by Glenn Dyer
“Captain, so far so good. But can I ask if there is any way to pick up some speed?” Thorn asked.
“Only if you want to freeze your toes off. We can move up to thirty-two thousand feet and pick up some knots, but it will get damned cold in here.”
“How much quicker would we get to Lisbon?”
Vanderkloot stared into the back of the cabin and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Oh, about fifty minutes or so.”
“That would help, Captain. We’ll deal with the cold,” Thorn said, nodding at Emily and Sean.
“OK, it’s your toes.” Vanderkloot headed to the rear of the cabin and returned moments later with three blankets. “The prime minister is fond of these.” He returned to the cockpit, and moments later, the Liberator nosed up to gain altitude.
Thorn proceeded to explain all that had happened with Longworth, including their need to sneak into the Vatican.
Sean shot a look at Thorn and Emily. “Your guide? That sounds a bit—”
“Crazy?” Emily said.
“I was going to say farfetched. Have you considered how I am to explain you two to the Swiss Guards?” the good father asked.
“At this point, we’re merely two members of the clergy headed to the Vatican to conduct business for our dioceses.”
“Clergy? Members of the clergy? You must be pulling my leg,” Sean said.
“Hey, I was an altar boy for quite some time, Sean.”
“Well, I could take that as an insult, but I won’t. There is a bit more to it than that. But, of course, you know that.”
“Certainly. Our cover story will be fleshed out a bit once we get to Lisbon.”
Sean shook his head. “What do the two of you know about the Vatican—its ins and outs, its protocols?”
Thorn looked at Emily and shrugged.
“Honestly, we know little. The only comfort I have as far as Rome goes is having a conversant ability in Italian,” Emily offered.
Thorn raised his eyebrows at that. Well, that could be helpful.
Sean looked peaked. He stared to take big gulps of air. “Emily, another capsule, if you please.”
“Certainly,” Emily said, reaching into her bag.
“Tell me, how are we getting to Rome?” Sean asked before he dry swallowed the capsule. “Commercial flights don’t leave on the hour. But I’m sure you know that, correct?”
“We do. We’ll learn how we’ll get to Rome when we get to Lisbon. I hope.”
Sullivan’s brow furrowed, and he began rubbing his chin. “Hmmm . . . something . . . something slipped my mind, Conor. Just two days ago, Longworth stopped by the clergy house. It was around nine o’clock in the morning. I remember I was surprised to see him because he wasn’t at seven o’clock Mass that day.”
“What was he doing there?” Thorn asked.
“Edith said that all he wanted was to drop two letters into the pouch. He did that and quickly left.”
“Do you know who the letters were for?” Emily asked.
“No. Given our last conversation about Longworth, I was going to look in the bag, but the pouch had left with the courier moments before.”
Thorn paused. What was Longworth doing? Letting Heinz know of his final plans? He needs two letters to do that? “When do you think that pouch arrived at the Vatican?”
“Sometime late afternoon yesterday, I would think. Well, thank you for taking me into your confidence. I believe I should pen some notes to help prepare you to some degree for your . . . foray into the Vatican. That along with a few prayers.” Sean got up, grabbed a blanket, and moved to the seat nearest the cockpit.
Emily looked at Thorn and began to speak, but Thorn stopped her. “I know, I know,” he said. “The chances we get out of this aren’t good, prayers or no prayers.”
“Longworth has given us no other choice. And, strangely, I take some comfort in that.”
“That’s not so strange. Me, on the other hand, I feel as if I’m getting closer to repaying a debt to—” He stopped himself. He didn’t want to lose his focus by dredging up the past.
“To whom?” Emily asked.
He turned to look out the window and was met with a star-filled sky. She needs to know this about me. She needs to know what she’s getting into. He turned back to Emily, whose head was tilted to one side.
“Do you remember, about a week ago, when I said that maybe the death of my wife and son may have saved my life?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the complete story is that I was called away from my ship, the Reuben James, when Grace went into premature labor. I was at her bedside when the ship . . . my ship was torpedoed by a U-boat off Iceland while on convoy duty.” Thorn turned away from Emily. “More than one hundred US Navy sailors went down with her,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He cleared his throat, and Emily reached for his hand. He started to pull away, but Emily held tight.
