by Joel N. Ross
Highcastle needed help. The Special Branch, the Home Guard—hell, give him the Housewives Service and the Boy Scouts. He’d beg help from anyone. Not enough time, not enough men . . .
Yet he found time to stop here. They’d come last year for an evening show, he and Davies-Frank and Mrs. Davies-Frank. It had been the first overture of real friendship outside the office, and it revealed the depth of trust and fondness between them.
Well, that was over. Highcastle brushed the dirt from his sleeve and turned away. Dead was dead, and now he’d mourned for Rupert, and his men murdered at Hennessey Gate. He hadn’t time for guilt. Hadn’t time for anything but finding Duckblind and the Hun and seeing them hung.
Get the Yard on board—and the bloody Salvation Army, for all the good it would do. He’d speak to Harriet Wall himself. Her husband was the only lead they had.
TOM AND HARRIET stood on the dark, drafty street outside the photographer’s flat. Tom lighted a cigarette while Harriet rang the bell. There was no answer, so they spent some time knocking. They needed that microdot enlarged.
A girl with her hair in a net opened the next door and said there were those trying to sleep. Harriet asked for help, her tone warm and her accent clear as cut glass. The girl clutched her robe closer and told them where to find the photographer.
It was midnight when they arrived at the Underground station. Harriet told Tom that during the Blitz, after the Tube stations were opened as raid shelters, the walls had wept moisture, and sewage ran in rivulets underfoot. The air was alternately a freezer or a blast furnace, thick with clouds of mosquitoes, which thrived underground. The platforms were crammed with children in hammocks, scratching from lice, babies crying, prostitutes touting for business.
“There was panic about pickpockets and public fornication,” she said.
“Public fornication,” Tom said. “Disgusting.”
She glanced sharply at him, and he said nothing about the picnic in Virginia, the lemonade and sandwiches, the sugar cookies. . . .
They descended into the shelter. There were triple-layered bunks with thin blue-and-white-striped mattresses and gray wool blankets. Suitcases and wicker baskets had been stacked neatly under tables set with watercoolers and pitchers and cups. There was a stove in the corner, and a gramophone, and the ladies’ WC had been festooned with Christmas decorations. A couple of little girls giggling under a blanket were hushed by a sleepy mother. An old couple shared a top bunk under a frilly counterpane.
Tom glanced at Harriet. Where was the sewage and misery?
“That was during the Blitz,” she said. “They’ve become quite neighborly.”
They soon found Harriet’s tame photographer—a wiry man with fleshy lips that expressed nine degrees of disapproval within a minute of his being awakened. Harriet soothed him, and he grumbled back to his studio, unlocked the door, ensured the blackout curtains were closed, and switched a light.
“Darkroom,” he said. “Entire city’s one big darkroom.” He subjected the microfilm to a cursory inspection. “Can I do it? Of course I can do it. Need a projection reader, though. I’ve a Recordak somewhere in this tumult.” He went directly to the box he wanted and slid the microphotograph into the projector, placing it between two sheets of glass. Showed Harriet how to work it: “Beware of glare points and hot spots.” He pointed out the projection bulb and the heat filters and the screen. “Some prefer blue-white, but amber-gold’s better for eye strain. Any problems, adjust here. . . .”
Harriet thanked him and shooed him into the back room, asking him please to remain on hand, and then bent over the reader. “Yes. There’s writing. . . . It’s in German.” She brushed her hair from her face and groped for pen and paper. Tom provided them, and she translated as she transcribed.
QQ: PREV. TO HAWAII, ISLE OF KUSHUA (PEARL HARBOR). IMPERIAL JAPANESE NAVY, ADMIRAL YAMAMOTO. VICE ADMIRAL NAGUMO.
NAVAL STRONG POINT PEARL HARBOR
1. BOMB PLOT GRID OF FIVE AREAS UPDATED TO NINE. NOTE NEW DESIGNATIONS.
2. STATE WHARF—PIER INSTALLATIONS. PETROL INSTALLATIONS, SITUATIONS OF DRY DOCK NO. 1 AND THE NEW DRY DOCK.
3. SUBMARINE STATION PLAN AND LAND INSTALLATIONS.
4. TORPEDO PROTECTION NETS DEPLOYED? AVERAGE SPEED REDUCTION WHEN IN USE? DETAILS OF CONSTRUCTION.
5. STATION FOR Minensuchverbände. DREDGER WORK—
“Minensuch verboten?” Tom asked, reading over the shoulder.
