“We’re sending you to America. Under cover, of course. We have a specialist there who can give you a prosthesis that will make your leg like new. Then you can go on to submarine school.”
“Where in America?”
“Los Angeles. Your old friend Colin Blinde will be your contact.”
“Blinde. Is he in the game for real?”
Kulibin laced his hands over his belly. “As of two months ago. He has given us enough material now that he’s in too deep. And he knows it.”
“But why? An American rich kid.”
“Not so rich. His family owned copper and tungsten mines in Mongolia, of all places—in Dornogovi Province.”
Dezhnev gave Kulibin a blank look.
“Right. Dornogovi Province abuts the Chinese border in the south. Communist forces under Mao Tse-tung took some of the land in a border skirmish back in the 1930s; they scooped up the Blinde mines along with a number of other American- and British-owned mining operations. The Blindes’ income was cut off. Colin’s father is basically penniless. He inherited a fortune from his father and did nothing except take profits, build a house on Long Island in a rich place called the Hamptons, and get fat. But the mines are gone, the Hamptons house is gone, and the Blindes live in New York City off a small estate inherited by Colin’s mother. It took everything they had to send young Colin to Yale. But he graduated a fiery thinker, and we found him before the OSS did. So far, he has been doing a pretty good job.”
“Okay, so I’ll be working with Colin Blinde.”
“Yes, and we have another task for him as well.”
“Yes?”
“Kill Todd Ingram.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
17 September 1945
Union Station, Los Angeles, California
Roiling clouds hung low over Union Station. The thermometer had hit 101 in the early afternoon, and although it had dropped to 97 by 4:55 p.m., the temperature seemed no cooler to Colin Blinde. An oppressive humidity strangled the mission-style building, and an eerie electricity in the air was unsettling to Blinde as he awaited his contact. This must be what they call earthquake weather.
Completed in 1939, Union Station was one of the most modern on the nationwide passenger rail system. Outside were courtyards with lush tropical plants and trees. Broad green lawns surrounded tiled fountains accented by flowerbeds. The grand waiting room inside had Spanish tile floors and a beamed ceiling that invited the senses of old California and mission life. Plush back-to-back seats and benches were comfortably arranged throughout.
Blinde scanned left and right, but his man was nowhere in sight. The damned fool is ten minutes late.
Blinde had begun to rise when a voice jabbed at him from the bench directly behind. “No need to get up, Comrade. I’m here.”
“Wha-what?” Blinde stammered, “How the hell—”
“It’s my trade. I’ve been watching you for ten minutes. You are as you should be: alone. Nobody watching. Now, please sit.”
Blinde resumed his seat, his back once again inches from that of the man behind him.
“Where are we, Mr. Blinde?”
Blinde shot back, “Union Station, Los Angeles, California.”
“Very funny. Where is the doctor, and what are the arrangements?”
“You are booked into the Los Angeles Orthopedic Hospital under the name Brent Wilson. Your doctor is Walter Sorella, an orthopedic surgeon who is highly acclaimed by the AMA.”
“AMA?”
“American Medical Association. Among other things, they validate doctors, clinics, hospitals, and medical procedures.” Blinde couldn’t resist a dig. “Didn’t they tell you about the AMA at Bykovo?”
There was a long silence. “From popcorn to apple pie, I learned a lot at Bykovo. But then we had this little skirmish with the Germans that had to be settled first. So they cut my studies short, leaving out tidbits about the AMA. What else?”
“Your preparation is scheduled to begin tomorrow. Fittings begin day after tomorrow, Wednesday.”
“Very good. And my clothes?”
“In the suitcase next to you.”
The locks snapped open and Dezhnev rummaged through the suitcase. “All right. That should do. But where is the money?”
“Sewn into the liner in the top.”
“Very good. Now, about this Doctor . . . Doctor . . .”
“Sorella. He helps us from time to time. He examined your x-rays and tells us he can fix things with a new prosthetic that will give you almost normal mobility. You’ll be able to walk at a very fast pace, even run, after you strengthen your leg muscles.”
Dezhnev exhaled. “Yes, I do believe there is some atrophy there. I expect he can recommend a regimen.”
