McCarthy wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He was sweating profusely. "Sir, I can only hope that you will talk to your generals and ask them to do what they can."
An easy and empty promise, Roosevelt thought. "I will."
The Canadian ambassador pulled a sheet of note paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to the president. "Perhaps you can do something with this information."
"What is it?"
"It’s a shipping schedule."
Roosevelt looked at it and paled, quickly realizing its significance. If he acted on the information, it could mean a premature war with Germany and with the United States as the aggressor. If ignored, a large number of people would be condemned to a horrible captivity resulting in agonizing death. Ignoring the information would ultimately condemn him as being complicit in murder. He and the men around him no longer had any doubts as to what was going on in Auschwitz, Sobibor, and other so-called death camps.
He took the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” he said with a forced smile.
McCarthy rose. “I know you will do what you can.”
Missy Downing finished her second glass of wine at almost the same time that Alicia did hers. It was the middle of the afternoon and both were beginning to feel the effects of the below-average but well chilled white table wine from the Finger Lakes region of New York. Use enough ice cubes, Missy said, and any bad wine tastes okay. There was a war on so French wines were rare and too pricey. They weren’t concerned about shocking anyone since they were in Missy’s house and Alicia planned to stay the night. The colonel was in Baltimore meeting with someone about something, and so was Tom. It was girl’s night out, or in, as Missy said laughing.
“So you think all men are pricks,” Missy asked with a smile.
“It’s been my experience, yes. Ever since I reached puberty and young boys discovered that I was a little bit attractive, I’ve had them all over me, sometimes literally. I’ve been pawed by classmates and chased by instructors. Someone told me that guys liked to take out girls who weren’t too pretty. They hoped the plain little girl would be so grateful for a date that she’d go to bed with them to thank them.”
“I hope your realize it’s a fate many women would relish.”
“Really? In high school swimming class I was cornered in the pool by a bunch of kids who stuffed me under water until my lungs ached and I thought I would drown. Then, when they let me up, I found that they’d pulled my swimsuit down to my knees and then they grabbed and pawed me all over, both the boys and the girls. Later, when I went to tell the dean of students, she pretty much said it was my fault and that I should let her console me. I let her take me to lunch and I was shocked when she put her hand on my leg and started moving up. Later, I found out she was a lesbian. Back then, I didn’t even know what a lesbian was. I’m still not totally certain how they have sex, although I suppose it’s orally and I didn’t know what that meant at the time.”
“I’m not totally certain either,” Missy laughed and poured them each another glass. “But you didn’t come here to tell me about that, did you? You already knew that men had two brains, one in their skulls and a larger and dominant one in their cocks.”
Alicia giggled and got serious. “Oh, yes. I wanted to talk to you about one of my girls who has a problem. You knew that I had administrative control over about twenty WACs and I recently found that one of them is pregnant.”
“Imagine that,” Missy said drily.
“Her name is Aggie Fanelli. She’s nineteen, short, slender, very pretty, and intelligent, and she says she was raped.”
Missy stiffened. “You’re kidding?”
“She made a foolish mistake. She was flattered by the attention she was getting from an older Englishman, one of the math wizards. His name is Langford Morris and he’s a Ph.D. from Oxford so she was totally impressed. She went to lunch at his place, he got her drunk, and the next thing she remembers is waking up naked in his bed. There was a note and twenty dollars on the dresser. In effect, he paid her like a whore.”
“What did she do?”
“First, she took a shower to scrub what she called the stink of him off her body. Then she tore his apartment to shreds and went back to her barracks. Later, when she found out she was pregnant, she came to me.”
“Has she spoken to him?”
“Yes, and he insists it not his. She insists he’s the only one she’s ever had sex with. I believe her, by the way.”
“Is she considering an abortion?”
“She’s Catholic, which also rules out keeping the baby. Her parents are immigrants and very strict, and she’s convinced that they would throw her out of the house. And don’t forget that abortions are illegal. Even so, I do know a doctor who would arrange for one.”
She decided not to tell Missy that Doctor Crain, the physician who had treated her after the shooting had said that he knew how to get one done, quietly and safely.
“What about an adoption?”
“Yes, if we can arrange a long term leave of absence or temporary duty at one of those mysterious places that takes care of unwed mothers. I think a couple of the girls I know have gone there.”
“Will the Brit pay for her bills?”
“I called him, more or less identified myself and asked him. He was vehemently, violently against anything that might acknowledge him as the father. No taking a blood test either, even though that would only rule him out as the father, not prove it was him. Turns out the bastard’s married.”
“What a shock!” Missy exclaimed sarcastically as she almost spilled her wine. “However, I do have friends and I’m sure we can arrange a leave or something and I know people who like to help young women in trouble. She’ll have her baby quietly and hopefully the child will be adopted.”