“Verbände.” Harriet didn’t raise her head. “Mine-search formations.”
She continued translating.
DREDGER WORK AT THE ENTRANCE AND EAST AND SOUTHEAST LOCKS. WATER DEPTH. NUMBER OF ANCHORAGES. PRESENCE OF A FLOATING DOCK IN PEARL HARBOR.
She rubbed her eyes. “Pearl Harbor?”
“Big navy base,” Tom said. “In Hawaii somewhere.”
1. NAVAL INFORMATION: ENEMY SHIPMENTS, MATERIAL, CONVOYS. NAMES OF SHIPS AND SPEEDS. ORGANIZATION OF STRONG POINTS FOR E-BOATS AND DEPOT SHIPS.
2. HAWAII: AMMUNITION DUMPS AND MINE DEPOTS. AMMUNITION RESERVE AT THE ALIAMANU CRATER. PUNCHBOWL CRATER MILITARY WORKS?
3. AERODROMES: NAVAL AIR AND HANGARS KANEOHE, ARMY HICKAM AND WHEELER FIELDS. JOHN RODGERS AIRPORT. ARMY/NAVY. PAN AMERICAN AIRWAYS WIRELESS STATION ON THE MAKAPPU PENINSULA.
“There’s a break,” Harriet said, “after number three. The film appears to continue from another source.”
“Wait—wait. Hawaii? The Hun said a surprise attack. By the Japs? Against Hawaii ?”
“I could write a note saying the Chinese were invading Greenland. Doesn’t make it true.”
02530-JN: TWO FLEET AND TWO LIGHT CARRIERS. TWO CARRIERS CONVERTED FROM BATTLESHIP AND CRUISER. TWO BATTLESHIPS, TWO CRUISERS, A DESTROYER SCREEN, TEN SUPPORT SHIPS.
111 BOMBERS, 44 TORPEDO BOMBERS, 142 DIVE-BOMBERS, 97 FIGHTERS. SIXTEEN I-TYPE SUBMARINES, FIVE TYPE A MIDGET SUBMARINES.
DEPART KURE NAVAL BASE 18 NOVEMBER. STRIKE FORCE TO ASSEMBLE ETOROFU, KURILE ISLANDS.
ALSO NOTED, PER DOCNUM 23A-881-UH-I: “IF, PROCEEDING EASTWARD FROM HITOKAPPU BAY, FORCE SHOULD BE DISCOVERED, TURN BACK AS THOUGH NOTHING HAPPENED; HOWEVER, IF SUCH DISCOVERY IS MADE ON X-1 DAY OR LATER, PROCEED TO RESOLUTELY CARRY OUT ATTACK.”
“November eighteenth,” Tom said. “What’s today? December fourth?”
“The fifth—since midnight.”
“When the hell is X-One Day? We need an almanac. We need a map. How do we confirm any of this?”
“First we finish. Two more sections. This one’s in English. They both are.”
EAST WIND RAIN.
PER AMBASSADOR OSHIMA. RIBBENTROP QUOTED AS: “SHOULD JAPAN BECOME ENGAGED IN HOSTILITIES AGAINST THE UNITED STATES, GERMANY WOULD DECLARE WAR IMMEDIATELY. THERE IS NO POSSIBILITY OF GERMANY ENTERING INTO A SEPARATE PEACE WITH THE UNITED STATES UNDER SUCH CIRCUMSTANCES.”
“The last section is a single sentence,” Harriet said. “It says that confirmation proof is provided in the accompanying microdot.”
“‘Accompanying microdot’?”
“That’s what it says, Tommy. Read it yourself.”
She stood and he took her place. Read the final paragraphs, both in English: “East Wind Rain” and “Confirmation proof of previous available in accompanying microdot. 670-AT7-08597.”
Another microdot, an accompanying microdot. And an attack on Hawaii? A destroyer screen and— No. He couldn’t let himself think about the message. First find the confirmation proof microdot. Then take action.
He dug in Harriet’s bag for Tristram Shandy. “Why the hell not show the proof in the same message?”
“SOP for sensitive initiatives. Neither microphotograph is sufficient without the other. It allows operational flexibility.”
“‘Operational flexibility.’ How small do microdots get?”
“Speck of dust. This one’s fairly large, as if concealment wasn’t the firs
t concern. These tend to be no smaller than a freckle.”
