The Night People (9 page)

Sam Wren entered, clutching a small briefcase under his right arm. He seemed puzzled and a bit uncertain. “Oh! I didn’t realize you had guests, Mr. Chambers.”

“That’s all right, Sam. Come on in.”

Tweller stepped forward. “Do you have the book?”

Wren hesitated. “Uh, yes. It’s right in here.” Behind him, the Russian with the gun pushed the door closed.

Tweller smiled and brought his right arm around. The silenced gun came up almost slowly, until it was level with Wren’s stomach. “We’ll relieve you of it, then.”

Sam Wren’s hand came out of the briefcase, but it didn’t hold a book. Instead it held a large ugly gun of an unfamiliar type. Tweller’s eyes widened, and the soft puff of his silenced weapon was lost in a thundering chatter as the ugly gun jumped and spat in Sam Wren’s fist. Tweller staggered back against the wall, desperately trying to fire again, trying to piece together his torn chest!

And almost in the same deadly motion Wren whirled, his gun still spitting. The Russian at the door fired a wild shot into the floor and died on his feet, toppling slowly. The second Russian screamed something and backed against the far wall, clawing for his gun. Wren’s bullets cut a path along the wall, finding him, blotting out his face in a final spurt of blood.

At Win’s side Martha was screaming uncontrollably. Sam Wren looked at her quizzically as he slipped the weapon back into his briefcase. Then he walked over to where Tweller sat dying and kicked the silenced pistol away from his still clutching fingers. “Shut her up, Chambers,” he said flatly. Win slapped her twice, hard, and her scream quieted to a whimper.

Win watched Wren zipping his briefcase shut. “As easy as that,” he said, somehow still not believing what had happened.

Sam Wren nodded. Already someone was pounding on the hall door. “German machine-pistol. Tremendous weapon at close range. That one was foolish to be using a silencer. The gases take several seconds to escape and you can never get your second shot off when it’s needed. Tell that fool at the door to call the police, will you?”

“You want that?”

“No way to prevent it. These three had a fight and killed each other.”

“They’ll never swallow it.”

“They will with a few million francs to wash it down. The American Congress allows us a certain leeway in our expenditures. Now go answer that door before he knocks it clear through….”

Sometime later, in the dimness of a downstairs hallway, Win Chambers passed a tiny red metal star to Sam Wren’s waiting hand. “They’ll be happy to see this in Washington,” Wren said. “Those Reds’ll never learn.”

Win was still shaky. “I’m glad I was right. It was an awful spot to put you in.”

“I figured you were in trouble. But how did you know I was your man? Did Falconi babble that, too?”

“Not exactly. He said his superior was in town on a visit, and with all the hotels filled I figured you were one of the American party here for the festival. Then Falconi made a sort of joke—said you two were birds of a feather. I thought you might have a bird’s name, too—
Falcon
and
Wren
—but I didn’t get a chance to check the festival list for any other bird names. I had to take a gamble on Sam Wren being the man.”

Wren nodded. “Good gamble. What do you want done with the girl?”

“Martha?” Win had tried not to think about her. “I don’t know. I suppose she’ll tell what really happened.”

“Not if she doesn’t want to implicate herself. But we can spirit her away if you want. Hold her prisoner for a month or two and then release her.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Win decided. “I have to know why she did it, why a girl like that would become a spy. Why do you think she did it?”

Sam Wren lit a cigarette, and by the flare of the match his face seemed suddenly bleak. “I don’t know, Chambers,” he answered quietly. “Why did
you
do it …?”

16 November 1942

F
ROM THE TOP OF
the dune there was nothing to be seen in any direction—nothing but the unchanging, ever-changing sameness of the African desert. Contrell wiped the sweat-caked sand from his face and signaled the others to advance. The tank, a sick sad monster wanting only to be left to die, ground slowly into life, throwing twin fountains of sand from the path of its tracks.

“See anything?” Grove asked, coming up behind him.

“Nothing. No Germans, no Italians, not even any Arabs.”

Willy Grove unslung the Carbine from his shoulder. “They should be here. Our planes spotted them heading this way.”