“Missy, there’s another issue. When I spoke to the Brit he told me not to tell anyone else or he’d go to the Germans and switch sides. He said he knows a lot of secrets that would change the course of the war. Of course, he was doubtless bragging, but one can’t be a hundred percent sure. I know a lot of things that are going on in Camp Washington, but I also know that there’s a lot I don’t know and that worries me about him. He has money problems and wants to get back to England. He regrets deciding to come to America. He pretty much told me that he now believes that the Nazis are going to be the ultimate winners.”
“How did you find that out?”
“Apparently he’s considered a sort of joke. He complains, bitches, and moans about how unfair life is. He’s even made some statements that support what Hitler is doing to the Jews. Administration at the camp thinks he’s a harmless nut, but I’m not so certain.”
Missy opened a fresh bottle. The last one tasted a little vinegary and she hoped this one would be better. She was going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow, but who cared? She would talk to her husband about this Morris bastard and his possible treason.
Canfield drove his own jeep with Dubinski riding shotgun. By rights an enlisted man should have been driving, but Canfield had always liked piloting his own wheels as a cop and wasn’t about to stop now.
They drove past yet another tall structure built of girders. It was a radar site and there were a number of small buildings around its base. A few civilians and a couple of soldiers were visible and a couple of them waved at them. It looked like the place was well secured by a barbed wire fence and armed guards. Canfield hoped so. The radar was the only thing that would give the U.S. any advanced warning if the Germans should attack. His unit’s task was to protect the towers that faced towards Ontario and the Nazi threat. The United States had learned its lesson from the German fighter and bomber attacks on England. Radar had paid dividends, providing enough advance warning for the RAF to get its Hurricanes and Spitfires airborne in time to intercept the Luftwaffe.
Just too damn bad the British had lost the war, Canfield thought.
Parts of the dirt road connecting the sites had been const
ructed only recently and must show as raw slashes in the earth to anyone looking down from an airplane. Nor could the towers themselves be hidden or camouflaged. They were just too large.
“Elephants in a living room,” Canfield muttered. Dubinski understood and nodded.
When the fighting started, the radar towers were sure to be among the first targets the Germans would hit, but how? Bombers would be logical, but so too would be attacks by saboteurs. Thus, the boring patrols along the road. Canfield had protested that the enemy could be hiding only a few feet away in the woods, but had been informed that they didn’t have the manpower to send men searching all over the place. When Canfield had suggested that it was a lousy way to run an army, he was coldly overruled.
They reached the end of their route and turned around. They were scheduled to return to civilian life beginning tomorrow. For the next couple of weeks some other guys would have the job of protecting the towers and the people who worked there.
They heard the approaching planes at the same time. “They sound strange,” Canfield said.
Their view of the sky was obscured by tree limbs just beginning to sprout leaves. Canfield drove out into a clearing and looked around. Dubinski grabbed his arm and pointed. “Check those out, chief.”
Three planes passed overhead at a height of only a few thousand feet. Their distinctive shapes were clearly visible.
“Germans,” Canfield gasped. “ME109s. Damn them.”
The German fighters flew above and along the line of the dirt road. They spotted the jeep, swooped low, and the two men could see the pilots. They could also see that the planes carried no bombs.
“Just looking us over,” Dubinski said softly, “and probably taking photos, so smile. That or give them the finger.
The Germans made an abrupt turn to the north and flew over Lake Erie. A couple of moments later, a pair of American P47 fighters flew over the two men and out in the same direction taken by the Germans. In a short while, they returned. There would be no war this afternoon.
“And I’ll bet the Germans are checking out how long it takes for us to respond,” Canfield added. “I just hope someone was smart enough to delay those fighters so that the krauts think we’re slow.”
“Cat and mouse games,” said Dubinski. “Someday, though, someone will take it too far and there’ll be hell to pay.”
Canfield laughed. “But not on our watch — at least not this time.”
He wondered if it would be for real the next time they were up. Rumors were thick that something was going to happen around the end of March. In one way it would be great to have all the waiting over, but who the hell needed a war?
As directed, Captain Franz Koenig wore civilian clothes to the meeting with Neumann at the Gestapo headquarters in Toronto. At least it wasn’t at their interrogation headquarters at the farm or at the newly built and nearly empty concentration camp farther north.
He accepted the fact that there was a need to stamp out the enemies of the Reich, but he deplored the means utilized by the Gestapo and the need to utilize such cold animals as Neumann. He was also beginning to wonder just how much of a threat a bunch of unarmed civilians was to the Reich, even if they were Jewish.
Koenig wore two hats, sometimes more when he considered his nearly overwhelming workload. Not only was he on the staff of General von Arnim, but he had also been assigned as an aide and liaison to General Guderian. It was hectic but interesting and almost certainly guaranteed a promotion if he didn’t mess things up too badly.
Today, he had a delicate message to deliver. While agreeing with the need to control Canada’s Jews, the military disagreed with what the Gestapo planned and it was up to Koenig to deliver that message.
Neumann greeted Koenig with what passed for cordiality for the Gestapo chief. He even rose and shook hands before seating himself at his desk. “Let me guess, captain, your leaders would like me to cease my actions in ridding the world of Jews.”
