Double Cross Blind

by Joel N. Ross

  There were no reinforcements.

  At 0340, a runner found Tom at the northeast perimeter of the airfield; he and his men were ordered to withdraw. Hang their boots around their necks and creep away, hand Hill 107 to the Krauts. The order was bullshit. If they lost Hill 107, they lost the island. They could still hold. There were no airdrops at night. Retake Hill 107—all of it—and retrench. They’d killed twice what they lost, three times.

  Tom led the squad back toward C Company to argue against withdrawal, but the camp was already abandoned. They were too late; they’d lost Hill 107. The Nazis would land Junker transports on the airstrip without opposition. They’d lost Crete.

  Tom sat on a half-fallen stone wall. “Take off your Abners and hang ’em around your neck.”

  He bent to untie his shoes—and to keep the boys from seeing his face. A cloud shifted and the moon filtered through, illuminating a tarp that had been abandoned in the withdrawal. A tarp over a crate . . .

  “Sweet holy fuck,” he said.

  “Sarge?”

  Permission had been requested to crater the airstrip. Engineers had come, prepared the explosives: cratering charges, in 10-kg sticks of C4. Permission had been denied. The crate was five feet from him, barely visible under the tarp. He stared into the shadows. The crate had to be empty. Of course it was empty.

  “Rosey, come gimme a hand.”

  They pried the crate open. It wasn’t empty.

  “The fucking engineers,” Tom said. “The sloppy bastard engineers.”

  The boys were looking at him. There was something strange on his face: a smile.

  “The RAF interservice mission to Greece,” he said in an urgent undertone. “November 1940. The only fucking English-speaking groundhogs in a thousand miles.” He paused, and the boys watched him. “Where,” he asked them, “were you?”

  “We were there.”

  “The advance on Valona,” Tom said. “January of 1941. Where,” he asked, “were you?”

  “We were fucking there, Sarge.”

  “How about March? The asshole of the world, fighting twenty-seven guinea divisions on the Albanian front—where, pray tell, were you?”

  “We were there, Sarge!”

  “Think back to April. That filthy retreat through the pass—mauling the holy rosy fuck out of the Nazi Eighteenth. Where were you?” He answered with them: “We were there.”

  The night was still. They were bright-eyed children, eager to be roused, eager to be shaped and molded and used. They were young, they were tough, and they were his.

  “We got our asses wiped off Greece,” he said. “But we gave better than we got. Your orders—our orders—are to walk away.” He patted the crate. “Tomorrow at dawn, if the Krauts have the airstrip, they land all the troops they want. If they have the airstrip.”

  They nodded. Their faces glowed in the moonlight.

  “You lacy bastards,” he said. “You wanna see tomorrow?”

  “Hell no, Sarge!” they said.

  “Hanner, O’Rourke, on point. Ammo? . . . That’ll have to do. Someone shake Lifton; he’s asleep. Tardieu, you better know how to detonate these things, or I’m pissing in the wind. Rosey, you and Manny flank left. . . .”

  IT WAS OVER long before dawn. Tom was bleeding and shattered, but death wouldn’t come. Rosenblatt dragged him off Hill 107, dragged him miles over pebbles and scrub to the field hospital, and smiled through his broken face and said, “‘Don’t need a big band to jitterbug,’ Sarge.”

  They patched Tom through the night. A bucket of blood, a yard of bandage, and nothing was wrong with him a Nazi enfilade wouldn’t fix. He was in uniform again by noon. They gave him a rifle and told him Rosenblatt had died in the night.

  He bloodied his bayonet on Cemetery Hill, fighting from tombstone to tombstone. The Maori crossed Xamo Road, dying for every inch, and got as far as the base of Hill 107, when the sun rose and brought the strafing ME-109s. No Junker transports landed, though. Not yet. Too much debris on the Máleme airstrip. Tom heard that and smiled, and the man who had told him turned away.

  Days later, Tom was fighting alongside the Greeks and Cretans. Hadn’t shaved in a week; he’d added an embroidered Cretan waistcoat and baggy black pants to his uniform. A flock of sheep had been slaughtered by a bomb and Cretan women cooked the meat. A skinny man with a flashing smile offered Tom the eyeball. Tom dipped his cup into the pot of raki, popped the roasted eye in his mouth. Better than army chow. He was still chewing when the captain told him in halting English to report to HQ.