Contrell grunted. “With old Bertha in the shape she is, we’d be better off not running into them. Six men and a battered old tank against the pride of Rommel’s Afrika Korps.”

“But they’re retreating and we’re not, remember. They just might be all set to surrender.”

“Sure they might,” Contrell agreed uncertainly. He’d known Willy Grove—his full name was an impossible Willoughby McSwing Grove—for only a month, since they’d been thrown together shortly before the North African invasion. His first impression had been of a man like himself, drafted in his early twenties into an impossible war that threatened to envelop them all in blood and flame. But as the weeks passed, another Willy Grove had gradually become evident, one that stood next to him now, peering down into the empty, sand-swept valley before them.

“Damn! Where are they, anyway?”

“You sound like you’re ready for a battle. Hell, if I saw them coming I think I’d run the other way.” Contrell took out the remains of a battered and almost empty pack of cigarettes. “A sand dune on the Tunisia border is no place for a couple of corporals.”

Grove squatted down on his haunches, resting the carbine lightly against his knee. “You’re right there—about the corporal part, anyway. You know, I been thinking the last few weeks—if I get back to the states in one piece I’m going to go to OCS and become an officer.”

“You found yourself a home.”

“Go on, laugh. There’s worse things a guy could do for a living.”

“Sure. He could rob banks. What in hell do army officers do when there’s no war around?”

Willy Grove thought about that. “Don’t you worry. There’s goin’ to be a war around for a good long time, maybe the rest of our lives.”

“Think Hitler will last that long?”

“Hitler, Stalin, the Japs. It’ll be somebody, don’t you worry.”

Contrell took another drag on his cigarette, then suddenly came to sharp attention. There was something moving at the top of one of the dunes, something … “Look!”

Grove brought up his binoculars. “Damn! It’s them, all right. The whole stinkin’ German army.”

Contrell dropped his cigarette and went sliding down the dune to tell the others. The officer in charge was a paste-colored Captain who rode the dying tank as if it were his grave. He looked down as Contrell spoke and then spoke a sharp order. “We’ll take Bertha up the dune and let them see us. They might think we’ve got lots more and call it quits.”

“Sure, Sir.” And then again, Contrell thought, they just might blast the hell out of you.

By the time the wounded steel monster had been moved into position, the first of the three German tanks was within firing range. Contrell watched the big guns coming to bear on each other—two useless giants able only to destroy. He wondered what the world would be like if guns had the power to rebuild too. But he had little time to think about that or anything else before the German gun recoiled in a flash of power, followed an instant later by the thud of the sound wave reaching them. A blossom of sand and smoke filled the air to their left as the shell went wide of its mark.

“Hit the ground!” Grove yelled. “They’ve got us zeroed in!”

Old Bertha returned the fire, scoring a lucky near-miss on the nearest tank, but the odds and the firepower were all against her. The German’s second shell hit the left tread, the third slammed into the turret, and Bertha was as good as dead. Someone screamed—Contrell thought it might have been the Captain.

Grove was stretched out on the sand a dozen feet away. “Damn things are iron coffins,” he said, gasping at the odor of burning flesh.

Contrell started to get up. “Did any of them get out?”

“Not a one. Stay down! They’re coming this way.”

“God!” It was a prayer on Contrell’s lips. “What’ll we do?”

“Just don’t move. I’ll get us out of this somehow.”

Two of the enemy tanks remained in the distance, while the third one—basking in its kill—moved closer. Two German soldiers were riding on its rear, and they hopped down to run ahead. One carried a rifle, the other what looked like a machine pistol to Contrell. He tensed his body for the expected shots, his face nearly buried in the sand.

The German tank commander appeared in the turret and shouted something. The soldier with the machine pistol turned—and suddenly Willy Grove was on his feet. His carbine chattered like a machine gun, cutting down the German from behind. With his left hand he hurled a grenade in the direction of the tank, then threw himself at the second German before the man could bring up his rifle.

The grenade exploded near enough to knock the officer out of action, and Contrell moved. He ran in a crouch to the German vehicle, aware that Grove was right behind him. “I got ’em both,” Willy shouted. “Stay down!” He pulled the dying officer from the top of the tank and fired a burst with his carbine into the interior. He clambered up, swinging the .50-caliber machine-gun around.

