Call to Duty (29 page)

Ruffy led the way out of the door and stopped dead in his tracks. “Smashing,” he mumbled, “absolutely smashing.”
Wilhelmina Crafton was waiting for them wearing her WAAF uniform, holding a slim black leather portfolio.

“Mr. Pontowski,” she said, “so good to see you again.”

Zack stumbled over his words, searching for the right thing to say. After a few “ahs” and “ums,” he said, “This is my nav—”

“Yes,” she said, cutting him off short. “We do need to talk in private.”

The arrogant, in-charge attitude he had experienced before was back in her voice. He didn’t like it. “Yeah, sure,” he muttered.

“I’ll see if I can find something,” Ruffy said.

“Alone, please, Mr. Ruffum.” It came as a surprise that she knew Ruffy’s name. Ruffy shrugged his shoulders and went in search of a vacant office.

Zack liked her patronizing way of speaking even less than before. “What is this all about?”

“I’ll explain in private.”

“What the hell,” he said, gesturing at the busy office, “these people are on our side and they read every combat report. They know what goes on.”

“Really?” she said, condescension dripping from the word.

Ruffy returned and motioned them down the hall. “Where did you meet her?” he asked. Zack could hear a Norfolk inflection in Ruffy’s question. Where had that come from? Why was this the first time he had heard it? “In here, miss,” Ruffy said, holding the door open. They entered and he started to leave.

“You too, Ruffy,” Zack said, waving him to join them.

“We do need to speak privately,” Willi said, bestowing a gracious smile on Ruffy, dismissing him.

Zack walked out the door. “Nice seeing you again, Miss Crafton. Have a nice trip back to London.”

“Must I have your squadron commander order you…”

“To do what?” Zack was tired of her lordly manner and the way she automatically expected everyone to jump to her slightest wish or whim. “To talk to you ‘in private’? I don’t think you have the slightest idea what we do. For your information, we kill people, some who deserve it and others who are quite innocent.”

“Mr. Pontowski…” she protested, not hearing the pain in
his voice, not aware of the emotional turmoil that bound him with images of the JU-88 crashing into the middle of Amersfoort.

He cut her off with an angry gesture. “And we do it as a team. So if you want to talk to us, you’ll talk to us as a team.”

“I take it that you know each other,” Ruffy said.

Willi ignored Ruffy. “You will talk to me or I’ll see you up on a charge.”

“Really?” Zack said, his tone matching her use of the word. They exchanged cold stares.

Ruffy took charge. “I hope this is not a silly lovers spat.” Willi flinched at the thought and turned away. She would not dignify that remark with an answer. “Why don’t you ask us whatever concerns ops,” he offered, “after which, I’ll leave. Then you can discuss whatever else is on your mind.”

“Yes, why don’t we?” Willi replied.

“That’s agreeable,” Zack muttered, sinking into a chair. How in the hell did we reach this state? he wondered. The sparks had flown from the first word and he felt like a hopeless teenager.

She turned to them and pulled a set of photos out of her portfolio, now all business. “These are for your Intelligence officer, but here, you can see them now.” She handed them a set of glossy, black-and-white photos. “These were enlarged from your gun camera film developed at Manston,” she told them. “Here”—she pointed to the photos from the bomb run—“are at least six, possibly eight, German night fighters hidden in the trees. Some of our people are wondering how you found them.”

“Squashed bugs,” Zack said.

Willi assumed he was wisecracking like so many of the Americans she had met. “Yes, of course. I can see that.”

“I doubt that you do,” Zack shot at her. “Since it’s summer, dust and bugs are a problem when flying fast at low level. I could hardly see out of the windscreen by the time we arrived over Soesterberg. I was constantly looking out the side window. By pure luck I saw these,” he pointed to the three aircraft snouts barely visible underneath the trees. “I was in a position to switch targets and did so.”

She nodded and showed them the next photo. It was the
JU-88 he had shot out of the sky when he came off target. The photograph captured the doomed aircraft as the right wing folded up, broken apart by twenty-millimeter cannon fire. “It crashed in the center of Amersfoort,” Ruffy told her.

