The Saboteurs

by W. E. B Griffin

  Stevens stared at Canidy.

  “Which means—”

  “I know, I know,” Canidy said, holding his hands up chest high, palms out. “I get it. Which means he won’t like me. Especially if he gets wind of this.” He waved the folder. “Ike has made it clear (a) that he doesn’t think much of the OSS, and (b) that he damned sure doesn’t want us going in ahead of the rest.”

  Stevens raised his eyebrows.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “So, I’ll deal with it,” Canidy said.

  Canidy looked at his wristwatch, then changed the subject.

  “I’ve got one stop to make to deliver some girly things”—he nodded at his suitcases—“then I’m going to hop out to the airfield at Scampton and hitch a ride there on one of the B-17s that the Royal Air Force is ferrying to Algiers.”

  Stevens looked to the suitcases, then back to Canidy and smiled warmly.

  “Good for you. But watch yourself, my friend. When I said that you should not forget that you are good at what you do, I meant at being a spook. A woman in love is a far more dangerous proposition.”

  Canidy grinned.

  “Duly noted, Colonel.”

  When Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens had called down for one of London Station’s motorcars to be made available to Major Richard Canidy, the Brit in charge of the vehicle pool had told him that he was terribly sorry but all of the standard-issue vehicles in service—a small fleet of nondescript English-made sedans—were in use. The garage, unfortunately for the moment, was stark empty.

  But when the Brit had heard the disappointment in Stevens’s voice, he quickly offered one option: If it was to be a local errand, his brother—who had just pulled up to bring him his sack lunch of a sardine sandwich—could do so in his personal vehicle.

  Stevens had immediately accepted the kind offer.

  Canidy stepped from the building with a suitcase in each hand. Two British male civilians in their early twenties—they looked almost like twins—approached him.

  “Mr. Canidy, sir?” the one on the left, who wore a tie and jacket, said.

  Canidy nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’m Robert, sir. And this is my brother, Harry.”

  Canidy nodded.

  “Thank you two again for your kind offer.”

  Canidy saw that Harry was looking at the suitcases with what appeared to be mild shock.

  “Any problem?” Canidy said.

  “Those are to go with you, sir?” Harry said.

  “Sure. Why?”

  Harry looked at Robert with a raised eyebrow. Then the brothers at once turned to look toward the street, the gap between them opening and giving Canidy a clear view of what he instantly surmised to be Harry’s personal motorcar.

  It was a candy apple red 1937 Austin Seven 65—nicknamed “Nippy”—a tiny, two-seat convertible barely bigger than the passenger’s compartment itself. It looked to be six, maybe seven feet long, not quite three feet wide, and the top of the chrome-plated frame of the windshield looked as if it reached about as high as Canidy’s hip.

  It might be best, Canidy thought, if right now I don’t say a word.

  Robert turned back to Canidy.

  With classic English understatement, Robert said, quite unnecessarily, “It’ll be a bit tight of a fit.”

  Robert then smiled and revealed thin gray teeth that could have used the attention of an orthodontist.

  He added cheerfully, “But my brother Harry works miracles.”

  He looked at his brother.

  “Isn’t that right, Harry?”

  Harry looked back at Robert wordlessly—and, Canidy thought, more than a little dubiously.

  “Right!” Robert answered for him.

  Robert grabbed one of Canidy’s suitcases and said, “So off you go!”

  After a moment, Harry grabbed the other suitcase and made himself busy with taking rope from the trunk of the Austin, positioning the suitcases on the lid of the trunk, then repositioning them, then tying them down.

  After a few minutes, despite the car visibly squatting under the additional weight, it looked as if Harry had been indeed successful.

  Even he appeared surprised that he had pulled off the miracle.

  Robert went to the left door and opened it.

  “Here you are, Mr. Canidy.”

  Canidy squeezed into the passenger’s seat as Harry hopped behind the steering wheel.

  Inside, it was so tight that they touched shoulders.

  To make some room, Canidy stuck his left arm out of his “window” opening—there were no actual glass side windows, nor side curtains, just an opening—and rested it on the top of the doorframe.

  This car is so low that if I’m not careful and my arm slips off this door, I’ll drag my damned knuckles across the cobblestones.

  Canidy turned to Harry.

  “We’re going to Woburn Square,” he said.

  Harry made a face that suggested some ambivalence.

  “Do you know where it is?” Canidy said.

  “Quite,” Harry said. “It’s just that…”

  “What?”

  Harry hesitated, visibly thinking.

  “Nothing. I could be wrong.”

  He grabbed the knob of the stick shift with his left hand and moved it into first, grinding gears as he pushed. When the sounds of metal being tortured ended, indicating that the gears had finally properly meshed, he revved the 747-cubic-centimeter engine to a high whine, let out on the clutch pedal, and the tiny motorcar lurched into traffic.

  The car, clearly far overloaded, rode like a brick. At almost every bump, it bottomed out, and the jarring repeatedly shot up Canidy’s spine to his jaw. He began to wonder if walking and dragging his suitcases would have been better than this torturous ride.

  Harry seemed oblivious.

