"Are you in? This will go a lot smoother if we're both working on it"
Kent replied so quickly it surprised even himself. "OK, I'm with you."
Templeton stood up again and stretched, turning left and right, seeing the same young woman on the bench, apparently breast feeding her baby who was still intermittently crying, although louder than before. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a perturbation, the slightest of ripples in the smooth, glass like surface that comprised Julian's awareness of his surroundings, and, feeling uneasy, he walked off quickly in the direction they had been heading, motioning for Mallory to come along.
Seventy-five meters to the rear a very attractive woman began buttoning her blouse, almost forgetting about the baby alternately crying and sucking on the nipple of a well formed but barren breast. She did, however, experience a mild but nonetheless pleasant sexual arousal from the distress of the infant alternating with it's urgent sucking and had to pause to take a deep breath before she arose.
CHAPTER FIVE
When the others arrived, Dulles was already sitting at the conference table, a pale gray plume of smoke curling upward from the bowl of his pipe resting in the heavy glass ashtray by his side. The smell of the tobacco added the ambience of a gentlemen's club to the morning briefing, and Julian, who was already in place, sat next to Allen watching as the delicate streamer of smoke wafted first one way, then the other as each member of the team opened the door and walked to their seat. Kent was a little surprised to see him there before everyone else and wondered if he had been conferring with Dulles or had simply arrived a bit early. Templeton's face gave nothing away, but Kent was coming to believe that he didn't do anything that wasn't part of some larger plan, whether it was to pull a scam on the United States government or to bed a beauty from an English railroad town. As each of them entered, Dulles looked up briefly from the pocket sized ledger into which he was making notes to acknowledge their presence, part of his skill as a leader, diplomat and confidant of refugees from all over. When they had all sat down, he closed the book and slipped it into his jacket pocket, leaving his expensive Caron D'ache pen on top of a tablet in front of him. He took a final draw on his pipe, slowly exhaling while he seemingly absentmindedly rolled the pen over the surface of the paper, staring at the gold band encircling the deep green of the barrel. The sharp staccato sound of Dulles tapping out the bowl of the pipe into the ashtray cut through the quiet chatter in the room, a gavel signaling the start of the meeting. With the last of the smoke diffusing through the room, Dulles cleared his throat and began.
"It's been two weeks now since we first met and it looks like we're finally making some progress. We have a field agent for the operation, or more correctly, Mr. Templeton spoke with me earlier this morning and informed me of someone who he thinks would be willing to volunteer. He'll make the arrangements and will report back as soon as he has confirmation." He turned to his left and Julian nodded confirmation in response to the unspoken, "Won't you Julian?" Kent smiled to himself that his assessment of Julian had been correct. He was also glad that the project could move ahead. Now that he had agreed to Templeton's private plan, he was anxious to get moving, hoping that work and action would calm the fears and guilt that persisted despite his attempts at rationalization. During the rest of the briefing Kent tried his best to pay attention, but nothing of great importance was said and it was hard for him to keep focused on the elaboration of this plan by Allen Dulles when all he really wanted was to confer with his new partner about their private operation and how it could be run simultaneously with the official one. The one thing of importance that was said, at least from Kent's point of view, was that Dulles wanted an operational plan, even if not completely fleshed out, within forty-eight hours. When the meeting concluded, Mallory practically jumped out of his seat to get to Julian.
"We don't have much time to put this together, when can we start?" he asked, then continued so quickly it came out like a run on sentence, "We didn't get that much in place these last two weeks."
Templeton held up his hand to slow him down, then replied, "The rest of the day and into the night and, if necessary, through the night. It shall be done. Don't worry. Besides, I've had a chance to do some planning on my own."
"Good, I thought you might have. You know, I'm sorry that I just haven't had much experience in planning this kind of thing. It's not that I'm unwilling to do whatever it takes or spend all night trying to do it, I..."
Julian held up his hand again. "I know, I really do. I also know your potential. Remember, that's why I recommended you for this. Look, I have a few things to do here, then we can go someplace to discuss strategic planning. I'll see you by reception in about fifteen minutes." He turned and quickly left the room, just before David Ruckelman approached from the far side of the large table where he had been talking with Dulles and now apparently wanted to speak with Julian. Templeton had noticed David's progress in his peripheral vision and feared that if he stayed he would be stuck with a much longer and more boring conversation than he cared for at the moment, therefore his hasty retreat, leaving Kent to deal with Ruckelman. As he walked through the door and turned into the corridor, he caught a brief glimpse of Ruckelman cornering Kent, the latter looking after Julian and flashing an expression that said, "I know that you did this to me but that's OK because I'll do whatever it takes."
The 'few things' that Templeton had to do was continue his Victory over Victoria campaign, so as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs he looked in her direction and said loudly, "Hi Vickie," as he walked over to her desk.
