Comes the War

by Ed Ruggero

  “Well, if all this back-and-forth and cooperation with us hasn’t been approved by his boss, the fewer Americans who know his name and have seen his face, the less he’s likely to worry.”

  Just then Harkins saw the staff car, Lowell behind the wheel, turn onto the dirt track toward the range. Glare on the windshield hid whatever and whoever was in the backseat.

  “Good thinking,” Harkins said. “Just don’t go too far.”

  Lowell pulled the staff car off the track near the gate, saluted Harkins when she got out.

  “Mission accomplished, sir,” she said as she held the rear door open for Colonel Sergei Novikov. He wore knee-high leather boots and blue trousers, a khaki jacket and what Americans called a Sam Browne belt: a wide waist belt with an over-the-shoulder strap. He was not carrying a pistol.

  Harkins came to attention and saluted, bringing his right hand up slowly to minimize the pain in his ribs. “Glad you could come, Colonel.”

  Novikov returned the salute, then looked around. On the range behind Harkins, a noncom used a parade-ground voice to command, “The range is now active! Weapons up and pointed downrange! Find your target and fire at will!”

  When the shooting started—a continuous popping—Novikov smiled, then laughed out loud.

  “Lieutenant Harkins,” he said. “I see you are not taking chances on your safety.” He held out his hand, which Harkins shook, wincing a bit.

  “I’m sure you can understand my concern.”

  “Of course,” Novikov said. “You are injured?”

  “I got a little banged up in a training exercise.”

  Novikov paused, perhaps waiting for more information. Harkins wondered how much the Soviets knew about the disaster of Operation Tiger. When Harkins offered nothing else, the Russian turned halfway toward Lowell, who was behind him, standing beside the sedan. “Private Lowell here was a wonderful tour guide. Told me this was a royal hunting ground for centuries.”

  “Yes, sir, I heard that, too,” Harkins said.

  “And today we will also talk about hunting, yes?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harkins said, relaxing a bit. “You could call it that, I guess. Why don’t we walk a little bit?”

  The two officers strolled along a path about fifteen yards behind the firing line, where the military policemen were using various stances—standing, kneeling—as they popped away at targets with their forty-fives. The range sergeant nodded at the two officers, then ran up to a soldier who’d let the muzzle of his weapon drift to his right, so that it was nearly pointing at the other shooters.

  “Bennett! What in the fucking name of all that is fucking holy do you fucking think you’re doing? You want to shoot your buddies here? ’Cause you’re going to need them; you’re going to need your whole squad to pull your ass out of the fire about ten times a week, you fucking colossal eight-ball!”

  “Sergeants are the same in every army,” Novikov said.

  “God bless ’em,” Harkins said. Then, “When we last spoke, you asked if I would deliver a report to a certain headquarters not too far from here.”

  “I did.”

  “Have you found another copy?”

  “I have. It turns out Miss Batcheller mailed me a copy in case I needed to prove that we were working on something together and not passing state secrets. It arrived after she was killed.”

  Harkins felt his pulse trip, like a stutter-step; he pressed his elbow against the bandage around his ribs.

  “I asked for help solving the murder of Helen Batcheller.”

  “Actually, you asked me if anyone from the Soviet mission was responsible,” Novikov said. “If I knew such a thing and told you so, some might see it as a betrayal of my comrades.”

  They reached the end of the firing line. Wickman was the last man, shooting at targets alongside the MPs. He only glanced at Harkins.

  “So you would excuse a murderer?” Harkins asked.

  “I am not in a position to excuse anyone or hold anyone accountable,” Novikov said. “At the same time, such an act—murder—would be detrimental to our relationship as allies. If someone from my mission was behind this crime, I would have to notify the proper authorities in my own embassy. Let them handle it.”

  It was possible, Harkins thought, that a murderer in the Soviet Embassy might have diplomatic immunity. If he could not bring a killer to justice, maybe he could keep an innocent man from prison.

