Stars and Stripes In Peril sas-2

by Harry Harrison

  Not so wonderful next morning in the damp chill of dawn. Rain was blowing in through the half-open window. He stepped in a pool of water when he got up and slammed it shut. All the smoke from his night’s pleasure was now dispersed. Through the sheets of rain he could just make out the buildings of Washington City just across the river. He shivered and pulled on his shirt, then drank some whisky to free him from the chill.

  The rain stopped by noon and a watery sun occasionally appeared behind the clouds. At five in the afternoon Paisley had crossed the river into the capital and was now leaning against a wall on Pennsylvania Avenue, watching the clerks emerge from the War Department. He inhaled deeply on his cheap cheroot and looked for one particular face in the crowd. Yes, there he was. A gray man in gray clothing, scuttling along like a rodent. Allister stepped forward and fell in beside him, walked a few paces before the other man noticed him — and twitched, startled.

  “Hello Georgy,” Paisley said.

  “Mr. McLeod — I didn’t see you.” Few men, if any, knew Paisley’s real name.

  “How’s the work going, Georgy?”

  “You know, they keep us busy.” Giorgio Vessella, one generation away from Italy, was not a happy man. His parents, illiterate peasants from the Mezzogiorno, had been proud of him. An educated man with a position in the government. But he knew how little he earned, how insecure his position was. Only in wartime would they have even considered hiring a foreigner, as he would always be to the authorities’ Anglo-Saxon eyes; his tenure was always suspect. Now, and not for the first time, did he regret that he had ever set eyes on the Scotsman.

  “Let’s go in here. Have a drink.”

  “I told you, Mr. McLeod, I don’t drink. Just wine sometimes.”

  “All guineas drink,” Paisley said with instant racial intolerance. “If you don’t want it I’ll drink it for you.”

  It was a dismal little alehouse, the only kind Paisley frequented, and they sat at a table in the corner away from the few other clientele. Paisley drank a good measure of the raw spirit and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His other hand tapped a silver dollar lightly on the stained table. Giorgio tried not to see it, but his eyes kept straying back to it.

  “They keep you busy?”

  “Just like always.”

  “I waited a couple of times. You never came out.”

  “We’ve been working late for a number of weeks now. The Navy Department ran short of clerks to copy orders. They sent over a lot of ship movements and we have been copying for them.”

  “I know about those,” Paisley yawned widely. “Ships to Mexico.”

  “That’s it. A whole lot of them.”

  “Old news. I only pay for new news. You got any of that?”

  “No, sir. I just copy what they tell me to. The same old thing. It’s just Mr. Anderton and Mr. Foyle, they get to do the different stuff in the locked room.”

  “What different stuff?” He said it offhandedly, almost bored, finished his drink. It sounded like there was something of some importance here.

  “More naval orders, I heard them talking. They were excited. Then they looked at me and laughed and didn’t say anything else.”

  All of the military clerks were trusted, Paisley thought. But some were trusted more than the others. Clerks who worked in a locked room inside a locked room. And why had they laughed? A secret within a secret? Superiority? They knew something that the other clerks didn’t.

  “I would like to know what it is that Anderton and Foyle are working at. You can find that out for me.”

  “No, please don’t ask that!” Giorgio’s olive skin went quite pale.

  “I’m not asking — Georgy — I’m telling you.”

  “I can’t, really, you don’t know…”

  “But I do know,” Paisley said, leaning his face close to the other’s, his voice thick with menace. “And what I know others would like to know. I’ve written a letter that lists a number of interesting facts that you have told me. Should I mail it? For you it will mean jail, disgrace, probably hanging. Isn’t treachery a hanging offense in wartime?”

  Georgio was beyond speech, terrified and gasping for air.

  “But I am a generous man.” He folded a ten dollar-bill and passed it over. “And another of the same when you find out what they are writing. There, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  Paisley smiled broadly when the little man clutched the bill and staggered out into the street. He tapped on the table, ordered more to drink. This was proving to be a most satisfactory day.

  A CLASH AT SEA

  Ordinary Seaman Webb yawned widely, then stamped in a full circle on the metal deck. These night watches were difficult to get through without dropping off to sleep. Two hours on duty, four hours off. The four went by in a flash when he fell asleep — while the two hours on watch seemed to stretch forever. Overhead the stars were sparkling points of light against the darkness of the sky, the moon a thin sliver just above the western horizon. Was there a touch of brightness to the east? He raised his night glasses. Yes, it was brighter there already with the swift arrival of the tropical dawn. He squinted through his glasses again, then swept the horizon in the growing light, south all the way to the sharp outlines of the mountains where they met the sea. Then stopped — was that a tiny dark blob? He couldn’t tell. He rubbed his eyes, looked again — and yes, it certainly was.

  “Bridge! Ship in sight — south-south-east!”

  He heard his call repeated as the watch officer stepped out onto the flying bridge. He waited until the sky was brighter, the image clearer.

  “Pass the word for the captain.”