  He had to find it first. Creforce Headquarters had been withdrawn from Canea, and withdrawn again. HQ staggered across the map like a wounded mouse from a playful cat. It was currently based in a cave. The floor at the entrance was packed dirt and bracken.

  “A cave,” Tom said.

  The sentry grinned. “Better’n a grave.”

  Tom said nothing and was waved into a dim, rough-hewn office, tornado-struck by the chaos of retreat. Tom saluted the officer behind the desk and heard himself speaking with calm and comprehensive recall of events he didn’t quite remember. He accounted for the loss of his squad. He offered his best estimate of the Nazi positions, strength, and movements.

  A clerk called the officer away and Tom was alone. He rested his hip against a makeshift table, scattered some papers, and a poem caught his eye. No: a poem code. Earl had described poem codes to him, explained how to decrypt them. Frequency counts, tedious iterations of probability. This code, however, had already been broken and the poem that decrypted the message was attached. Some kind of security.

  “Sergeant Wall.” The officer was back.

  He straightened. “Yes, sir?”

  “Force Reserve’s looking for volunteers.”

  “Give me a peashooter and a Kraut,” Tom said. “I’m a happy man.”

  The next day, maybe the day after: They were facing a fresh Nazi division, bristling with equipment and ammo and Aryan superiority, fresh-faced from sleep, with Stukas and Sturmgewehrs. The general withdrawal had been sounded, the Allies abandoning Crete—except Force Reserve didn’t retreat. Force Res advanced, unsupported and outnumbered, to buy time.

  The Krauts moved on Canea and Suda, and Tom was in a killing fog. He couldn’t die. His feet were bloody inside his boots; his tongue was a swollen slab. Then the noise stopped. He was lifted by God’s hand and tossed through the air, smacked facedown onto the hard-packed earth. A snail’s slime trail crept over twigs an inch from his nose. The silence was beautiful.

  He was at a first-aid station, the medic shaking his head. He was on a stretcher, in a truck, being driven through a smoldering fishing village. His hand was shattered; his breath was a dying wheeze. He was in a boat, swathed in bandages, puking chunks of blood.

  A white-blond limey gave him morphine shots for the pain.

  “You’re bloody lucky,” the limey said. “Twelve hundred Force Reserve, and more’n a thousand coiled rope.”

  “Coiled rope?”

  “Died, mate. Only a hundred and fifty left.”

  “Yeah. I’m a lucky man.” Even his cigarette case had survived. Inside were a tarnished silver napkin ring, a buffalo-head nickel, and a poem. The poem code.

  No decrypting required, and it still took three days to fill the gaps. There were two messages:

  TO CREFORCE HQ: BE ADVISED THAT OUR AGENT IN PLACE, CODE EULT, SUGGESTS MáLEME AERODROME WILL BE THE FOCUS OF STUDENT AIRBORNE INVASION. EULT HAS DETERMINED THAT NAZI MOUNTAIN REGIMENTS PLAN TO LAND HILL 107 FOLLOWING SEIZURE.

  A response from Creforce HQ must’ve followed. No doubt saying they’d turn Hill 107 into an impregnable fortress. The reply to Crete command read:

  PERMISSION TO REINFORCE MáLEME AIRFIELD EXPRESSLY FORBIDDEN. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES COMPROMISE SOURCE EULT. TAKE NO ACTION OR INACTION THAT COULD REVEAL INTELLIGENCE DERIVED FROM
EULT. AGENT IN PLACE MUST NOT BE ENDANGERED.

  They knew Máleme was the primary target. They knew, and did nothing. The boys had died for nothing. . . .

  Tom was in the field hospital. More morphine. Courses of antitetanus serum against infection, blood counts to measure the secondary shock. The treatment of burns he hadn’t realized he had, his body broken and his mind bent.

