1945 (15 page)

"Not likely sir, especially for a first blow. Their whole military doctrine is toward focus, hitting the point of attack with overwhelming strength. The Brits might go screwing around with psychological attacks, but not the Germans— especially at the beginning of something. Besides, they know enough from the way we went after Japan to realize that the psychological effect would not be a desirable one from their point of view—it would be the same as after Pearl-

Jim hesitated . . .
Manhattan.
Of course! The code screw-up that had had Grierson so exited. But he had a strong feeling he ought not mention that, not even to Acres. "A code name then?"

Acres looked at him closely, saying nothing.

"Anyhow, sir, this is a clear undeniable warning from the best source we've got." He paused for a moment "If I might be so bold, sir, may I ask what you're going to do about this?"

"Kick it up the ladder."

"Kick it up the ladder," Jim repeated softly. "Given it started with me, you know what will happen."

Acres shrugged "Like I said before, son, you still stink."

Jim looked at him, incredulous.

"And that's it?"

"That's it, MarteL Unless you have something else you need to talk about?" Acres inquired dismissively.

Since Acres had never been one for salutes in private, Jim simply stood and headed for the door. Clearly there was no point and considerable risk in continuing to prod this man who not long before he had thought of as a friend

"Martel."

Jim turned back.

"There's no sense in drawing attention to yourself over this. One theory that was kicking around was that you'd get fed some disinformation, that you might even know it was disinformation. If there's going to be a war, all the signs are that the Russians will be getting another dose. Why go out on a thin limb? Cover yourself. Just let it drop."

Jim suddenly realized that Acres's crap about supporting him had been just that—crap. Whoever had gone to bat for him, it hadn't been General Acres. General Acres, it seemed, while he might be brave enough in a fight, was a moral coward. As he closed the door carefully, finally, behind him, Jim felt the original copy of the letter inside his breast pocket. Well, at least he'd tried channels. He strode off briskly towards his future.

After a while he stopped in front of a bank of phones and looked back up the corridor. No one was following. He stepped into a booth and closed the door. He felt a trickle of perspiration going down the back of his neck and half opened the door as if to step back out.

No, damn it, or he'd be no better than his erstwhile "mentor." The note was nearly two weeks old. In another two weeks it would be officially spring. If he didn't do something personally, this whatever-it-was would be over before anyone realized it was coming. He reclosed the door.

He was tempted to call his old man, but he already knew what his answer would be: There were times when a man had to lay his life on the line, and that meant not just his physical life—most servicemen understood and accepted the probability that from time to time they must step in harm's way—but his career as well, which far too many were afraid to risk. It was something he and his dad had often talked about, that men who would not shrink from death itself trembled at the thought of the disapproval of the herd.

Opening a phone book, he looked up the number he wanted, picked up the phone, dropped his nickel in and dialed.

"Capitol Hill, House of Representatives."

"The office of Congressman Brian McDonnell please," he said quietly.

Two hours later Jim was poking nervously at the ice
in
his drink as he looked around at the customers who filled a restaurant several blocks away from the Capitol Building
on Pennsylvania Avenue. Scanning the crowd, some
of
whom were in uniform, he felt fortunate that he didn't recognize anyone. The rest of the clientele seemed to be mostly congressional staffers. The radio was playing Glenn Miller's newest release, "Persuasion." As he half listened to the tune, he saw McDonnell come through the door and look around.

The congressman walked slowly through the smoke-filled outer room, nodded a couple of hellos, and then stepped into the dining area in the back. Coming up to Jim's table, he took off his coat and draped it over his chair before sitting down.

"Hello, Jim. Long time."

"Yes sir, a very long time." The last time he had spoken with the congressman he had been a middie, home for vacation.

"Ever eaten here before?"

"No, sir."

"Well, let's order what they're known for."

When Martel nodded an assent, McDonnell turned in his chair to motion toward a waitress. When she got to them he ordered up crab cakes and a round of beers.

"How's your dad? I haven't seen him since the heart attack."

"Hanging in there. He's working on his boat and talking about getting it in shape for the season. He wants to sail it up to New England this summer." Jim couldn't keep a certain sadness from his voice.

"Not well, is he?"

Jim sighed. "The doctors say one more like the last will be the last."

"The boat will keep him busy and, who knows? He's a
tough old bird. He might outlive us both. Damn, I wish I could break free and go for a sail with him. I served under your dad in the Great War. I was a spoiled know-nothing reserve officer when I joined your dad's staff. He helped me do one hell of a lot of growing up. I didn't love him for it then. I do now."

"I'll be sure to tell him that, sir."

McDonnell laughed softly and shook his head. "Now let's get to the point. What's bothering you?"

"It's got nothing to do with my situation, I want to make that clear."

"That thought hadn't even occurred to me, Jim," McDonnell said gently, but seemed to relax a bit. "Maybe you ought to know that even though you didn't ask, maybe because you didn't ask, I did look into it a little. Since I'm on the Armed Services Committee"—he had just become its chairman—"I have some contacts. The way they told it, you seemed to be caught in a turf fight between the FBI and the Navy and there was precious little I could do. I should add that your dad did give me a call."

Jim smiled and shook his head. "I told him to stay out of it."