  The USS Avenger was stationed off the port of Coatzacoalcos for just this reason. To intercept any ships attempting to approach the enemy-occupied port. There was always the chance that this might be an American ship. But her sudden appearance at dawn, near the coast, made that highly improbable. Friendly ships would have come from the east in daylight. Whereas a British ship could have made a landfall to the south the night before, then slipped north along the coast to make this sudden appearance at dawn. This was not the first time that this had happened. The engine room had already raised steam and they were moving through the water when the captain made his appearance on deck.

  They weren’t the only ones who had seen the newcomer. The two British ironclads, the Conqueror and the Intrepid, stationed just outside the harbor, had also raised steam. The three ships were now all heading south on parallel courses. But not quite parallel.

  “The nearer one,” the watch officer said to Commander Goldsborough as he came on deck, “that will be Conqueror. Looks as though he is angling to forereach us.”

  “By all means let him try. I would dearly love to see him in our gun sights.”

  They had been weeks on this station without firing a shot. Every time Goldsborough approached the two British guard ships they would retreat until they were within range of the big guns ashore.

  It was full daylight now and the approaching ship could be clearly seen. Clouds of smoke billowed behind her sails.

  “Unarmored!” Goldsborough said with obvious relish. “One broadside — that’s all I want.”

  The approaching British ironclad was aware of this danger as well, coming closer and closer, moving between the American ship and what surely must be one of their own vessels.

  “He’ll pay dearly for this,” Goldsborough said fiercely, cut off from his prey. “Stand by the wheel. I want to change course the second that we fire.”

  The two turrets fired their immense seven-hundred-pound guns at almost the same instant. Seconds later the enemy ironclad fired as well. The Avenger heeled with the recoil of the guns, shivered with the resounding clanging as the British shells struck her armor.

  “Hard starboard!” the captain shouted and the ship heeled again as it turned away from its opponent — who was turning as well. Both ships seemed unharmed by this exchange.

  “Damnation!” Command
er Goldsborough called out as the smoke was blown away. Their prey had slipped by, was past them, with the other ironclad shielding it from the enemy. Conqueror turned away from them as well and headed for port. Avenger turned in their wake but slowed when the first shells from the shore-mounted guns splashed into the ocean close to their bow.

  “Well, one ship can’t make much of a difference,” Goldsborough said begrudgingly. “Take up station.”

  Aboard the newly arrived ship the major, wearing the uniform of the Household Guards, stamped impatiently up and down the deck as they slowly approached the shore. As soon as the boat was swung down from the davits in the stern he was waiting by the rope ladder. The sailors went ahead of him and were just raising their oars when he scrambled after them, almost falling into their midst.

  “Put your backs into it,” the coxswain ordered as the oars dipped into the smooth water of the bay.

  Their approach had been seen and the officer of the day was waiting on shore, saluting as the major jumped from the bow onto the sand.

  “Your commanding officer…?”

  “Still asleep, sir.”

  “You had better wake him, then. Orders.” He held up a canvas-wrapped bundle as they strode towards the buildings.

  The officer looked at the canvas and could not restrain his curiosity. “Do you know…?”

  “Of course I know,” the major said. “The Americans are launching an attack on Salina Cruz, our port at the other end of the road — and their invasion force is already at sea. The orders are from the Commander-in-Chief himself. He wants one out of every three of the cannon here to be used to reinforce the defenses of Salina Cruz. Not only these, but one out of every three of the cannon defending the road are to be sent to reinforce the harbor defenses as well.”

  “Be a devil of a job.”

  “It will be. But we have no choice, do we? Now let us go and make your commanding officer’s day.”

  Not for the first time did Giorgio Vessella rue the day when he had first met the Scotsman. A newspaperman, that’s what he had said he was, and Giorgio had believed him at first. One of the many reporters who worked for Richard Harding Davis, scouring the country for information. They had talked about Giorgio’s clerk’s job in the War Department and the Scotchman had been suitably impressed. So impressed that he bought them both drinks, although Giorgio refused the harsh spirit, had a glass of wine instead. Then, better still, when Giorgio had repeated some harmless piece of office gossip his new friend had been very impressed and made a note of it. And had given him a silver dollar as well, almost forced it upon him saying that his information was very noteworthy.

  That’s how it had started. A few drinks, then a few dollars for unimportant rumors. It all went very well until the Scotchman had revealed his true colors.

  “You wouldn’t want me to go to your boss, would you? What would happen if I told him that you were selling government secrets? Lose your job and go to jail, you would. Instead of that you can earn a few more bob. Then you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

  Nothing! — Giorgio had everything to worry about. And there was no turning back. Every time they met he was drawn deeper into the mire. Now he was in well over his head with this demand to see the secret orders. Luckily his work was so boringly repetitive that he could do it easily, no matter how disturbed he felt. He copied the letters, scarcely aware of what he was doing, so wrapped up in misery was he. This morning he looked up from his desk and was surprised to see that that he was alone in the room. It was late and all of the others had gone for their midday meal. He wiped his pen off and put it in the drawer, capped his ink bottle, then pulled on his jacket. On his way out he passed the door to the inner room that was always locked.