  “What if you determined that someone in your embassy was responsible, and that person got called back to Moscow before being identified to American authorities? That might keep Major Cushing out of prison and allow you to protect whatever it is that you’re protecting.”

  “That might be acceptable,” Novikov said. “But bear in mind that I do not know who killed this Helen Batcheller.”

  “Not yet,” Harkins said. “But you’re a resourceful man. And you need a messenger.”

  “And you will help me?” Novikov asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will get the document to you, and I will look for evidence that exculpates this Major Cushing.”

  They reached the gate, where Lowell waited with the staff car.

  “I admire your passion for justice in this case, Lieutenant,” Novikov said. “It seems that everyone is telling you to forget about this Major Cushing, but you won’t.”

  “I don’t think he’s guilty, and I hate to see a guy get screwed by some big shots.”

  “And you are willing to take risks to prove this.”

  Harkins watched the MPs on the line. Wickman had stepped away from his firing point and was having his pistol checked by the range sergeant, who made sure it was clear, the magazine ejected.

  “You’re talking about the risk of my getting caught with a classified document?” Harkins said. “Or the risk I’m taking here talking to you after I’ve been told to stay away?”

  “We both share in the second,” Novikov said. “I have not been authorized by the ambassador to deal with the American OSS. But, yes, carrying a document that you have been warned is classified presents a risk for you, too.”

  “Cushing is facing a more immediate threat,” Harkins said. “I figure I’ll deal with one crisis at a time.”

  * * *

  When Harkins and Wickman arrived at headquarters on Grosvenor Street, Annie Stowe was waiting for them in the lobby, sitting on the edge of a bench in the waiting area. She stood when she saw them.

  “Shit,” Harkins said under his breath.

  Wickman raised his hand and waved. “Hello, Annie.”

  “Major Sinnott told me you guys are investigating my colleague,” she said.

  “Let’s take this upstairs,” Harkins said. “Someplace a little more private.”

  When they were settled in the conference room with the painted-over windows, Stowe continued, “As I was saying, Major Sinnott told me you guys are investigating Lionel Kerr.”

  “Really?” Harkins said. “Because I heard you went running to Sinnott because I was too hard on Kerr.” He hated a tattletale.

  “We spoke about that,” was all Stowe would say. She and Harkins looked at each other for a few awkward seconds. Wickman crossed his long legs, a model of patience.

  “I just gave Sinnott my impressions of that conversation,” she said. “At the time I thought you were a bit hard on Kerr; now I’ve come to see why.”

  Harkins was skeptical. “Why did you come here?” he asked.

  “Look, I’ve been through a great deal recently. My roommate—my friend—was brutally murdered, and now there’s talk that another colleague might be involved, or at least knows something about the crime. It’s like everything I thought I knew turns out to be built on sand.”

  “You’ve had a tough few days,” Wickman said. “That’s for sure.”

  “Lionel said something to me that might be germane,” Stowe said, looking at Harkins. When he didn’t respond, she continued.

  “He said that Helen had threatened to identify
people she thought were Soviet agents, and he thought that got her killed.”

  This was one of Harkins’ theories, but it was interesting to hear that Kerr had shared it with Stowe.

  “Is Kerr one of those agents?” Harkins asked.

  “Well, I thought that was unlikely, since he brought it up. You’d think he wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself, you know? But now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why would he tell you something like that?”

  “I think he just wanted to impress me.” She crossed her legs at the ankles, sat back in her chair. “He’s asked me out a couple of times. On dates, I mean. I told him I’m not ready.”

  There was a knock at the door. Harkins said, “Come in.”

  Lowell stuck her head in the room. She didn’t hide her surprise at seeing Stowe. “Oh, pardon,” she said. “I, uh, I just wanted to let you know I’m here, sir. Car is parked nearby, in case you need me.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Harkins said. Lowell looked at Stowe and smiled, then closed the door as she left.

