The Double Agents

by W. E. B Griffin

  I understand from the British Information Service in Washington that they would like a “message” from you for use in the advertising for the pamphlet, and that they have asked you direct, through Washington, for such a message.

  I am sending the proofs by hand of my Royal Marines Staff Officer. I need not say how honoured we shall all be if you will give such a message. I fully realise what a lot is being asked of you at a time when you are so fully occupied with infinitely more important matters. But I hope you may find a few minutes’ time to provide the pamphlet with an expression of your invaluable approval so that it will be read widely and given every chance to bring its message of co-operation to our two peoples.

  We are watching your splendid progress with admiration and pleasure and wish we could be with you.

  You may speak freely to my Staff Officer in this as well as any other matters since he has my entire confidence.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Louis Mountbatten

  General Dwight Eisenhower

  Allied Forces H.Q.,

  Algiers

  * * *

  “Well, I understand why it would be foolish for us not to use these,” Fleming said. “That is to say, foolish to use a variation of them. The signatures are genuine.” He looked at Montagu. “Right?”

  “They are indeed by their own hands.”

  “I have proofs of the pamphlet, and photographs,” Montagu said. “More filler for the briefcase. Which was the original idea—that there would be a logical reason why he’d have personal and business papers all mixed together, the mundane among the most secret.”

  He then produced a final letter.

  “Which brings us to the big one,” he said.

  Niven took the two pages and began to read. When he had finished the first page, he passed it to Fleming, who then read it:

  * * *

  VICE CHIEF OF THE IMPERIAL GENERAL STAFF

  WAR OFFICE

  WHITEHALL, LONDON S.W.I

  Personal and Most Secret

  23rd April, 1943

  My Dear Alex,

  I am taking advantage of sending you a personal letter by hand of one of Mountbatten’s officers to give you the inside history of our recent exchange of cables about Mediterranean operations and their attendant cover plans. You may have felt our decisions were somewhat arbitrary, but I can assure you in fact that the Chiefs of Staff Committee gave the most careful consideration both to your recommendations and also to Jumbo’s.

  We have had recent information that the Boche have been reinforcing and strengthening their defences in Greece and Crete, and C.I.G.S. felt that our forces for the assault were insufficient. It was agreed by the Chiefs of Staff that the 5th Division should be reinforced by one Brigade Group for the assault on the beach south of Cape Araxos and that a similar reinforcement should be made for the 56th Division at Kalamata. We are earmarking the necessary forces and shipping.

  Jumbo Wilson had proposed to select Sicily as cover target for Husky; but we have already chosen it as cover for Operation Brimstone. The C.O.S. committee went into the whole question exhaustively again and came to the conclusion that, in view of the preparations in Algeria, the amphibious training which will be taking place on the Tunisian coast, and the heavy air bombardment which will be put down to neutralise the Sicilian airfields, we should stick to our plan of making it cover for Brimstone—indeed, we stand a very good chance of making him think we will go for Sicily—it is an obvious objective and one about which he must be nervous. On the other hand, they felt there wasn’t much hope of persuading the Boche that the extensive preparations in the eastern Mediterranean were also directed at Sicily. For this reason, they have told Wilson his cover plan should be something nearer the spot, e.g., the Dodecanese. Since our relations with Turkey are now so obviously closer, the Italians must be pretty apprehensive about these islands.

  I imagine you will agree with these arguments. I know you will have your hands more than full at the moment and you haven’t much chance of discussing future operations with Eisenhower. But if by chance you do want to support Wilson’s proposal, I hope you will let us know soon, because we can’t delay much longer.

  I am very sorry we weren’t able to meet your wishes about the new commander of the Guards Brigade. Your own nominee was down with a bad attack of ’flu and not likely to be really fit for another few weeks. No doubt, however, you know Forster personally; he has done extremely well in command of a brigade at home, and is, I think, the best fellow available.

  You must be about as fed up as we are with the whole question of war medals and “Purple Hearts.” We all agree with you that we don’t want to offend our American friends, but there is a good deal more to it than that. If our troops who happen to be serving in one particular theatre are to get extra decorations merely because the Americans happen to be serving there, too, we will be faced with a good deal of discontent among those troops fighting elsewhere perhaps just as bitterly—or more so. My own feeling is that we should thank the Americans for their kind offer but say firmly it would cause too many anomalies and we are sorry we can’t accept. But it is on the agenda for the next Military Members Meeting and I hope you will have a decision very soon.

  Laus Deo.