  The key was in the door.

  He looked over his shoulder; he really was alone. His heart was pounding in his chest. Should he do it? He had to do it. He sobbed aloud as he turned the key and opened the door.

  The envelopes lay in rows upon the central table. He had a trained eye and counted them automatically. Over two hundred. Each with a ship’s name on it, some of the very same ships that he had copied letters to. He was still alone…

  He went forward, almost staggering, seized one from the center of the table, rearranged the gap so the missing envelope would not be noticed. Shoved it into his pocket and left the room. Locked the door. Turned away and saw Mr. Anderton coming into the room.

  “Giorgio,” he snapped, “what are you doing there?”

  “Locking the door. You said it had to be always locked. I was going to lunch and saw it was unlocked.” Then, in a burst of inspiration, he added. “Didn’t want to get you in no trouble in case someone else saw it open and reported it. Here,” he pushed the key into the other man’s hand. “I gotta go.”

  He slipped by Anderton and left. Anderton looked after him, rubbing his jaw in thought. Had the little wop been in the room? He hadn’t seen him go in there, had just seen him standing in front of the door when he had come in from the hall. But maybe he could have been inside. Any other clerk, why he wouldn’t have suspected him of anything. But this guy, he wasn’t even born in this country. Anderton checked: the door was locked. But if anyone found out that he had left the key in the lock he would be in deep trouble. Someone else might have seen the key there and reported it. When it came to that he really had no choice.

  He pocketed the key and went out. On the ground floor, near the front door of the building, was a door with the legend PINKERTON on it. He knocked and went in. The man seated at the desk reading the newspaper raised his eyes.

  “Mr. Craig,” Anderton said, “Remember what you told us about keeping our eyes open on the job. Well…”

  Giorgio had read the letter in the toilet. Had almost fainted with shock. He had taken out his rosary and thumbed through it as he realized the magnitude of what he had done. Could he take it back? The room would be locked. Then what could he do? He must report to the Scotchman. And then what? Slowly, ever so slowly, a plan began to take form. He finished his work for the day, scarcely aware of what he was doing. Still numb. So wrapped in his own terrible thoughts that he never noticed the man in the cap who followed him when he left the War Department for the day. Was never aware that the same man came into the bar after him, seating himself against the rear wall. Giorgio sipped from his glass of wine and knew just what he had to say to the Scotchman when he came in.

  “I found out what you wanted to know, Mr. McLeod. It was important like I thought.”

  “You’re a fine laddie. You’ll earn your ten dollars, you will.”

  “No, sir. I want five hundred dollars.” He shivered when he said it but did not look away.

  “Now why should I pay that kind of money?”

  “Because what I have are the real orders to the ships, to be opened only when the ships are all at sea. They are not going where everyone thinks they are. All the first orders are fakes.”

  “So tell me then — where are they going?”

  “It will cost you the five hundred to find out.” He straightened his back and stared the spy right in the eye.

  This was big, Paisley realized. If the clerk was speaking the truth it would be worth the five hundred and more.

  “All right, laddie.” Paisley rose and patted him on the back. “But I dinna carry that kind of silver around with me. I’ll be back in a half an hour. You wait here.”

  The man in the cap watched the newcomer stand up and leave. He waited fifteen minutes more, watched Giorgio order another glass of wine. Craig’s stomach grumbled and he realized that it was past his dinner hour. He drained his beer glass and left. The Pinkerton Agency owned his daylight hours, but they couldn’t expect him to miss his dining hour. No more than five minutes after he left Paisley returned. He looked around before he passed the envelope to Giorgio.

  “Just be careful when you count it — there’s plenty about who would knock you on the head for half of what you have there.”

  Giorgio bent
over the money as he counted it: all in twenty-dollar bills, twenty-five of them. He put the money into his jacket pocket as he withdrew the naval order and passed it across the table. Paisley took out the sheet of paper and held it to the light. His eyes opened wide and he muttered an imprecation under his breath as he understood its import. He pocketed it and hurried out without a word.

  The clerk watched him leave and felt an immense feeling of relief. It was over, all over at last. Everything was over. All over with his work, and with his job — and with this country. He had asked for this impossibly large sum because this was really the end for him and America. He could now pay his fare on the boat back to Italy — and have enough money left over to set himself up in business in Napoli. A public letter writer was a respected man to the illiterate workers of the south. And one who could write English as well — why he could certainly earn a good living. He might even think of getting married. It would be a relief. Since his parents had died he had no one to worry about. He would turn his back on his rented room with pleasure. Everything he owned would fit in one suitcase.

  He would be free at last! Tonight, he would leave this very night. He would be long gone before they found out that a letter was missing. Take the night cars to New York City. Bury himself in Little Italy there, until the next ship left for Naples, that great immigrant port that would surely welcome another immigrant going in the opposite direction.

  No more than a hundred feet from his rooming house was an alley, its darkness untouched by the distant street lamp. As he passed it there was the sudden rush of feet. Even as he started to turn he felt a terrible pain in his chest. He tried to scream but could only gasp. He fell into an even darker night.