  They knew the crosshairs were on Hill 107, but permission to entrench had been denied. Permission to reinforce, denied. Why? To protect the source. Protect the agent in place, code-named EULT. Sacrifice the squad to protect the source.

  The source? The source had betrayed Tom before. The source knew poem codes, knew intelligence—knew sacrifice and denial. The poem itself revealed the source’s identity:

  Wrapped in war’s perfume, the delicate banner.

  Leaps and beckons from the fiery front.

  Signs billow and plume—on anvil, on hammer.

  Of flags like the eyes of a woman.

  The poem was Walt Whitman, Earl’s favorite. Protect the source? Protect the traitor, the turncoat. Protect Earl.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  AFTERNOON, DECEMBER 2, 1941

  TOM’S HEAD JERKED and he woke, driving on the wrong side of the road. He panicked, yanked the wheel to the right. Realized he was in England and shoved the wheel back, almost losing control. He slammed the brakes and the MG squealed, fishtailed. He blinked. The car was stopped in the middle of the road. He was steady. He was swell. His eyelids were heavy as gravestones.

  He was driving again, and a panel truck loomed from nowhere and thundered past, hammering wind at him. The MG veered toward a ditch; he gripped the wheel, regained the road. He had to focus. The road was an endless curving ribbon. He hadn’t been so near sleep in four days.

  His eyes were burning. Focus. Keep the car on the road. Sedgeware Bury. Another left? The endless road, the endless weight of the past.

  DAVIES-FRANK CLOSED the case file and stared at the ceiling.

  Sondegger was in London for a reason. Every word he spoke, every gesture and expression served a purpose. He had not infiltrated England without reason, had not surrendered to the auxiliary firemen without reason. He had not given them Duckblind’s rendezvous information without a hidden, deadly reason. If only they knew a single fact about the man. Who had he been before the war? What was his background, his training, his rank?

  The door opened and Highcastle entered, mopping a handkerchief over his brow. He’d been briefing the men for tonight’s action, and his briefings were more physical than verbal: explosive bursts of warning, threats, strategy.

  “Have you terrified the men into shape?” Davies-Frank asked.

  Highcastle grunted. “Just spoke to Farquhar.”

  Davies-Frank checked his watch. “He’s still on?”

  “Shift ended twenty minutes ago. Hasn’t been relieved.”

  “Who’s late?”

  “Melville.”

  “Could be traffic,” Davies-Frank said, unconvinced. “Another twenty minutes and I’ll place the call.”

  Highcastle grunted again, and there was a knock and he said, “Come.”

  Abrams stepped inside. “Your Yank is in the drive. Motored up easy as you please. Claims he needs a moment of your time.”

  “He drove himself?” Davies-Frank said.

  “Yes, sir,” Abrams said. “He’s alone.”

  “Send him in.”

  “Arrest him,” Highcastle said, because Tom had pulled a sneak on the drive to the Rowansea, because he’d returned to Hennessey Gate and compromised security, and because he was long odds in a short game. “The man’s a wild card.”

  “Wild cards win games,” Davies-Frank said. “Sondegger told Wall more in ten minutes than he told us in a week.”

  “More what? Lies?”

  “We’ll know tonight. The men are prepared?”

  “All save one.”

  Meaning Davies-Frank. He ignored Highcastle.

  “I don’t like it, Rupert,” Highcastle said when Abrams left. “Breach of procedure.”

  He meant for Davies-Frank to join the action tonight. True enough, but inevitable nevertheless. “Es spricht nichts dagegen, Highcastle,” he said. “Not kennt kein Gebot.”

  Highcastle didn’t speak two words of German. Didn’t speak four of English. Still, his scowl was eloquent.

  The door opened and Tom Wall stepped inside. He was wearing a pea green Billsby jacket with square black buttons and a light blue shirt open at the neck. His brown trousers were half-bunched and half-cuffed over a pair of general-issue army boots. His hair was tousled and one side of his mouth was swollen; his face was raw and abraded.

  “You should see the other fella,” he said. “You get my message?”

  “Your message?” Davies-Frank said.

  “Nurse Harper left a message for you at the Home Office, at Fire Control. Wherever the hell you claim to be.”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean,” Davies-Frank said. “Or what you’re doing here. I thought you understood security.”

