Blue Madonna (8 page)

Chapter Ten

“Lousy day to
take a picture,” Big Mike said the next morning as we hoofed it toward the gates of Buckingham Palace. The wind slapped at our trench coats as a light rain blew across Hyde Park, swirling tree branches and lifting green leaves toward a dull grey sky. The calendar had turned to June, but this wasn't like any June I'd ever seen back home in Boston. A damp chill rose from the ground and seeped into my bones as I turned up my collar and trudged on.

“Why are we doing this?” Blake asked, looking much improved after decent grub and a night's sleep in a real bed. “I've already seen the palace.”

“Orders, kid,” Big Mike said, a Leica camera hung around his neck. “We need a snapshot of you with Kaz and Billy out in the open, so Switch will know you're safe.”

“What are you going to do, mail it to him?” Blake asked. None of us bothered to answer. I was glad he was free of the Morgan Gang, but his company was beginning to wear. Now that Blake knew he was safe and wouldn't be facing charges, he'd developed a smirk that I ached to wipe off his face. There was nothing as irritating as a petty thief who knew he'd beat the system.

“Okay, smile,” Big Mike said as we stood in front of the ornate iron gates, the imposing royal palace looming behind us. Kaz and I stood on either side of Blake, grinning like tourists while he frowned, boredom etched on his brow.

“Smile!” Big Mike barked. Blake jumped, a grin splitting his lips before Big Mike could.

After a couple more shots for luck, we were done with sightseeing. We headed to Norfolk House in Saint James's Square, where Harding was based, along with General Eisenhower's Office of Special Investigations. As we navigated the narrow streets, Blake seemed nervous, glancing about as if expecting a salon car to come around the corner with a gangster aiming a tommy gun at him.

“You guys sure you can keep me safe?” he asked, keeping Big Mike between him and the curb.

“Safe as houses, as the English put it,” Kaz said, a sly grin lighting up his face. We crossed King Street on our way into Saint James's Square, and smack in front of us was a bombed-out house. The rubble had been cleared long ago, but the scorched bricks were still there, stacked up neatly, smelling of smoky char. Blake didn't pick up on Kaz's little joke, which was probably best for his nerves.

Norfolk House was bustling, senior officers of every Allied nation and service scurrying through the halls, while enlisted men and women in a variety of uniforms carried stacks of papers and trays of coffee, dodging the flow of brass in the marble hallways. Big Mike went to drop the film off at the photographic unit as we took the stairs to the narrow warren of offices on the third floor.

“Have a seat,” I said to Blake as I settled into a chair in our cramped office. It was a homey place if you had a thing for filing cabinets, maps, and the sight of a sooty brick wall through the single window.

“Can I go back to the hotel now?” Blake asked, leaning against my desk, disdaining the chair. “My arm hurts.”

“Big Mike will take you to the infirmary when he gets back. You'll get your bandage changed, and then he'll show you where you're going to work.”

“Work? I thought I was a witness or something. Don't I need protection?”

“You don't need to stay at the Dorchester to be protected,” I said. “General Eisenhower comes by here regularly, and he's protected just fine.”

“But you said I'd get shipped off to Naples,” Blake said, pouting like a two-year-old. “When's that happening?”

“When I say so,” Colonel Harding barked from the doorway. “Assuming you cooperate.”

“Yes, sir,” Blake said, smart enough to stand up straight and deliver the expected response.

“Boyle, Kazimierz, my office in five minutes. If Big Mike isn't back, get an MP to sit on him,” Harding said, crooking his thumb in Blake's direction as he left.

“I don't like officers much,” Blake said in a near whisper as soon as he was sure Harding was out of earshot. “Not counting you, Lieutenant,” he told Kaz.

“I am delighted to be in your good graces,” Kaz said as Big Mike squeezed into the crowded office.

“They'll have the photographs in an hour,” he said. “Come on, kid, let's get your bandage changed.” Blake followed, more docile now that he'd had a taste of Harding. The colonel often had that effect.

“What do you think Colonel Harding has in mind?” Kaz asked as he leafed through a stack of papers in his inbox.

