain, but he was persistent and swung again. Zack dodged the punch and snapped two rapid jabs to the colonel’s right biceps. It was beyond the colonel’s experience that two such quick and easy-looking punches could hurt so much. He tried to raise his right arm but it wouldn’t respond.
“Let it go, Colonel, while you can still walk and talk at the same time.” The hardness in Zack’s voice drilled through the alcoholic haze in the man’s brain. For the first time the colonel really saw his adversary. Zack was standing perfectly still, at ease, his face impassive. A well-founded fear gripped him with the sure knowledge that he was overmatched and that the young American would maul him unmercifully. He retreated into the pub.
“Get in the car,” Willi said. She ran around to the driver’s side of the red Morgan.
“Your car?” Zack asked.
“I borrowed it from Roger.”
Bertram?”
She nodded. “But he doesn’t know it.” She gunned the engine and spun a tight U-turn.
“Where are we going?” Zack asked.
“Roger’s family home.”
Then they chorused in unison, “But he doesn’t know it.”
Willi drove fast and competently, sure of the road. But she far exceeded the reach of the shaded half-beam headlights. “Zack, would you have hurt that drunken sod?”
“The choice was his, not mine.”
She wheeled the car into a narrow lane and pulled up in front of a gate house guarding the entry into a big country estate. “The Bertrams gave me a key,” she explained. “The main house is closed for the duration. It’s a drafty old place, but this is very cozy.” She unlocked the door and let them in. Inside a coal fire was going in the fireplace and a note was on the table. “I called ahead and told the housekeeper I was coming. The old dear started the fire and left dinner in the cooker.” She smiled at him. “Hungry?” He nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
Zack settled into a comfortable couch in front of the fire. As she had advertised, the room was warm and snug. “This is the first time I’ve been warm this winter,” he called.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Willi sang from the kitchen. “I hope you like shepherd’s pie. And there’s a bottle of wine.” He shed his coat, loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes and stretched out. Willi brought a tray through and they ate in front of the fire. After they had finished the wine, she curled up on the floor beside him, cuddled his legs and stared into the fire. “This is so peaceful,” she murmured. A feeling of contentment and warmth swept over him and he dozed.
He was vaguely aware of movement. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.
“About an hour.” She was still curled up on the floor at his feet but was wrapped in a blanket. She had stoked the fire and the room was still cozy and warm. “I let you sleep. You needed the rest.”
“You’ve let your hair down,” he said. He reached and stroked her hair. She held his hand to her cheek and then gently kissed his palm. She looked at him, her face serious, her lips slightly parted. Zack pulled her up to him and the blanket fell away. She was naked and her skin glowed in the soft firelight. She sat on his lap and he tenderly kissed her. “Is it that warm?” he wondered.
“It will be,” she said and nipped at his ear. She wiggled around to face him and her long legs straddled his nips. Her arms encircled his neck and she hungrily kissed him, her mouth open. “Oh, it will be.” Her hands pulled at his tie and she slipped it over his head. Then her long fingers undid the buttons on his shirt and reached inside, stroking his chest, before she dropped the shirt to the floor. She slipped to the floor and undid his belt and loosened his pants. Her ringers danced over his crotch and she pulled his pants free. She tickled at his feet as she tugged his socks off. “I love your body,” she whispered. Her tongue explored his thighs as she pushed between his legs and worked higher.
Zack groaned and stood up, pulling her with him. He scooped her up to carry her into the bedroom. “No,” she whispered. “By the fire.” They sank to the rug and he laid her on her back. Her legs lifted as he entered her and then wrapped around his, claiming him. “I do love you,” she murmured.
The fire was dying. Willi unfolded from the couch and tossed the blanket over Zack. She dumped the last of the coal out of the bucket onto the fire. “There should be more in the shed,” she said.
“Stimulating, yes?” Her mouth was on his neck and her hands roving over his body.
“You’re insatiable,” he told her.
“Only around you. Now pay attention.” He gladly complied.
Zack shifted his arm into a more comfortable position. It had gone to sleep and tingled. Willi moved and readjusted to the change. He stroked her back and stared into the fire. “You’re worried about something,” she said. “I can tell.”
