“Long enough to recognize a checkup, an audition, when you see one?”
Kramer stopped. Perhaps he had already said too much. After all, Gunther was riding high in his own trial balloon at this very moment. Kramer didn’t want to push him too hard and blow him back across the Channel if he truly was theirs.
Gunther did not reply, and was left to his own reflections. He too was thinking what a complex and subtle business this was.
Kramer turned his back again, thought for a couple minutes, then opened his mouth to speak. When he spun back around, however, Gunther was gone. He had left the room silently; Kramer had not even heard the door.
He sighed deeply. Who could tell, though? Maybe Gunther was right. Logan had handled himself pretty well. If the Abwehr contact had at least thought him worth testing, that might be a good sign. Perhaps his old friend Logan might prove more useful than he had first anticipated.
Keep him in—a novel idea! Maybe a good one. They could manage Gunther.
No one could say Major Arnold Kramer had advanced to his present position by being afraid to go out on a limb occasionally.
10
Short Furlough
It was one of those crisp days of April when the chill in the air is a sufficient reminder that the last snow has only recently thawed. But accompanying the brisk temperature was a bright persistent sun, and had he been on land, better yet in the countryside, there would have been a fragrance of flowers in the air, speaking with conviction that spring had arrived.
As he leaned against the rail, sucking in the tangy salt breezes, Logan recalled another spring nine years ago when he had sailed northward on this very schooner. Then he had come bearing lies and deception, and a plan to swindle the most prominent family in town. As the schooner slid into its slip in Port Strathy’s harbor, on this spring day of 1941, Logan somehow felt that very little had changed.
He found himself almost wishing Arnie hadn’t so willingly granted permission for this brief leave. But things had been going so well, he was probably glad to reward Logan in this way. Logan had contacted von Graff upon several occasions by wireless, had fed him what information Arnie had supplied, and on the whole Kramer seemed pleased with the way things were developing. He had had Gunther reassigned farther north temporarily so as to remove at least one element of chance from Logan’s activities. He’d let some of the other boys keep an eye on him for a while; Kramer himself would have his hands full keeping tabs on Logan and von Graff, at least until Logan knew how to handle himself in the spy game.
As he was handing Logan his official papers for the trip north, Kramer had rather off-handedly mentioned that he had had an ulterior motive, aside from all else, for giving Logan a brief respite.
“What’s up?” asked Logan, curious.
“You never told me you could speak French,” said the major.
“You never asked.”
“It’s a good thing I was looking over your personnel file.” Kramer absently tapped a manila folder lying on his desk. “How good are you?”
“Not bad, I suppose,” said Logan modestly.
“Level with me, Logan.”
“They always said I had a knack for it.”
“By which they meant what?”
“That I didn’t have an English accent, I suppose. It came natural to me.”
“And where did you pick it up?”
“I was there for a couple years in ’29 and ’30.”
“On what business?”
“You know how it was back then, Arnie. Things had begun to get a little touchy for me. So in order to promote my continued freedom, I decided to see what the Continent had to offer. A friend and I had a pretty decent setup in Le Mans in the racing game until the gendarmes got onto us. Then I drifted down to the Riviera. I didn’t make my fortune, but I did pick up the language.”
“Well, I mentioned you to the boys in SOE.”
“Sorry—I haven’t got all your initials down yet.”
“Special Operations Executive,” replied Kramer. “They specialize in overseas espionage, sabotage, that sort of thing. They need operatives who speak French, especially now with the Continent totally in the hands of the Germans and the role of the underground so crucial.”
He paused and glanced at Logan.
“What are you suggesting, Arnie?” Logan asked.
“I don’t know, but it made sense to me. You’ve done well so far. But the training’s rather stiff, and only a fraction of those who can speak the language manage to pass. It’s an elitist outfit.”
“You can’t seriously be considering me!”
“Why not? You’ve shown some guts recently. You might be good at it. So I had them put your name on the roster for the next training session. It’s coming up in a month.”
Logan knew only a little about the SOE, but since that conversation with Arnie Kramer, he had tried to remember everything he’d heard. They operated behind enemy lines, constantly walking the tightrope between a hazardous freedom and capture. In case of the latter, torture was certain, death probable. The missions were of the highest importance, yet at the same time were as close to suicide assignments as the British could offer. Few operatives returned without having at least flirted with death. It was a long way from petty con games, or even posing as a German spy in a quiet English port town.
As Logan looked up at the harbor of Port Strathy, he recalled that his first thought after hearing Arnie’s proposal about the SOE was of his family. He would be seeing them soon. And as difficult as his marriage had been over the last few years, down inside he still wanted it to work. He couldn’t keep lying to Allison. In a few minutes he would again be holding her in his arms. He’d been thinking about what Kramer had said during the whole of his voyage north, and finally he knew what his answer had to be.
No, Arnie Kramer, he thought to himself, this is one assignment I cannot accept.