“Oh, I didn’t know.” Silence. “These are from the engagement over the North Sea,” she continued, not so sure of herself now. “The markings of the Focke-Wulf you destroyed indicate it was from the Jagdgeschwader at Abbeville.”

“One of the ‘Abbeville boys,’” Ruffy said.

“And the photos of the Schnellboote you strafed are most interesting,” she said, showing them the last photo. “We believe this figure”—she circled the blurred image of a man standing in the open cockpit—“is Ernst Hofmann. At least, it is his boat.”

“Young Ernst,” Ruffy said, studying the photos.

“Yes,” she continued, “he is a problem. He has made the English Channel his private hunting preserve and comes and goes at will. He’s playing the devil with our operations and has torpedoed at least eight freighters.”

“He probably machine-gunned those poor bastards in the dinghies,” Zack said.

“No, he did not,” Willi said. “He doesn’t work that way. We have reports that he has been in trouble with his superiors for not doing exactly that. The B-seventeen crew reported that he threw them an inflatable when he couldn’t stop to pick them up. Some of our chaps in Beaufighters showed up after you strafed him and chased him back to Dunkirk.”

“Not your normal Hun,” Ruffy allowed.

Zack sensed the woman was more than she appeared and was deeply involved in Intelligence. “I find it hard to believe that these photos are the reason they, whoever
they
are, sent you here. It would have been almost as fast by regular courier.”

Willi stared at him for a moment. “Mr. Ruffum, would you be kind enough to leave us a few moments?” Ruffy nodded and made a quick departure. “You are quite right, of course. There is another reason.” She collected the photos and arranged them in a neat stack. “I must give these to your Intelligence section. I brought them since I happened to be coming this way.” She seemed relieved as she turned to the
real purpose of her visit. “Do you know a Frenchwoman named Chantal Dubois?”

A hard silence came down. The part of his being that Chantal had claimed, and that he had written off as another casualty of war, came surging out of its hiding place. He had never expected to see her again and had consoled himself with vague promises that he would go looking for her after the war. For the second time that day, he couldn’t find the right words. “Chantal…. Where?” Coherent thought was slow to return.

“Then you do know her,” Willi said, not satisfied that she had been successful in finding the only person who could identify the woman. The look on Zack’s face made her strangely uncomfortable. Then it came to her—this was a man deeply in love. She had received more than her share of attention but most of the looks directed at her were either lust, envy, or jealousy. Not this.

“Where is she?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t say any more at the moment. But we would like for you to come to London.”

“When?”

“Now,” she replied. “I’ll arrange it with your commander.”

“He may be reluctant to let me go. We’re shorthanded.”

Willi allowed a tight smile to cross her lips. “I assure you, he won’t cause any problems. Why don’t you gather your kit while I arrange it.” She sounded extremely sure of herself.

Zack ambled back to the room he shared with Ruffy and started to pack. Ruffy meandered in and leaned against the door jamb. “Hope she’s not in the family way,” he deadpanned.

“Not hardly,” Zack snapped.

“She is a bit offputting.”

“A real bitch,” Zack added. “I wonder why she’s like that.”

“Who knows. She doesn’t need a reason.” Ruffy shook his head at Zack’s lack of understanding. “She’s some lord and lady’s daughter. One of our so-called betters.” Zack could hear sarcasm in his voice. “Class distinction,” Ruffy explained, “is the true vice of the English. One of the many things we need to change when we’re finished with Herr Hitler.”

“How will you do that?” Zack asked.

“Politics. We need to change the government.”

Zack was astounded. One of the forbidden subjects in an RAF mess was politics. He had no idea that his best friend was so fiercely opinionated. “Does that mean you’ll vote against Churchill after the war?”

“Right. He’s one of them, one of our so-called betters.”

It was all very confusing to him and, like most Americans, he thought the English were one hundred percent behind their prime minister. “But you and everyone else seems to be for him now.”

“Because there simply isn’t any-bloody-one else who can do the job.”

He zipped his bag closed and stood up. “Ruffy,” he said, changing the subject, “I could have sworn I heard a Norfolk accent when you were talking to her.”

