“Redirect, Lieutenant Scott?” Colonel Beaumont said, his pen poised over his notepad. His tone suggested Scott get a move on.
“I'd like to request a recess, Colonel, to discuss this information with my client,” Scott answered.
“Request denied. Proceed.”
“Check these dates and write down any alibi you can think of,” Scott whispered, pushing the paper my way. I scanned the dates, trying to remember where I was exactly during the last five months. Doing my job all across southern England, along with Colonel Harding some of the time. For the most part, I was always with one of two guys. Kaz, also known as Lieutenant Piotr Augustus Kazimierz of the Polish Army-in-Exile, and Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski, known to all as Big Mike. The three of us made up General Eisenhower's Office of Special Investigations, which pretty well described what we did. We handled low crimes in high places, crimes that needed to be solved and kept on the QT while we did it. On most of these dates, we were working on one case or another.
I ticked off the dates, thinking it'd be a snap to get Kaz or Big Mike in here to straighten things out. Except that we all worked for Colonel Harding, and he was the one pulling the strings, I was damn sure of that much.
“Mr. Chapman,” Scott began, strolling in front of the witness like he was an old country lawyer, “what is your occupation?”
“I was a soldier in the last war,” Archie said, peering at Scott from under bushy eyebrows. “That was my last regular job. Killing Germans.”
“Since then, how have you supported yourself?”
“Oh, a variety of ways,” Archie said, shrugging. “Lately mostly buying materials from you lot. Fellows like Captain Boyle here, they don't mind doing business with me.”
“Black market business, correct?”
“That's the term, boy.”
“Which is illegal in Great Britain. So you are a criminal, correct?”
“If I were, wouldn't it be me on trial, and in an English court?”
“You may well be soon, Mr. Chapman,” Scott said. Somehow I doubted it. “Doing black market business must require that you are not always honest with the authorities, I'd imagine.”
“Oh, and you're an expert, are you? Done some deals yourself, then?” There was a ripple of laughter in the room, cut short by Colonel Beaumont's threatening stare.
“Ask a specific question, Lieutenant,” Beaumont said.
“Mr. Chapman, have you lied to the English authorities at any point during the past six months?”
“Lied?” Archie did his chin rub again, but this time I think he was stumped. It would be hard for anyone to believe he'd been honest for that long. “Yes, I've shaved a bit off the truth on occasion. For business purposes.”
“Very well,” Scott said, giving an approving nod. “We've established you lie to your fellow Englishmen. How about Americans? Have you lied to any Americans during the same period?”
“I like Americans,” Archie said with a toothy grin. “You Yanks have brought so many good things to England, I could never lie to one of you.”
Scott stood close to Archie, leaning over the witness chair. “So you are a liar, just not in this case?”
“Be careful, boy,” Archie said, years of fog, gin, and cigarettes coarsening his low, vicious growl. “I might take offense.”
“No more questions,” Scott said.
“Do you have any other witnesses, Major Thompson?” Beaumont said. He didn't. No reason to waste time when the deck was stacked in your favor. Beaumont then told Scott it was his turn. I'd scrawled out Big Mike's name and duty station along with Kaz's information. He asked the court to make both of them available as defense witnesses and asked for an adjournment while they were brought in.
“I'm afraid that's impossible,” Beaumont said. “I am advised these two men are on an assignment with a top-secret classification. They are unavailable for testimony.”
“But sir,” Scott began, “howâ”
“I am not going to repeat myself, Lieutenant,” Beaumont said. “Proceed.”
“I'm going to call you as a witness,” Scott whispered as he sat next to me. “We have to do something.”
“No, we don't,” I said. “Whatever happens next has already been decided. Let's get it over with. I'm not going to testify. We're done.”
Chapter Three
It didn't take
long. Ten minutes later, Beaumont called the court to order. Even more people had filed in to hear the verdict. JAG officers, CID men, and assorted noncoms from who knew where. Scott and I stood to hear the sentence.
“Captain William Boyle, you have been found guilty as charged under Articles of War Eighty-Three, Eighty-Four, and Ninety-Three. It is the sentence of this court that you be reduced in rank to the grade of private and confined to hard labor for three months, at such a place as the reviewing authority may direct. The business of this general court-martial is concluded.”
The gavel came down.
“I'm sorry,” Scott said, offering his hand. “I wish I'd done better.”
“Don't worry, the fix was in. You couldn't have done anything.”
Major Thompson led Scott out of the room, and I wondered how far away they'd send him. Whoever was orchestrating this charade would be covering his tracks soon, and dollars to doughnuts Scott would find himself on a slow boat to some Pacific backwater before the week was out.
Two MPs, a sergeant and a corporal, escorted me to a small room. They ordered me to remove my short-waisted Ike jacket. One of them removed my captain's bars and decorations from the jacket while the other took the bars off my shirt collar and garrison cap. I was relieved of my tie and belt; evidently for some, loss of rank was too much of a burden to bear.