“I am so sorry,” she said.
Thorn saw that she was tearing up. “Me too. Given the short notice, they sailed without an executive officer—me. I should have been there. I could have saved some lives.”
“You were where you were supposed to be. With your wife.”
“Maybe.” Thorn held his gaze on Emily. “So if you’re right, tell me—why me? Why was I saved? And you know it’s not the first time. So why me? Tell me that, Emily.” He realized that this was the first time he had given voice to his nagging doubts and guilt.
Emily squeezed his hand. “I can’t answer that. But maybe Colonel Donovan has picked the right person for this mission. You had the courage to stick to your convictions, dragging me all the way, I must say.”
“Well, I hope you’re right. Hell, I hope I’m right. But one thing I know—we’ll get this bastard,” Thorn said, releasing her hand and slumping down into his seat.
Emily twisted to face Thorn, staring at this hand. “Conor, you took your . . . wedding ring off.”
Thorn looked at his left hand. The skin that his wedding ring had once covered was a milky white. It had taken him several tries to remove it. It was time. Time to move on. But to what? “I don’t know. With everything that’s been going on . . . ”
She waited for him to elaborate and finally asked, “Such as?”
“It’s tough to explain, so I won’t even try. At least, not now. I’m still trying to figure it all out,” Thorn said, his voice a whisper.
Emily nodded. “Well, promise me this—you will tell me when you have it sorted out?”
“Deal,” Thorn said, relieved she didn’t push him harder.
#
Two hours later, the B-24 Liberator landed with successive heavy bounces and began to taxi. Captain Vanderkloot came back into the cabin and sat down across the aisle from Thorn. His brown leather flight jacket was open, but its wool-lined collar was pulled snuggly up to his ears. “I don’t know why you’re all here. It seems pretty strange to me that we’re tasked, with no clear explanation, to fly a priest with a diplomatic pouch into a neutral country. But we’re here,” Vanderkloot said while taking off his flight jacket. “So here’s the plan: Once you disembark, we’ll close the hatch and play dead for no more than five minutes. We told the Portuguese that we were experiencing some engine problems, but that excuse won’t work for long. I’ll give you no more than that to figure out if your mission is still on the rails or if you’re all coming back to England with us. Once you figure that out, tap out a dot-dash yes or no on the hatch. You do know Morse code, Mr. Thorn?”
“Yes, sir. Former navy.”
“Good. But move fast. Airport security can get surly and block our path to the runway pretty damn quick. Remember, I said five minutes. I kid you not, that’s all I’ll give you. Am I clear?”
“Very. But, Captain, we’re not going back. At least not now,” Thorn said.
“A lot could have happened while we were in the air. I’m giving you a last chance.” Vanderkloot nodded once and made for the rear of the B-24.
Thorn and Emily collected thei
r belongings and met Sean at the rear hatch door, where Vanderkloot was ready to lower the stairs once the plane came to a stop. It took the three passengers moments to disembark from the plane, and the hatch slammed shut behind them. Thorn looked at his watch.
The tarmac was lifeless, yet the airport was ablaze with lights. Terminal, tower, and runway lights shone brightly—a clear contrast to the airfields in Britain. Thorn and Emily stood shoulder to shoulder. Sean stood behind them. A dark-colored sedan approached, the driver flashing the headlights as he got close. Before the sedan stopped, the lone passenger had the door open and one foot on the ground.
“Bright?”
“Yes, here. And you’re Burton?” asked Emily.
“Yes. James Burton.” The driver shut the engine down but left the headlights on, and then took up a post twenty feet behind the vehicle. Burton, his eyelids heavy and his face drawn, leaned on the sedan’s fender and nervously scanned the perimeter. His suit coat was severely rumpled, his tie loosened. He smoked the last of a cigarette.
“It was the Abwehr, right? They took Longworth?” Emily asked.