His navigator blushed brightly. “It comes out when I get around them. It’s part of my upbringing. My family is what
they
call one of the lower orders.” Zack could hear a deep anger behind Ruffy’s words. Or was it hurt? Andrew Ruffum had never told him that he had been a “scholarship boy” at one of the English public schools that were anything but public. They were reserved almost exclusively for the British upper class. By hard work and brilliant academic achievement, he had broken out of the class mold his parents had been caught in and one of the first things he had discarded was his Norfolk accent. The war had ended his college studies, and like many of his contemporaries, he had joined the RAF.

“I’ve got to go,” Zack told him. “I should be back in a few days.”

Ruffy walked with him back to station headquarters and waited while he picked up his pass. Back outside, he said, “Have a good time. I’d stay clear of our Miss Crafton if I were you.” Ruffy doubted that his friend would understand the warning. Wilhelmina Crafton was a product of her social class and would not tolerate any man who tried to rise above his position. She was clearly miffed because she didn’t know what Zack’s place was. For that matter, neither did Zack.

Ruffy smiled to himself at the thought.

The Golden Triangle, Burma

Chiang’s majordomo hovered on the other side of Heather’s desk, ready to be of instant service. Normally, the portly and white-haired old Chinese gentleman was the perfect English butler, but he was anything but reserved and calm now. “James,” she said, “please sit down. You’re flapping.” He looked at her reproachfully, as if she should understand the gravity of what they were doing. He forced himself to sit down. Heather immediately stood up and paced the priceless Persian carpet that Chiang had given her for her office that adjoined his. “James,” she ventured, “is that your real name?” Heather wanted to make him part of her growing entourage. She liked giving orders.

“No ma’am, it is not,” he answered in his impeccable British accent. Then he did something totally out of character—he became less stiff. “It is the name General Chiang wishes to call me.”

She bestowed a smile on him, sensing the break in his rigid austerity. “Well, it does match your accent—which is perfect. Where did you learn to speak English?”

“I was born and educated in Hong Kong,” he told her, as if that fact alone accounted for his fluency. “I later became an air traffic controller for the British.”

“How did you become a butler then?” she asked. Hong Kong and air traffic control was a long way from Burma and being Chiang’s majordomo.

“General Chiang heard me speak over the radio when he was flying his private jet to Hong Kong and sought me out.” A knock at the ornately carved doors that connected the two offices slashed across his words, cutting them off. He sprang
to his feet and opened the doors, bowing as he pulled them back.

“Ah, yes,” Chiang said as he entered, ignoring the man. “I was wondering how the arrangements for the conference were progressing.”

Heather stepped over to the antique writing table she used for a desk and picked up a leather-bound folder. “I think we’ve thought of everything,” she told him. “James has been most helpful and I’ve learned so much.” She tried to be all business, but excitement caught at her voice as she outlined the details of the meeting between Chiang and the leaders of two other drug cartels. From the moment Chiang had told her about his idea for a merger that would unite them into a “consortium” that would control a large percentage of the world’s drug traffic, she had wanted to be part of it. She had coaxed him into letting her help and had seen yet another side to Chiang; he would have been the chief executive officer of any large and successful international corporation as he modernized his production base, secured his distribution net, and exploited his markets.

She held a gold-filigree-covered fountain pen and ticked off the details. “There are some minor points to be worked out,” she concluded. “The number of bodyguards they travel with is a problem. We don’t have enough rooms for them all in the guest houses and I would like to split them up. But we must keep their numbers balanced so one group doesn’t outnumber the other.” Chiang nodded his approval. “And I am arranging companions and entertainment to keep them occupied.”

“James has a portfolio of escorts,” Chiang told her. “I would suggest two for one and about ten percent should be young men and boys. We have some new cottages in the village. Why don’t you see if they can be made suitable while James and I discuss other matters.”

“I’ll get on it right away,” she said, beaming with pride and success as she hurried from her office. This was her first opportunity to leave the compound on her own, proof that she was becoming more than just his mistress.

Chiang walked back into his office and James followed, closing the door behind them. Both men sat down. James was much more than a majordomo in charge of the domestic af
fairs of the compound. He was Chiang’s chief of security and second-in-command. “She is proving very helpful,” James said in Chinese. “It is a sad thing to lose her.”

“It was your idea,” Chiang replied. “Besides, it will provide a certain entertainment for our guests. And the other two?”

“They are in the cells,” James said.