Tom remembered a spray of freckles gracing smooth white skin. Harriet’s bare arm? Or Audrey’s? “We need a clean surface,” he said, opening the book. “Some tools, like dental picks.”
Harriet called the photographer back into the room and told him what they needed. “And prints of the microphotograph. Nothing fancy. Legible is all that matters.”
The photographer told her the prints would take time, and gave her tools and two clean tin trays. He pursed his fleshy lips and disappeared into the back room. The door didn’t quite slam behind him.
Harriet sat next to Tom. They slit the binding and dismantled the book. Inspected every thread of leather binding, every fleck of dust, every period that seemed too three-dimensional. . . .
“We ought to report this immediately.” Harriet looked up from the jumble of paper in her tray. “Even if it is only a hoax.”
“It’s no hoax.”
“Then we ought—”
“It’s the middle of the night, Harry. It’ll wait till dawn. I want to be sure. Sondegger plays a deep game.” He sifted one-handed through a few loose pages. “Least it’s not in code. I saw a poem code once.” Permission to reinforce Máleme airfield expressly forbidden. Under NO circumstances compromise source EULT. “My squad—Lifton and Manny and Rosenblatt, they were sacrificed to protect one man, a covert source. Headquarters knew the attack was coming, knew where and when, but wouldn’t let us reinforce. My boys—they died for . . .”
“For what, Tommy? For Earl?”
Yeah. Tom rubbed his eyes. Earl betrayed me. He stole you. He was EULT, the source on Crete, protected at the cost of my boys and— No.
“No,” he said, surprising himself. “Earl had nothing to do with Crete.”
THE TYPEWRITER MECHANIC had fair hair and a clubfoot. Sondegger observed him until he could identify the role he was playing: a variation of Gundlach, the proud cripple who would neither beg nor bend, a performance presented with a great deal of flair and personal interpretation.
Late afternoon turned to early evening. The mechanic returned home, then departed for the local. He stumbled on the front steps.
Sondegger extended his arm. “Need a hand, mate?”
The man stiffened. “No. Thank you.”
“Right enough,” Sondegger said. “You need a foot.”
The man stared, then snorted a laugh. “Cheeky bastard.”
A few words, and the mechanic bought Sondegger a drink. A profitable evening already, and Sondegger hadn’t yet inquired into the man’s knowledge of Kruh, the Abwehr agent whose loyalty was in question.
“A toast,” Sondegger said, lifting his glass. There was a noble history of cripples in literature: King Lycurgus had amputated his own foot while chopping grape vines, trying to destroy the cult of Dionysus. “To the sacred kings.”
The mechanic drank, and was distracted by a hubbub in the corner—a dart tournament. He nodded toward the boards. “Fancy a go?”
Sondegger said he’d like nothing better, and the mechanic bought another round while they waited. Telephus, lame king of the Mysians, had been set adrift on the sea as a baby, but he’d survived. Cripples were a hardy folk, and proud. Pride was a useful tool—Sondegger told a tale of his adventure with a delayed action bomb during the Blitz. He was modest and smug.
The mechanic said he’d had a bit more excitement than a time bomb.
Sondegger, carefully patronizing, said of course he had.
“Honest to Christ I have.”
“I’m sure you have. And how lucky was I that the bomb didn’t—”
The urge to upstage was universal: “Wasn’t I there when three Heinie spies floated down? Parachutes dropping overhead—I thought the invasion had begun. I half-expected they’d be got up as nuns, but nothing like—”
“Not a wimple among them?”
“Tell you what was among them. A unit of Security Service, like a fox among chickens. Security Service or some lot who knew their business.”
Sondegger considered the hue of his porter. Aegisthus, exposed as an infant, was suckled by a goat and lived. Hippothous, son of Poseidon, was suckled by a mare. The son of a god was nursed at the bosom of a beast. Had the Abwehr agent Kruh, a son of the Fatherland, been captured and nursed to the bosom of British counterintelligence?
Sondegger looked toward the dartboards. “What’s the prize, then? Set of six darts—Unicorns? Wouldn’t mind a bit, winning those.”
“I bloody saw it,” the mechanic insisted. “The Security blokes shot two of the Heines dead as donkeys.”
“And the third?”
“The third?” Belated wariness crept into the mechanic’s red-rimmed eyes.