“I was just thinking.”
She sat up, curled into the corner of the couch and studied his face. Willi was a clever strategist and consummate tactician when it came to bending others to her will and she had given hours of thought to the problem of Zack Pontowski. She knew that she loved and wanted him more than anything else in her life. Yet she realized the peace between them was very fragile and could be shattered again. She had used lust and sex to draw him to her and loosen the bonds that Chantal had woven around him. But had she been too aggressive in their lovemaking? She had to show him another side to prove that she was the right woman for him. I will marry you, Zack Pontowski, she promised herself.
“I hope you’re not feeling guilty,” she ventured. No answer. She was certain she had hit the truth and warned herself to avoid mentioning Chantal. “Zack.” She reached out and touched his cheek, turning his face to look at her. “I do love you.” Damn you, she thought, say the words too—make yourself commit to me. She pressed ahead. “And I’m willing to settle for this moment, or the next one, or however many we can have.”
“What happens if you should, ah, become, ah…” he searched for the right words.
“Pregnant?” She supplied the missing word. He nodded. She bit her cheek to suppress her laughter. He was to typically American, so prudish, so determined to do the right thing. “Then I will name him Zack.”
“And if it’s a girl?”
“You are sure of yourself,” she chided him. “There are no strings here.” She sensed immediately that she had said the wrong thing. He did want commitment and strings. She opted for the truth. “I do want you—forever and ever. But our future is on hold and until we are free again to make our own decisions and get on with our lives, I want these moments with you.”
He accepted the truth of what she was saying and fell silent. She waited, knowing that his restless mind was still questing down some unknown path, chasing an illusive thought, cornering a problem.
“Willi, what was the errand that brought you here?”
Her carefully guarded world crashed down about her. He was thinking of Chantal and probably suspected that her duties with SOE had brought her to 2 Group headquarters at Uxbridge.
“I’m on leave,” she lied. “I had to take care of some family business.”
THIRTEEN
Sixteenth Street, Washington, D.C.
General Simon Mado whistled a tuneless melody as he walked down Sixteenth Street near the National Geographic Society building. A dark gray town car pulled to the curb beside him. The front-seat passenger window rolled down and a voice called him by name, telling him to get in. Very fancy for a reporter, he thought. The rear door swung open and he got in. A small-caliber handgun was jammed into his ribs as the car moved into the midday traffic. “You bastards made a bad mistake,” he growled.
A needle jammed into his arm was his only answer.
Consciousness came slowly and Mado fought the fog that swirled through his brain. His first clear impression was of a very bitter taste in his mouth. Slowly another sensation came to him: He was lying naked under a blanket in a narrow berth. I’m on a boat, he thought. The soft light streaming through a porthole and a gentle rocking motion told him it was afternoon and that they were in smooth waters. Now where are my fuckin’ clothes, he thought. Since he still had his watch on, he checked the time. “Been out about three hours,” he mumbled and stood up to look out the porthole. They were anchored in a small cove that made him think of Chesapeake Bay. Apparently he hadn’t been taken too far. He wrapped the blanket around him toga-style and checked the cabin door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped into the main salon of the boat. The sole occupant was Tina Stanley, Senator Courtland’s aide. Like him, she was wrapped in a blanket. He ignored her and tested the door leading to the deck.
“It’s locked and they’re outside,” Tina told him. He could hear panic in her voice.
“Who are they?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Her panic was building.
“What the hell happened?” Mado growled. “I thought you had set up a meeting with a reporter.” She gave a little nod, looked away, and jammed a fist against her teeth. She started to shake. Mado turned it all over in his mind. What the hell was going on? What wires had been crossed? He was supposed to be providing a friendly reporter with “deep background” on the rescue mission that was about to be launched or was already in progress. That was all. If the mission failed, the reporter would have a ready-made exposé with which to embarrass the Pontowski administration. But this was not a situation that a general officer wanted to be caught in. “I’ve got to talk to them,” he said, pounding on the door.