“He will, if you cooperate.”
“Yes. I . . . I need this badly.”
“Don’t worry. Dr. Sorella is one of the best in the nation. He’ll have you walking like an Olympian. In ten days you’ll be on your way back to Vancouver and Mother Russia.”
“The Rodina.”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t trifle with me, Mr. Blinde.”
“Sorry. Look . . . there’s an envelope in the suitcase with directions to Los Angeles Orthopedic Hospital and some expense money. You can best reach the hospital by walking out that entrance and hailing a cab.”
“How far is it?”
“About five miles directly south. You can’t miss it, just east of Figueroa Street on Flower.”
“Pardon?”
“Just tell the cab driver. He’ll understand.”
“All right. A thorough job. Thank you. Tell me. Todd Ingram lives around here, doesn’t he?”
“Well, in San Pedro actually. In Los Angeles Harbor, about thirty miles south of here.”
“I see.”
Five soldiers walked by singing, duffels slung over their shoulders. One sounded drunk.
Blinde said, “You’re not thinking of going down there?”
Dezhnev cracked his knuckles. “I would love to see him again.”
“Because if you do and get caught, it would look bad for us all, especially for me and my department. Besides that . . .”
“Yes?”
“I have orders to kill him.”
“You do?” Dezhnev was surprised. He hadn’t passed on Kulibin’s order. And now, someone had gone around him. “How did—?”
“They came to me separately. They’re afraid Boring talked to him, which he did.”
“But you have the pictures and the diaries?”
Blinde sighed. “Yes. It’s not that. If someone intractable like Ingram lets on about the decision to hide the discovery, it would be a great embarrassment to the United States and the Soviet Union if it gets out that you are trying to steal it or may already have it.”
“Let me see if I have this right,” said Dezhnev. “You say Ingram knows everything?”
“Yes, it’s like I said. Boring spilled the beans to Ingram. Everything.”
Dezhnev changed the tack with, “B-E-A-N-S; that’s straight from Bykovo. How do I sound?”
“Like Leo Gorcey.”
“Who?”
“A movie star who plays dead-end thugs.”
“Gangsters?”
“You should have learned about him at Bykovo. Everybody knows about Leo Gorcey and the Bowery Boys.”
“So, a gangster.”
“Sort of a good-guy gangster. But yes. It would be embarrassing if Ingram spilled the beans. Embarrassing to both of us.”
“What if he doesn’t know?”
Blinde said, “He does. After leaving Sakhalin, we had an inquiry at Okinawa. He told us he knew. He even signed a statement.”
“Well, if he knows, then everybody else does.”
“Only at the highest levels. And they’re shutting up. Why didn’t you kill him at Toro? You had the chance.”
“You would have died in the crash as well.”
“I would have expected to have been taken off t
he plane if you were going to do it.”
“Easier said than done. So I had them shoot wide. I honestly thought the damned plane was going to crash into those half-tracks.”
“We were lucky.” Blinde ran a finger around his collar as he recalled Radcliff and his hotshot takeoff.
“Plus we needed instructions from Dzerzhinsky Square.”
That meant Beria, their ultimate boss. In spite of the heat and humidity Blinde felt a cold draft. “Well, we now have instructions.”
“Indeed.” Dezhnev said, “But don’t forget that Ingram is almost a national hero. He has two Navy Crosses along with many other decorations. We’re taking a big chance. How do you plan to do it?”
“They’re sending an asset.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You’ll let me know?”
No answer.
“Mr. Blinde?”
“Yes, all right. I’ll let you know.”
“Don’t be too long.” Dezhnev paused. “Rain is coming? A thunderstorm?”
“This is Southern California.”
“Meaning?”
“Unlike San Francisco, it’s not cold and you don’t need an umbrella. Just a roof to duck under for a few minutes until the rain stops.”