She refused to look up or even acknowledge his greeting, the usual response for those failing to use her proper English name. This was, of course, exactly what Julian had anticipated and for which he had planned. No action without a purpose, no move that hadn't been thought out in advance. Wearing a contrite face and with sadness in his voice he said, "I am so sorry Victoria and I certainly mean no disrespect but whenever I see you I just get so overwhelmed by how beautiful you are I...I just get flustered and can't think of what to say and then I say all the wrong things and keep running off at the mouth and, shit..., I mean darn it. There I go again. Now I have to apologize for my language as well as my stupidity. You must really hate me. I'm sorry, very sorry; I'll just go." Head hung low he turned and started off in the direction of the door.
"I don't hate you."
For just an instant, the corners of his mouth turned upward, the briefest of smiles, before he swung around to look into her eyes, his face now showing such a sincere feeling of relief at not being hated by her that Victoria softened noticeably. How could she help but be flattered that her approval meant so much to someone like Julian Templeton, obviously an important fellow with the OSS. And how could Julian not feel a sense of vainglory at how well his conquest was progressing.
He covered the few steps back to her desk, contrition written on his face and apparent in his body language and, with slightly hesitant voice, said softly, "I would really like to make it up to you for being such a boor. Could you...I mean, will you let me take you to dinner? My mother taught me to behave properly with a lady, and she'd be turning over in her grave if she heard how I've been going on. You've just got to let me make this right. Even if you don't like me, then at least for my mother." At this, even Julian could not completely suppress a slight smile, and he was a little concerned that Victoria would really get pissed off at what she thought was a ruse. However, he had underestimated her naiveté, or perhaps her genuine concern for people, because Victoria's reaction to his little grin was one of endearment, the response of a personality that did not see subterfuge lurking in everyone, a personality that inherently thought the best of people. She saw only the sheepish smile of a man awkwardly asking a woman to dinner. No matter how brave a man was, or how important or secretive his work, she was sure that so many of them became a confused teenager when dealing with women.
"How can I refuse an offer like that? And,
Mr. Templeton, I do believe you are a gentleman, and that your mother would be proud of you. I'm free the day after tomorrow." Her own social etiquette prevented her from making herself too readily available, but two days, especially in wartime, seemed sufficiently respectable.
"Thank you, Victoria. Will seven o'clock be OK?"
"That will be fine. Here's my address." She wrote on a piece of notepaper and handed it to him. "I'm afraid I don't have a phone, so you won't be able to ring me."
"I'll make sure I'm there on time. Good day."
Retrieving his coat, Julian walked to the door to wait for Kent. When he emerged from the second floor meeting room and began descending the stairs, Templeton began putting on his coat, smiling to Victoria and then turning back to face Kent who rolled his eyes back in his head to indicate his exasperation with having to listen to Ruckelman.
"An atomic bomb may be big, but it's boring as shit; at least as told by David. I know a lot more than I want to about fission, fusion, radioactivity and lead shielding. Let me grab my coat then I'm ready."
As they left the house, Kent said in a discreet voice, "Where do you want to talk about this?"
"Let's go over to your place." They walked in near silence to his apartment, Kent occasionally commenting on the weather or the morning shoppers and Julian turning toward him as if listening to him, but remaining silent, his thoughts elsewhere. Arriving at his apartment, Kent reached for his keys and opened the heavy door that led into a dark hall, an apartment on either side and a small sign indicating a third unit to the rear. The wood timbers of the floor creaked slightly as they approached the stairs and they each unbuttoned their coats as they made their way to the second floor, the relative warmth of the building somewhat uncomfortable after the brisk winter weather outside.
"We've really had some nice days lately; clear and cool, but without the winter chill you'd expect at this time of year. Good traveling weather."
Templeton smiled, and when they entered Kent's apartment and were taking off their coats, said, "How'd you like to take a trip to Lugano?"
CHAPTER SIX
6 KM. NORTH OF ALTSTATTEN, SWITZERLAND. 6 MARCH, 1945
The sound of snapping twigs and pounding feet echoed through the forest, but Larry Sabatini heard only the pounding of his own heart in his ears and the strident sound of his breathing coming in rapid, staccato bursts. He was wearing a camouflage coverall, devoid of any insignias, names or other markings, and under which he was dressed as a typical German laborer. A rucksack was slung over his shoulders. It, too, was devoid of markings and was of a type commonly used by farmers and workers in southern Germany, near the Swiss border. He held an Army issue carbine in his hand, and his shoulder ached from carrying it.
Tired, out of breath and sweating in spite of the morning chill in the depths of the woods, Larry paused, leaned his M-1 carbine against an old tree stump and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees, panting heavily while he tried to catch his breath. He was at the edge of a clearing, approximately twenty meters across, dominated by a large boulder that was flanked by two old Oak trees, their foliage mostly stripped by the grip of winter. The branches reached to the very periphery of the clearing, blending with the surrounding trees and forming a cocoon of safety and isolation. Flecks of mica within the rock reflected those of the sun's rays that penetrated the forest cover and gave the appearance of a giant mirrored orb in the center of some Coney Island ballroom. Still panting, Larry squinted at the myriad beams of reflected light, then, unable to move, his lower jaw dropped and his eyes widened as two German soldiers jumped out from behind the centrally placed boulder, rifles leveled unflinchingly at him, their fingers on the triggers. He turned his head to the side, toward where he had rested his carbine, the motion seeming to take forever, but before he could will his arms to move, two more Germans dropped from the branches of the Oaks and now four rifle barrels pointed directly at his heart. A captain in the German Wehrmacht stepped out from behind the rock, his sidearm un-holstered and casually pointing in his direction. As he walked toward Larry, the only thing he noticed as he slowly straightened up was how shiny the captain's boots were for someone who had been out in the woods. He stopped about two meters from Larry as one of the privates shouted, "Hande hoch!" The captain took a step forward, a cross between a frown and concern on his face as he said, "Jesus Christ, Larry, what's the matter? You look like shit! And we heard you five minutes before you got here; you sounded like a fucking locomotive."