  “Why is Kerr’s faltering love life important to us?” Harkins asked.

  “The dates were just a front, I think. I believe he wants to talk to me about something else.”

  Stowe looked down at her hands. There was a tiny gold signet ring on her right hand, which she twisted around and around. Harkins looked at Wickman, who nodded. Stowe was ready to talk.

  “What else?” Harkins asked.

  “I think he might try to recruit me.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He asked too many questions about my work. I made up some stuff to kind of string him along, see where he went with it.”

  “Did you tell him about your actual work?” Harkins asked.

  “No, of course not. I made up a fictional project, something that doesn’t exist anywhere in the OSS, as far as I know. He told me he thought we could all benefit if we shared that kind of stuff with our allies. I didn’t disagree with him, but I changed the subject and promised to think about what he said.”

  “So now he’s waiting for—what? For you to get back to him? To show further interest?”

  “Yes. At least, I think so. But I wanted to let you guys know about it, once I found out you were looking at him. I thought this could help.”

  Harkins leaned back in his chair, wondered if she had an angle or if her offer of help was sincere.

  “This must all be very difficult for you,” Wickman said to Stowe.

  She took out a pink handkerchief and blotted the corners of her eyes, though Harkins had not seen any tears.

  “How did you leave it with him?” Harkins asked. “I mean, what’s your next move?”

  “Well, I imagine he’s waiting for me to tell him I want to talk further.”

  “Okay,” Harkins said. “Let it ride for a bit. Be patient. If he approaches you again, let me know before you go anywhere with him.”

  “Do you think you’re in danger?” Wickman asked Stowe, who shook her head.

  “I appreciate your coming by, Annie,” Harkins said. He stood, and Wickman and Stowe stood as well.

  “Major Sinnott said they’re moving pretty quickly on the court-martial for that pilot,” she said. “I guess that means the case against him is pretty strong.”

  “Maybe,” Harkins said.

  “All this stuff with Lionel is a sideshow to the investigation of Helen’s murder, but I think it’s important, don’t you?”

  “Major Sinnott certainly thinks so,” Harkins said. “Which makes it important for us, I guess.”

  Stowe shook hands with Harkins and Wickman, who took her hand in both of his.

  When Stowe left the room, Lowell stuck her head in again. “Have a minute, gentlemen?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Harkins said. The driver came in and closed the door gently behind her.

  “I found out some things about Miss Batcheller and Miss Stowe that might bear on the investigation.”

  “Oh?” Harkins said. “And where did you get this intelligence?”

  “Two of the women in the motor pool,” she said. “They told me these things in separate conversations. Unprompted.”

  She looked at Harkins, then at Wickman, hesitant to begin.

  “Well, spit it out,” Harkins said.

  “Batcheller and Stowe were actually a couple. Lovers. Had quite a committed relationship, apparently.”

  “Come on,” Wickman said. “That sounds like gossip.”

  “How sure are you about this?” Harkins asked.

  “Well, as sure as one can be about such private matters,” Lowell said. “Private matters that the parties want to remain private.”

  “That’s kind of a surprise,” Wickman said. He looked at the chair where Stowe had been sitting. “Beautiful, wholesome girl like that. Such a waste.”

  Lowell said something that Harkins didn’t catch. “What’s that?” he asked.

  She looked up at Harkins, then at Wickman. “I said it’s not a waste if they were happy. If they really loved each other.”

  Wickman shook his head, unconvinced, but Harkins smiled at his driver and said, “You’re right, Lowell. Thanks.”

  “I need some air,” Wickman said. He got up and left.

  When they were alone, Lowell said to Harkins, “There’s something that seems, I don’t know, a little off, knowing what we know now.”

  “Go on.”

  “I can’t put my finger on it, exactly.”

  “Let me see if I can help you,” Harkins said. “Her lover is murdered, but Stowe is focused on an adjacent case.”

  “Did she ask about the murder trial?” Lowell asked.