“Hold it!” Contrell shouted. “They’re surrendering!”

They were indeed. The crews of the other two tanks were leaving their vehicles, coming forward across the sand, arms held high.

“Guess they had enough war,” Grove said, training the machine gun on them.

“Haven’t we all?”

Grove waited until the eight men were within a hundred feet, then his finger tightened on the trigger and a burst of sudden bullets sprayed the area. The Germans looked startled, tried to turn and run, and died like that, on their feet.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Contrell shouted, climbing up to Grove’s side. “They were surrendering!”

“Maybe. Maybe not. They might have had grenades hidden under their arms or something. Can’t take chances.”

“Are you nuts or something, Grove?”

“I’m alive, that’s the important thing.” Grove jumped down, hitting the sand with an easy, sure movement. “We tell the right kind of story, boy, and we’ll both end up with medals.”

“You killed them!”

“That’s what you do in war,” Grove said sadly. “You kill them and collect the medals.”

30 November 1950

Korea was a land of hills and ridges, a country poor for farming and impossible for fighting. Captain Contrell had viewed it for the first time with a mixture of resignation and despair, picturing in his mind only the ease with which an entire company of his men could be obliterated without a chance by an army more familiar with the land.

Now, as November ended with the easy victories of autumn turning to the bitter ashes of winter, he had reason to remember those first impressions. The Chinese had entered the war, and every hour fresh reports came from all around the valley of the Chongchon, indicating that their numbers could be counted not in the thousands but in the hundreds of thousands. The word on everyone’s mind, but on no one’s lips, was “retreat.”

“They’ll drive us into the sea, Captain,” one of his sergeants told Contrell.

“Enough of that talk. Get the men together in case we have to pull out fast. Check Hill 314.”

The hills were so numerous and anonymous that they’d been numbered according to their height. They were only places to die, and one looked much like another to the men at the guns.

Some tanks, muddy and caked with frost, rolled through the morning mists, heading back. Contrell stepped in front of the leading vehicle and waved it down. He saw now that it was actually a Boffers twin 40-mm. self-propelled mount, an antiaircraft weapon that was being effectively used as infantry support. From a distance in the mist it had looked like a tank, and for all practical purposes it was one.

“What the hell’s wrong, Captain?” a voice shouted down at him.

“Can you carry some men back with you?”

The officer jumped down, and something in the movement brought back to Contrell a sudden memory of a desert scene eight years earlier. “Willy Grove! I’ll be damned!”

Grove blinked quickly, seeming to focus his eyes, and Contrell saw from the collar insignia that he was now a major. “Well, Contrell, wasn’t it? Good to see you again.”

“It’s a long way from Africa, Willy.”

“Damn sight colder, I know that. Thought you were getting out after the war.”

“I was out for three weeks and couldn’t stand it. I guess this army life gets to you after a while. How are things up ahead?”

Grove twisted his face into a grimace. “If they were any damned good, you think we’d be heading this way?”

“You’re going back through the Pass?”

“It’s the only route left. I hear the Chinese have got it just about cut off too.”

“Can we ride on top your vehicles?”

Grove gave a short chuckle. “Sure. You can catch the grenades and toss them back.” He patted the .45 at his side as if it were his wallet. “Climb aboard.”

Contrell issued a sharp order to his sergeant and waited until most of his few scattered forces had found handholds on the vehicles. Then he climbed aboard Major Grove’s “tank” himself. Already in the morning’s distance they could hear the insane bugle calls that usually meant another Chinese advance. “The trap is closing,” he said.

Grove nodded. “It’s like I told you once before. The fighting never stops. Never figured back then that we’d be fighting the Chinese though.”

“You don’t like fighting Chinese?”

The major shrugged. “Makes no difference. They die just like anyone else. Easier, when they’re high on that stuff they smoke.”

The column rolled into the Pass, the only route that remained open to the south. But almost at once they realized that the hills and wooded stretches on either side of the roads were filled with the waiting enemy. Contrell looked back and saw his sergeant topple over to the ground, cut through the middle by a burst from a hidden machine gun. Ahead of them, a truckload of troops was stalled across the road, afire. Grove lifted himself up for a better view.