  “Security is why I’m here.” Tom eyed the map on Highcastle’s desk. “Two men gave me the business last night.”

  Highcastle grunted and folded the map closed.

  Tom grinned. “The Metropolitan Police say they’re muggers.”

  “You were robbed,” Davies-Frank said.

  “A couple gorillas named Rugg and Renard wanted to know about”—Tom attempted a Cockney accent—“‘the fookin’ toff what paid you a visit at the crack flat.’”

  “Two men attacked you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They mentioned the Rowansea by name?”

  “And they knew you were there.”

  “They asked about me?”

  “At length.” Tom raised his bandaged hand. “Persuasive lads.”

  Highcastle spoke with uncharacteristic softness: “You told them what?”

  “Fuck if I know. I’m just a fainthearted nancy boy, remember?”

  “Names?” Davies-Frank asked. “This location?”

  “I didn’t mention Hennessey Gate,” Tom said. Which didn’t matter. The words Hennessey Gate weren’t on any map. “I told them about you—told them you were Fire Control. You were an old friend, I told them . . . I don’t know. Told them about Greece.”

  “What are you holding back?” Davies-Frank asked.

  Tom hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “I trust you with your deceit—you trust me with mine.”

  “Sit,” Highcastle said. “From the beginning.”

  Davies-Frank took notes. Had the “gorillas” truly asked about him? If so, it was a serious breach. Probably linked to the Rowansea, but who would be surveilling the hospital? How deep did Sondegger’s purpose flow?

  For all the drama, Tom didn’t have much to say. Harriet Wall had directed him to the Waterfall, told him Earl was often there. He’d had a few drinks and stepped outside into a beating and interrogation. Davies-Frank glanced at Highcastle. Fifth columnists with a line on Sondegger, or at least on Davies-Frank, were extremely dangerous. Still, it was secondary to Duckblind, secondary to All Souls Church.

  “I hitched a lift back to the hospital,” Tom said. “Got patched up. Then Harri—Mrs. Wall sprung me. Here I am.”

  “Mrs. Wall?”

  “She lent me her car.”

  “You told her what happened?”

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s cleared—she’s SOE.”

  Another glance at Highcastle. Tom knew about the SOE?

  “Intelligence runs in the family,” Tom said. “Like beauty and wit.”

  “So you breached security to—”

  “It’s fucking breached already—that’s what I’m telling you. It’s split in two—ask Rugg and Renard
. They knocked shit out of me, and I talked.” He looked to Highcastle. “You think you could’ve done better?”

  Highcastle didn’t respond.

  “So I talked,” Tom said. “I fed them what bullshit I could. That’s why I came, to tell you. Fair warning. More than you gave me. Plus, I have a— There’s something else.”

  There was a long silence. Tom looked at his hands, and Davies-Frank wondered if he’d lost the thought. It was impressive that he’d come this far, shocked and battered, and still had the guts to admit he’d talked.

  Tom lifted his head. “I need to speak with the Hun.”

  “Do you?”

  “To double-check the meeting tonight.”

  “No,” Davies-Frank said. “You hope he’ll tell you where Earl is. How can he, when he thinks you are Earl?”

  “He might let something slip.”

  “Sondegger?” Davies-Frank pinched the bridge of his nose. Tom was volatile, but they might need him again. The closer he got to Sondegger, the better. “Do you remember the man I mentioned, code-named Whiskbroom?”

  “In Berlin. The highly placed asset.”

  “If Duckblind blows the Twenty Committee, they’ll kill his family. Think about that, Tom. We have a lead now, thanks to you; maybe we can stop the transmission. Maybe we can save Whiskbroom, save a hundred other agents, save the entire Double-Cross System. But don’t think about that; think about Whiskbroom. You take a wrong step, Tom, his children die.”

  THE SMELL OF BONFIRE still hung in the air. Inside the room behind the white door, the wooden desk was bare and there was no trace of the fire beyond the smell. The paper had burned bright and quick and been easily extinguished. Tom remembered the heat on his face, felt it merging with the ache of the beating and the weight of his fatigue.