“Well it’s as much my fault as it is yours. I should have gotten him out of there.”
She didn’t even hear what he said. She was going to cry again, he knew. She had been drinking steadily as he had told her about Lau’rel and now she was about to get maudlin, he could tell. He felt uncomfortable.
“Let’s go back to the table,” he said taking her arm.
She lurched away, turned and half-ran toward the powder room. Con went back to the table. Carla had explained the Lau’rel business to Gus. Then Con told them how Nickie had reacted.
“It’s partly my fault too, y’know,” the Greek said.
“Oh God,” Carla said. “Con thinks it’s partly his fault. Nickie thinks it’s hers. Now you.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Carla dear,” Gus soothed. “I mean I’ve protected Nickie. I’ve hurt her that way. It is a fool’s way,” he sighed deeply. “Always, it is in temptation, trouble, turmoil, that man proves himself to be strong or weak. And because we are afraid our loved ones are not strong enough we help them over the hurdles. Help them really so that we ourselves will not be the lesser by giving them the opportunity to show their weaknesses. We hinder the thing they need most,” he said dramatically. “Their chance to suffer and be reborn. A fool’s way. A coward’s,” he said shaking his pudgy head from side to side, mopping his sweating brow with a linen handkerchief.
What the hell is this, Con asked himself? A three ring circus? What does he know about being reborn. Who the hell was he to judge what was good for Nickie or Lau’rel or anybody. My God!
“I’m quite sure, Carla, that Con doesn’t consider this unfortunate incident his fault,” Gus said.
“I don’t,” Con said emphatically. “And even if I did I’d have to write it off with a lot of other mistakes. And incidentally, Gus, if it ever gets out that I’ve spoken this much about my military affairs I’m a dead-ass duck.”
“Gus will keep it to himself,” Carla reassured quickly.
“Don’t worry, old boy,” the Greek said in his exaggerated English accent. “Well, I’ll get Nickie. We’d better get along.”
“You don’t have to go,” Carla said.
“It would be better,” Gus said.
“Yes, Carla, it would be better,” Con said.
Gus got up adjusting his dinner jacket. He bowed deeply, dramatically and walked away.
“Let’s forget it now,” Con said as soon as Gus was out of earshot. “At least for tonight.”
She agreed.
They had dinner and two bottles of champagne. Con had not ordered the champagne, and thought Gus had, and accepted the challenge. About mid-way through the dinner Con saw Doc Travis standing at the bar. He was alone, bearded, and looked very lost in his aloneness. Con had thought earlier in the day that he might run into some of his people, or Danny’s, since the Colonel now had an office in Colombo and it was convenient for him to have the men spend their furloughs here.
“Do you see that American at the bar? The one with the beard,” he said to Carla.
“What about him?” she asked.
“Do you know him?”
She studied him for a moment. “No … no, I’ve never seen him before.”
“Would you bet on it?”
“I certainly would.”
He grinned. She could tell he was a little drunk.
“I’ll bet you love on the beach against love in the bed,” he said.
She laughed. “That’s a real bet.”
“That’s Doctor Grey Travis. Danny’s Doctor from Mossorrie.”
“No, it isn’t!” she said awed. “It is the Doctor.”
“They change down there. I think we ought to get him over. He looks pretty bewildered. Besides, he’s pretty much fun now.”
“I’d like to see him,” she said.
Con got up. He went over to the bar. The Doctor had a drink in his hand and when he saw Con approaching he let out a yell and threw the drink, glass and all, over his shoulder. The drink landed on the blouse of a British commodore, the dress of his lady, and the pants of a Ceylonese merchant. The Doctor threw his arms open drunkenly and embraced Con. Con calmed him down and made the necessary apologies. He took the Doctor back to his table.
“God, am I glad to see you two,” the Doctor was saying for about the sixth time. “I thought I’d go crazy with all these base wallas. Danforth was the only one to come out when I did and he went to Darjeeling.”