  He ran up through the gears, the little engine roaring mightily. He wove through the heavy Wednesday traffic, then headed down Brook Street. At Hanover Square, he suddenly downshifted, wrestled the wheel to the left, and shot toward the traffic circle.

  Canidy worried that if his luggage didn’t go flying off the trunk lid, then its weight being suddenly shifted was going to cause the Nippy to go up on its two right tires—maybe even flip.

  It didn’t, and Harry accelerated heavily out of the circle, then shifted into high gear.

  He picked up Mortimer Street and headed east.

  As they went, Canidy could see the clear evidence of the recent bombings by the Luftwaffe that he had read about in the New York papers.

  Some shops had their windows blown out while other shops were gone completely, their buildings demolished.

  There were lines of women and children outside markets and laundries and more.

  In the next block, two London bobbies sat sipping tea at a table on the sidewalk, taking a break from walking their beat. All that remained of the tea shop was part of the brick wall that held the store’s wooden signage; the rest of the building beyond that was gone.

  As Harry got on Gower Street, Canidy realized that the destruction was looking much worse.

  And Woburn Square was only blocks away.

  He turned to speak to Harry but found that he was so close that he almost put his nose in Harry’s ear.

  He looked forward again, out the windshield, and said, “How bad were the bombings in this area?”

  “Spotty. Some parts the bombs did some serious damage. But other parts went untouched.”

  Canidy thought about that a moment.

  “And Woburn Mansions?”

  In his peripheral vision, he saw Harry shaking his head.

  “Not great,” Harry replied.

  They made the next block with only the sound of the Austin whining.

  As they turned onto Woburn Mansions, Canidy felt a real fear take hold.

  It took him a moment to get his bearings because so much had changed.

  He saw the park, then recognized the point in the park where 16 Woburn Mansions
would have been in relation to it.

  He looked hard and had trouble believing his eyes.

  The building with Ann Chambers’s flat—the very one that had once survived other bombings with only its limestone façade scorched black from the fires—was now rubble.

  Sixteen Woburn Mansions—and everything to its right and left—was gone.

  Bombed to nothing but rubble.

  And what about Ann?

  Oh, shit!

  [ ONE ]

  Robert Treat Hotel

  Newark, New Jersey

  0915 8 March 1943

  Kurt Bayer passed through the front doors of the hotel carrying a brown paper sack that was imprinted in black with: TRENTON PHARMACY/WE DELIVER CITY-WIDE/PHONE HILL 4-3466.

  In the bag, he had a fifty-tablet bottle of double-strength aspirin, a roll of two-inch-wide sterilized gauze, a roll of white fabric adhesive tape, a pair of blunt-tip scissors, a pint bottle of the topical antiseptic Mercuro-chrome, and a fifteen-piece box of Whitman’s Sampler chocolates.

  He scanned the lobby for any sign of Richard Koch. He did not see him, even in the cushioned chair where the agent usually sat to read the newspaper and smoke cigarettes.

  On one hand, he was glad, because if Koch learned that he had used the cash he’d given him for Mary again, Koch would no doubt launch back into his speech about the relationship having to end.

  On the other hand, however, he did grudgingly admit that he admired his partner and knew that he could use some wise counsel right now to help Mary.

  When Bayer got to the ninth floor, he noticed motion at the end of the hallway to the right. When he glanced that way, he expected to see the hairy, heavyset man in the tight suit. He instead saw a tall, dark-skinned man in casual slacks, shirt, and leather jacket. He had black hair that was nicely trimmed and a neat, thin black mustache.

  And he was, as the heavyset man had been, having apparent difficulty getting his room key to work in his door.

  Guess the fat guy didn’t report it, Bayer thought as he approached room 909, and if you don’t report it, it won’t get fixed.

  Bayer put his key in his door, unlocked it, and opened it just enough to slip inside quickly and quietly so as not to awaken Mary.

  That, he immediately saw with the light of the bedside lamp, hadn’t been necessary.

  Mary was awake. And sitting up, albeit clearly with some discomfort.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said.

  She made her gap-tooth smile.

  “Hi.”

  He held up the paper bag for her to see.

  “I went to the pharmacy, got you some stuff.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bayer took off his winter coat, put it—with the Walther pistol in the pocket—on the upholstered chair by the coffee table, then walked over to the curtain.

  “Okay if I open this? It’s a beautiful morning. Might make you feel better.”

  “I guess.”

  He slowly pulled back the curtain with his left hand and soft morning light from the western exposure began to fill the room.

  When it was all the way open, Bayer turned—and almost dropped the bag.

  The morning light emphasized Mary’s injuries. Her bruising had turned deeper during the night, so much so that, for example, places on her face that had been separate spots the night before had melded into one big blue-black bruise.

  I swear on my mother’s grave that I will get the bastards who did this….

  Bayer walked to Mary, removing the box of chocolates from the bag as he went.

  He sat beside her on the bed and held out the box.

  “For you.”

  She grinned.

  “That’s sweet. Thank you.”

  She opened the box and put it on the bedside table, beside the telephone.

  They stared at each other a long time, then Bayer broke the silence.

  “Please, Mary, you have to tell me what happened.”