The schooner’s crew was already busy casting the ropes out to catch the dock’s moorings. Out on the wharf Logan saw several familiar faces. He returned their friendly greetings, gradually warming to the idea of his return, realizing that perhaps it was not like the first time at all. He was no stranger coming to Stonewycke this time. These people were his friends; he was part of this little community, and he held nothing but goodwill in his heart for these people.
Where was Allison? Civilian communications were so haywire since the war. He wondered if she’d even received his telegram. He probably should have telephoned. But as much as he hated to admit it, he’d been just a bit afraid to talk to her. Their last conversation still haunted his memory.
He quickly scanned the faces lining the shore again, but then suddenly his eyes were diverted to the street running adjacent to the Bluster N’ Blow. Allison’s dark golden hair seemed to reflect the crimson of the sun itself, and her cheeks held a rosy glow from her hurried pace. The moment her blue eyes spotted him on the deck of the waiting boat, her lips broke into a warm, lively smile and her step quickened still further.
“Ali!” he shouted, running down the barely situated gangway. All his earlier ambivalence dissolved at the sight of his wife, nor was he embarrassed at the good-natured cheer that rose from the crowd of onlookers as he rushed forward and took her into his arms.
“Oh, Logan!” she exclaimed.
He could find no immediate words. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and held her close, then bent down to kiss her. But as his lips met hers, there were tears in her eyes. He felt tears rising in his own as well.
“We must look like a couple of ninnies,” he said at last.
“It’ll give all the people something to talk about for the next week,” replied Allison. “We’re improving the morale of the neighborhood!”
Logan laughed.
As they stood together for a lingering moment, forgotten were the tensions, the doubts, the harsh words, and the pain of recent meetings. Seemingly for a few brief careless minutes they were once again newlyweds, jubilant
in their love and in the sheer joy of being together. They turned, and hand-in-hand walked back along the street to the car.
Logan jumped behind the wheel of the old Austin. It started right up, another reminder that this day was different than that on which he and Allison had first met, when the old car had stubbornly coughed and sputtered until Logan appeared with his timely mixture of expertise and good luck.
As he wheeled the car around, he reflected back to that earlier time. Like that finicky Austin, their first encounters had been but sputtering attempts toward relationship, each antagonizing the stubborn pride of the other. When the day of the flood came, it was as if the water itself had begun a cleansing process within them. They were soon to learn, however, that such inner cleansing had nothing to do with the flood. Rather, it was God himself who was washing them clean, and drawing them together in the process, as He drew their spirits toward His heart of love. He who would become their Lord was tearing down the walls that each had erected, though in the years since that time, without knowing it, they had both built them back up again.
But for the moment, as they flew out of Port Strathy and up the hill toward the ancient estate, their thoughts were filled with the good times of their youth.
“Tell me—” began Allison, but at the same moment Logan had also tried to speak. They laughed.
“You go ahead,” said Allison. “What were you going to say, Logan?”
“It’s not that important.”
“I want to hear,” she insisted. “I’ve waited so long just to hear your voice since . . .”
She hesitated, and Logan said nothing.
“Oh, Logan, I’m so sorry about what I did on the phone!” she added.
“Forget it. Everything’s forgiven,” replied Logan. “Let’s both just forget the past and start out new.”
“Logan, how I wish . . .” But even as she spoke, Allison paused, as if some sudden assurance had stolen upon her. “Yes, we can, can’t we? Oh, it’s so good to see you . . . I’m so glad you’re home!”
The word home stung Logan with an odd sensation. Yes, there was a part of him that had felt like he was coming home as the schooner rounded the head and pointed its bow into the bay. Yet another part of him . . .
Even as the thought darted into his mind he silently cursed himself for spoiling the sweet mood of their reunion.
“I’m glad too, Ali,” he said, and left it at that.
Then followed a silence. Logan could not shake the cloud that had suddenly showed itself on his horizon. The quiet would have become awkward had they allowed it to linger on, but Allison interceded in time.
“You should see little Joanna,” she said. “You won’t recognize her. She’s so big, and talks all the time. She’ll soon be two—just imagine!”
“I’ve thought of nothing else,” he answered, “except you.”
She slipped her arm through his and snuggled closer.
“We had a letter from Dad yesterday,” she said, trying to fill him in on family news.
“How is he?”
“He says he’s healthy and all. But he hasn’t seen Ian, which is a disappointment to him—they’re both in North Africa, you know, and he was hoping they’d see more of each other. He can’t say much about the war, but Mother sensed some discouragement. About all he had to say on the bright side was that he’d been studying camels and was fascinated.”
Logan laughed. “Always the vet! Your dad is really quite a guy.”
“Yes,” sighed Allison, thinking of how long it took her to discover that fact. She now knew what a wonderful man her father was—even more so now that he was absent from her.
“Things haven’t gone so well in Africa,” continued Logan, “since the Germans sent in Rommel a couple of months ago. He’s pushed the British troops back nearly all the way to the Egyptian border.”
“Do you think . . . is Dad in any danger?”
“Of course not!” Logan replied with all the confidence he could muster. “That was stupid of me to say.”
“No! I want to know what’s going on. I hate it when the government and newspapers try to whitewash everything. How do you have such current information? We have to struggle for every tidbit we get up here.”