"You can't blame him. But by then I'd already looked into the situation. I explained to him that I couldn't push it, that it might have gotten you a better assignment for now, but later on they'd have nailed you. Even though you were as innocent as a driven lamb, a couple of admirals had their noses bent over this flap, and as far as they were concerned you were guilty of bad luck and be damned to you for embarrassing them." McDonnell paused to grin. "Right now they're just grumpy, but any political pushiness might have put you on their permanent shit list. You've most likely been told to let things simmer down a bit. The advice is good. I hear Broderick is okay and he'll give you a good fitrep at the end of the year. And a word or two
has
been dropped here and there. Keep a low profile for a while and we'll get things straightened out."

Jim thought about how he had stood Broderick up this morning. "Maybe before today he would have. Not now— but that doesn't matter. What matters is this," he said, patting his breast pocket. "This can't wait. I tried to go through channels with it—and ran into a brick wall. That's why I stepped outside the loop."

Jim reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a copy of von Metz's letter and handed it over, explaining as he did so his relationship with Willi, and what the letter meant.

Suddenly, in the midst of Martel's explanation, McDonnell's demeanor subtly changed. "What else do you know?"

Martel looked at him blankly for a moment, then shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. Except that it's genuine. And you know as well as I do that all the talk about them going after Russia again is a crock. Some others will claim that von Metz probably was fed false information to throw us and the Russians off or, worse yet, that the Gestapo already had him, and the letter is a phony. I
know
Wilhelm von Metz. Willi's not just my cousin, he's like a brother to me. I know how he feels about those maniac swine who have taken over his country. He lost two brothers in Russia. If he had been compromised, we had contingency codes. A mention of my mother, for instance, rather than Dad would have told me he was under immediate duress—and failing to call me 'Old Friend' would have done the same. As for where he got the information, it comes straight from Canaris, head of
Abwehr."

"You shouldn't have told me all that," McDonnell said quietly.

"Who
should I have told? You're part of the committee as well as an old family friend. If I can't trust you, then who
the
hell can I trust in this damn town?"

McDonnell smiled. "Very few, very damn few. But don't disclose your sources."

Jim still thought that this time the risk was justified. McDonnell had to be convinced. "Anyhow, that's it This thing is too vital to get lost in channels."

"What are you saying, Jim?"

"I'm saying that I want you to put it on the President's desk."

"That's a lot to ask."

Jim shrugged. "You're an old friend of his. Cut the tape."

"With your name attached?"

"Yes ..." Jim hesitated a fraction of a second and added, "if need be."

"You know the blow-back it might cause?"

Jim shrugged. "So I'll become a civilian and go teach German and aeronautics in some cow-town college. I'm telling you sir, this is real and it's coming straight at us — and very damned soon."

McDonnell nodded, looked down at the letter, and then back again.

"What do you think the reference to Manhattan is about?" he asked offhandedly.

There was something about the way McDonnell asked the question. He felt as if beneath that one innocuous word there was a dark and bottomless pit. . . "I don't know a thing about 'Manhattan,' whatever it is, but I've been asked that question before."

"By whom?"

"Grierson. The FBI agent who was interrogating me." Jim paused, noticing how intently McDonnell was staring at him. "He asked me if I ever discussed Manhattan with anyone."

"What else did he ask?"

Jim fished back through his memory. "I think there was something about an apartment U on 238th street. Also something about Oak Hill—Oak Ridge, I mean."

McDonnell continued to stare at him.

"Is that it?" Somehow McDonnell no longer seemed the old family friend.

"I think so, sir."

For several seconds McDonnell gazed grimly at Jim. Then he seemed to come to some decision. Taking both copies of the letter, he folded them up and put them in his pocket. "You're not to say a word to anyone about any of this."

He looked around, visibly regretting the public venue. "Listen. This meeting never took place. And if somehow it gets out that we did meet, it was strictly so you could cry on my shoulder."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have any more copies of this letter?"

"I made one before coming to see you this evening."

"Where is it?"

"I left it in my office."

"When you go back to your office you are to bum it. No one else is to see it. Do you understand me?"

Jim nodded.

"Has anyone else seen it?"

"I did try through channels like I said."

"Who?"

"General Acres, Army Intelligence Office at the Pentagon."

"Christ. Do you think he's shown it to anybody else yet?"

"I doubt it. He won't pass anything up the line with my name on it."

"Thank God for small favors. What do you think of Acres? Is he okay?"

For a moment Martel was at a loss for words, then said, "Yes. He's... okay."

McDonnell looked at him perceptively. "Well, someone will have a talk with him. You might get a call within the next day or so yourself. Just listen to what your caller tells you, and do it. I'm not going to tell you to relax. You've just put your butt into a fire, but you knew it when you did it— and I know I can count on you."

"You mean you believe this is for real?"

"I just wish I didn't."

Jim felt as if he were going to collapse from the sudden release of tension.

McDonnell finished his beer, stood up and fished out a five-dollar bill. "Enjoy my crap cakes," he joked as he tossed the bill on the table and strode out.

❖ ❖ ❖

"Bad day, Lover?"

John Mayhew took the drink Erica proffered, but said nothing.

Playfully, she kissed him lightly on his neck. He turned away.

"What is it?" she asked. "Little Wifey asking questions again?"

He went over to the window and pulled the curtains back so as to look out, then carefully closed them again.

"It's over," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?" Was there a note of real feeling in her voice? How... odd.