  She closed her eye but said nothing.

  “Were you robbed?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did someone take the money that I gave you?”

  She started softly crying.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t want to make you cry more.” He paused. “But I have to know.”

  She opened her eye.

  “You won’t get mad?”

  “Mad? Why would I get mad? Just tell me who did it.”

  She was silent a moment.

  “Okay…” she began, then inhaled deeply. “Donnie.”

  “Donnie? Donnie who?”

  “Paselli.”

  “Who the hell is Donnie Paselli?”

  Mary started crying and sniffling.

  Bayer got up and went to the bathroom for a tissue. He pulled one from the box, then grabbed the box and brought it back and put it on the bedside table. He pulled out another two tissues and handed them all to her.

  She gently blew her nose—the effort itself proved painful—and coated the tissues with a soupy, blood-laced mucus.

  When she paused, Bayer took the tissues, threw them in the tin trash can that was under the bedside table, and gave her two new ones to hold to her nostrils.

  She looked at him, then looked away, then said, “They call him Donnie the Ape—Donnie ‘the Ape’ Paselli.”

  “Okay. But why—”

  “He’s the guy who I told you beat me before. You know? The guy I’m supposed to give half of my money I make?”

  Bayer was silent.

  You didn’t give him the fucking money I gave you? Jesus!

  “You didn’t give him the money…?”

  Mary shook her head.

  “I had late bills, rent…”

  She sniffled.

  “Please don’t hit me,” she whispered.

  Hit you? I want to hug you—but I’m afraid that that might hurt you even more.

  “Shhhh,” he said.

  His head spun.

  I need to talk to Koch. This has gotten way out of hand.

  Bayer leaned forward, toward the bedside table, and picked up the receiver of the phone. He dialed o, then sat upright again.

  “Operator, please give me room four-ten.”

  There was a long pause as the call was put through.

  “Yeah,” Bayer then said into the phone. “It’s me—

  “Where? I’m in the hotel—

  “That can wait. Look, I’ve got a serious problem—which means we’ve got a serious problem—one that you’re not going to like—

  “No, I can’t tell you here—

  “Stop shouting! I really need you to get off of that right now, and meet me in room nine-oh-nine—

  “Right. Nine-oh-nine.”

  Bayer put the phone back in its cradle. He looked at Mary.

  She was watching him, and he could see stark terror in her one good eye.

  Not five minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

  Damn, that was fast, Bayer thought. He must be furious.

  Bayer went to the door, turned the knob—and suddenly felt the door being violently forced open.

  In the next moment, he was conscious of three things happening simultaneously: There was a hand squeezing his throat. He was being pushed against the wall to the right of the bed. And he was looking down the muzzle of a pistol.

  Holding the small-caliber semiautomatic—he did not recognize the make, but right now he did not exactly have a very good view of anything except where the bullet would exit immediately before it blew out his brains—was the tall, dark-skinned man who had been at the end of the hallway when Bayer had stepped off the elevator.

  “Not a fucking word,” the man said evenly, almost calmly.

  Bayer, pinned to the wall, tried to nod his understanding.

  Mary let out a pathetic whimper.

  Both Bayer and the man looked toward her.

  “Get out of the fucking bed, Mary!” the man said. “I want to see your hands.”

  Bayer’s ey
ebrows went up when he heard the man say her name.

  How does he know?

  Then the man, as if reading Bayer’s mind, looked at him and said, “I’m here to collect the money the bitch owes Donnie.”

  He turned back to look at the bed.

  “Move it, Mary!”

  “Okay, okay, Christopher,” she said.

  Mary struggled to get out of the bed but finally did so and stood there naked and bruised and bent, modestly trying but failing to cover her breasts and crotch with her marked arms and hands.

  That, you sonofabitch, is a new low, Bayer thought, staring at the man.

  The man appeared unmoved.

  He motioned with the pistol at Mary and said, “You! Go close the door!”

  Bayer watched as she shuffled feebly from the bed, passed where he was pinned against the wall, then crossed the room to the door. She pushed it but was so weak that when the door swung on its hinges it closed but did not click completely shut.

  Bayer, his voice sounding strange due to his vocal cords being constricted, asked the man, “How much?”

  “Three hundred bucks, plus another hundred as a penalty.”

  Beating her almost to death wasn’t penalty enough? Bayer thought.

  Bayer nodded his understanding.

  He tried to swallow.

  The man said, “And I want it fucking now.”

  Bayer nodded again.

  “I have to get it from my wallet”—he nodded toward the upholstered chair—“in my coat.”

  The man looked at the coat in the chair.

  “Mary,” he said, “bring me that coat!”

  Mary shuffled from the door to the chair. With some difficulty, she pulled the coat off the chair and started dragging it across the room.

  “Hurry, goddammit!” the man said.

  [ TWO ]

  Richard Koch, who had hung up the phone after Bayer had called and immediately gone to the elevator and taken it up, walked down the corridor of the ninth floor.

  He looked at the room numbers on the doors on the right side as he went and saw that he was getting closer to 909. He came to 903, then 905. When he got to 907, he looked ahead and saw what had to be the door to 909.