Delta Green: Denied to the Enemy (14 page)

“Well...what do we know? Hey, Martin, what d’you know?” Donovan snickered and looked over at Cook, who looked up, eyes sad and knowing.

“All right, son,” Donovan said. “Here it is. We came upon something in that raid. We have...information about the Nazis’ researches into our mutual area of interest. We’d like to work this out between us. Ideally your Major Cornwall will be smart like General Gubbins and Major Menzies, and cut us out a piece of the pie. Or we’ll have to make our own pie. And ‘too many cooks spoil the...’ I’m sure you know the saying. So, work this out and we share. But don’t get any ideas. Because if you take what we’ve got and turn your backs on us, you’ll be sorry.” Donovan stood and considered his cigar with distaste. “What the hell kind of stogie is this?” He asked sadly, not really directing the question to anyone at all, and threw the cigar into the wastebasket with a loud clang.

“Sir,” Barnsby said in reply and stood, carefully placing his officer’s cap on his head, eyes downcast.

“You can go, Barnsby.”

“Sir.” Barnsby turned and left the room like there were rabid wolves at his heels.

The door slammed. Cook stood, paced around to the front of the desk and perched on its edge.

“Well...I thought that went quite smoothly,” Donovan casually suggested, and snickered into the back of his hand. The men in the room followed suit, smiling and laughing, until only Cook remained straight faced and somber.

“Take a break, guys, and try to look natural. Remember you’re spies. Go on,” Donovan said as he searched his pockets for something. “And somebody get me a goddamned Havana while you’re at it.” The men began to filter out and Arnold turned to follow.

“Not you, Tom.” Donovan’s voice had shifted. It had steel in it now.

“Sir?” Arnold turned as the door shut behind him. Only Cook and Donovan remained.

“How would you feel about working with a Brit?” Donovan asked.

“Sir?”

“We know a lot more about the British paranormal operations than they think we do. My good friend at the Special Operations Executive, General Gubbins, absolutely despises this Major Cornwall, but apparently Cornwall has Churchill’s ear. From what I’ve found about them, I like to think they’ll play ball. So, how would you feel working with...say...Barnsby?”

“Fine, sir.” Just like Crosby and Hope. They could do road movies.

“Good. Good. You can go, Tom. Get some rest. Things are going to be pretty busy from this point on.”

Thomas Arnold maneuvered out of the building by rote, his mind far away, considering the possible outcomes of the discussion he had just witnessed. Outside the main entrance cars rolled by, and Arnold exited into the stinging cold of the English winter thinking about old men exchanging secrets.

The barren highlands of Scotland rolled past the car windows endlessly. Covered in a carpet of green moss and pockets of bright white snow, the terrain held no points of reference, no signs or markers, no standing stones to drift by and give an impression of movement. But the car continued, apparently, to roll forward, and the British driver behind the wheel continued humming a tune it had taken Arnold over forty minutes to realize was “Sweet Adelaide.”

Their destination was the very secret, very remote Kilmaur Manor, home to the British answer to DELTA GREEN, an organization known as PISCES, the Paranormal Intelligence Section for Counter-intelligence, Espionage, and Sabotage. No one except Donovan had seen the content of the invitation, but everyone at the OSS knew what it was when it arrived. The thick, handwritten letter had shown up by special courier three days after Donovan had sent young Barnsby packing. Apparently the missive had been from Major Cornwall himself, and everyone on the command staff at OSS headquarters was amazed when it came—except for Donovan, who would only comment (after carefully reading the letter), “This Cornwall’s a smart bastard.”

Arnold had been in the back of the car for more than an hour with General Donovan, who flipped through a series of paper-clipped reports, ignoring the scenery and his company equally, totally engrossed in his reading. Arnold could see the signature of President Roosevelt on a few of the documents.

The driver knocked on the glass window which divided the front seat from the back. Up ahead on the crest of a low hill stood a tiny yellow shack, the only structure Arnold had seen for miles. The grey of the horizon was broken by the three silhouettes of the sentries on duty.

At the checkpoint a red-cheeked, red-headed soldier tapped on the window, squinting to see into the darkened car. Donovan rolled it down quickly and glanced at Arnold with a smirk. The general stuck his head out into the drizzle and smiled at the soldier, letting him get a good look at his insignia.

“General Donovan to see Major Cornwall,” Donovan barked, and the soldier instantly shot to attention. The other two clicked their heels and snapped salutes so sharp they sounded like gunshots.

“Sir!”

Donovan flipped open his Allied identification for the terrified soldier to see. One of the soldiers hand-cranked a telephone in the shack and announced their arrival. The car rolled forward, waved on almost instantly by the sentries after the general’s ID was shakily returned.

Kilmaur Manor was as big as the sky and as bleak as the highlands. The huge, grey house stood like a monument to the will of civilization, defying the moors with its very presence, with dozens of arched black windows which looked out on the rolling hills with a proprietary air. Rich smoke poured from the clusters of chimneys as the car pulled up. Inside, Arnold imagined, it would all be mahogany and red velvet.

