Comes the War

by Ed Ruggero

  “Yes, sir,” she said, her face breaking out in a grin. “I’m sure there’ll be another convoy.”

  “Yeah, a one-car convoy to the stockade. Except I’ll be the one in cuffs this time.”

  * * *

  Harkins had Lowell park in an alley just down the street from the embassy on Grosvenor Square, then he sent her inside with a message asking Lionel Kerr to come out. He wanted to meet Kerr on neutral ground, poke him a little bit, surprise him, see if he got rattled. But it was Harkins’ turn to be surprised when Kerr emerged accompanied by Annie Stowe.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, Miss Stowe,” Harkins said.

  “Lionel has invited me to have coffee,” she said. She put one hand in the crook of Kerr’s arm, but did not smile.

  Harkins leaned against the front of the staff car. He knew Lowell was just over his shoulder, standing by the driver’s door, listening.

  “Well, that sounds like so much fun,” Harkins said. Kerr gave him a blank look.

  “I’m still curious, Lionel, about this falling-out between you and Helen Batcheller.”

  “I didn’t call it a falling-out, Lieutenant. That’s your choice of words.”

  “Po-ta-to, pah-tah-toe,” Harkins said, grinning. “Whatever you call it, did it happen around the time that everyone learned about what happened in the Katyn Forest?”

  Something passed over Kerr’s face. Not surprise, exactly, more like he’d hoped Harkins wouldn’t get this far. He shifted his gaze toward Stowe for just a second, then looked back at Harkins.

  “I already told you, Harkins,” Kerr said. “We disagreed about how much we should be cooperating with the Soviets. I argued for more cooperation; Helen was overly suspicious of them.”

  “But did it come to a head when you learned about the murdered Poles?”

  “It came to a head, you could say, when we heard the competing German and Soviet versions of what happened there. Nazis blamed it on the Bolsheviks, tried to turn it into some sort of propaganda coup, drive a wedge between the Soviets and us, the Soviets and the British. Helen chose to believe the German story that the Soviets did it. I trusted the Soviets and found their story—that the Nazis were guilty—much more plausible.”

  “You’re a believer in the Soviet system?”

  “As I said, they are our allies. What I believe or do not believe doesn’t matter very much.”

  “You work for the Soviets?” Harkins asked.

  Kerr blinked, wrinkled his brow. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Do you work for the Soviets? Do they pay you to pass along information you shouldn’t be sharing?”

  “That’s a ridiculous accusation and I won’t dignify it with an answer.”

  “So that’s a ‘yes,’ then.”

  “No!” Kerr yelled. He caught himself, looked around to see who might have heard his outburst. Harkins smiled, just enough to infuriate Kerr further. Edgy, off balance people often gave up more information than they planned.

  “Helen said she wasn’t afraid of anyone at the embassy because she knew where the bodies are buried,” Harkins said. “What do you think she meant by that?”

  Kerr hesitated, and it seemed to Harkins that he wanted to look at Stowe, that he knew Stowe was the source of this bit of gossip.

  “I have no idea,” Kerr said.

  “I was thinking that maybe Helen knew of some people at the American mission who were in bed with our allies, and that she threatened to expose those people.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Kerr said. “And I resent the implication.”

  “You can resent whatever the fuck you want,” Harkins said, an edge in his voice. “Did you kill Helen Batcheller?”

  “I don’t have to listen to this,” Kerr said. He stepped forward, squeezing in between Stowe and Harkins, who grabbed his arm. Kerr was a big man, a good three inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Harkins. He probably wasn’t used to people putting their hands on him.

  “I’ll tell you when we’re finished,” Harkins said.

  Kerr yanked his arm free of Harkins’ grasp, a move Harkins expected. He did not anticipate Kerr’s next move, which was to throw a sloppy left-handed punch aimed in the general direction of Harkins’ head. Harkins slipped the punch, slid his hand down to Kerr’s wrist and bent the man’s index finger almost to the back of his hand. Kerr dropped to his knees in a vain effort to relieve the pressure.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Kerr yelped.

