He looked at Montagu.
“I’ll of course require a sheet of copying paper,” Niven said.
Montagu produced a box of the papers and handed a single sheet to Niven.
Niven took it, put it between two fresh sheets of hotel letterhead, then, with some difficulty, fed all that into the Hermes. They went in slightly off center, and he pulled on the lever that allowed him to square the sheet to the platen. Then he made sure he had the McKenna letterhead handy in order to copy the address.
“Gwatkin?” Niven said to Montagu.
“F.A.S. Gwatkin,” Montagu confirmed, then spelled the last name for him.
Niven nodded and began typing:
* * *
Black Lion Hotel
Mold, North Wales
Tele. No. 98
10th April, 1943
Dear Mr. Gwatkin,
I have considered your recent letter concerning the Settlement which I intend to make on the occasion of William’s marriage. The provisions which you outline appear to me reasonable except in one particular. Since in this case the wife’s family will not be contributing to the settlement, I do not think it proper that they should necessarily preserve, after William’s death, a life interest in the funds which I am approving. I should agree to this course only were there children in the marriage. Will you therefore so re-draft the Settlement as to provide that if there are children the income is paid to the wife only until such time as she remarries or the children come of age. After that date the children alone should benefit.
I intend to be in London for the two nights of the 20th & 21st of April. I should be glad if you could make it convenient to take luncheon with me at the Carlton Grill at a quarter to one on Wednesday 21st. If you will bring the new draft with you, we shall have leisure to examine it afterwards. I have written to William & hope that he will be able to join us.
Yrs. Sincerely,
F.A.S. Gwatkin, Esq.
McKenna & Co.
14 Waterloo Place,
London, S.W.1.
* * *
He pulled the sheets from the typewriter, put them flat on the table, then handed Fleming a new pen from the box.
“Sign the top copy ‘J.G. Martin,’ so that it copies to the other page,” Niven said.
When he had done that, Niven peeled off the top sheet from the copy sheet.
“Now write ‘copy,’ all caps, at the top of this one.”
“Very well done,” Fleming said after he had added the word. “That bit about the kids. Where did you get that?”
“From my uncle,” Niven said, looking at Fleming as he handed the letter to Montagu. “He used very much the same language in his papers when my cousin—his son—prepared for marriage. Uncle Alex was frightfully worried that the woman was—as that delightful American phrase puts it—a gold digger. There was quite a large sum of money at risk, and his legal paper was far more complicated than this bit I just used.”
“Interesting that you mention money,” Montagu said. “We will need to address the personal spending habits of Major Martin. First, however, let’s get finished with the legal part.”
Montagu had folded in thirds the copy of the letter Niven had just given him and now was repeatedly unfolding and refolding it.
“With a reply from McKenna?” Niven said.
Montagu nodded.
“One to the father?” Fleming said dubiously.
“I agree, Ian. That would not be logical,” Stevens said. “Martin would not have his father’s letter in his possession.”
“Then let’s have it concern Major Martin’s own legal papers,” Montagu said. “He knows that he’s off on a highly dangerous mission and, accordingly, wants his affairs in order for Pam should something happen.”
“Like his aircraft crashes?” Charity said.
“And he drowns at sea?” the Duchess added.
“Precisely,” Montagu said warily, not certain if they were mocking him or not.
“And maybe something concerning the payment of taxes,” Niven went on.
“Ah, yes,” Fleming said, “the only two things certain in this life, death and taxes.”
Niven picked up the McKenna letterhead, then stood and went to the Olivetti Model M40. He spun the letterhead into the Italian typewriter and typed:
* * *
RE: Your affairs.
Dear Sir,
We thank you for your letter of yesterday’s date returning the draft of your will approved. We will insert the legacy of £50 to your batman and our Mr. Gwatkin will bring the fair copy with him when he meets you at lunch on the 21st so that you can sign it there.
The inspector of taxes has asked us for particulars of your service pay and allowances during 1941/2 before he will finally agree to the amount of reliefs due to you for that year. We cannot find that we have ever had these particulars and shall, therefore, be grateful if you will let us have them.
Yours faithfully,
McKENNA & CO.
Major W. Martin, R.M.
Naval & Military Club
94 Piccadilly
London, S.W.1.
* * *
Montagu took that, read it over, then passed it around the table.
“Very good,” he said. “Now, as to his personality. Specifically, his personal spending habits.”
“Thus far,” Fleming said, “he has proven to be quite the responsible chap. There must be a chink in the armor. Everyone has one.”
“Speak for yourself, sir,” Niven said drolly. “My armor is impeccable. As is every other aspect of my personal being.”
There were chuckles.
Niven then looked at Ustinov and said, “Didn’t you recently get a letter concerning unpaid accounts?”
“It was in error,” Ustinov shot back defensively. “And after my confrontation with the manager of the institution, was corrected to my satisfaction.”
“Yes, of course,” Niven said. “Sorry. I did not mean to suggest any armor problems on your part. What I was going after was, you are still familiar with the tone, the phrasing, et cetera, of that letter?”
