Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “I’ve waited a long time to get actively involved in the war,” said Logan somewhat defensively. “I doubt that it will wait for me forever.”

  “I’ve seen many an eager soldier in my day, lad, and none who were healthy and red-blooded as you appear to be were ever known to miss a chance to be with their wives or lovers before shipping out unless something was amiss at home.”

  Logan did not reply. He had no desire to elaborate on his marital problems with this officer whom he barely knew.

  “It is one thing for a regular soldier to hit the battlefield with problems on the home front occupying his mind,” said the major. “But for one in your position, it could prove nothing less than suicide.”

  “I assure you, Major, I know where my duty lies, and I am fully able to keep my concentration on my job.”

  “Well it is my duty to insure that any escaping is done from the other end,” Atkinson said firmly, though his voice never rose above its original soft tone. “That’s not what this unit is about. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Atkinson leaned back in his swivel chair, and for a long moment allowed his eye to move up and down in a thorough examination of this would-be agent standing before him.

  “I seriously wonder if you do, Macintyre.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m going to be frank with you, young man,” he said, then paused.

  He leaned forward, his eye still focused on Logan, though now it rested only on his face, intently probing Logan’s eyes. Logan did not flinch, though he desperately wanted to look away. He didn’t want to betray the anger rising within him.

  “I have my doubts about you, Macintyre,” continued the major. “To put it succinctly, I don’t think you have what it takes for this job.”

  “Meaning no disrespect, sir,” answered Logan, “but it would have been nice if someone would have mentioned that before I successfully completed three months of training.”

  “For one thing, Macintyre, screening volunteers is not my job. If it were, you can be certain I would have voiced my doubts. For another thing, as far as your success during training is concerned, I believe it would be a small enough matter for a man of your diverse talents and background to succeed in such a situation. I think you would understand my meaning if I used the old expression ‘bluff your way through.’ But I don’t believe you are tough enough to succeed in a real situation.”

  “I had to survive on the streets before I was ten years old.”

  “You lack discipline,” countered Atkinson. “And you lack staying power. According to your record, the only thing you’ve ever done that’s lasted longer than a year is your marriage—and now it appears as if that is failing also. How can we be certain that you won’t get out there where it can be rough, and decide it’s too much for you? Or worse, what if you get captured? How long could you hold up under torture?”

  “Can any man truly answer those questions, Major?”

  “It helps to have a sound track record.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to blackball me?”

  “If Major Kramer hadn’t so highly recommended you, yes. I’d tell you to go back to I-Corps and continue with the work you were doing for them. But I’ve known Arnold a long time, and I respect his opinion.”

  Atkinson opened a folder that had been lying in front of him and leafed quickly through several pages. “It says here you were classified as a sharpshooter during training.”

  “I guess I did something right,” replied Logan, forgetting himself in the relief of apparently being accepted—though reluctantly—by this hard-nosed army major.

  Atkinson opened his desk drawer and took out a small automatic pistol. Before Logan even had a chance to wonder what was coming next, the major tossed the weapon in Logan’s direction. Logan reacted swiftly and caught it in one smooth motion.

  “Tell me something, Macintyre—have you ever killed anyone?”

  Logan’s mind froze in place for a moment as he stared down at the major’s gun. He was thinking of the last time—besides his training—when he had held a similar weapon. He had been sitting in a deserted cottage holding a pistol on one of Chase Morgan’s men. He had to keep the man prisoner long enough to allow Allison to get safely away. The only problem was that he was himself slowly succumbing to a serious wound. But he had threatened Lombardi that he would kill him if he tried anything. Logan’s threat, however, was never to be proven, for he passed out and the hoodlum escaped, fortunately not in time to overtake Allison. Logan had never touched a gun either before or after that moment. He had never physically harmed anyone in his life. He’d never even been involved in a common fistfight. He’d always used his mouth, and had managed to talk his way out of many jams. He’d recently been exposed to hand-to-hand combat techniques during his training, but that was different, and the major knew it. Steadily he returned the man’s gaze, then said, “No, I haven’t.”

