Shell Shocked (8 page)

“They didn't allow me time to do anything.” He pulled his housecoat a little tighter around him.

“Standard practice,” he said.

“I should have mentioned to them that it would have been all right to allow him to get dressed,” Bill said.

“No, it's best that they didn't deviate from established procedures. Deviation from practice can lead to disaster.” He turned to us next. “So tell me, how are you boys doing in your new home?”

Jack and my mother took turns talking about the new house and school and working at the plant. I didn't say anything, I just listened. It was the strangest conversation. Here we were sitting in the middle of a top-secret spy camp, in the middle of the night, having a cup of tea and talking like we were all there for a Sunday social.

“And you, George?”

I was startled.

“How is school?” Little Bill asked.

“It's good. Fine. Okay, I guess.”

“Are you managing to stay awake in class?” he asked.

“Yeah, I'm really trying hard to … how do you know about that?” I looked at my mother.

She shook her head. “I didn't tell him.”

“Then how does he …?” I let the sentence trail away. I knew what he was going to say.

“We have certain connections,” Little Bill said. “And you know that we have a fondness for your family and try to make sure you are all doing well.”

I had no problem with them keeping an eye on us. It made me feel safer.

“So, who would like to start?” Little Bill asked.

“Don't look at me,” Jack said. “I don't know nothing.”

“‘Anything,'” Little Bill said. “One would properly say, ‘I don't know
anything
.' Good grammar is a sign of good breeding.”

Jack shrugged. “Yes, sir. I don't know anything.” He pointed to me. “But somehow I think this is all his fault.”

“No,” Little Bill said, “I believe it is
my
fault.”

We gave him a questioning look.

“But let us begin closer to the beginning. George, how long have you suspected that something was, shall we say, amiss?”

“A couple of weeks, but mostly the last week.”

“So you decided to follow your mother this evening.”

I shrugged.

“I checked to make sure they were asleep,” my mother said, “and I left as quietly as I could.”

“I assume you were not, in fact, asleep, correct?” Little Bill asked.

“No.”

“He's having problems getting to sleep,” Jack said.

“That doesn't surprise me,” Little Bill said. “That is what I assumed when I was informed that you were falling asleep in school.”

“It was?” I asked.

He nodded his head. “We'll discuss that later. But first, getting back to the events of this evening, you followed your mother.”

“I had to make sure she was okay. It's not safe to be out alone at night.”

“You would know better than anybody of the dangers that lurk in the dark. You do worry about your mother, especially since the episode in which she was kidnapped.”

“Wouldn't you?” Jack asked.

“Of course. Human nature. So you followed her because you wanted to make sure she was safe. Is that the only reason?”

“Well … I was also pretty curious. I couldn't think of any good reason why she'd go out in the middle of the night.”

“Perhaps she was just going for a walk?” Little Bill suggested.

“That's what I said!” Jack exclaimed.

“Yes, that is the logical explanation. But, of course, not the correct one.”

Jack went from looking cocky to being crushed in a few brief seconds.

“So you kept your mother under surveillance as she walked.”

“I was keeping an eye on her,” I said.

“I didn't see him there at all,” my mother said.

“And neither did our surveillance team. At least, not at first,” Bill said.

“You didn't see our surveillance team either, did you?” Little Bill asked me.

“I didn't see them until the guy had a gun against my head and a knee pressed down on my temple.”

Little Bill looked at Bill. “It sounds as though they executed their role very effectively.”

“Quite so. Very professional. Top marks for both agents.”

“George,” said Little Bill, “it's important to remember when you're watching a subject that most often there will be another team assigned to watch for people watching them. You always have to have one eye on the target and a second scanning the surroundings.”

“I'll try and remember that.”

“I wish there had been no need for you ever to know it. So, as I understand it, you saw your mother enter Bill's car.”

“I didn't know it was Bill's car,” I said. “It was too dark and I was too far away. That's why I had to get closer.”

“And that's when he was seen by surveillance and apprehended,” Bill said.

Little Bill picked up a plate of cookies that I'd been eyeing and passed them around. I took two.

“Do you like cats, George?”

That was a strange question. “I guess I like them. We always had cats in the barn back at our farm.”

“I almost see you as a cat.”

“Me?”

“Yes. It's a legend that cats have nine lives, and by my count you've used up at least four and possibly five of yours.”

“I guess that means I have four or five left.”

Little Bill laughed. “That is certainly an interesting perspective on the situation. Would you care to hazard a guess as to why your mother was meeting with Bill?”

I didn't have any idea why … wait, yes I did! “My mother is working in the plant as an operative.”

A slight smile creased Little Bill's face, and he nodded. He turned directly to Bill. “I told you the risk of employing Betty in that capacity was that the boys would discover her involvement.”

“We tried to keep everything as covert as possible,” Bill said.

“I am sure of that, but a good agent will smell out a plot.”

“Sorry I slipped up,” my mother said.

“Not your fault. For better or worse, we asked you to work as an operative, knowing that you'd have two good agents living in your house. And that is why the responsibility for this must rest with me. And now I am left with a dilemma. What do we do next?”

“Why do we have to do anything?” Jack asked. “It's not like we're going to tell anybody. We can keep a secret.”

“I know you can,” Little Bill said. “Please do not ever imagine that I lack complete faith in you boys. But what of other people?”

“What other people?” I asked.

“You were taken from the street two blocks from your house,” he said. “Who saw your abduction? Jack was spirited out of his house in the middle of the night—was that witnessed by anybody?”