Carla found it hard to believe the Doctor was the same person. He seemed so much older. It was odd: He was so sillily, childishly drunk yet he seemed so much older, more mature. As if he had found a definiteness in himself. She couldn’t place it exactly but it was odd, coming through his drunkness as it did.
The Doctor had something to eat too. They all finished dinner and began to drink scotch and the Doctor danced with Carla. While they were dancing Con spotted Nicol Smith and a group he had known in his training days in Washington. Nick was the fabulous American agent that had set up a radio, during the first days of the Jap occupation, in the king’s palace in Thailand. The radio was still working, sending information, and Nick went in and out of Thailand and that palace as if he were a commuter. He was a Major, a short flabby, innocuous little man with a balding head and small twinkly grey eyes.
Con waved to him, then went over. There was about fourteen in their party; British and American Intelligence officers, and two Englishwomen from their Staff, and two married Englishwomen whose husbands were on business at a place called El Alamein, and one French woman refugee. Con got Carla and the Doc and joined Nick’s party and everyone got wildly, hilariously drunk.
The party ended up in a suite at the Galle Face at five in the morning. Somehow Carla had managed to get Con into a taxi. The Doctor, with one of the English wives, rode in the same taxi. The last Carla saw of the Doctor was when he took the woman inside her home, and when after twenty minutes he still hadn’t come out, and with Con out completely by her side, she had ordered the taxi back to the cottage.
Con had a real champagne hangover. That afternoon, after the beach, he still wasn’t feeling too well. They were sitting on the cottage steps and then he told her about Billingsly and how he had shot him:
“At first I didn’t think I’d be able to do it. And it was horrible doing it. But I don’t feel too wrong about it now. It was their law, and you have to live it. And even if it wasn’t the Kachin law, Carla, you’d have to do something like that or everybody would be selling out. I mean make it hurt to die. And to have him stripped naked when he died. I mean I don’t believe in killing, yet when you kill like that it’s not killing for just your own protection but for the protection of everyone that you’re responsible for. Being naked is what’s degrading.
“Once we picked up a British Sergeant Major that had escaped from a Jap prison camp in Mandalay. Every night at midnight, he told me, the Japs would call all the prisoners out to the compound and turn on the lights and have the prisoner’s strip. They’d single out men to beat on the spine with a heavy wooden paddle. He told me that there was hardly a man that minded being hit with that paddle as much as he minded being degraded, mocked, and spit and laughed at in his nakedness.
“That’s why I stripped Billingsly when I shot him. I’d taken part in executions before. But the Billingsly deal was more of a personal matter. Or, I should say, responsibility. The Kachins are a very proud race, and if any of the others of them had any idea of collaborating they would think twice after the Billingsly deal; and they would not think so much of being shot, to die, but rather of the disgrace involved. They don’t have courts in the Hills because there is little need for courts. Any crime is a crime against society in a much more deliberate and truer sense than a crime would be against our society. Their values are fixed. Their crimes are truly moral as well as social. Ours are not. And when you understand that, it’s not as difficult as you thought at first. Because you were only able to think of the crime relative to yourself and the value
s you were brought up with. When you look at it their way it makes as much sense as our way, and more, because of the greater principle involved. The fact that there is hardly any crime at all, including petty crimes, is the proof of their system. And though it wouldn’t be adaptable to our system it’s the best one for them.”
“I never thought I’d approve of anything like that; what you did to Billingsly. But I do,” she said. “I see why you had to. I see why it was the most suitable thing to do. Maybe I’m just saying that because you were involved, but I don’t think so.”
“But I didn’t have to shoot him, Carla. Let me emphasize that. But I did shoot him. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I think I do. But I don’t think you really understand yourself.”
He thought about it for a moment. “I think you’re right there,” he said.
He studied her for a moment. She had on beach slacks rolled to her knees and a sweat shirt and no makeup. He thought how very American she looked.