Koenig smiled, he hoped amiably. It was hard to appear friendly to a man who, if he heard or misheard a wrong word, could send him to a concentration camp. Or worse, Koenig could wind up with a bullet in the back of his head.
“You are correct, of course. The generals are concerned that you will cause an incident that will disrupt their carefully planned schedule.”
Neumann leaned back in his swivel chair. “Your generals sometimes forget that I too have a job to do and that it is at least as important as theirs. I must help do my part in ridding the earth of the Jewish pestilence. I am well aware of the military’s precious schedule and I am also well aware that, once fighting starts, I will no longer be able to do my job properly.”
Koenig inhaled sharply. He was now well aware that many Jews had been murdered, particularly in Poland and Russia. Jews disgusted him and he thought the world be a better place without them. Still he wondered at the wisdom of the mass murders, but acknowledged that he could do nothing about it without seeming to be less than enthusiastic about the policies of the Nazi party.
“Let me be blunt, captain. You and your generals have your orders and I have mine. I report directly to Heinrich Himmler and he has gotten his orders from the Fuhrer himself. The Jews are to be eliminated, exterminated. If the coming war strands any sizeable number of Jews here, then it will be a sad event. Small numbers, of course will doubtless escape our net, but they must be few indeed. In the meantime, I will do what I have to in order to comply with my orders and my duty. Is that clear? Will you make it just as clear to von Arnim and Guderian? Or perhaps they would like to discuss it with Himmler in Germany?”
Koenig swallowed. “I will tell them what you said.”
“Although I am well aware that you are the messenger and not the message, I do feel that you have delivered the message with just a little bit too much enthusiasm. Be careful, Koenig, or you might find yourself back in Germany and a guest in Dachau. Von Arnim and Guderian might be too lofty for me to catch, but you are not. Now please deliver my response to their message.”
Chapter Eight
The Beaufort was a ten thousand ton freighter that usually steamed between Quebec, Montreal, Toronto, and, occasionally across the Atlantic to France with whatever cargo she could find. She was old and there was significant rust on her hull, but her bones were solid, as was her engine. She could do fifteen knots and that was fine for an old lady like the Beaufort. The ship had survived convoy duty and submarine attacks before the end of hostilities between England and Germany. Now, with peace more or less broken out, she stayed on the Canadian side of the Atlantic.
Jean Charest was her owner and was as sturdy as his ship. Fifty years old, he was weathered and looked much older. He was proud of his French heritage, even though he knew that the people of France looked down on the people of Quebec. They were not quite French, he’d been told — second class Frenchmen, not even provincials. Well, he’d frequently thought, at least my country isn’t ruled by the damned Nazis. Of course, he’d had to change his tune when the Germans suddenly showed up on Canadian soil.
Charest had been devastated by the German conquest of what he considered his beloved Gallic homeland, and stunned by the presence of German soldiers in Canada. An intelligent man, he understood that nowhere was safe from the likes of Hitler. He also saw no reason to believe that the world would change anytime soon. The Nazis were here to stay, so it was best to come to some kind of an accommodation with them. Of course, it would have to be one that let him maintain both his pride and his beloved ship. A single man, the Beaufort was Charest’s life.
When the Gestapo in Toronto offered to hire his ship to transport a cargo to France, he was both reluctant and suspicious. His reluctance disappeared when he was informed by a German named Neumann that he’d be shot if he didn’t cooperate. His suspicions did not diminish. If anything, he was even more worried.
Then, when his cargo was loaded at night a few miles east of Toronto, he was horrified and sickened. He was told to be ready to sail immedi
ately. After a few discreet inquiries, a man named Lambert met him at a Toronto bar. Lambert was appalled and said he’d see what he could do.
The Gestapo might have wanted the Beaufort to depart immediately, but a sudden and fierce storm blanketed the area and delayed her departure. Instead, there was concern that there was enough ice in the St. Lawrence to be a hazard to shipping, so an icebreaker had to be brought down, which further delayed matters. Neumann seethed, but there was nothing he could do. Nor was he convinced that the ice situation was as dangerous to shipping as Charest and the others insisted. Yes, shipping was delayed, but vessels got through.
Finally, she departed. The Beaufort was the last of six ships following the icebreaker as she slowly plowed through the ice and moved towards the ocean. Many eyes followed the ad hoc convoy and most of them were not German. Neumann had sent the ship on its way and he thought he was well rid of her and her grumpy bastard French skipper. He was also glad to be rid of her bastard cargo.
Alicia’s golden hair flowed long and lovely down her back. The violin was tucked under her chin and she played with exquisite skill and enormous passion. Grant recognized it as something by Tchaikovsky, but couldn’t name the exact piece. There was a glow of sweat on her face as she poured her soul into the music.
Alicia was naked. Her proud breasts swayed to the music and her flat belly contracted with the effort. He was fascinated by the tuft of light colored hair at the base of her abdomen and her legs were as lithe and athletic as he’d dreamed.
He wanted to walk behind her, press her to him, and cup her breasts in his hands, but that would spoil the spell, ending the music.
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