“I am claustrophobic, sir,” John Craig van der Ploeg said. “Claustrophobia means—”
“I know what the hell it means!” Canidy flared. He stood there for a moment, staring at the kid, then said, “How did you expect to go behind the lines? The goddamn Germans would send a fucking Mercedes-Benz for you?” He shook his head. “Claustrophobic!”
“Surface ships I can do, sir,” John Craig van der Ploeg said carefully. “Or drop me in by parachute. I don’t really like airplanes, but if I’m near a window or an open door I can make do.” He paused. “The last thing I’m trying to do is shirk my responsibilities, sir.”
Canidy saw Darmstadter nod.
“Coming here,” Darmstadter said, “he was more than a bit squeamish in the bird. At one point, I thought he was going to go out the jump door without a parachute. But I just wrote it off to nerves.”
Canidy looked from Darmstadter to the kid.
“They didn’t tell you about the sub at the Sandbox?” he asked.
John Craig van der Ploeg shook his head.
He said, “And I didn’t ask. They teach us not to ask questions. Vincent Scamporino told me there was an important mission that needed a W/T operator and would I be interested in volunteering? I told him that as I’d already volunteered to be at the Sandbox, it followed—”
“Okay, okay,” Canidy said impatiently. “I get it.” He thought for a moment, and added, “What if I ordered you to go?”
“I could get aboard, sir, but when I lost it inside, well, it probably would not be pleasant for anyone.”
Canidy looked furious.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Stop calling me sir!”
John Craig van der Ploeg looked at his feet. “Sorry.”
“Now what the hell do I do?” Canidy asked of no one in particular. “We don’t have time to get someone else from the Sandbox, if there is even someone else usable there….”
There was a long moment of silence.
Then John Craig van der Ploeg said, his tone upbeat, “If I may make a suggestion?”
Canidy glared at him.
“I think you may have caused me enough difficulty so far,” Canidy said. “But if you’re willing to stick your neck out again….”
“I am willing to do what I can, sir,” John Craig van der Ploeg said, somewhat indignantly. “It’s why I agreed to follow Corvo and Scamporino here in the first place. If I could swim to where it is you’re going, I would.”
Canidy looked him in the eyes.
“Okay, you have my apology. For now. What’s your bright idea?”
“Tubes,” John Craig van der Ploeg offered brightly.
“‘Tubes’?” Canidy repeated.
Then he thought, He means that radio operator? The surfer…
“The surfer?” Canidy said.
John Craig van der Ploeg nodded enthusiastically.
“Tubes is my commo partner. When we practiced our messages, we got tired of the usual numbing stuff. You know?”
Canidy shook his head. “No. I don’t know.”
“You know, all the limbering-up exercises,” he explained, and demonstrated by wiggling his fingers, then rotating his wrist. “And then there’s the pronunciation practice…Alfa—di-DAH; Bravo—DAH-di-di-dit; Charley—DAH-di-DAH-dit…”
The look on Canidy’s face was utter disbelief.
This is getting more surreal by the moment, he thought.
I may be getting off the hook by not taking this kid.
“…and then the practice words, like ones with short sounds, TEE ATE EAT TEA MEAT…and the long ones, CUTE BAKER CHARLIE…”
“Okay! Okay!” Canidy said. “I get it.”
Canidy glanced at Darmstadter, who had his hands firmly stuffed in his pant pockets and was finding intense interest in the toes of his shoes. He also was biting on his lower lip.
Canidy made a face of frustration, then looked back at John Craig van der Ploeg.
“There’s a point to this tale?” Canidy said. “You realize you’re holding up a complete submarine crew and its mission.”
“Yes, sir—I mean, sorry. We just wanted to work our hand keys, because I had the Morse code down pretty good from my time in Boy Scouts. My touch typing on the typewriter, too—”
“‘In Boy Scouts,’” Canidy parroted drily.
He smiled and puffed out his chest. “Yessir. We were both in Scouts but not in the same troop. Or the same time. Not even in the same state. But, see? That’s the point—”
“What’s the point?” Canidy said and made a Get on with it motion with his hand.
Canidy, in his peripheral vision, thought he could see Darmstadter, his face flushed and eyes diverted, quivering.
“That’s what we did,” John Craig van der Ploeg explained. “When we got bored with all that other stuff, Tubes said we could move on, so we went about telling each other about ourselves.”
“And?”
“And what I’m trying to say is that Tubes told me he had put in to train at the Sandbox and really wanted to go operational, not just sit in a dark commo room all hours of the day and night.” He paused, then added, “He’s one helluva radioman, sir.”
Canidy stared at him, deep in thought.
He’s also the furthest from an Italian or Sicilian that I could possibly get.
He’d stick out in Sicily like a preacher in a whorehouse.
But if we find that the gas did the damage we think it did, then Tubes probably won’t be staying, anyway.
Boy Scouts?
Jesus Christ.
But I should be grateful, I guess, because otherwise I right now would have zero other options….
Canidy looked at Darmstadter.
“Go get him, Hank. Take John Craig van der Ploeg here with you. Tell Stan that I want him to take Tubes’s place at the radio there and that they’re going to be each other’s contact.”