Dezhnev sighed. “I think I see. Now, speaking of Leo Gorcey, do any movie stars live near the Orthopedic Hospital?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
17 September 1945
1627 South Alma Street, San Pedro, California
For days it had been getting hotter and hotter. The air was still and moist, the temperature and humidity locked in the same reading, with hardly any of the breeze that usually characterized San Pedro’s “Hurricane Gulch.” The inversion layer rose to 5,000 feet and contained the heat over Southern California like a cap on a giant bottle. Finally, late in the afternoon, a cold front sneaked in from the Gulf of Alaska, defying the predictions of local weather forecasters for a balmy evening perfect for outdoor barbeques. By early evening the cold front had cascaded over the warm air below, causing the unstable warm air mass to rise rapidly, topping out at 31,000 feet in the shape of an enormous anvil cloud nearly 22 miles in diameter and centered roughly over the western end of Santa Catalina Island. Traveling east at a lateral rate of 27 knots, the anvil cloud made landfall at about 8:30 p.m. over San Pedro and marched inland, uncharacteristically building speed as it went. By that time the warm air had reached its dew point and began to freeze into ice particles. The particles fell and eventually melted into rain, generating a large electrically charged downdraft that spilled onto the earth below, yielding lightning and thunder. With the downdraft came first hail and then large droplets of rain.
They ate in the backyard with thunder rumbling in the distance. Ingram had barbecued burgers, and Mrs. Peabody contributed cold bottles of her dark, rich, foamy beer. Helen drank only half of hers, but Ingram and Mrs. Peabody quaffed every drop of theirs, Ingram smacking his lips and saying, “Wow, this stuff has a kick to it, Emma. How do you do it?”
Mrs. Peabody cooed evasively as they ate the last of their burgers. Ingram had just finished his last bite when wind rustled the leaves.
Helen said, “Wind’s up. What do you think, Emma?”
“Weatherman said nice evening for a walk. You up for it, Todd?”
Ingram looked up, seeing blacks and grays roiling above. “Normally I’d say yes, but this time it looks like the weatherman is off his rocker. I think we should go inside.”
“I think you’re right.” Helen stood and lifted Jerry from his high chair. “Besides, he needs changing.” She nodded at the table. “Do you mind clearing?”
“I’ll get it. Don’t worry,” said Ingram. The low rumbling over the Santa Catalina Channel brought dark memories of the Japanese shellfire he had endured on Corregidor, and later from the Imperial Japanese Navy in the Solomons.
Helen looked at him.
She feels it, too. She got it far worse on Corregidor. “It’s okay,” said Ingram. “Go on in.” He prodded her in the back.
Thunder rumbled again. This time the sky flashed at the horizon. Leaves fluttered past as the wind grew stronger.
Mrs. Peabody said, “Brrrr. What a chill! I think you’re right, sweetheart. Time for me to head for my basement and tend to my stock of . . . vitamins.” She gathered up her beer bottles, mayonnaise, and half a head of lettuce in a large paper sack and turned to leave. “See you later, kids. Thanks for everything.”
“Welcome,” Helen called after her. She looked at her husband. “Shake a leg.” Her ponytail bounced as she walked into the house, the baby cradled in her arms.
The wind freshened. Ingram packed condiments and silverware into a paper bag as a lightning bolt sizzled on the horizon. He checked to make sure Helen and Jerry were safe inside and then bent to finish up.
As he stooped to gather the checkered tablecloth the wind surged against him, tearing at his clothes and hair. Grabbing the tablecloth and bag, he raced toward the house, reaching it just as the rain hit—first in little drops and then, by the time he swung open the door, in large globs that felt like gelatin. He had barely put the bag and cloth on the kitchen counter when a bolt of lightning lit up the house; it was followed instantly by a loud clap of thunder. With it came a distinctive odor. Ozone.
Rain hammered on the roof, the noise almost deafening. Water dripped over the stove, the same place it always dripped. He mentally kicked himself for not fixing it.
Flash—boom! The house shook. Dishes rattled, and a cabinet door over the stove slowly swung open as if pushed by an unseen ghoul.
“You okay?” he called out.
Lightning struck again, the thunder almost simultaneous. The lights went out. He looked out the window and saw only blackness. The whole neighborhood was without lights. Transformer. At least a couple hours to fix.
With the next thunderclap the house shook harder. Helen screamed.