Burton hung his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. “It’s been a long night, Bright.”
“I don’t care how long a night it’s been. Where did they take Longworth?” she asked, surprising Thorn with her peeved tone.
Burton stood taller, clearly taken aback by getting a rebuke from a woman. “He was snatched. I . . . I lost a man last night.”
Thorn and Emily exchanged looks. “Details,” Emily prodded.
Burton rubbed the back of his neck. Up to the point where he said Longworth was taken across the field in the direction of the Lufthansa hanger, Thorn and Bright glumly listened. But at the mention of the Soviets, Thorn stopped him.
“What the hell did you say?” Thorn said.
“I said someone slashed the tires on our sedan after we got on the scene. That’s why we couldn’t give chase right away. I have no idea who. The Abwehr, most likely. Hell, it could have been the bloody Soviets. Those bastards can’t be trusted. They’re always fucking with us. ”
“Soviet agents? Shit.” Thorn took a deep, slow breath as a panel truck approached the sedan. It was towing an oversized fire extinguisher, the type seen all over major airports. Thorn made out two men in the cab of the truck. He watched the truck pull up and stop fifty feet from their position. The two men remained in the cab.
Thorn turned on his heels and rushed toward the Liberator. Another vehicle with emergency lights flashing approached from the same direction as the panel truck. Thorn took his Colt and, with the butt of the pistol, rapped out no in Morse code. He looked over his shoulder at the two vehicles.
Something’s not right here. He turned back to the B-24 and repeated the message, then spun away from the bomber.
“Where’s his bag? I want to see it,” Emily said.
“It’s on the backseat.”
Emily pulled out the valise and began rooting through it.
“Did he say anything?” Thorn asked, looking at the gathered vehicles.
“He was too disoriented.”
“Don’t look now,” Thorn yelled and pointed to the two vehicles. “But we’ve got company.”
A second later, the Liberator’s engines fired up. The emergency vehicle pulled to a stop. His Colt still in his hand, Thorn watched the two men in the panel truck emerge, both with a gun. He turned toward the other vehicle, whose driver and passenger did the same thing. The passenger held what looked like an automatic with an oversized magazine.
“Get down!” Thorn screamed as he took cover behind the sedan’s front fender. Burton took up a position to Thorn’s left. Sean dove headfirst into the front seat of the sedan, and Emily knelt behind the sedan’s rear fender, gripped her PPK semiautomatic with both hands, and began firing.
Thorn aimed at the driver of the panel truck, who was now crouched behind the truck’s fender, and squeezed off three shots. The driver collapsed to the tarmac. Who the fuck are these assholes? Thorn could barely hear the shots over the engine blast from the B-24 as it taxied to the end of the runway.
Burton’s driver, out in the open, fell as a shot smacked into his chest, landing him on his back. Burton, his arms extended on the hood of the sedan, fired off two shots but missed the passenger of the panel truck, who was shifting to the rear of the truck. Thorn took aim. Before the passenger could get there, Thorn dropped him with one shot.
Two down.
The driver of the emergency vehicle fired off four shots, all hitting the side of the sedan. Thorn trained his Colt on the driver, but at just that moment, the driver took a shot in the chest from Emily’s PPK.
Just don’t move from behind that fender, Emily.
The passenger of the emergency vehicle was the lone attacker left. He slipped back into the vehicle and put it in reverse, both front doors still wide-open. Smoke billowed up from the rear tires, and within seconds, the vehicle was out of range. Thorn stood, his Colt lowered. Burton didn’t move as he watched the escaping vehicle speed off into the distance. Thorn didn’t see Emily move and started to panic. “Emily, Emily . . . you OK?” he screamed.
Emily slowly stood and walked toward him.
He exhaled and hung his head in relief.
“Yes, I’m fine. I was just loading another magazine.”
“Everyone else OK?” Thorn asked.
“I’m OK, but it looks like I lost another man,” Burton said, reloading his weapon.
Sean, his face as white as a sheet, sat up in the front passenger seat still clutching the diplomatic pouch under his left arm, a small pistol in his right hand.