"I don't know what it is, sir. Couldn't have been running more than half a kilometer, three quarters at the most." He had to pause after every few words to catch his breath. "Last week I had a cold and the Doc gave me some medicine; maybe it's still hanging on. Man, I am winded "
"Maybe you have pneumonia. Better get that checked out."
"Hey, Lieutenant, can I still shoot him? If he's not German he's probably Mafia," one of the privates yelled.
"Shut up, Stokowski." The lieutenant put his arm around Larry's shoulder and said softly, "Larry, go see the doc as soon as you get back. Do you need any help getting in?"
"No, sir. I can make it. I'll take care of it." He turned around and slowly trudged off in the direction of headquarters for the small OSS camp in the Northern Swiss woods bordering Lake Constance. The lieutenant didn't have the heart to tell him he forgot his rifle. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder as he watched Larry disappear into the shadows of the forest.
Larry reached his quarters at 09:45 and by 10:30 hours was enduring various indignities as he was poked, prodded and otherwise examined by Dr. Benjamin Jonson Miller III, the son of Capt. Benjamin Jonson Miller II, a retired Naval officer who believed in tradition and English literature. Dr. Miller, the camp physician, was actually a naval lieutenant on loan to the OSS.
After carefully listening to Larry's heart and lungs for a second time and palpating the entire chest again, all the time a look of great concentration on his face, Dr. Miller removed his stethoscope, laying it carefully on the desk next to the examining table. An astute observer would have discerned that the expression on the good doctor's face during the examination was not only one of concentration, but also considerable anxiety. "Sgt. Sabatini, why don't you sit down," motioning to a chair across from his small desk, "and we can go over what I found."
"Just a cold, isn't it? I don't want to have to deal with a pneumonia."
"Sergeant what you...mind if I call you 'Larry'?"
"Sure, doc, go ahead. They don't like us to use rank here anyway."
"Larry, I don't think it's pneumonia, at least not what a non medical person would call pneumonia. But it's more than just a cold. You're going to have to get an x-ray; you'll have to go into Bern, or one of the cities where they have the necessary equipment."
"Shit...uh, excuse me sir. What do you think it is?"
"I really can't say until I see the x-rays. I'll talk to your CO; he'll take care of the arrangements."
"Doctor Miller, isn't there any more you can tell me?"
He answered in a tone more gruff than he had intended, but the tension was taking its toll. "Not now; after I look over the films. Your dismissed, soldier." He looked down at his desk, averting Larry's glance, thumbing through the notes he had made; but as Larry turned to go, the doctors eyes followed him out the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LUGANO, SWITZERLAND. 11 MARCH, 1945
Kent felt a bit uneasy. It was a beautiful day, warmer than usual and particularly pleasant along the lakefront where he sat at a small café, an unread newspaper on the table. He stared down at his coffee and watched as the warm vapors curled lazily in the soft onshore breeze, the strong aroma of the brew lost on him as his thoughts turned inward, confronting a conscience that would not be mollified. "Shit!" he murmured. "Why did he have to meet here?" Kent half turned in his seat and looked over his shoulder at the façade of the church of Santa Maria degli Angioli, St. Mary of the Angels. It's exterior might be somewhat shabby, but after
over four centuries it still had a moral aura, a compelling rectitude in whose power he felt naked and exposed for what he was, a traitor to his country. Perhaps it might have been easier for him if he didn't have to deal directly with the Nazis. Doing something that was not in the best interests of your country was not the same as directly aiding your country's enemy, an enemy that had killed so many thousands of Americans. On the other hand, I'm not helping anyone to kill GIs, just allowing some dumb German who chose the wrong side to get his stupid ass out of the war. Expedience was worse than a prism, the latter distorts what you see but the former perverts your thoughts as well.
One hundred meters along the promenade an attractive couple leaned against a railing and gazed out at the lake, talking quietly, sometimes pointing to one of the steamers plying the calm waters. They smiled and occasionally turned to look at the mountains surrounding the lake and the town, the lower slopes of the Alps dotted with olive trees, their silver leaves seeming to sparkle in the sun. Turning towards each other and holding hands they seemed the quintessential vacation couple, enjoying each other's company and the beautiful scenery. But as Dulles and Julian both knew, and Kent would soon discover, looks can be deceiving and nothing is what it seems; at least in the world of the OSS.
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