“Fellas, how would I hang myself in here anyway?” I asked. The low, curved walls of the Quonset hut offered little hope for the suicidal.
“Had a guy once who strangled himself with his belt. Passed out and died on us,” the corporal said. “But I don't expect we need to worry about you. Scuttlebutt is you got someone at SHAEF looking out for you.”
“Yeah, well, he better show up soon. Where'd you hear that?”
“No talking with the prisoner,” his more businesslike sergeant said. He tossed my Ike jacket at me, and they left me alone. I sat at the rickety wooden table, wondering what the hell had just happened.
Private Billy Boyle.
Three months of hard labor.
How much worse could it get?
The door opened, and Colonel Harding entered, followed by the CID agent who'd been at his side earlier. And Archie Chapman. I was about to find out how much worse.
Harding waited until the door was firmly shut and they were all seated. “You did well in there, Boyle.”
“It's easy to be a patsy,” I said. “What's he doing here?” I offered a sharp nod in Archie's direction.
“Easy, Peaches,” Archie said. “We're all in this together.”
“Great,” I said. “So you're all pitching in on the hard labor? What the hell is happening, Colonel?”
“I'm sorry, Boyle, but we thought it best that you react as naturally as possible,” Harding said. “It was part of the plan. Don't worry, the loss of rank isn't official. Beaumont and Thompson were in on it.”
“I hope that goes for the confinement at hard labor as well,” I said, trying to mask the emotions flooding my mind. Relief, anger, joy, all with a touch of fear about where this was headed. I didn't want them to know I'd been too concerned, so I laughed. Ha, ha, ha.
I didn't even convince myself.
“Shouldn't be a problem,” the CID guy said as he introduced himself. “Agent David Hatch.” I'd have preferred more certainty, but by now I was too curious to debate his choice of words. “Although the plan does require you to be put in the stockade for a while.”
“Somebody back up and start from the beginning. Explain to this lowly private what the deal is.”
“You know how serious theft and pilferage is,” Harding began. “From the moment supplies are off-loaded from ships, they're subject to repeated plundering. Some of it is small time, but it adds up. Truck drivers, railway workers, quartermaster men, anyone who comes in contact with military supplies can be tempted to steal.”
“At this point it's an epidemic,” Hatch said. “Forty percent of all cases CID has involves the theft of supplies. Not petty pilferage; it's the wholesale looting of supplies being stockpiled for the invasion.”
“Everything from fuel to penicillin,” Harding added. “With the right black market contacts, it's easy to get rich quick.”
“Sure,” I said. “There's plenty of people willing to pay for what they can't get under rationing. And no shortage of those willing to sell the stuff, right, Archie?”
“No arguing with that, Peaches. But this is something different. It goes beyond providing the necessities of life to ordinary folk.” I knew that wasn't all posturing. Archie and his gang were based in Shoreditch, a bombed-out and poor part of London. He spread his wealth around, keeping the neighborhood folks happy and on his side.
“Chapman's right,” Harding said, setting a pack of Lucky Strikes on the table. Archie snatched one, and Harding fired up his Zippo for both of them. “We're after a major gang. They have connections to the English criminal world and the black market.”
“Americans?” I asked.
“Mostly,” Agent Hatch said. “They call themselves the Morgan Gang. They started small, selling pilfered supplies to the black market locally and then branched out to Oxford and Birmingham. Recently they made contact with a group of British deserters in the same line of work and joined forces.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “Men on the inside and the outside.”
“Made sense to them, too,” Hatch continued. “We've had our own problem with desertions, especially with the invasion coming anytime now. We know a dozen American deserters have recently joined them and are being used to stage armed robberies of supply trucks.”
“Their inside men pass on information about routes and manifests,” Harding said. “Then the desertersâYanks and Britsâpull off the robberies, in uniform or civilian clothes. They sell the supplies off fast. That's where the English gangs come in. They have the contacts to dispose of the goods quickly, moving them into the black market in small batches. No one's the wiser.”
“But the army's the poorer,” I said, eyeing Archie and wondering why he was involved. The real reason, not whatever story he'd spin sooner or later.
“And the Morgan Gang gets richer,” Hatch said. “Coffee is going for ten bucks a pound. A fifty-carton box of smokes brings in a cool thousand. We're talking big money.”
“They've been hitting fuel shipments lately,” Harding said. “Two deuce-and-a-half trucks filled with fifty-gallon drums of gasoline were hijacked last week. At gunpoint.”
“Petrol's a tempting target,” Archie said. “There's precious little allowed for business and none at all for private use. Those with cash will pay well to drive their fancy cars again.”
“Penicillin as well,” Hatch said. “Gangs need the stuff to treat their prostitutes or anyone who gets the clap and wants to be treated off the books.”
“We're going to need a lot of penicillin in field hospitals once the invasion begins,” Harding said. “If we don't stop these thefts, a lot of boys are going to die without the stuff.”