Darmstadter nodded.
Canidy looked at John Craig van der Ploeg.
“Anything unclear about that?” he said.
“Makes perfect sense,” John Craig van der Ploeg said. “Thank you, sir.”
Canidy glared at him.
“Hank,” Canidy added. “And tell Tubes to get some clothes out of the wardrobe room. Especially a stocking cap—something, anything, to help disguise those California looks.”
Canidy was standing in the conn tower with L’Herminier when Darmstadter returned in the jeep with Tubes two hours later.
Canidy was watching crewmen on the deck bringing some type of flattened contraptions to the conn tower. They were five feet long, had a wooden frame, and a fabric skin of canvas.
“What the hell are those, Jean?” Canidy said. “Some kind of boat?”
“Kayaks,” L’Herminier said, an element of pride evident in his voice. “You said you didn’t like the rubber boat you used last time to get ashore. I took it upon myself to procure these kayaks. They say they are very fast and maneuverable.”
Canidy looked dubious. “Who’s they? The Eskimos…?”
The jeep stopped at the foot of the gangplank. Crewmen stood at ease on the dock, waiting to cast off the lines of the submarine and retract the plank.
Canidy saw Darmstadter point him out to Tubes, who then waved to Canidy. Canidy caught himself before he almost waved back.
Darmstader helped Tubes get a fat duffel bag’s strap slung over his shoulder. Then Darmstadter reached back into the jeep and produced a cardboard box that was large enough to hold a couple of birthday cakes. He handed this to Tubes, then patted him on the back.
As Tubes started up the gangplank, Darmstadter went back to the jeep and brought out two green suitcases.
There’re the radios, Canidy thought.
Darmstadter handed the suitcases over to one of the crewmen, who carried them aboard. Then Darmstadter waved good-bye at the conn tower.
This time, Canidy returned it.
The small tugs nudged the Free French Forces submarine Ca
sabianca away from the docks and toward sea.
Tubes reached the foot of the ladder that led up the conn tower. He could not climb it with both the duffel strapped over his shoulder and the box in his hands, so he slipped the duffel to the deck. Then he went up the ladder with the box.
At the top, he saluted Canidy and said, “Sir.”
Canidy looked at him and said, “Make that your last salute and use of ‘sir.’ Got it?”
Tubes looked confused.
“Where we’re going, either of those could get both of us killed.”
Tubes suddenly understood the gravity of that.
“They told me that this was a dangerous mission,” he said.
“You can’t begin to appreciate the understatement that that is,” Canidy said.
Tubes nodded. He held out the box to him.
“What the hell is this?” Canidy said.
Tubes shrugged.
“Professor Rossi said you might need this,” he said.
Canidy pulled back the lid of the box just enough to see inside.
“Christ,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Canaries.”
L’Herminier leaned over to look, too.
“Souris!” L’Herminier said. “Not birds. Mice!”
“Yep,” Canidy muttered. “But soon to be the same as canaries in a coal mine….”
[THREE]
OSS Whitbey House Station Kent, England 1155 3 April 1943
“I say we move on to assigning the name,” Niven announced. “And I say I’ll just do it myself…. I say we call him”—he stared at the ceiling a long moment—“Martin. Major Martin.”
“Why Major Martin?” Fleming said, making it a friendly challenge.
“Why not? Has a nice ring to it,” Niven replied.
“That may well be true, but we can’t bloody well just throw out a name and have it stick,” Fleming said, trying to be sensible.
“Also happens to be the name of an unscrupulous chap in Hollywood I wouldn’t mind finding bobbing breathless in the sea,” Niven added.
There was silence around the table, then Montagu spoke up.
“Actually, Major Martin could work,” he said.
Niven gave Fleming a smug smile. Fleming gave Niven the finger.
There were chuckles around the table.
Niven said to no one in particular, “Please, don’t encourage him.”
There were more chuckles.
Fleming looked at Montagu.
“How is that, Ewen?” he said.
“For the same reason that we selected the rank of major,” Montagu explained. “There is no shortage of them. As I just recounted, we picked the Royal Marines because it is known as an elite service from which one could pull a courier for such a critical mission. Being elite makes it comparatively small, and it would not be unusual for many members to be familiar with others. I can name three Martins off the top of my head that I know personally—”
“You’re right,” Fleming interrupted. “I can think of two myself, though only one is in fact in the Royal Marines. A captain.”
“There you have it,” Montagu said. “I would expect there to be a long list of Martins in the Royal Marines, and certainly ones with the rank of major. Easy enough to confirm.” He looked at Niven. “So there it is: Major Martin. Now, what about a first name, something equally common?”
“Bill,” Niven immediately said.
“William,” Fleming put in, earning him a mock glare from Niven.
“Major William Martin of the Royal Marines,” Montagu said, testing the sound of it. “By Jove, I think we do have it. Unless there are any objections?”
No one objected.
“Major William Martin of the Royal Marines it is, then,” Montagu said.
“Bill, to his friends,” Niven put in and grinned.
Surprising him, Fleming nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “let’s get into that—his friends, his personal life.”