  Harkins leaned close to Kerr’s ear and whispered. “I could lock you up for taking a swing at a cop. At an MP,” he said. “But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to let you up if you promise to be a good boy.” He bent the threatened finger back another tiny fraction of an inch; Kerr twisted his body, cursed.

  “Do you promise?” Harkins asked. Kerr managed a nod, grinding his teeth.

  Harkins released him. Annie Stowe looked at the ground, either embarrassed for Kerr or angry at Harkins. Possibly both.

  Kerr stood, turned halfway from Harkins as if to run, flexed his hand.

  “Well?” Harkins asked.

  “Yes, we had a falling-out around the time that news reached us of the Katyn Massacre.”

  “I heard you called her a naïve little bitch,” Harkins said.

  “Where the hell did you hear such a thing?” Kerr asked. He drew up to his full height, but Harkins reached for Kerr’s hand, which the diplomat yanked back.

  “Yes, okay. I might have said a few things in anger. But I valued Helen’s advice. She was a brilliant colleague.”

  “So who do you think killed her?” Harkins asked. “And why?”

  “You’re the one who arrested that pilot,” Kerr said. He was still rubbing his hand, but he allowed a tiny bit of indignation back into his voice. “Aren’t you supposed to know who killed her?”

  “I’ll get there eventually,” Harkins said.

  24

  25 April 1944

  1000 hours

  Pamela Lowell dropped Harkins off at the station a few minutes past the scheduled departure of his train for the coast; fortunately for the American, the train was late and he was able to get on board after running the length of the platform. The last thing he’d said to her before jumping out of the sedan was, “Make sure you get those statements to Major Adams.”

  Her first independent mission in support of the investigation, and all she had to do was get past Corporal Moore.

  The papers she was to deliver to Adams were in her locker inside the motor pool. Her first problem was that as soon as she showed her face, Moore was likely to pounce on her, as she’d been cut loose from her detail for Harkins for however long it took him to get back to London. Her second problem was that Moore had a tendency to rifle through the drivers’ lockers; she claimed to be looking for contraband and black-market goodies, but Lowell and the other women knew Moore wasn’t above pinching American cigarettes or chocolates a driver had stashed.

  Lowell had to get to her locker, retrieve the satchel with Harkins’ original statements—assuming it was still there—make up an excuse as to why she should be leaving again, and get to the American lawyer’s office before Moore found something else for her to do.

  Lowell pulled the sedan into one of the service bays for the checks she was required to perform at the end of a mission. She slipped out of the car, looked around for Moore, then ducked into the orderly room, where she dropped a memo envelope into a box marked INCOMING MESSAGES. She had almost made it back to the bay and her car when Moore spotted her.

  “Well, this must be our lucky day,” Moore shouted across the maintenance shed. “Look who’s visiting!”

  Lowell stopped. “Good morning, Corporal,” she said.

  “So, your boyfriend got tired of you?” Moore said, holding up a clipboard with a few sheets attached. “He didn’t renew the request for his very special driver today.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Lowell said.

  “I was being sarcastic,�
�� Moore said. “I’m sure you’re not sleeping with him or anybody else. Are you done with that mission, that investigation or whatever it was that made you so indispensable?”

  “Lieutenant Harkins got called away on a training mission. He’ll be gone a few days, at least. I believe he’ll request me again when he gets back.”

  “You sure are good-and-goddamn chummy with our American cousins.”

  Lowell kept her mouth shut, and Moore eyed her up and down.

  “Check the fluid levels on that car,” Moore said. “And make sure it’s clean, too.”

  Lowell opened the engine compartment, then used the propped-open bonnet to hide her movements as she stepped to the back wall of the shop, where the drivers’ lockers were stacked. She scanned the room again for Moore, then pulled the door open. Her overalls hung on a hook; hidden beneath them was the canvas map case. She peeked inside, relieved to find the two folders she’d stashed were still there and, as far as she could see, still intact.

