Citadel (2 page)

“You've all seen Captain St. Florian's record,
highly classified as it is. He's one of our most capable
men. If this thing can be done, he's the one
who can do it. I'm sure before we proceed, the captain
would entertain any questions of a general nature.”

“I seem to remember your name from the
cricket fields, St. Florian,” said the admiral. “Were
you not a batsman of some renown in the late
twenties?

“I have warm recollections of good innings at
both Eton and Magdalen,” said Basil.

“Indeed,” said the admiral. “I've always said that
sportsmen make the best agents. The playing field
accustoms them to arduous action, quick, clever
thinking, and decisiveness.”

“I hope, however,” said the general, “you've left
your sense of sporting fair play far behind. Jerry
will use it against you, any chance he gets.”

“I killed a Chinese gangster with a cricket bat,
sir. Would that speak to the issue?”

“Eloquently,” said the general.

“What did your people do, Captain?” asked the
admiral.

“He manufactured something,” said Basil. “It
had to do with automobiles, as I recall.”

“A bit hazy, are we?”

“It's all rather vague. I believe that I worked for
him for a few months after coming down. My performance
was rather disappointing. We parted on
bad terms. He died before I righted myself.”

“To what do you ascribe your failure to succeed
in business and please your poor father?”

“I am too twitchy to sit behind a desk, sir. My
bum, pardon the French, gets all buzzy if I am in
one spot too long. Then I drink to kill the buzz and
end up in the cheap papers.”

“I seem to recall,” the admiral said. “Something
about an actress—'31, '32, was that it?”

“Lovely young lady,” Basil said, “A pity I treated
her so abominably. I always plucked the melons
out of her fruit salad and she could not abide that.”

“Hong Kong, Malaysia, Germany before and
during Hitler, battle in Spain—shot at a bit there,
eh, watching our Communists fight the generalissimo's
Germans, eh?” asked the army chap. “Czecho, France again, Dieppe, you were there? So
was I.”

“Odd I didn't see you, sir,” said Basil.

“I suppose you were way out front then. Point
taken, Captain. All right, professionally, he seems
capable. Let's get on with it, Sir Colin.”

“Yes,” said Sir Colin. “Where to begin, where to
begin? It's rather complex, you see, and someone
important has demanded that you be apprised of
all the nuances before you decide to go.”

“Sir, I could save us all a lot of time. I've decided
to go. I hereby officially volunteer.”

“See, there's a chap with spirit,” said the admiral.
“I like that.”

“It's merely that his bum is twitchy,” said the
general.

“Not so fast, Basil. I insist that you hear us out,”
said Sir Colin, “and so does the young man at the
end of the table. Is that not right, Professor?”

“It is,” said the young fellow.

“All right, sir,” said Basil.

“It's a rather complex, even arduous story.
Please ignore the twitchy bum and any need you
may have for whisky. Give us your best effort.”

“I shall endeavor, sir.”

“Excellent. Now, hmm, let me see … oh, yes, I
think this is how to start. Do you know the path to
Jesus?”

The First Day (cont'd.)

Another half hour flew by, lost to the rattle of the
plane, the howl of the wind, and the darkness of
Occupied France below. At last Murphy said over
the intercom, “Sir, the west coast of the Cherbourg
Peninsula is just ahead. I can see it now.”

“Excellent,” said Basil. “Find someplace to put
me down.”

“Ah …”

“Yes, what is it, Pilot Officer?”

“Sir, I can't just land, you see. The plane is too
fragile—there may be wires, potholes, tree stumps,
ditches, mud, God knows what. All of which could
snarl or even wreck the plane. It's not so much me.
I'm not that important. It's actually the plane.
Jerry's been trying to get hold of a Lysander for
some time now, to use against us. I can't give him
one.”

“Yes, I can see that. All right then, perhaps drop
me in a river from a low altitude?”

“Sir, you'd hit the water at over 100 miles per
hour and bounce like a billiard ball off the bumper.
Every bone would shatter.”

“On top of that, I'd lose my shoes. This is annoying.
I suppose then it's the parachute for me?”

“Yes, sir. Have you had training?”

“Scheduled several times, but I always managed
to come up with an excuse. I could see no sane reason
for abandoning a perfectly fine airplane in
flight. That was then, however, and now, alas, is
now.”