“We monitored the calls to the local constabulary,” Bill said, “and there were no calls or reports to the police.”

“That might only represent a false positive,” Little Bill said.

Jack and I exchanged quizzical looks.

“A report would mean that you were witnessed,” he explained. “No report, however, does not mean that you were not witnessed. It merely means that nothing was
reported. A false positive could still be in place, and we don't know what eyes might have been on you.”

“But there could have been lots of people who saw my mother get into that car,” I said. “This time and other times.”

“Yes, but witnessing that would only lead them to believe that your mother, a recent divorcee, was meeting a man. That would be the logical explanation. Seeing you pushed to the ground, a pistol to your head, would tend to suggest a different kind of scenario.”

I hadn't thought of that.

“So, what happens now?” my mother asked, voicing the question that we were all thinking.

“It might be necessary to relocate you again.”

“But I don't want to move!” Jack exclaimed. “I like it here!”

I knew what he was thinking. Actually, I knew
who
he was thinking of.

“Nevertheless …,” Little Bill began.

“That isn't fair,” Jack went on. “If
somebody
had kept his nose out of other people's business, none of this would have happened.”

I couldn't look at my brother. I felt my whole body flush.

“I am afraid that if blame is to be placed, it must be placed squarely on my shoulders,” Little Bill said again. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, Jack.”

“Forgive you?”

“Yes. I should have allowed you all, the whole family, to keep a safe distance from further operations. I am truly sorry. Now, if you can excuse me, prior to making my decision I need to think and consult. Could you go and wait in the outer office?”

We all stood up.

“All of you except for George.”

I froze in my tracks. “Me?”

He nodded his head and pointed. “Yes, you.”

EVERYBODY, INCLUDING BILL,
shuffled out of the room. My mother gave me a very worried look as she left, and her face was the last thing I saw as Bill slowly closed the door behind them.

Little Bill pulled a chair over until he was sitting directly across from me, and very close. I drew slightly away, pressing against the back of my chair, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

“Don't be nervous, George. You've done nothing wrong.”

I appreciated the words, but if I hadn't done anything wrong, why was I still here?

“You're probably not aware of this, George, but you are, without a doubt, the finest twelve-year-old spy in the entire world.”

“I am?”

“Unquestionably. Not simply because there are not many twelve-year-old spies, but because there are very few people, even trained agents, who have your feel for this business. Some think of it as almost an art.”

“Like painting?”

“Well, there is a very strong creative component. Depending on the kind of work involved, you might think of it as the art of deception, of thinking quickly and critically, or of making up stories and lies, and, in some extremes, as the art of killing.”

I'd seen people killed. There was no art involved, as far as I could tell.

“Have you ever heard the term ‘shell shock'?” Little Bill asked.

I shook my head.

“It was first used in World War I.”

“You served in that war, right?”

“First in the trenches. My infantry career was ended with a poison gas attack. Almost killed me. I was evacuated to London and placed in the hospital. Life and death, really—my lungs were so damaged that they told me there was no way I could fight in the trenches any more.”

“So the war was over for you.”

“That's exactly what the doctor said to me. I told him that since the war wasn't over, it wasn't over for me. I informed him that if I couldn't fight in the trenches then
I would learn how to fight above them. That's when I became a pilot.”

“That must have been exciting.”

“It was. It was remarkably easy to become a pilot in those days since pilots survived only two weeks on average, so they were always looking for new ones … but that's a story for another time. In that war, one would often soften up a target by throwing hundreds and sometimes thousands of artillery shells at the enemy position.”

“Like the ammunition that they make at the plant?”

“Almost identical. Sitting in the trenches, you could hear the shells as they came flying through the air. It was a strange sound, almost musical, like a whistle. And in time you got to know when and how close they were going to land. If it was a direct hit you were dead, so there really wasn't much to worry about. A close hit could spray you with shrapnel, shell fragments. A number of times I was hit by mud—for an instant you'd think it was shrapnel, and then you'd realize it was nothing but a mud bath. Either way, all you could do was sit in the trench and wait and pray that you wouldn't be hit.”

“That must have been awful.”

He nodded. “Beyond belief. As soldiers we were often forced to stay in those trenches for extended periods, living through repeated artillery barrages. It was hard on
all, but for some it was too much. They suffered from what we called ‘shell shock.'They seemed to break down mentally to the point that they couldn't function. Some would become catatonic.”

“What does that mean?”

“They would just sit there, eyes open, staring, not answering questions, or seeming to hear what was being said to them. Others would get up and run away. Still stranger, others would become so fearless that they would stand up so that they were exposed to enemy fire, even charge toward that fire. In all cases they were no longer fit to fight, they were ‘shell shocked.' It was believed that somehow the sound and vibration of the shells had addled their minds. We now tend to call it ‘battle fatigue.' Men who have been in too many battles need to be taken out of the front lines and given rest to prevent them from becoming shell shocked.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yes, it does. George, do you think you're feeling shell shocked, feeling battle fatigue?”

“Me? I've never been in battle!” I protested.

He reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. “Yes, you have. You have been in many life-and-death battles.”

“I'm okay.”

“Some of the symptoms of battle fatigue include not being able to sleep, feeling worried or anxious all the time, not being able to concentrate. George, can you
honestly say that you haven't been feeling all of those?”

I shook my head ever so slightly. “I've always been sort of nervous about things. That doesn't mean that ...” I let the sentence trail off because I knew what he was going to say. He was going to move us again. He was going to pull my mother out of the plant and off of her mission and give me a chance to rest.