  “You probably think I’m a real hard case, don’t you, Macintyre?”

  Logan pointedly did not respond.

  “There’s a reason for that,” the major went on. “I’m responsible for the men I send out. I don’t like to lose any—even cocky con men. Unfortunately, I lose too many just from the natural hazard of the job. But as much care as I try to take, I still have trouble sleeping at night. There’s no way I could send out an incompetent.”

  “Will you allow me to be frank with you, Major?” asked Logan steadily.

  Atkinson nodded solemnly.

  “I have spent more than half my life defying the law,” Logan began resolutely, “and more time in jail for it than I care to admit. There used to be a noble character or two in my family—at least on one side of it. I have one ancestor who was held in rather high esteem by some pretty grand people. But in less than half a lifetime I’ve managed to disgrace the whole lot. And when I tried to establish some kind of honest life, I royally botched the job. Now I’ve got a chance to change all that. Well, Major, you were right when you said that it would have been easy for me to bluff my way through SOE training. But I’m not bluffing about this—”

  Logan’s gaze momentarily turned hard and serious. “I don’t plan to disgrace my family again. I intend to bring some honor to the name of Logan Macintyre or—”

  “Die trying?” interjected Atkinson.

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  There followed a long, heavy silence.

  Logan could say no more. It was up to the major now. If only he could read that steely gray eye.

  At length the major lifted a thick brown paper packet from his desk. He hefted it in his hand, apparently in thought, for a few seconds, then handed it out to Logan.

  “This is your assignment,” he said.

  Logan reached across the table and took the packet in his hand and began to open it.

  “You will commit the contents to memory,” said Atkinson. “We will be sending one million francs with you to be distributed to various contacts as indicated in the papers you are now holding. You will be dropped by parachute some forty miles north of Paris. Your contact is Henri Renouvin in the city. His address and code identification phrases are all in there.” He cocked his head to indicate the packet. “Renouvin’s network just lost its radio operator, so, since you fared well enough in that area during training, one of your duties will be to train a new one for them. Their radioman was captured, so we are also sending new codes—it’s far too much to memorize; you’ll have to carry them. But you don’t want to be caught with them on you. The organization there has taken quite a bit of battering lately, so we’ll be looking for you to pull them back together.”

  Atkinson paused to hand Logan another smaller envelope. “In here you’ll find your French identity card, travel permit, ration book, and one hundred thousand francs for your personal use. Your cover name is Michel Tanant. From here on out you are to erase Logan Macintyre from memory. He no longer exists. You are now a bookseller from Lyon. Your cover
is convenient in that Renouvin owns a bookstore in Paris, and thus your contact with him will not arouse undue suspicion. You will have a day or two to completely familiarize yourself with Tanant’s background. I’ve instructed your training officer to devise some drills and tests for you so that by the time your life is on the line, his identity will be ground into you deeper than your own. From now on, your final training is to be taken with the utmost seriousness. No more bluffs, Macintyre. It’s deadly serious. Do I make myself clear?”

  Logan nodded.

  “There is one other item in that envelope you ought to be aware of—a cyanide tablet. I believe you know what to do with that, though I pray you’ll never have to use it. Oh, this is for you also.”

  He took something from his desk drawer, and when he held his hand out, Logan saw a lieutenant’s star. “You can’t wear this, or even take it with you, but the title is official nonetheless. You’re hardly regular army, but you’ll no doubt be dealing from time to time with escaped British POW’s and other personnel, and we felt some rank would serve you well—not to mention its usefulness should you ever be captured.”

  Logan stared quietly at the gold star before taking it. Until this moment he had not wanted to believe he was officially in His Majesty’s Armed Services. Suddenly he was an officer.

  “Have you any questions?” asked the major.

  “Dozens,” replied Logan, “but probably none that you need answer, or would care to.”