Basil shed himself of the RAF fleece, a heavy
leather jacket lined with sheep's wool, and felt the
coldness of the wind bite him hard. He shivered.
He hated the cold. He struggled with the straps of
the parachute upon which he was sitting. He found
the going rather rough. It seemed he couldn't quite
get the left shoulder strap buckled into what appeared
to be the strap nexus, a circular lock-like
device that was affixed to the right shoulder strap
in the center of his chest. He passed on that and
went right to the thigh straps, which seemed to
click in admirably, but then noticed he had the two
straps in the wrong slots, and he couldn't get the
left one undone. He applied extra effort and was
able to make the correction.

“I say, how long has this parachute been here?
It's all rusty and stiff.”

“Well, sir, these planes aren't designed for parachuting.
Their brilliance is in the short takeoff and
landing drills. Perfect for agent inserts and fetches.
So, no, I'm afraid nobody has paid much attention
to the parachute.”

“Damned thing. I'd have thought you RAF
buckos would have done better. Battle of Britain,
the few, all that sort of thing.”

“I'm sure the 'chutes on Spits and Hurricanes
were better maintained, sir. Allow me to make a
formal apology to the intelligence services on behalf
of the Royal Air Force.”

“Well, I suppose it'll have to do,” sniffed Basil.
Somehow, at last, he managed to get the left strap
snapped in approximately where it belonged, but
he had no idea if the thing was too tight or too
loose or even right side up. Oh, well, one did what
one must. Up, up, and play the game, that sort of
thing.

“Now, I'm not telling you your job, Murphy,
but I think you should go lower so I won't have so
far to go.”

“Quite the opposite, sir. I must go higher. The
'chute won't open fully at 150 meters. It's a 240-
meter minimum, a thousand far safer. At 150 or
lower it's like dropping a pumpkin on a sidewalk.
Very unpleasant sound, lots of splash, splatter,
puddle, and stain. Wouldn't advise a bit of it, sir.”

“This is not turning out at all as I had expected.”

“I'll buzz up to a thousand. Sir, the trick here is
that when you come out of the plane, you must
keep hunched up in a ball. If you open up, your
arms and legs and torso will catch wind and stall
your fall and the tail wing will cut you in half or at
least break your spine.”

“Egad,” said Basil. “How disturbing.”

“I'll bank hard left to add gravity to your speed
of descent, which puts you in good shape, at least
theoretically, to avoid the tail.”

“Not sure I care for ‘theoretically.'”
“There's no automatic deployment on that device,
also. You must, once free of the plane, pull the
ripcord to open the 'chute.”

“I shall try to remember,” said Basil.

“If you forget, it's the pumpkin phenomenon,
without doubt.”

“All right, Murphy, you've done a fine job briefing
me. I shall have a letter inserted in your file.
Now, shall we get this nonsense over with?”

“Yes, sir. You'll feel the plane bank, you should
have no difficulty with the door, remember to take
off earphones and throat mike, and I'll signal go.
Just tumble out. Rip cord, and down you go. Don't
brace hard in landing—you could break or sprain
something. Try to relax. It's a piece of cake.”

“Very well done, Murphy.”

“Sir, what should I tell them?”

“Tell them what happened. That's all. I'll happily
be the villain. Once I potted the compass, it
was either do as I say or head home. On top of that,
I outrank you. They'll figure it out, and if they
don't, then they're too damned stupid to worry
about!”

“Yes, sir.”

Basil felt the subtle, then stronger pull of gravity
as Murphy pulled the stick back and the plane
mounted toward heaven. He had to give more
throttle, so the sound of the revs and the consequent
vibrations through the plane's skeleton increased.
Basil unhitched the door, pushed it out a
bit, but then the prop wash caught it and slammed
it back. He opened it a bit again, squirmed his way
to the opening, scrunched to fit through, brought
himself to the last point where he could be said to
be inside the airplane, and waited.

Below, the blackness roared by, lit here and
there by a light. It really made no difference where
he jumped. It would be completely random. He
might come down in a town square, a haystack, a
cemetery, a barn roof, or an SS firing range. God
would decide, not Basil.