  Lowell stepped into her mechanic’s overalls to save her uniform from oil and grease stains, then shut the locker again just as Moore came storming up behind her.

  “Lowell, what the hell is this?”

  She turned to see the corporal waving a typewritten sheet. In her other hand was the interoffice envelope Lowell had just dropped in the orderly room.

  “Is this Major Adams another one of your Americans?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Corporal.”

  Moore narrowed her eyes and Lowell—who was not a good liar—wondered if she was blushing. The corporal waited a few long seconds, but Lowell stuck to her plan and played ignorant.

  “Some Yank Major sent a note saying he needs to see you. Now. Does this have to do with that investigation?”

  “I don’t know any Americans named Adams, so I can’t think what else it might be.”

  “Well, he can kiss my skinny arse. I’m tired of these blighters dictating to us. If he needs a driver, he can put in a bloody request just like everybody else.”

  Lowell opened her mouth, was about to speak.

  “What?” Moore said.

  “I’m just curious, that’s all, Corporal. I mean, if this American officer asked for me personally, he must have a good reason.”

  Moore leaned closer, forcing Lowell to take a half step backward.

  “You know something, Lowell? I don’t trust you. I think you’ve been joyriding around with your Yank friends and now you think you’re better than the rest of us who get stuck with shit details.”

  “Yes, Corporal.”

  “Now get that car ready. I’m sending you out in an hour to pick up some Great War veterans who are due at some ceremony for old codgers. You should have lost your virginity to one of your young passengers when you had the chance. These old bastards will probably smell like piss.”

  Moore laughed at her own joke, then turned on her heel and walked away.

  Lowell pressed her lips together. She had anticipated that Moore might simply ignore a request from an Allied officer.

  It was probably forty minutes on foot to Adams’ office at the headquarters of the American Judge Advocate General. She could not take a car out of the motor pool without a dispatch ticket, which she did not have, and there was no way to walk there and back in time. If she wasn’t present for duty in an hour, Moore would report her absent, and that would be the end of her detail with Harkins.

  Harkins made jokes about his winding up in the stockade, or his being a lieutenant for the duration of the war, comments that were funny when it was all theoretical. Now, not so much.

  She conjured up an image of Major Cushing, the terrible shape he was in when they found him in the back of that pub. She thought about Lieutenant Harkins, who would probably just do what he thought was right, consequences be damned. Finally, she considered Corporal Moore, who relished being mean.

  Lowell drew in a deep breath and decided there was, after all, some shit she would not eat.

  She left the sedan’s bonnet open to shield her as she stripped off her overalls, then fished Harkins’ bag out of her locker. She looped the strap across her body, squared her shoulders, and after one more sweep looking for Corporal Moore, stepped off for the gate, a scofflaw at last. At twenty years old and in the middle of a war, finally breaking a rule.

  * * *

  Lowell walked for nearly fifteen minutes before another ATS driver spotted her and gave her a lift. She was twenty minutes into the hour Moore had allowed her when she reached the lobby of the building where the American lawyer had his office, and she still had to find a way back. An English woman who could play a sweet granny in a West End theater greeted her from behind a reception desk.

  “Can I help you, my dear?” the woman said, smiling behind bifocals.

  Before Lowell could answer, a voice came from behind her. “Oh, she’s looking for a Major Adams, I expect,” Corporal Moore said.

  Lowell spun around, and although she had considered the possibility Moore would jump in a car and come looking for her, she was still surprised.

  “I didn’t give you permission to come here, Lowell,” Moore said. “So you’re in a fix right there.”

  It may have been Moore’s loud voice, or her tone, or the fact that a young woman was getting chewed out by another young woman, but a few of the American men walking through the lobby slowed to enjoy the spectacle.

  “And chances are good you’ll be late for your next detail,” Moore went on, making a show of looking at her watch. “So I’ll get you there, too, you little pisser.”