“I don’t think they want to listen,” she said, tears flowing down her cheeks, ruining what was left of her makeup.
The door flew open and three men walked in. One dropped two small clear plastic capsules on the table next to Tina. “What are those?” Mado asked.
“Bullets,” Tina whispered. “Coke.”
One of the men ripped their blankets away and pushed them together. The other men started taking photos.
New Downtown, Washington, D.C.
Bobby Burke, the director of central intelligence, was not surprised that Charlie Bonazelli was waiting for him in the office the CIA used as one of its fronts in the New Downtown section of Washington, D.C.
“How they hanging?” Bonazelli asked in his friendly way. He handed Burke an envelope with four very clear and unambiguous photos.
“As usual,” Burke replied. He didn’t know how to reply to the crude greeting. He examined the photos. “Have these been given to the right people?”
“Of course. They’re front-page stuff.”
“Then all is well?”
“Of course.”
“Then why are you here?”
Bonazelli made a thoughtful face. “The families owe you big-time and all parties are aware of our debt to you,” he began. “But we don’t know how you want to end this.”
“Let them go tomorrow morning.”
Bonazelli’s bushy right eyebrow shot up. “A very simple thing. And if it becomes complicated? Very complicated.”
“Then they should be discovered together.”
“Yes, I see. If we have to do that, the debt would then be—”
“Settled,” Burke said in his pompous, most bureaucratic, voice.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
“Almost noon,” Mazie said to herself. She had been on duty in the Situation Room since six A.M. and was hungry. “Well, why not?” She jabbed at a button on the intercom panel and called the kitchen for lunch. Twenty minutes later, a steward brought her a tray and a newspaper.
“I thought you’d like to see this,” he said with a tight grin. It was one of the sleazy tabloids she had seen at the checkout counter of her local market. The front page was packed with headlines and a delicately censored photograph of two nude people locked in an embrace. The headlines proclaimed that a general had been discovered in a drug and sex tryst with a senator’s aide aboard a yacht on Chesapeake Bay. Story on page two. Mazie opened the tabloid to page two and smiled as she read how one General Simon Mado, United States Air
Force, had been discovered with his paramour, Tina Stanley, an aide to Senator William Douglas Courtland, on board their love boat. The boat was aptly named Bustin’ Loose. So much for the career and credibility of Mado, Mazie decided as she dropped the paper and devoured the sandwich. Men! she laughed to herself, always thinking with their peckers.
Then another thought came to her. I wonder if Mado was set up? It could not have happened at a better time. This is exactly what the media loves, sex and scandal, and it turns public attention away from us and onto Courtland. Who would do that?
She turned her attention to the green numbers on the master clock on the wall. They were marching with a relentless pace toward 2100 hours Greenwich mean time. Two smaller clocks read out the local time for Washington, D.C., and Burma. “Noon here and midnight in Burma,” Mazie Kamigami said to herself in a vain effort to break the building tension. Then: “Only four hours to go.” The attack was scheduled to begin at 2100 hours Greenwich mean time or four in the morning in Burma. A video screen flashed WAIT, telling her a message was coming in. She toggled the key that routed SatCom transmissions to the small speaker set in the telecom console in front of her.
“Hammer, this is Fastback.” It was Mackay and even the encryption/decryption cycles of the SatCom could not completely distort his voice. They were using the SatCom because Hammer, the MC-130 carrying Mallard and Trimler, was still on the ramp at Udorn waiting to launch two hours prior to the attack. Mazie listened to Mackay’s situation report, updating his commanders on the progress of the mission. Pastback had moved out of its hide, reached its initial position but had not yet made contact. But Bigboot was mired down six miles short of their objective.
Relief engulfed Mazie. Bigboot did not have enough time to move into position and the attack would have to be aborted. Delta would be extracted. Then a sickening feeling swept over her. Innocent lives were at stake and she was willing to sacrifice them because her father was in danger. She felt like a traitor. She punched at a button on the telecom console in front of her and buzzed the national security adviser’s office on the secure line. Her voice was under tight control when she said, “Mr. Cagliari, we have a situation that requires your attention. Bigboot is still not in position.”