Murphy raised his hand, and probably
screamed “Tally-ho!”

Basil slipped off the earphones and mike and
tumbled into the roaring darkness.

A few days earlier (cont'd.)

“Certainly,” said Basil, “though I doubt I'll be
allowed to make the trip. The path to Jesus would
include sobriety, a clean mind, obedience to all
commandments, a positive outlook, respect for
elders, regular worship, and a high level of hygiene.
I am happily guilty of none of those.”

“The damned insouciance,” said the army general.
“Is everything an opportunity for irony, Captain?”

“I shall endeavor to control my ironic impulses,
sir,” said Basil.

“Actually, he's quite amusing,” said the young
civilian. “A heroic chap as imagined by Noël Coward.”

“Coward's a poof, Professor.”

“But a titanic wit.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Sir Colin. “Please,
let's stay with the objective here, no matter how
Captain St. Florian's insouciance annoys or enchants us.”

“Then, sir,” said Basil, “the irony-free answer is
no, I do not know the path to Jesus.”

“I don't mean in general terms. I mean specifically
The Path to Jesus
, a pamphlet published in
1767 by a Scottish ecclesiastic named Thomas
MacBurney. Actually he listed twelve steps on the
way, and I believe you scored high on your account,
Basil. You only left out thrift, daily prayer,
cold baths, and regular enemas.”

“What about wanking, sir? Is that allowed by
the Reverend MacBurney?”

“I doubt he'd heard of it. Anyway, it is not the
content of the reverend's pamphlet that here concerns
us but the manuscript itself. That is the thing,
the paper on which he wrote in ink, the actual
physical object.” He paused, taking a breath. “The
piece began as a sermon, delivered to his congregation
in that same year. It was quite successful—people
talked much about it and requested that he
deliver it over and over. He did, and became, one
might say, an ecclesiastical celebrity. Then it occurred
to him that he could spread the Word more
effectively, and make a quid or two on the side—
he was a Scot, after all—if he committed it to print
and offered it for a shilling a throw. Thus he made
a fair copy, which he delivered to a jobbing printer
in Glasgow, and took copies around to all the
churches and bookstores. Again, it was quite successful.
It grew and grew and in the end he became
rather prosperous, so much so that—this is my favorite
part of the tale—he gave up the pulpit and
retired to the country for a life of debauchery and
gout, while continuing to turn out religious tracts
when not abed with a local tart or two.”

“I commend him,” said Basil.

“As do we all,” said the admiral.

“The fair copy, in his own hand, somehow came
to rest in the rare books collection at the Cambridge
Library. That is the one he copied himself
from his own notes on the sermon, and which he
hand-delivered to Carmichael & Sons, printers, of
14 Middlesex Lane, Glasgow, for careful reproduction
on September 1, 1767. Mr. Carmichael's signature
in receipt, plus instructions to his son, the
actual printer, are inscribed in pencil across the title
page. As it is the original, it is of course absurdly
rare, which makes it absurdly valuable. Its homilies
and simple faith have nothing to do with it, only its
rarity, which is why the librarian at Cambridge
treasures it so raptly. Are you with me, Basil?”

“With you, sir, but not with you. I cannot begin
to fathom why this should interest the intelligence
service, much less the tiny cog of it known as Basil
St. Florian. Do you think exposure to it would improve
my moral character? My character definitely
needs moral improvement, but I should think any
book of the New Testament would do the job as
well as the Reverend MacBurney.”

“Well, it happens to be the key to locating a traitor,
Basil. Have you ever heard of the book code?”

The Second Day

There was a fallacy prevalent in England that Occupied
France was a morose, death-haunted place.
It was gray, gray as the German uniforms, and the
conquerors goose-stepped about like Mongols, arbitrarily
designating French citizens for execution
by firing squad as it occurred to them for no reason
save whimsy and boredom and Hun depravity. The
screams of the tortured pierced the quiet, howling
out of the many Gestapo torture cellars. The Horst
Wessel song was piped everywhere; swastikas emblazoned
on vast red banners fluttered brazenly
everywhere. Meanwhile the peasants shuffled about
all hangdog, the bourgeoisie were rigid with terror,
the civic institutions were in paralysis, and even the
streetwalkers had disappeared.