  “Nope. She’s bought into the whole story that Major Cushing is responsible. She came here today to talk about Lionel Kerr.”

  “To accuse him?”

  “Pretty darn close,” Harkins said. “Looks like there’s more to Kerr’s story, and she made it clear she’s willing to help.”

  “Kind of makes you wonder about her motivation, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe she’s just a patriotic American,” Harkins said. “Wants to protect us from the Communists. Maybe there’s something else.”

  “Think we’ll find out?” Lowell asked.

  “Well, depends on how fast Major Sinnott ships me out of here once the shooting starts on the continent.”

  “No time to waste, then, right, sir?”

  “No time to waste,” Harkins said.

  30

  1 May 1944

  1000 hours

  When he got the message to report to Colonel Haskell’s office, Major Richard Sinnott changed out of his service uniform, with its jacket and tie, and into the kind of rough civilian clothes he wore in field training at the OSS camp in Manassas, Virginia, and in the mountains of southern France: wide-legged woolen trousers, a long cotton shirt, heavy well-used brogans. He traded his army-issue holster and forty-five for a Spanish-made revolver.

  Sinnott had heard the scuttlebutt: Haskell was preparing the next cadre of operatives to parachute into France. Now Sinnott, the most experienced field agent at OSS London Station, was being called up to the major leagues. The long wait was over; he was back in the game in time for what might prove to be the biggest event of the war.

  He hurried to the latrine on his floor to brush his hair and teeth. Studying himself in the mirror, he could still see red rims around his eyes.

  “Don’t stand close enough for him to see,” he told his mirror self.

  He topped off the costume with a wide-brimmed hat that dated from his first visit to Paris during his time at Oxford. Its worn look, Sinnott thought, made him look like Hemingway’s Robert Jordan. He smiled at his reflection, then hustled up the stairs to the fourth floor of OSS headquarters. The hallway outside Haskell’s office was lined with a dozen or so men and women, also in civilian clothes and seated on chairs along the wall. Sinnott walked past them to the door with the hand-lettered sign that said “Haskell.”

&nb
sp; “The line starts back there, pal,” one man said, pointing with his thumb to the others.

  “Not for me, it doesn’t,” Sinnott said. He knocked twice and entered.

  Haskell had taken a small conference room for his office, but instead of a desk he had long tables along three of the walls. Two stand-alone easels held large boards, each with a black cloth draped over whatever was displayed beneath.

  “Good morning, sir,” Sinnott said. Haskell was bent over a table, writing something with a pencil. He stood and turned around, removed another pencil he’d been holding in his mouth.

  “Sinnott. Good to see you.”

  Haskell looked beat. Pasty complexion, dark circles under his eyes. He was also in civvies, and Sinnott noticed he was wearing carpet slippers instead of shoes. One ankle was wrapped in a bandage.

  “What happened to your foot, sir?” Sinnott asked.

  “Ankle. Twisted it getting off a goddamn horse, if you can believe that.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “It’ll keep me out of the field for six weeks or so, which is probably going to turn out to be really bad timing.”

  Suddenly Sinnott could picture himself serving as some kind of stand-in for the colonel during the next few weeks of training, maybe even a replacement for the big jump, if that came soon enough. The move would probably come with a promotion, and Sinnott had already purchased the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel. He could certainly use the bump in pay.

  “We’re really ramping things up over in France,” Haskell said. “We have to get a lot of people in over the next six to eight weeks, and I know you have a lot of experience over there.”

  Sinnott had a vivid memory of his first jump into France in 1943. He was terrified, but also felt more alive than he ever had before or since. He couldn’t wait to get back.

  “All those people out in the hallway are candidates, and I have another fifteen coming in later today.”

  “I ran an operation that size out of Toulouse, sir,” Sinnott said. “And I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what kind of direct action we should take once the invasion starts. I’d like to share my ideas.”

  Haskell, who’d been reading something in his hand, looked up.