  “Well, read through and memorize your material first. It ought to fill in the gaps. Then report back here day after tomorrow. I’m afraid I can’t give you more time than that. We’ll have our final briefing then. There will be a Whitley bomber ready for you that evening.”

  “I’ll be ready by then.”

  Atkinson leveled his gaze once more on Logan. “Yes . . . I think you just might be.” He paused a moment, still riveting his single eye straight ahead.

  “I don’t know whether to like you or not, Macintyre,” he finally added. “But in either case, I wish you the best. You just might make it, after all.”

  He stood and extended his hand.

  The gesture, preceded as it had been by the softly spoken words, were the only acquiescence he gave that perhaps he was slowly gaining faith in this untried, unproven would-be spy.

  17

  The Drop

  Bright stars dotted the clear night sky.

  It was a perfect night for flying, but Logan secretly wished for a few more clouds to cover the lone parachute that would soon be floating down from the heavens to the earth below. Not a few agents more experienced than he were captured the instant their feet touched the ground. Logan did not want to be one of them.

  Crouched over the opening of the Whitley’s fuselage, at about six hundred feet in the air, Logan could just barely make out some of the distinct features of the landscape below. He caught a glimpse of one or two farmhouses, but because of the blackout and the fact that it was three a.m., he couldn’t tell whether they were occupied or deserted. He hoped he would not have need of them, for a small reception committee was to meet him at the drop site to see that he got safely on his way to Paris. Beyond the farmhouses, Logan saw a stretch of open countryside, fringed with a belt of trees.

  “We’re goin’ t’ try an’ land ye close t’ that clump o’ trees, so ye willna be far frae cover,” came the voice of the plane’s navigator from behind where Logan sat.

  “Not too close, I hope,” said Logan. He could not keep his knees from trembling a bit at the thought of the jump that lay ahead, but the warmly familiar burr of the navigator’s Scottish accent helped soothe his natural fear. The fact that the navigator happened to be a fellow countryman was perhaps a small blessing, but a blessing nonetheless. “By the way,” added Logan, “I’m from Scotland too.”

  “I thought I heard a wee bit o’ the Glaswegian in yer tone, but no enocht, t’ be sure. Ye been awa too lang, laddie!”

  “Yes, perhaps I have,” mused Logan.

  “Noo,” continued the navigator good-naturedly, “ye needna worry aboot oor pilot’s aim. He’s one o’ the best, an’ he’ll see that ye land as gently as if ye were one o’ his ain bairns—an’ Joe’s got three o’ them, so he kens what he’s aboot!”

  Logan smiled. “I’ve a child of my own back home,” he said. It felt good to get his mind momentarily off what he was about to do.

  “Do ye noo?” The navigator’s ruddy face spread into a warm grin. “Weel, he’ll have good reason t’ be prood o’ ye when he sees ye next.”

  “It’s a she . . . my daughter.”

  With each word, Logan’s tone grew with pride. Perhaps he did not think of himself as a father often enough.

  “Weel, in that case, ye better make good an’ certain ye jump clear o’ them trees!”

  Then came the pilot’s shout: “Get ready!”

  Logan had made four practice jumps in training. But they had not become easier with repetition. The supreme moment of terror when he had to leap out into thin air, certain each time that he would meet his death, was a fear far beyond any he had ever known on the ground. It was a totally unnatural thing for a man to do. Those practice jumps had been the most paralyzing experiences of his life, no matter that each lasted only about fifteen seconds from the moment he left the plane to the instant his body hit the ground. And they had been done on lighted, well-secured fields in England. His reception committee of French resistance fighters couldn’t guarantee that they’d be able to use any lights, and from the dark look of the ground below, Logan had to assume he was going to have to jump blind. Not knowing where the ground was in a fall of twenty feet per second could result in two broken legs—or worse.