Thorn shot a look of surprise at Emily, who smiled.
“Sean, what the hell are you doing?” Thorn asked.
Sean raised the pistol to near eye level and stared at it. His hand was trembling, his face pallid. “Yes. This is out of the ordinary, I admit, but with all the intrigue that you’ve uncovered, I thought it wise to . . . take precautions.” He tucked the pistol underneath his cassock.
“Were you going to use it?”
“I . . . just don’t know. To protect the Vatican’s diplomatic pouch? Quite possibly. To wound but not kill, of course.”
“Yeah, of course. Just go for the legs,” Thorn said as he slipped his Colt into his waistband. He gaped at Burton. “Who were these people? And here’s another good question: How did they know we were going to be here?”
“I bloody well don’t know the answer to either question.” It was devastating enough to have blown the capture of Longworth, but it demoralized him to think that maybe they were putting their trust in the wrong people.
Burton ran over to the panel truck and turned over the three bodies. Thorn trotted over to Burton’s driver and saw the blood-soaked shirt, a small hole just above his heart. Blood had spread beneath his body, and his clothes had begun to soak it up.
“Let’s get out of here, Burton,” Thorn yelled.
Burton sprinted back to his driver’s body. Thorn helped him drag it to the sedan. Emily opened the trunk, and Thorn and Burton loaded the young agent in. The three agents silently stood looking at the driver. Burton shook his head. The blood-soaked clothing gave off a strong metallic smell. Sean pushed between Burton and Emily and placed a stole with embroidered crosses around his neck. He laid his right hand on the driver’s forehead and began praying over the body.
Burton put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Father, he’s not Catholic. He’s—”
“A child of God, son. Now let me finish, because I’m sure we do not have the luxury of time.”
Atta boy, Sean. But damn if you’re right about not having the time. Sean finished up, praying so quickly Thorn didn’t pick up one word.
Thorn slipped into the backseat with Emily. Burton got behind the wheel, and as he put the sedan in gear, he turned to Thorn. “Russians. Bloody Russians. You can’t trust those sods.”
Thorn glared at Emily. “I think you—we have a p
roblem somewhere in MI6. And it almost got us killed,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
0430 Hours, Friday, October 16, 1942
Lisbon
Thorn’s sour disposition worsened as he mulled over their setbacks on the drive through the deserted Lisbon streets to the OSS office. Three Soviet agents were lying on the tarmac, and one MI6 agent was in the trunk, gunned down by people who were supposed to be their Allies. Thorn now believed that their worst-case scenario was, in fact, much worse than first believed.
He turned to Emily, who appeared lost in her own thoughts. She had rolled down the rear window, and the chilly, early-morning air rushed through her hair and forced her to nearly close her eyes.
“Emily,” Thorn said to rouse her.
She faced Thorn and stared at him blankly. “Conor . . . I don’t know what to think or to say.” She turned back to the window and watched the lights of the city pass by. The next several minutes, silence filled the car until Thorn leaned forward in his seat and spoke.
“How can you be so sure they were Russians?”
Burton’s bloodshot eyes met Thorn’s in his rearview mirror. “Look at it this way, Thorn. It’s a game. It’s like a football league, except this is a league of spies. We’re paid to know their players, and they’re paid to know ours.” Burton’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he spoke. His eyes darted from the road in front to the rearview mirror. “Sometimes a new player enters the game, but we eventually get to know him.” Burton’s emotionless demeanor shook Thorn. “I’ll guarantee you they knew the name of my agent they killed. He was a damn good man . . . ” His hushed voice trailed off.
“You OK, Burton?” Thorn asked.
Burton looked in the rearview again and nodded as he pulled to a stop in front of a building on Avenida 24 de Julho. Emily and Sean proceeded to get out, but Thorn sat for a brief moment. “You sure?” he asked Burton.
“Yeah, I’m sure. Just a game.”
Thorn slid across the seat, stepped out, and was about to close the door when Burton held up his right hand to stop him. “Wait. What did you mean when you said there was a problem somewhere in MI6?”