“I was listening in on your conversation,” Chiang said. James’s expression did not change. He had supervised the installation of the hidden microphones in the villa and was mindful of how Chiang eavesdropped at will. “I would rather you did not discuss your past with Miss Courtland.” All color drained from James’s face. In all the years he had been in Chiang’s service, this was the first time he had been criticized. It was a warning. “Please make the other arrangements.” Chiang gave him a pleasant smile.

James stood and left, his knees very weak. He had been granted a reprieve.

The Executive Office Building, Washington, D.C.

Mazie’s stubby fingers flew over the keyboard of the computer as she switched scales on the map. The video screen flashed and the map changed, showing a larger area around Chiang’s compound. “I don’t think it will work,” she told Mackay, who was peering at the screen over her left shoulder. She used a pencil as a pointer. “The distances are too close together where they should be farther apart and too far where they should be close together.”

“Trust me,” Mackay said. “It can be done.”

“First you tell the President that we need a cast of thousands to crack this place open and now you’re telling me you can do it with a small unit.”

“With the right group, you bet.”

Mazie drummed on the video screen with the pencil’s eraser. “Let’s run it past the boss and see what he says. Personally,” she groused, “I think you’re simply looking for a way out of here.” He only grinned at her. “Please stop smiling,” she told him.

National Security Adviser Cagliari’s first reaction to Mackay’s proposal had been a simple “That’s dumber than
dirt.” Mazie got up to leave, satisfied that it was a dead issue. But the lieutenant colonel would not give up easily.

“Sir,” Mackay persisted, “the reason we keep doing pushups on our sword in small-scale rescue operations is because our government is too damn big and we keep having problems with duplication of effort and jurisdictional disputes.”

Cagliari relented and motioned for Mazie to sit back down. “For example?” he asked.

“We cannot do a damn thing in Burma without the ambassador’s approval. Then the CIA gets involved and makes sure that all intelligence is funneled through their Far Eastern Division. CIA division chiefs run the show like feudal barons and nothing gets by without their approval. By this time, the whole operation starts to resemble a bureaucratic nightmare as everyone starts to get a piece of the action.”

“I see you’ve learned how this place works in a very short time,” Cagliari said. “So how do you intend to get around all this?”

“Simple,” Mackay replied. “We don’t tell anyone what we’re doing and keep the operation small and under close wraps until we’re ready to execute. Then we chop to the normal chain of command.”

“Chop?” Mazie asked.

Mackay explained, “Chop means change of operational command to another authority.”

“And who exercises that tight control until we chop?” Cagliari asked.

“You.”

“You’re asking me to take one hell of a chance,” Cagliari growled. “This place has infected you with delusions of grandeur and you seem to have forgotten what happened the last time the NSC got involved in covert operations.”

“But I can make it work,” Mackay interrupted. “And we only get the operation ready. We never assume the authority for execution.”

“Details, I need details,” Cagliari said. He was intrigued and saw possibilities where none had existed twenty minutes before.

“I don’t have the details all worked out…yet,” Mackay told him. “Let me put together a small unit disguised as rou
tine training. All I need is to get the right people talking to each other and we’ll fill in the details.”

“And who are these right people.”

“Well, we’ll need one squadron from Delta, the same contingent from the First SOW that rescued Anderson would be preferable, and some help from the ISA….” He hesitated when he saw Cagliari stiffen. The Intelligence Support Activity was so secret that even most of the intelligence community did not know it existed. Mackay plowed ahead. “Specifically, I want the ISA’s shooters.”

“That tears it,” Cagliari said, slapping his desk with both hands and coming to his feet. “How in God’s creation did you learn about them?”

Mackay grinned. “Mazie has access to System Four and worked it out. There is only one possible explanation for what happened in Beirut—the ISA has shooters—very good ones.”

Cagliari sat back down. “You snookered me. You weren’t even sure they existed until I confirmed it. How do you propose to fund this operation?” he asked.

“By using the funds that were sequestered during the Yellow Fruit investigation and court-martials.”