  Logan sat on the edge of the bomb port, his legs dangling outside the plane. He double-checked his rubber helmet and body pads, and made sure his small suitcase was firmly attached to his pack. Then the navigator attached his parachute strap to the static line. If all went well, the weight of his body would automatically open the chute. If it didn’t, he’d have to grab the cord himself and hope for the best.

  “She’s in tiptop shape,” assured the navigator, as if he had read Logan’s thoughts.

  “Go!” cried the pilot from the cockpit.

  Logan could not hesitate a moment now, for even a delay of two or three seconds could carry him miles off course and most likely into the trees.

  “I hate this . . .” he breathed, as he let his body slip through the port.

  “God bless ye, laddie!” shouted the navigator, but Logan only heard the words fading quickly away from him as if in a dream.

  The draft of the plane threw him violently back, and that jolting was followed almost immediately by a hard jerk on his armpits. The chute had opened safely—as they usually did.

  If jumping from the plane had been terrifying, then those next few seconds made up for it slightly. With the deafening racket of the plane’s engines quickly fading into the distance, suddenly Logan was surrounded by a deep ethereal silence. The overwhelming sense of peace and well-being was almost so great as to make the terror of jumping worth it. Unfortunately, it was all too brief.

  As much as he would have liked the silent sensation of floating weightless to go on and on, time was ticking rapidly away in unforgiving seconds, not eons, and he had to force his attention to the earth, slanted away below him. He thought he caught a brief glimpse of figures on the edge of the wood, but he couldn’t be certain. All was black below him, but he thought he saw a deeper blackness, which must be the ground. Closer and closer it loomed, rushing at him like a giant speeding train. He bent his knees in readiness, trying with all the intensity he could muster to judge the moment of impact.

  Suddenly his feet slammed against the solid ground at fifteen mph.

  He let his knees buckle to absorb the blow, and in the same motion rolled to his side.

  His body rolled over itself, distorting his perceptions, and in another instant he felt the silky parachute floating down upon
him. Instead of the soft earth, his shoulder hit a rock and he cried out in pain. At least it wasn’t my head, he thought with indistinct gratitude.

  In a couple of seconds he lay still, trying to right his senses. But before he had a chance to settle back into a normal state of awareness and determine “up” from “down,” he heard shouts.

  “Dear Lord,” he murmured, “please be with me.” It was the first prayer he had uttered in a long time, and though it had popped out without forethought, never had he meant a prayer more sincerely.

  The approaching voices were near now—and they were speaking French.

  He felt hands untangling him from his chute and the lines.

  “Bonsoir! Bonsoir, mon ami! Michel Tanant, n’est-ce pas? You made it!”

  In his relief and exhilaration at seeing friendly, smiling faces, Logan forgot his recognition code. He jumped to his feet and grasped the fellow’s hand, shaking it fervently.

  “Oui, monsieur!” answered Logan. “Yes, I’m Michel Tanant!”

  Logan could hardly contain his ebullience at having successfully completed this hazardous and enervating stage of his mission. He was safely in France! But the better part of his adventures still lay ahead.

  18

  Allison’s Resolution

  Spring had come and gone at Stonewycke, and now autumn was nipping impatiently at the heels of summer. And while Logan was taking his first steps on French soil, Allison strolled pensively along paths lined with brilliant purple heather.

  In the months since she and Logan had parted, Allison had experienced a wide gamut of emotional changes, ranging from self-pity to sympathy for Logan, to anger, to despair, to renewed love for her husband. They came and went in no particular order, returning at will, one following another in unpredictable fashion.

  At this particular moment, walking with a gentle warm breeze at her back, Allison’s present state was one of something akin to a gloomy hopelessness. For four months she had not heard a single word from Logan. Perhaps that was partly her own fault, she reasoned while in a more tender mood. For at first she had stubbornly refused to make any attempt to correspond. He had left her. She wasn’t about to demean herself by begging him to return, and she felt that even a neutral newsy letter might be construed as such.