“I don't know,” I said. I had a pretty good idea, but I didn't want to say it out loud. That way, there was still a chance it wouldn't come true. I changed the subject. “It feels strange to be a private.” Without my captain's bars, I felt naked and vulnerable, especially at Norfolk House, one of the bastions of SHAEF senior brass. I kind of agreed with Blake about officers, now that I wasn't one.

I knocked, and we entered Harding's office. Kaz and I sat and waited as Harding crushed out a smoldering Lucky Strike in an overflowing ashtray. He sighed, and with that single breath he betrayed the stress and worry that were constant companions to everyone at SHAEF involved in the invasion plans. Sleepless nights, heavy responsibilities, and unknown enemy intentions had left Harding ashen and pale, the only color in his face the greyish-blue bags under his eyes. He slapped a file closed with the flat of his hand.

“Desertions are on the rise,” Harding said, leaning forward and rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. “The latest report came in today. We have enough deserters on the loose in England to form a full infantry division. And we've lost enough goods to organized gangs to supply a couple more.”

“I did not know it was that many men,” Kaz said.

“Too damn many,” Harding growled. “A lot of them are British, but plenty of Americans, too. It's a dangerous combination, the Brits with their criminal connections and American access to vast stockpiles. That's what makes the Morgan Gang so dangerous.”

“Colonel,” I said, knowing what was coming, “let's cut to the chase, okay? You want us to head to France along with everyone else and find Sergeant Alvin Blake.” It wasn't hard to figure out. I didn't relish the idea of storming the beaches, but guessed that Harding would at least wait until the first few waves had landed and secured the area. No reason to get us all shot up before we found Cousin Switch.

“Something like that,” Harding said, his eyes avoiding mine.

“Do you have his general location?” Kaz asked. “It must be somewhere close to the invasion beaches.” That made sense if we were going on a search-and-rescue mission, tagging along with the infantry as they spread out from the invasion bridgehead. “Unless he's already in a POW camp.”

“He hasn't been captured, and I have his exact location,” Harding said, opening a file and unfolding a single sheet of paper. “Along with several other downed fliers.”

“Why do I sense this is nowhere near the invasion area?” I asked. Kaz and I were BIGOTs, meaning that we knew some of the D-Day secrets, including the location of one specific beach code-named Utah in Normandy. It didn't take a military genius to see that there'd be more than one along that stretch of coast. We'd stumbled upon that secret information during our last investigation, when General Eisenhower himself had brought us into the elite ranks of the BIGOT club.

“It's not,” Harding admitted. “Blake and the other fliers are trapped in a château about a hundred and eighty miles southwest of Utah Beach.”

“But there have to be landing areas closer to Blake?” I pushed, dreading the answer.

“Not close enough,” Harding said. “They're about ninety miles from the nearest point on the coast.”

“With a lot of guys named Hans and Ernst in between,” I said.

“Along with their tanks and artillery,” Kaz added. “Which will be heading to Normandy from all over France.”

“Yes,” said Harding, unfolding a road map of northern France and laying it out between us. “But you will be in place before that happens. Here.” He pointed to the town of Dreux, west of Paris. “Blake and the others are hidden in the Château Vasseur, where we have an SOE team.”

“Why?” Kaz asked. “I thought the Resistance and the Special Operations Executive had connections to take them south, over the Pyrenees and into Spain.”

“The connections are blown,” Harding said. “The Dreux circuit, code-named Noble, was originally taking escaped POWs and downed fliers from Minister, the SOE circuit based in Paris.”

“Minister was compromised a month or so ago,” Kaz said. “Or so I read in a recent intelligence summary.”

“Yes,” Harding said. “As was Carver, the circuit based in Orléans to the south. Noble has nowhere to send the fliers; they're trapped in the château. Carver was betrayed, and all the operatives killed or captured.”

“SOE circuits are given code names based on professions,” Kaz explained, knowing I didn't always keep up on my official reading.