“Oh . . . well.” Logan quickly sought in his head for a plausible explanation other than that he’d heard it at MI5. “I met a talkative soldier on the train,” he lied, hating himself for it.
“Well I wish I’d meet a talkative soldier some time.” She hadn’t seemed to notice his momentary hesitation. “But he probably wouldn’t have told me anything—no one will say anything to a woman about the war.”
“It can’t be as bad as all that. This is a new age. Women are in all kinds of vital positions.” Even intelligence, he was about to say, but thought better of it.
“Probably not. I’m sure I just imagined it. But it’s so frustrating! Sometimes I wish I were a man, Logan, so I could do something. I’d rather be part of the fight than sitting around rolling bandages and collecting tin.”
“That’s important too, you know. Keeps the morale high, for the boys to know the women are waiting for them at home—so I’ve been told.”
“That’s so old-fashioned, Logan! We’d rather be part of it all.”
As Allison spoke, they drove through the open iron gates of Stonewycke. Logan chuckled as he braked the car in front of the courtyard fountain. The image of Allison dressed in army fatigues, hefting a rifle over her shoulder, was an amusing one indeed.
But the passionate words of his young wife also touched Logan’s heart. She had so much spirit, such vitality and energy! Yes, she no doubt would make a good soldier—strong and courageous, even daring.
As they climbed out of the car, the large front door opened and Joanna walked out and hurried toward Logan.
He turned and faced her.
“Logan!” she said, “it’s so good to see you! Welcome back!”
He paused a moment, then bowed deeply, and rose. “Charming, as always, Lady MacNeil!” he said, with exaggerated tone and a twinkle in his eye.
The women both eyed each other with a grin. Each then took an arm, and Logan, as if exulting in his triumphant return, led the way toward the house, all three laughing in the joy of his irrepressibly buoyant spirit.
11
Like Old Times
In her desperation to have everything right again between them, Allison forgot a principle she knew only too well—that wounds do not often heal so readily. Seeing Logan again, with the old lilt in his step and sparkle in his eye and wisecrack on his tongue convinced her that she could lay aside all the fears and doubts about their marriage that had been plaguing her. They were together now, and that was all that mattered. He had come to her. He had known she needed him, and had left London and all that had been so important to him—for her.
Alas, the next few days only aided Allison in her blissful misconception. Patience had never been one of her greatest assets, and she could not wait for the depth of discernment which might have allowed her to see that the ground under her feet was not as smooth as she wanted it to be. But for the blessed present, spring had come to the land, and to the soul of young Allison Macintyre.
As the coming of growth and green, planting and blossoms, warmth and rain gradually took over the Strathy countryside, so did joy and apparent happiness surround the young couple. As if reacquainting themselves with one another, as well as old haunts and old memories together, they walked for miles, both visiting old friends and simply enjoying the glorious coastline and inland beauty. On horseback they rode upon the surrounding hills and along the sandy beach, just as Maggie and Ian had done some seventy-five years before. Though all upon it had changed, the land had not, still possessing a power to move, a power to invoke reflection, a power to open the spirit to the heart of its Creator.
Once again talk flowed easily between them. Neither seemed to notice, or care, that amid all the profusion of conversation, they subconsciously avoided anyt
hing that hinted at the deep or the personal. Neither wanted to threaten the precarious balance of relationship that seemed to be growing once more between them. Instinctively they realized it too tender a thing yet to be examined directly without endangering its frail life. Therefore they kept in constant motion. Joanna commented one evening that she had hardly seen Logan again since the day of his arrival, and had not had the chance to sit down and talk with him about anything.
He laughed it off.
“Ah, my dear mother-in-law,” he said flippantly, “these are not the days for serious conversation. The world is at war, and darkness surrounds us on all sides. These are the times, rather, when we must laugh and make merry. For tomorrow we may, as the saying goes—well, perhaps the remainder of said proverb had best remain unspoken. Nevertheless, I do not choose to add to the world’s gloom with serious reflection, introspection, and pontification. My calling has always been to bring a little levity to the world!”
He lifted his glass, to Allison’s delight, and Joanna joined in the laughter at his speech. However, as it subsided, neither of the two young people noted the deep anxious furrow of concern that remained in her brow.
One day the sun rose especially warm. A cool breeze would no doubt later come blowing in off the ocean as a reminder of recently departed winter. A few clouds dotted the sky, but Logan, undaunted, walked into the kitchen about ten to see if he could cajole the cook into preparing a basket for an outdoor feast.
Twenty minutes later, he emerged with the basket over his arm and a carefree smile on his face. He found Allison in the family parlor sewing while listening to the radio. She looked up as he entered, and her look of concentration immediately brightened.
“What have we here?” she asked cheerfully.
“This, mon chèri,” replied Logan with a humble bow and tip of his cap, “is a celebration de vivre—a celebration of life! Come join me, fair maiden!”
“Logan . . . what?” exclaimed Allison, delighted, yet still puzzled.
“An old-fashioned Scottish picnic, what else!”
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