“How about dinner and then a nice, quiet movie in town. I haven’t seen a movie in a year.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “We’ve never been to the cinema together.”
The next morning the Colombo office called Con. He was to go to Kandy, to SEAC Headquarters, the next day. He and Carla took a train. He left her to shop, and meet her later at the hotel. Then reported to Brigadier Edwards, of Mountbatten’s Intelligence Staff.
“I will meet you at this address,” the Brigadier was saying, “in this apartment, in one hour. The apartment door will be open. It’s my apartment.”
“How do I get there?” Con asked.
“Taxi. I have your pledge of secrecy, then.”
“Of course,” Con said. Jesus, the British were as bad as the Americans when it came to playing cloak and dagger, he thought.
Con went to the apartment. It was on the second floor of an apartment hotel in the downtown area. The Brigadier had arrived there a minute before him.
“Have you ever heard of Colonel Piccolo?” the Brigadier asked stroking one red moustache.
“I have,” Con said with a quickening pulse.
“He wants to see you. Go next door and knock. He knows who you are.”
Con went next door. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. He heard someone say, “Come in.”
He opened the door. There was a large teak desk. The room was coolly air conditioned. Gus Regas sat behind the desk in a white shantung suit. “Come in, Con,” he said getting up and came around the desk to shake hands.
Con was momentarily speechless. “You’re … you’re …” he finally managed to say.
“Colonel Piccolo,” the short, sloppy-fat Greek said, smiling.
Con grinned widely, pumping the Greek’s hand. He sat down. The Greek took his place behind the desk. They went through the short formalities. Then Gus began to explain.
“You really shouldn’t be so astonished, Con. I’ve been a British subject for years. My family, which is a native Athenian family, have, when you put the pieces together, one of the largest shipping business’s in the world. I have a brother who operates a fleet out of Panama. No taxes, sailing from there. And another brother with a fleet out in South America. In this business we get around and have contacts. I began to devote a little time to the Foreign Office when I was quite young, picking up tidbits of information. Before I knew what happened the deal had pyramided on me. The stories you’ve heard are for the most part utterly ridiculous. Propaganda, really,” he said now with no trace of an English accent. “My brothers and I have contacts in lots of countries; people who are more interested in money than politics. Even in Japan we have a firm that sees the handwriting on the wall, and is playing our game for what they’ll get out of it after the war. People are that way,” he said and picked up a file glancing at it. “Your own father is rather moved when it comes to money,” he said.
“How come you’re telling me all this,” Con said suddenly wary.
“Because you want to know. And because I’ve got a couple of jobs for you. And I want to lay my cards on the table.”
Con laughed. “Does Carla know who you are?”
“Of course not.”
“Nickie?”
“My God, no.”
“Can I tell Danny? Danny feels he’s indebted to you.”
“No, I’m afraid you can’t tell Danny. Put yourself in my position, Con.”
Con thought about it for a moment. “I see,” he said. “Are you really an officer?”
“No. And I wouldn’t be one. If I were an officer I wouldn’t have any effect. As a civilian I can order any officer no matter what his rank, with the backing of the Foreign Office and no officer politics. You Americans will catch on to this game someday,” he smiled his most sinister smile mockingly.
“I wonder if we will,” Con said, then lit a cigarette. “The way you live, this talk about you being an addict, and a black marketeer, and all that. That’s a front?”
“I deal in the black market. I do turn a profit. That goes to the British Army fund. But I have contacts in the market. And I’m not an addict, and I detest, utterly detest, some of the people I associate with. But as for the life, the work, the characterization I’ve adopted, I love it. I couldn’t live without it. I have my laugh with the world, the world has it’s laugh with me.”
Con had to laugh.