“Oh, yes. It was short, sweet, and painfully to the point.”
Niven gestured toward the Remington typewriter.
“Have at it,” he said.
Montagu produced a new sheet of letterhead, this one from a familiar financial institution, and put it beside the big, heavy American typewriter.
Ustinov shrugged, then moved to the chair in front of the Remington.
He rolled the bank letterhead into the machine. Then he looked at Niven and held up both hands, making them into fists.
“There are ladies present,” Niven cautioned, fearful of which digits were about to be displayed.
Ustinov looked to his fists. First the left index finger popped up, then the right index finger.
“I will now show you how this is properly done,” Ustinov said formally, and slowly, very slowly, punched out the letter with a series of tap…tap…taps:
* * *
Lloyds Bank Limited
Head Office
London, E.C.3.
Major W. Martin, R.M.
Army & Navy Club
Pall Mall
London, S.W.1.
Dear Sir,
I am given to understand that in spite of repeated application your overdraft amounting to £79 19s 2d still outstands.
In the circumstances, I am now writing to inform you that unless this amount, plus interest at 4% to date of payment, is received forthwith we shall have no alternative but to take the necessary steps to protect our interest.
Yours faithfully,
Joint General Manager
* * *
“Luckily for us, this was the short letter,” Niven said.
Ustinov removed the sheet from the typewriter, signed it E. Whitley Jones above the title of Joint General Manager, and handed the page to Montagu.
“Any particular reason you used the Army and Navy Club address,” Montagu
asked, “as opposed to the Naval and Military Club we put on the McKenna letter?”
“He moved,” Ustinov said simply.
Montagu made a face of appreciation. “I like that,” he said. “Simple. Plausible. And another item for the Germans to confirm—or dissuade them.”
He began folding and unfolding this letter, too.
“I’m not sure I like the next part of our exercise,” Montagu said. “But we would appear not to have much choice with it….”
[TWO]
Gulf of Palermo, Sicily 0235 5 April 1943
The three canvas-skinned kayaks were moving through the dark in a pyramid formation, Dick Canidy paddling on point, with Jim “Tubes” Fuller ten feet off his stern at five o’clock and Frank Nola a little farther back at seven o’clock.
There was a soft rhythmic sound coming from the paddles of Fuller and Nola as their blades dipped in the water. But not from Canidy’s; his strokes were awkward, irregular, the blades occasionally making somewhat-noisy slaps as they broke the surface.
I hate this goddamn excuse for a boat, Canidy thought.
He had almost immediately decided that he did not care for the kayak over the tiny raft that he had used the first time he went ashore of Sicily. And he hadn’t been a big fan of that damn rubber doughnut, either.
He granted that the kayak was faster. But he was convinced that it could capsize at any second.
And being faster probably also means faster to sink when the damn thing dumps over.
Canidy also was more than a little apprehensive about transitioning from the rickety boat to shore. He mentally went over how he was going to accomplish it, then realized that that was pretty much an exercise in futility since he had never done it before.
And, therefore, I have no fucking idea of what I’m doing and what’s going to happen.
Except there’s every possibility that I’ll get soaking wet.
Which is okay as long as I don’t dump the W/T.
It did not necessarily help that both Nola and Fuller maneuvered like expert kayakers. They each worked their paddle, with the blades at opposite ends of the shaft, with the smooth, regular rotation of a windmill.
Small surprise. Nola’s whole life has been in boats.
Fuller probably learned at the beach or in Boy Scouts…or both.
Me, I was born to fly above all this damn nonsense.
Out of the corner of Canidy’s right eye, a motion in the darkness at about three o’clock caught his attention. Carefully, so as not to upset the boat, he turned to look.
It was the bow of Fuller’s boat. More precisely, it was the extra paddle Fuller had tied to the bow to project out in front of his boat.
And hanging from the tip of the blade was a veritable ship’s figurehead—the squirming soft pouch dangling by its pull-string closure.
Canidy couldn’t stop himself—he chuckled.
As Tubes paddled up alongside, he heard Canidy and smiled.
“Thought it’d be a good idea to use Adolf and Eva as our early-warning system,” Tubes said, grinning.
Canidy just shook his head.
Wordlessly, Tubes paddled ahead and took point.
The sounds of small waves lapping on the pebble beach became louder and louder.
Canidy heard the sudden scraping of Fuller’s boat running up on the shore, then some quick movement, then footsteps crunching on pebbles, then the sliding of the boat as it was pulled up onto dry land.
Well, good for you, Tubes. You made it.
Too bad you can’t show me how you did it.
Canidy looked over his left shoulder. He saw the vague outline of Nola in his kayak. He had already shipped his paddle, apparently in preparation for landing, and Canidy decided that he should follow suit.
Just as Canidy began to vaguely make out the outline of the shore, he heard footsteps crunching on the pebbles, then splashing in the water. They were coming toward him. He instinctively reached back to make sure he had quick access to the .45 in the small of his back. At the moment he touched the pistol, he saw the distinct shape of Tubes coming closer.