“The third parachutist. Another round? Oh, that reminds me why I’m celebrating. Industrial market gone to pot, but the brewery group’s strong as ever. Fremlins advanced to thirty-two shillings three pence, and Benskins to seventy-five shillings on the report. . . .”
They stepped up to the dartboard, and Sondegger spoke until the defensive hunch smoothed from the man’s shoulders. He didn’t believe a word the drunk cripple spoke, and he would rather talk about the Exchange than Nazi spies: “Shanghai Banking dropped off sharply. . . .”
The mechanic said, “If you’d only bloody shut up—”
“I’ve been watching the price of rubber, too.”
“The third Heine pissed his breeches and was taken into custody, and I never heard peep from the papers.”
Sondegger murmured something about the advance of Indian Iron and tossed a dart into the bull’s-eye. So Kruh was captured, and had been transmitting from a British safe house or prison. Gerring and Kruh both turned: The Abwehr network had fallen. Half his purpose in England had been achieved. Perhaps the other half, as well. If Tom Wall had acted as expected, Sondegger’s operation was an unqualified success.
“EARL HAD NOTHING to do with Crete,” Tom said again.
Earl wasn’t EULT, wasn’t the agent in place on Crete. Tom had been wrong, because of the morphine, the insomnia; he’d confused a personal betrayal for a professional one. He’d been deluded and drugged, the code name EULT looking like Earl to his misfiring mind, and that poem code looking like Walt Whitman. But EULT wasn’t Earl, and the poem wasn’t Whitman. Tom had slept, and he’d healed; he knew what treachery Earl had done and what he hadn’t.
“Welcome back, Tommy,” Harriet said.
“I still hate the bastard. Steal his brother’s woman.” But his heart loosened; Earl hadn’t killed his boys. “Goddamn Earl.”
The photographer bustled in with the prints. He instructed them on locking up, and the door jingled softly behind him when he left. The room was suddenly intimate. Tom and Harriet worked quietly side by side. They’d always worked well together, played well together. It hadn’t been enough.
It was slow work with two hands, slower with one. Tom’s back ached. His mind was numb from the tedium. He felt Harriet’s gaze, and looked up.
“I find it offensive,” she said, “that you blame Earl and not me.”
“You’re offended? You left me.”
“I’m not speaking of leaving, I’m speaking of blame.”
“He seduced you.”
“He made his wishes known. I decided. It was my decision. Not his. Not yours. Mine.”
Tom gestured toward the dismembered book. “You tired of working?”
“You hate him, but I’m merely a victim?”
“I don’t—”
“I’m not worth hating? I’m a bagatelle, a bone between two dogs?”
“I spent some time trying to hate you, Harriet. Never could pull it off.”
Her eyes softened and deepened.
He was afraid of what he might say. “Let’s get this done.”
He bent back over his tray. A m
oment later, she did the same. They picked the book apart with tweezers and magnifying glasses. His world shrank to the tray and the chemical smell of the photography studio. He found a page of asterisks—rows and columns of asterisks—and his heart leapt. But they were ink, not film. Harriet slept on the photographer’s camp bed for three hours. Tom slept for four. They continued the dissection. His hand pulsed with his heartbeat. They finished after dawn. There was no second microdot.
“Doesn’t matter,” Tom said. “You report to your office. I’ll visit the embassy.” He shrugged into his jacket. “Again.”
“Wait, I’ve a call to make first.” She found the phone and spoke to the operator.
Tom read his copy of the notes. A Japanese attack on Hawaii? The Philippines, he could almost believe, but Hawaii? It was crazy. And if the U.S. had advance warning, would the attack be withdrawn? Maybe. You couldn’t ambush a prepared force—not if your plan called for surprise. Made sense they’d have a cutoff date, this X-1 Day. He couldn’t believe it, but had to act as if it were true. Too much was at stake.
Harriet hung up. “The aerodromes mentioned do exist, the craters, as well. The codes check—oh two five three oh-JN and East Wind Rain. Pan American has a wireless on the peninsula. If it’s a fabrication, it’s a professional fabrication.”
“Kure base?”
“The Kurile Islands are northeast of Japan. An extensive naval base.”
“How long from—”
“Two or three weeks to Hawaii. Depending on a great many things.”
“The strike force left on November eighteenth,” he said. “Today’s what? Early morning, December fifth.”
“Must be still the night of the fourth in Hawaii.”