  Lowell saw the granny get up from her desk and disappear down a nearby hallway.

  “But here’s the thing that I’m wondering about,” Moore said, waving a paper under Lowell’s nose. “I never told you where this Major Adams wanted to meet you; I never showed you this goddamn message with the address. And you claimed you didn’t even know who he is.”

  Moore stepped closer; her uniform smelled of cigarette smoke and wet wool.

  “So how did you know to come to this address?”

  Lowell hesitated, and that’s when Moore snatched the map case from her hand.

  “What’s this?” Moore said, looking inside. She pulled out one of the folders; Lowell could read Harkins’ handwriting on it.

  “Corporal,” Lowell began.

  “Shut your trap and come with me,” Moore said. She shoved the folder back inside the case, grabbed Lowell by the arm.

  “Somebody looking for me?”

  Lowell turned to see a Yank major, bald and pudgy, with gold-rimmed glasses and a tired look around his eyes.

  “I’m Adams,” he said. He consulted a piece of paper in his hand. “Is one of you Corporal Moore?”

  Moore and Lowell came to attention and Moore, obviously flummoxed, finally managed, “I am, sir. Corporal Moore.”

  “Wonderful!” Adams said. If he was faking enthusiasm, Lowell thought, he was doing a good job of it.

  “Are those my statements?” Adams asked, holding his hand toward the map case Moore had taken from Lowell.

  “Uh … I don’t know, sir,” Moore said.

  “Let me see.”

  Adams pulled out the typed papers, flipped through the pages.

  “These are great,” he said. “Just great. Exactly what I need.”

  Adams reached out and took Moore’s right hand in his.

  “Thanks very much, Corporal. I wasn’t sure you guys could get these to me right away. You really came through.”

  “Uh, you’re very welcome, sir,” Moore said.

  Adams turned to Lowell, said nothing.

  “Okay,” Adams said, tucking the case and statements under his arm. “Thanks again.”

  * * *

  The drive back to the motor pool was quiet, Lowell at the wheel, Moore looking out the side window.

  “So this American lieutenant you’ve been carting around; what’s his name?”

  “Harkins,” Lowell said. She glanced at Moore, whos
e arms were folded across her chest, brow knit as she tried to figure out what had just happened.

  “What were those papers? The ones in the bag.”

  “They were statements bearing on the case that Lieutenant Harkins has been working; that lawyer needed them.”

  “And you had them?”

  ‘Yes, Corporal. They were in my locker.”

  “And this Adams fellow knew you had them, because he sent for you, asked for you by name in that note I got.”

  Lowell was content to let Moore think that; the truth was that she had written the memo, had made it look like it came from Adams.

  “But you knew where to go even though I never showed you the note,” Moore said. “Never showed you the address.”

  “I guess Lieutenant Harkins must have mentioned that place, and I just forgot.”

  “Come on, Lowell, don’t bullshit me. Then this Adams fellow comes down the stairs with another note and asks for me by name? How do you explain that?”

  Lowell pulled the sedan up to the fuel pump, got out, and stood by the rear fender. Moore got out of the car and came round to Lowell’s side, stood nearly toe-to-toe with the driver. “You wrote both of those notes, didn’t you? The first one—the one in the distro box that asked for you personally—you made it look like Adams wrote it. And the second one, the one that told Adams I’d have the papers?”

  Lowell made eye contact briefly. “I sent it to Adams, signed Lieutenant Harkins’ name.”

  “Why mention me?”

  “Lieutenant Harkins’ statements were in my locker a few days, and I knew there was a chance you would remove them, because you sometimes go through our things. Or that you’d grab them from me before I could get them to Adams. I needed him to come looking for you if I didn’t have the papers.”

  Moore thought about the scheme for a bit. “You devious little bitch,” she said. “I ought to knock your teeth out.”

  She lifted a fist, but, Lowell noticed, her thumb was sticking out. It would break if she actually threw a punch that way.