As the car came to a stop with a screech of wet tires, the door to the manor opened. General Donovan stepped out into the mist-like rain and tucked his files comfortably beneath his arm, and Arnold followed. A small woman carrying a huge umbrella met them at the car. Although she was very young her face wore a motherly concern, and her clear blue eyes found Arnold’s and locked there, her lips turned up in a slight smile. The woman was dressed in a beautiful, blue-green dress which made her golden, short hair even more striking. Arnold felt something lock in his throat; despite all he had seen and done, he was still a man after all.

“General. I am Natalie Greer, Major Cornwall’s personal secretary. The Major is upstairs in the library.” Her voice was child-like and enchanting.

“Wonderful,” the general answered and shook her tiny hand, giving Arnold a sly grin and a wink. The clutch of them moved into the manor house beneath the safety of the umbrella. Inside, Miss Greer helped them both out of their wet jackets and hats. The foyer was as complicated as Arnold had imagined, decorated in mahogany and red velvet rugs, hung with old paintings and swords, and broken here and there by huge, arched wooden doors. Directly ahead of them a humungous, green-carpeted staircase twisted gracefully up to the second floor. On it a dusky-skinned Indian woman in a bright pink dhoti stood frozen like a statue.

Miss Greer looked up at her and smiled. “Abhirati. These are the Americans you saw coming.”

Abhirati stepped gracefully down the stairs to meet them, her dhoti swishing on the carpet. “Oh. Yes,” the young Indian woman replied, in a perfect Oxford accent. Her voice was like honey, and her eyes were a lovely green.

“Were you out in this terrible weather?” Donovan asked taking the young Indian’s hand gently in both of his.

“Oh, no.” Abhirati laughed, a sound like tinkling bells, and then drifted away down the hall like a dream.

“Abhirati is one of our Talents,” Miss Greer offered, walking up the stairs. “This way, gentlemen.”

“I like their idea of talent,” Donovan murmured, following Miss Greer’s lead. Arnold found himself nodding in agreement as he watched the Indian woman disappear from sight.

Inside the library a dashing figure that Arnold assumed was Major Cornwall sat talking quietly with a small man, who looked like a mole with a pair of wire-rim glasses perched improbably on the end of his huge nose. The major looked up, stood, and strode over. His uniform, which suited him well, was freshly pressed and perfect .

“General Donovan. I am Major David Leslie Cornwall, commander of PISCES interagency task force.” Cornwall shook Donovan’s hand spryly but looked Arnold over with a disapproving glare, no doubt due to his lack of uniform. Arnold wore his usual fare—suit, tie, slacks and suspenders, all of it covered in the uncomfortable dampness of the highlands. Something invisible but powerful passed between Donovan and Cornwall. Arnold thought he could hear the distant sound of egos clashing.

“Feel free to call me Bill. This is one of my best men, First Lieutenant Thomas Arnold.”

“Sir.” Arnold saluted, wishing he’d had the foresight to shave his beard.

“Ah. The man who rained down terror on the Hun at the Cap de la Hague. Very good.” Cornwall smiled through his antique handlebar mustache, showing perfectly straight yellowed teeth in a grin. He looked like some sort of horse-riding instructor to Arnold; despite his size he moved with a lithe grace usually reserved for dancers.

“This is one of our Talents, Martin Briggs.” Cornwall gestured at the little mole man, who gazed at the three of them with his head tilted back for a better view through his half-moon lenses.

“Is either one of you a Sagittarius?” Martin said in a slurred cockney accent. He sounded frantic with worry. Arnold could smell whisky on his breath from seven feet away.

“What?” General Donovan asked, looking happily confused.

“Not now, Martin. Please excuse us.” Cornwall watched sadly as the little man padded out and shut the door with a clumsy bang. “They tend to be quite eccentric by nature. This way, please.” Cornwall walked to another double door and pulled it wide in a grand gesture. Inside, a huge study broken by four immense windows sat bathed in a misty grey light. In the center of the windows was an immaculate desk, flanked by huge shelves that were filled with hundreds of musty volumes. Two full sets of armor stood guard. Cornwall sat down in a chair behind the desk, sinking into hazy grey shadows, backlit by the overcast sky. He looked like a man preparing to go to work.

“Sit, please.”

General Donovan sat in a half-backed chair lined in red velvet. Arnold sat on a small divan. Cornwall looked up expectantly.

“You have provided my agency with an extremely valuable service, General Donovan. I, sir, am in your debt. The files you located in France are extremely enlightening.”

“Your letter was very forthcoming, Major Cornwall. I appreciate people who tell it like it is.”

“This plan to share intelligence between your agency and mine, I believe it will be quite beneficial in the long run. Your men have already proven themselves quite effective at dispatching paranormal threats.” Cornwall nodded approvingly at Arnold and continued: “Something I like to think I know a bit about.

“I have approved this interagency exchange with the prime minister, and I understand you have contacted your president, so I suppose we are merely the last link in a great chain.” Cornwall steepled his fingers. “We are up to date on your files, but you have not yet had access to ours, or our special Talents. I hope to have you and your men from your DELTA GREEN group cleared for PISCES access in as short a time as possible. And of course, vice versa.”

“Certainly. The Nazis are way ahead on this, so the sooner, the better.”

“Of course. As far as I am concerned such paperwork is simply a formality. If there is anything you wish to discuss about these matters, feel free to ask...”