Ingram dashed through the house. “Helen? Helen!”
By the light of another lightning bolt he saw her clutching Jerry in the middle of the bedroom. Then she fell to her knees and began crawling for the bed, bending low to duck under it, Jerry still in her arms.
“It’s okay,” he yelled over the pounding rain.
Another bolt of lightning brought another scream from Helen. He had never heard anything like that sound. Even in combat nobody had yelled like that.
The storm raged overhead as he sat on the floor and leaned against the bed, pulling Helen and Jerry to him. Helen was shaking and crying, and he hugged them close, remembering how cool 1st Lt. Helen Duran had been during those final days on Corregidor in April 1942. Three miles to the north, the Japanese on Bataan were pounding the island with artillery, softening it up for the amphibious attack that came in early May. Every minute, day and night, they fired on Corregidor. Shells shook the Rock steadily, often blowing dust and debris through the Malinta Tunnel and its laterals. Light fixtures swayed, but Helen was always composed, compassionate, and professional, doing her job amid the groans and crying of the wounded and dying. Much of the time they were without anesthesia, and Helen had to comfort her patients, Filipino and American alike, as doctors sawed away at gangrenous limbs.
But now, Helen—cool, competent Helen—was terrified. The baby was crying too, but he didn’t seem as scared as Helen. Just crying. Ingram wrapped his arms around them as another bolt danced outside, hitting an oak tree. He thought he heard it split as thunder cracked overhead.
Helen clutched him desperately as the next bolt struck. He wished he hadn’t seen her face: a mask of torture, and of fright and anguish. Her breathing was rapid and her heartbeat was quick. Worst of all, the intense flash made her hair look as if it had turned entirely white. He kissed her hair. “It’s okay, I’m here. I love you. I’ll keep you safe.”
“Wha . . . wha?”
“I’m here, honey. I love you.”
“Uhhh.” She tightened her grip. Another bolt b
rought another scream, and she buried her face in his neck. Between them was Jerry, his arms around his father’s neck.
Carefully, Ingram reached up and dragged a blanket down from the bed. With gentle maneuvering he managed to get it around all three of them as the storm cracked and shredded the skies.
Finally the storm became less and less intense. Lightning still ripped and roared above, but gradually it faded to the southeast as the storm headed for the San Bernardino Mountains. Helen fell into an uneasy slumber. Jerry slept peacefully. Ingram breathed easier as they relaxed while the storm pounded in the distance. He kicked off his shoes and braced himself to his feet, lifting them into the bed with him. He found Helen’s cigarette lighter and flicked it on. Jerry was tucked under his left arm and slept the quiet and dearly innocent slumber of the child, his little chest barely moving. Helen was gathered in his right arm, her face now glowing like alabaster, her features gloriously crafted, her magnificent hair again ebony. Her mouth was slightly open. She was entirely at peace. She looked ten years younger than she had half an hour ago, almost as if she’d just stepped out of her high school yearbook.
Ingram watched her for a long time, a smile on his face. Then he gave thanks. Half an hour more of soft rain put them all solidly asleep.
At 4:30 the next morning the power came back on and lights flicked on in the living room and the kitchen. But the bedroom remained dark. They didn’t awaken until 7:25, a bright sun announcing a new day with crisp blue skies.
Chapter Thirty-Six
23 November 1945
Church of the Good Shepherd, Beverly Hills, California
Six crossed swords formed an archway outside the Church of the Good Shepherd. At the head of the detail was Jerry Landa’s best man, Cdr. Todd Ingram. Across from Ingram was Rear Adm. Theodore R. “Rocko” Myszynski, commander, Destroyer Forces, Pacific Area. Standing beside Ingram was Cdr. Oliver P. Toliver III, an old friend stemming back to their Corregidor days, now with the Office of Naval Intelligence. Flashing his sword across from Toliver was Cdr. Howard Endicott, commodore of Destroyer Division 77.2. Beside Endicott was Lt. Cdr. Eldon P. White, recently appointed permanent commanding officer of the USS Maxwell, to Landa’s apparent chagrin.
Edge of Valor Page 28