“Okay, I understand,” I said. “You've got a well-organized gang looting army supplies. What part am I playing in all this? And why is Archie here?”
“They're not only organized,” Hatch said, “they're ruthless. They'll use anything from payoffs to threats to get what they want. Say they need information about what's in a boxcar on a train headed to Birmingham. They'll start with a shipping clerk and offer a bribe. If that doesn't work, the clerk gets a warning, then a beating. Either way, the poor slob is in their pocket. They'll blackmail him if he cooperates and break his legs if he doesn't.”
“They're smart, too,” Harding added. “Usually it's the Brit deserters who do the beatings, once the target goes off base. Impossible to trace them.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “I'm here because you can't trust your own men. You want me to go undercover as a crook myself.”
“Exactly,” Hatch said. “Besides Beaumont and Thompson, no one outside this room knows the truth.”
“And it was you who spread the gossip about me?”
“Yes,” said Harding. “We wanted to be sure word spread. And it has. That's why so many spectators showed up. We're betting the Morgans know all about you.”
“Right now we have a couple of suspected members in the stockade on unrelated charges. There was a drunken brawl in town, and we're using that to keep them on ice,” Hatch added.
“So I'm headed to the stockade for a criminal heart-to-heart with a violent thief. But I still want to know what role Archie plays.”
“I found myself in a bit of trouble, Peaches,” Archie explained. “Inspector Scutt of Scotland Yard, your old pal, he had me in a tough spot. When that happens, the best thing to do is put somebody else into an even worse spot.”
“The English gang the Morgan crew is working with?” I asked.
“The Campbell Street Boys, they call themselves, although they were boys before the last war. Got their start on the Portsmouth docks and expanded from there. I'd picked up a few tidbits about their work with the Morgans and offered that up in exchange for Scotland Yard to leave me be. Next thing I know, your colonel brings me here and tells me to perjure myself. The nerve of the man! But it's only a Yank tribunal, so I don't care. Glad to oblige.” He waved his hand as if granting us his blessing.
“Come on, Archie, there's got to be more in it for you,” I said. “You're not the obliging type.”
“He's a smart one, that Peaches,” Archie said with a chuckle as he stabbed a finger in my direction. “Yes, I have an arrangement with a fellow who's a competitor of the Campbell Street Boys. There's a man down in Brighton who's trying to move in their direction, and he'll pay nicely if they go down. So I'm invested in the outcome, you see. Invested in your performance, like.”
“You didn't say anything about this,” Harding said.
“You never asked,” Archie said. “Unlike Peaches. You picked the right man for the job.”
“Anything else you haven't told us?” Hatch asked.
“Just that the Campbell Street Boys don't mind a dash of blood now and then. As a matter of fact, they like it. And it seems like these Morgans don't mind getting their hands dirty, either. So watch out, Peaches. Even in the nick, they're dangerous.”
“We run a secure stockade, Mr. Chapman,” Hatch said, his back stiffening.
“You might,” Archie said. “But you know as well as me that the Morgans have someone inside. One of your MPs or any one of those soldier boys. A few seconds when the right back is turned, and Peaches'll be found with his throat slit. So take care.”
“No one else knows about Billy,” Harding said, studying me for any sign of panic. I was a little worried, mostly over that fact that it was Archie Chapman who seemed most concerned about my well-being.
“I believe you, Colonel,” I said, struggling to sound confident. “Who is Morgan anyway?”
“It's a phony name,” Hatch said. “We've questioned every guy named Morgan on this base, and not one of them looks like a criminal mastermind.”
“Who are the suspects in the stockade?” I said.
“Herbert Franklin, a buck sergeant in a signals company, and Private First Class Martin Hammer, a medical orderly,” Hatch said. “Far as we know, they haven't a clue we think they're part of the gang.”
“But any one of your men could have been compromised,” I said. “No offense.”
“None taken. And you're right. That's why you're here,” Hatch said.
I looked at Archie, who sighed and shook his head. Three months at hard labor didn't look so bad. “What am I after, exactly? You're not expecting a confession, are you?”
“No. We know the Morgans have at least two safe houses. One is within a half hour's drive of this base; the other is close to Birmingham. We need a location. If you can convince them of your worth, they might offer it up. If they take you to the wrong place, you'll have to sweet-talk your way to the other.”
“Why would they tell me anything if I'm in the slammer with them?”
“You'll be getting out. Tomorrow an officer will visit the stockade and ask for volunteers for a dangerous mission. You can tell Hammer about it, let him think it's the work of your SHAEF contact. The story is you'll escape after they take you and need a place to hide out.”
“Sounds easy. I get the location, the officer springs me, and you give me my captain's bars back. Right?”
“There's something else,” Hatch said. There always was.
“We need to get someone out of that safe house. Alive. If we go storming in, they'll kill him. If a fugitive shows up, someone who's been vouched for, he stands a better chance. For right now, that's all you need to know.”
“You mean there's more?”
“A lot more,” Harding said. “Right now, go to jail and make new friends.”