“Yeah,” I said, a gnawing fear growing in my gut. Diana. Harding kept talking, but I couldn't pay attention. Diana Seaton and I were an item. As head over heels in love as anyone could be, separated by duty and the threat of death too much of the time. She was with the SOE, Churchill's spy and sabotage outfit. Me, I hoped to come out of this war in one piece. Diana, having served in the British Expeditionary Force, survived Dunkirk by the skin of her teeth. She'd been with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, working as a switchboard operator at army headquarters before everything fell apart. She got out on a destroyer, only to have it sunk out from under her. Watching dozens of wounded men, many strapped on stretchers, slide into the cold Channel waters had left her with a serious dose of guilt, which she kept bottled up in the classic English manner. She joined SOE to do her bit, as the Brits liked to say, but I thought it was to see if she deserved to live after watching so many die.

“Boyle?” Harding said, his voice loud enough to tell me it wasn't the first time he'd called my name.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Sorry. Are we going to parachute in?” I hoped he hadn't already told us.

“Negative. There's no time to train you. A Lysander will fly you in.” Lysanders were low-flying aircraft used for landing agents behind enemy lines. “There will be three of you on this mission.”

“Big Mike?” Kaz asked.

“No. I need him here. We have a trained radio operator ready to go. He'll parachute in right before you land, along with the supplies you'll need.”

“Does the Noble circuit expect us?” I asked. “Do they know about Switch?” I was trying to focus on the job and stop worrying about Diana, which was hard after hearing two SOE circuits had been blown in France. Blown. As if they'd been carried away on the wind, instead of killed or captured by the Gestapo. Each circuit had at least three SOE agents, plus any number of Resistance. Was Diana part of Carver or Minister? Was she in a Gestapo cell right now?

“No and no,” Harding answered. He pushed the paper listing the airmen toward me. “This is the last communication we had from Noble. There was a scheduled Lysander pickup in the hills south of Dreux earlier this month. Two high-ranking members of the Resistance were brought to London. Noble coordinated it all, and one of the passengers brought this note.”

I took the paper and smoothed it out on top of the map. It was crumpled and torn as if it had been hurriedly jammed into a pocket by someone about to take off in a slow-flying Lysander in the dark of night from deep inside occupied France.

“Adrien dead, L. Radio taken,” I read. “No further contact possible. Names of fliers below. Danger of discovery great.” I scanned the list and confirmed Sergeant Alvin Blake was among them. “It's signed ‘Juliet Bonvie.'”

“Adrien is the code name of their radio operator,” Harding said. “At least we know the Germans won't be using him to transmit false signals.”

“What does the L mean?” I asked, studying the brief message. It looked hastily scrawled, probably because it was too dangerous to carry for any distance. I imagined Juliet Bonvie writing it out in the minute or two before the Lysander turned around and took on its passengers.

“Code for the suicide pill,” Harding said. “Cyanide.” I caught him staring at me, waiting for something. What? I looked at the agent's name again. Juliet. Of course it wasn't her real name, but it was familiar.

Not the name. The writing.

“This is Diana,” I said, barely a whisper. “She's alive.”

“Yes,” Harding said, the faintest of smiles creasing his face.

“How soon do we leave?” Kaz said, nearly out of his seat and ready to go. He was fiercely loyal to Diana, their bond forged over the death of her sister Daphne. Daphne and Kaz had fallen in love during the Blitz, when every day could have been their last. Their joy was infectious, and I liked both of them immediately, that spring of 1942 when I first arrived here. Then Daphne was killed, and for a long time, Kaz didn't give a damn about carrying on. He and Diana had that in common—a carelessness about their own lives—which allowed them to take chances that frightened the hell out of me.

“This morning,” Harding said. “You'll be taken to the Royal Air Force base at Tangmere, meet the third member of your team, and receive a final briefing from the SOE people. Then the following night, you head for France.”

“Three of us,” I said. “And we're landing blind, since there's no way to communicate with the Noble circuit.”

“That way you're certain no one on the ground can betray your mission,” Harding said, clearly working to find the bright side of this mission. “We have a landing area mapped out. Your other team member will parachute in, and then contact the Lysander with the all-clear.”

“He's taking a big risk,” I said.