They chatted for a while longer about Gus and his background. Then Gus told Con why he had been called in. There was a halfcaste stevedore that had been imprisoned in Moulmein and escaped. There was a reliable report that he had broken a leg, was crippled, and taking refuge in the Karen Hills, several hundred miles south of the Kachin Hills. The Karens, Con knew, were very much like the Kachin people and the two tribes had a great mutual respect. The stevedore, Gus had said, held vital information about the Rangoon situation, especially about the mines in the harbor. Gus wanted Con to send a picked group of Kachins south into the Karen Hills and locate this agent. Once he was located Con was to take every precaution to get him safely out of the country. Con immediately suggested a landing strip, and to fly the man out especially if he were crippled. Gus said that was exactly why he had to call upon Con, because of his experience in guerrilla-to-air rescue.
“How come you didn’t ask Danny to do this job?” Con asked. “Danny knows a lot more about this game than I.”
“In a way,” Gus said. “But at Quebec your President and our Prime Minister made an agreement. Part of that agreement was that American Intelligence be given more of an opportunity to participate in the activities down here. I have a directive from the Foreign Office that so states. It’s that simple.”
Con brushed his goatee with the back of his hand meditatively. “Was it the Foreign Office’s intention that maybe, if the mission was tough enough, that the American would fail. Isn’t that what the Foreign Office would like to happen?”
The Greek laughed. “You’ve caught on fast, countryman. Yes, it’s quite possible that the Foreign Office would hope for a failure. But that’s not my intention. I want that man. I need him. I think you can get him for me.”
Con studied the Greek for a moment. “I believe you. I’ll get him. If he’s still alive and in the Hills I’ll get him.”
“I think you will,” Gusto said. “Will you have a vermouth?” he said getting up from his desk and walking across the oriental rug to a highly polished Philippine mahogany bar.
“Scotch,” Con said. “What’s this other job you have for me?”
“It’s not for some time. But you’ll be briefed. It will be after the Kachin show.”
“More war,” Con said.
“I’m afraid so,” Gus said. “You’re valuable now. Seven or eight months ago you were just another soldier. But your experience is priceless now. Who else has the experience you’ve had in Burma? That’s the one trouble with this game; the more you’re in it the more valuable you become.”
“I’m running out of chances
, Gus,” Con said.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Gus said handing him a drink. He went back over to his desk and pulled out a chart. He showed Con where his thinking on his chances was in perfect reverse. The chart showed where the longer a man participated in guerilla or agent activities of any kind the better was his chance for survival up to a certain point. And for Con that point was years away.
“When you went behind the enemy lines,” Gus said, “that first month, the odds were forty to one you wouldn’t survive. The second month they dropped to eight to one. The third month it was even money. And the sixth month it was fifty to one that you would survive without any injury at all. You were as safe as a New York pedestrian and didn’t know it. That’s what I meant when I said your experience was invaluable. When you’re sent on anything the odds are far and away in our favor that you will accomplish it and without any personal harm.”
Con continued to study the chart. He studied it for over fifteen minutes. “I should have realized this,” he said finally. “I mean from watching the new men, the mistakes they make when they first come in. It makes me shudder to think of some of the fool things I did so blithely. Obviously. This chart makes sense. At least to a point. To a psychological point. And that point’s not on any chart.”
“That’s true. But let me be the judge of that as far as you’re concerned. But about this other job; I’ll feed it to you slowly and in pieces. It will be best to know as little as possible for now.”
“Are you going to invade Rangoon, Gus?” Con asked pointedly.
Gus had thought Con would probably deduce the plan. “Let’s not discuss it now. Let me give you the particulars on this other deal.”
“Will the Colonel know I’m doing this job for you?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t know who I am. And he won’t know.”
Gus gave him all the particulars on the halfcaste stevedore. It was the most painstakingly, detailed briefing that Con had ever experienced. It took two hours and when it was done Con couldn’t think of one question to ask.
“I need this man as soon as possible. So I want you to cut your leave short. Say four days from now. Satisfactory?” Gus asked.
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