Cagliari only shook his head and did not bother to ask how Mackay had learned about Yellow Fruit. Yellow Fruit was an Army special operations unit that had gone astray in the mid-1980s and its officers had been court-martialed for misappropriation of government funds. When the bureaucrats started scrapping over the carcass of Yellow Fruit with its huge multinational secret bank accounts, the attorney general had ordered all moneys impounded and held in a special account until the investigation was complete. The account had grown and in the last secret budget for clandestine operations, it had been transferred to Cagliari as part of the NSC’s contingency fund. “Is there anything else?”

“I want one other person,” Mackay concluded.

“Why not?” Cagliari conceded. “You seem to have this all worked out. Now you only need my approval.”

“Have I got it?” Mackay asked.

“You have my limited approval to put a team together, plan, and train for the operation. That’s all.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mackay smiled as he bolted from the office, anxious to get out of Washington.

“I wish he wouldn’t smile,” the national security adviser told Mazie before she followed him.

The Capitol, Washington, D.C.

Senator William Douglas Courtland sat in his office hurrying his way through the stack of documents and reports on his desk. The task never took much time since his staff had reviewed and prepared a three- or four-paragraph summary cover sheet for each one. Then the summary had been further distilled to a three- or four-sentence minimemo that was stapled to the top. Like all good staffers on the Hill, Courtland’s people knew what would upset the senator and had carefully massaged each summary and memo, presenting unpalatable topics in a way that would not scratch his prickly personality too deeply.

“Goddamn it,” he growled, becoming more frustrated as he worked his way into one report that detailed the recent successes of the Drug Enforcement Administration in rolling up a major Canadian-based drug ring. His face flushed when the report covered the evidence that tied the drug ring to Chiang Tse-kuan. How does that dumb Polack do it? he raged to himself. The senator had focused on the DEA as a prime political issue for his upcoming drive for the presidency and had planned to beat Pontowski about the head and shoulders with it, claiming only he could turn the DEA around. But the President had honed the DEA into an effective law enforcement agency and ripped the issue out of Courtland’s hands. Courtland’s mental political calculator tallied it up, giving Pontowski another credit. Not good, he cautioned himself, coming so hard on the heels of Nikki Anderson’s rescue. A warning light was flashing on the calculator, telling him that he had to do something very soon as Pontowski’s side of the balance sheet was much longer than his.

His intercom buzzed, demanding his attention. It was Tina Stanley wanting to see him. The senator scribbled a “no action” note across the memo and tossed the report into his out basket, glad for the chance to shift his attention. A secretary announced Tina and held the door open. A tall, immaculately
groomed and handsome Air Force three-star general preceded her into the office.

“Senator Courtland”—Tina smiled—“I’d like you to meet Lieutenant General Simon Mado.”

Courtland stood up and extended his hand. “I am glad to meet you, General. I’ve heard some good things about you.” They shook hands and exchanged the customary courtesies, each sizing up the other. Courtland was struck by the man’s presence, for the general was in excellent physical condition that complemented his reputation as a first-class intellect. He started to add up the political possibilities.

“General Mado,” Tina said, “the senator is very worried about his daughter and we would appreciate your personal assessment of the situation.”

“Needless to say,” Courtland interrupted, “I applaud your rescue of Miss Anderson and wish to offer my congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mado replied. “Your support is greatly appreciated. As you know, we did experience high casualties and are being severely criticized by the media and a few of your fellow senators. Of course, I am not in a position to set the record straight in public, nor will I since I am a subordinate officer.”

It was the response Courtland wanted to hear. “I am appreciative of your position,” Courtland reassured him. The two men nodded at each other, both considering an alliance. No deals would be cut and no promises exchanged; however, both men were aware of how they could help each other. Open collusion was out of the question; active support of each other’s goals was not. But they had to reach an understanding. The senator adopted the look of a concerned parent. “General, I would like to know the truth about the rescue and my daughter’s situation.”

Mado carefully considered his reply. “Sir, given my position, I’m not sure what I should say at this time.”

Courtland nodded understandingly. “My committee will be conducting hearings into the matter. As chairman of the Armed Services Committee, I must oversee the effectiveness of our defense establishment.” The senator watched Mado’s face as he offered the bait. “Without the right leaders in command of our military services, we become a paper tiger.”

“If I am called on to testify,” Mado said, “and I am asked the right questions, the truth will come out.”

“And what is the truth?” Courtland asked.