Montagu said, “We know the main documents, the mission-critical ones, will concern the deceit, of course. But, getting to number one”—he motioned toward the Operation Mincemeat sheet—“we need companion papers for the purpose of padding, something that helps explain who Major Martin is.”
“The love letters?” Charity said.
Montagu smiled. “It has been discussed that our man—our Major Martin—should be newly engaged.”
“How charming,” the Duchess said. “Love in bloom!”
“Discussed?” Niven put in. “I thought it had been decided, that we agreed on my idea.”
“Right on both counts,” Fleming said. “Decided and your idea. Now, let’s discuss it. Ladies, any immediate thoughts?”
Charity found herself smiling.
I have a thought or two on the subject, but I’m not about to bare my soul!
“Charity?” Fleming said, looking at her. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“Um, nothing immediately.”
“I’ll raise that. A pound for your thoughts,” Niven added, grinning.
She made a radiant smile.
“Sorry, no price can be put on them,” she said playfully.
“If Major Martin is in his early thirties,” the Duchess said, “then we can assume his fiancée is, oh, late twenties?”
“Why not?” Montagu said agreeably.
“And they’re of comparable social background, say, middle class?”
Montagu nodded.
“That fits,” he said.
“Is there any particular time frame for these letters?” the Duchess said.
Montagu looked to Niven and Fleming for their thoughts.
“They should be relatively fresh,” Niven said. “They’re newly engaged, and have rushed to it because of the war.”
“That could be one theme in the letters,” Fleming added, “where friends or relatives are cautious of a war wedding.”
Niven nodded. “But as to timing, I would say no older than two months. The Seraph sets sail—”
“April nineteenth,” Montagu provided. “Plan is to put Major Martin in the water on April thirtieth.”
“So taking that into consideration,” Niven said, “we must backdate our letters accordingly. Say, nothing before March first.”
“Shouldn’t these letters of hers be very new?” the Duchess said. “Maybe written at her most anxious moments, right before he leaves?”
All the men smiled at once.
“That kind of lively thought, my dear,” Niven said, “is why we came here.”
The Duchess smiled softly.
Montagu reached down and opened the big box that was under the table. He pulled some blank sheets of typing paper and two pencils from the box and gave them to the Duchess and Charity.
“Would you please write your name on the sheet?”
They looked curious at the request but went along with it.
Montagu took the sheets, quickly reviewed them, then passed them to Fleming. They then made their way around the table.
“The letters from the girlfriend should be handwritten,” Montagu explained. “And, no offense, Charity, but, as I expected, the Duchess has the natural British lettering necessary.”
“That’s understandable,” Charity said, her tone agreeable.
Montagu then reached into the box and produced some off-white stationery with letterhead in black ink that read THE MANOR HOUSE, OGBOURNE ST. GEORGE, MARLBOROUGH, WILTSHIRE.
“This is from a nice little getaway where I once stayed,” Montagu explained. “When I was there, I noticed a couple of mothers and daughters enjoying the weekend. In my mind’s eye, I could see Major Martin’s fiancée—”
“She doesn’t have a name!” Niven interrupted. “Let’s call her…oh, Pamela!”
“I could see Major Martin’s Pam,” Montagu went on, accepting the name without discussion, “there with her mother, discussing the pending marriage.”
Charity nodded. “With her mother and sister.”
�
��Even better,” Montagu said, sliding the letterhead to the Duchess.
“The Duchess’s lively thought just now about the letter needing to be anxious proves, I think, that it shouldn’t be drafted,” Montagu said. “It should be written at once, from the heart.”
“I agree,” Fleming said, nodding.
The Duchess’s eyes went up. “Well, that certainly puts one on the spot!”
“That’s not the intention,” Fleming said, his tone apologetic. “It’s just that it should result in a genuine feel. Charity can pitch in.”
The Duchess looked at her. “And you will! Please?”
Charity smiled. “Of course.”
The Duchess sat silently, in deep thought, then looked at Charity.
“I’m seeing her at this getaway with her mother and sister,” she said, “her heart aching with the thought of having seen Major Martin off at the train station.”
“And,” Charity added, “though she longs for the time they spent together, at the same time she gets mad at herself for such a silly schoolgirl-like thought.”
“Good,” the Duchess said.
“All right, then,” Montagu said. “Let’s date it April eighteenth.”
The Duchess began to write:
Charity read what the Duchess was writing, then offered: “Maybe she mentions something that he had written to her in a letter—”
“Something about her,” the Duchess interrupted, looking at Charity. “Something vain that she feels she must deny.”
The Duchess looked at the ceiling a moment, then wrote on:
* * *
The Manor House
Ogbourne St. George
Marlborough, Wiltshire
Telephone:
Ogbourne St. George 242
Sunday, 18th
I do think, dearest, that seeing people like you off at railway stations is one of the poorer forms of sport. A train going out can leave a howling great gap in one’s life & one has to try madly—& quite in vain—to fill it with all the things one used to enjoy a whole five weeks ago.
That lovely golden day we spent together—oh! I know it has been said before, but if only time could sometimes stand still just for a minute for us!
The Double Agents Page 21