Tubes casually stepped sure-footedly through the shallow surf.
With such ease, he looks as if he just as well would be headed out to go swimming.
“I got it,” Tubes whispered as he grabbed the bow of Canidy’s boat.
He then towed the kayak to the shoreline, where he turned it parallel to the beach, and held it steady.
Canidy grabbed the gunnels of his boat, then awkwardly rose from his seated position and stepped ashore, his feet dry.
“Thanks,” he whispered.
Just then, a few feet away, there came the sound of a boat scraping on pebbles. Canidy turned in time to see the bow of Nola’s kayak coming out of the darkness, then the silhouette of Nola himself as he maneuvered the boat parallel to the shore and, with catlike grace, leapt out and landed on his feet.
Nola then picked the bow of his boat up high and, with very little sound, moved the entire boat onto shore.
Canidy did likewise. Then he looked up and down the beach. There were no lights except from the stars, and he saw absolutely nothing inland but darkness beyond a distance of maybe ten feet.
He heard Nola’s boots crunching toward him.
“I know precisely where we are,” Nola whispered. “Is a popular bathing beach. And a ten-meter cliff is close by. Is where I told you there are small grotta— the caves—where we can hide the boats. Vergine Maria—”
“Virgin Maria?” Tubes whispered excitedly.
“Not that kind of a virgin,” Canidy said drily. “It’s the town’s name.”
Even in the dim of darkness, Canidy thought he could see disappointment on Fuller’s face.
“Vergine Maria is where we are,” Nola went on. “And, from here, is only two kilometers to my cousin’s house in Palermo.”
“Good,” Canidy whispered. “Let’s get our gear moved up there.”
He then took a tentative sniff of the still air. It had a pleasant, salty smell mixed with the light fragrance of some flowering foliage he did not recognize.
Not a hint of stench of the dead.
“How’s Adolf and Eva?” Canidy whispered.
Tubes checked the pouch.
“Active movement,” Tubes said, the hint of a smile in his voice. “I think they’re procreating.”
“You would.”
Canidy saw that the folding boats were fairly easy to collapse —Glad I didn’t know that offshore, he thought—then hide in two of the small caves in the cliff. Certainly not as easy as the rubber raft had been—that one he had deflated with a slice of his Fairbairn, then buried it in a small hole.
Farther down the cliff, they hid one of the green suitcase radios by itself in a cave. Moving with one of the cases without being seen was going to be hard enough. And stashing the other provided them with a backup in the event that the other was confiscated, broken, lost—whatever. They could retrieve the hidden case the next night, or even later.
And that took care of the evidence of their arrival. They had no worry about leaving tracks. The pebbles of the shore filled in naturally behind them as they went.
Canidy stood with his black duffel bag, the strap slung over his shoulder. Nola carried a small black leather bag in his left hand, the box of mice in his right. And Fuller, his duffel on his left shoulder, held the other suitcase radio in his right hand. He had tied the pull string of the mice pouch high on his duffel strap, the pouch itself touching his chest.
“Anyone have a cigarette?” Tubes suddenly whispered.
What? Canidy thought.
He hissed, “You can’t light up! You could get us shot by coastwatchers!”
“It’s not for me,” Tubes whispered casually. “I don’t smoke.”
He held up the pouch and dangled it by the string in front of Canidy’s face.
“Judging by their relaxed state, they would appear postcoital.”
Canidy relaxed, then caught hims
elf about to chuckle.
No, not good…Need to focus.
“Knock it off, Tubes!” Canidy whispered, trying to sound angry.
“Right,” Tubes said in a mock-English tone.
“I mean it, dammit!” Canidy said.
There was silence, and Canidy guessed that he had hurt Fuller’s feelings.
Fuck it. Grow up. We’ve got a job to do.
“Are we ready?” Canidy said evenly.
“Sure,” Fuller whispered, with some ice in his tone.
“Ready,” Nola whispered.
On the submarine, Canidy had debated with himself how they should go into town—armed to the teeth, or try to get there as quickly and unobtrusively as possible.
They were not at a loss for weapons.
Canidy had his Colt Model 1911 .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol, the Johnson .30-06 light machine gun, and the baby Fairbairn. Fuller carried a.45, too, and a Sten 9mm submachine gun. And Nola was armed with his own personal Walther P38 9mm semiautomatic pistol; he had declined the offer of an automatic weapon since he’d had no experience handling one.
In the end, Canidy had decided that each man should have his pistol close at hand. But the bigger guns could be held as backup, left in the duffels.
His reasoning, after all, was that there would be no firepower needed if they were to find a city full of dead citizens. Or if instead they were to encounter, say, a city overrun with German and Italian troops, they sure as hell were not going to engage in a firefight—not and get out alive.
We’re supposed to get in, get the intel, and get the hell out.
And that’s exactly what I plan to do.
“Lead the way, Frank,” Canidy whispered. “Or tell me the direction and I’ll take point.”
The Double Agents Page 24