  Yours ever,

  Archie Nye

  General the Honourable Sir Harold R.L.G. Alexander,

  G.C.B., C.S.I., D.S.O., M.C.

  Headquarters

  18th Army Group

  * * *

  “Jumbo Wilson is Field Marshal Wilson—” Niven said.

  “Right,” Montagu interrupted.

  “But what is Brimstone?” Niven went on.

  “That’s the fake code name for Sardinia. Sir Archibald chose it. Clever, yes?”

  Fleming nodded.

  “And he used Husky for the eastern op,” Fleming said.

  “Reasoning behind that,” Montagu said, “is that it’s not if but rather when the Germans will come across an operation with the code name of Husky.”

  “Laus Deo,” Charity added. “Nice touch.”

  “Praise God,” Montagu said solemnly. “Always appropriate.”

  “This letter covers a lot of ground,” Fleming said. “As do the others. But this one, especially this big one, I don’t think I would change anything in it if I could. It smells like the real thing because it is the real thing.”

  “Agreed,” Niven said. “Just hope the Krauts think so.”

  Everyone else around the table nodded their assent.

  Montagu then looked at the bulk of the work for the day and smiled.

  “Well,” he said, “thank you all. I do believe that we are finished with this aspect. That leaves us to collect only a few more minor miscellaneous items—his ID, the coins and such one would find in his pockets, et cetera. Tomorrow we can handle that, then Major Martin shall be dressed and the complete package prepared. Then we’re off to the Seraph.”

  “Splendid piece of work,” Fleming said.

  “Thank you,” Niven said.

  “The compliment was meant for Ewen,” Fleming said. “But, okay, you did brilliantly yourself.”

  “Thank you,” Niven repeated. “And thank you, everyone.” He paused, and, with raised eyebrows, added: “Formalities complete, then we are finished for the day?”

  Montagu nodded. “I do believe so.”

  “Then I say it’s to the pub for commencement of Attitude Adjustment Hour!” Niven said.

  “I’m not certain there is any booze left after your bender last night,” Private Ustinov said.

  [FOUR]

  Palermo, Sicily 0650 5 April 1943

  Moving as quickly and as quietly as they could, Frank Nola led Dick Canidy and Jim “Tubes” Fuller back up the hill along Via Quinta Casa. They worked their way past the train station at Via Montepellegrino, and finally to a street off Via Altavilla that was lined with two-story apartment buildings.

  The morning light was getting brighter by the minute.

&
nbsp; And the sounds of people stirring was becoming greater.

  So, more and more signs that there weren’t mass deaths, Canidy thought.

  It was not necessarily a well-kept neighborhood. There was some trash in the gutters of the street. The masonry exterior of the buildings had holes and large cracks that needed patching. Some appeared to have needed attention years earlier, as wild plants had taken seed in the cracks and were growing thickly there.

  Nola stopped at a wooden door to one apartment house. It once had been painted a bright yellow color but now was faded and peeling. A small, weathered wooden cross was hung centered in a small niche above the door.

  Next to the door was a large, single window with ornamental wrought iron protecting it. The rusted ironwork had a series of four iron baskets welded to it, and each of these held a clay flowerpot painted in elaborate colors. The plants in the pots looked unattended, their leaves drooping and dirt dry.

  Clearly, no one’s tended to those recently, Canidy thought.

  The lace curtains behind the dirty panes of the window were drawn shut. There was no evidence of movement or light inside.

  Nola knocked loudly on the door. There was no answer after a minute, and he banged even louder.

  That should awaken the neighborhood, Canidy thought, if not the dead.

  Nola looked impatient. He glanced over at the window, then back at the door. Then his face registered something.

  He went over the wrought ironwork and began lifting the far-right pot out of its holder. He looked inside the holder, under the pot, then immediately dropped the pot back in. He moved to the pot to its left and repeated the procedure. When he pulled out the third pot and looked inside, he shook his head. He then reached in under the pot, pulled out a big brass key, its finish mottled by minerals from the potting soil, and dropped the pot back in its holder.

  “My cousin’s wife,” Nola said, rolling his eyes. “Nicole, she never puts anything back where she gets it. We are lucky there was a key in any of the pots.”

  He went to the door. He slipped the key into its lock, turned it, then worked the wobbly doorknob until it finally rotated. The door swung inward and they all quickly went inside.

  The first room off the front door, which turned out to be the kitchen, was dark.

  “Ciao, Mariano!” Nola called out as he walked to the window. “Ciao, Nicole!”

  Nola put his leather satchel on the kitchen counter, then pulled the lace curtains open.

  “That’s not a good idea,” Canidy said, “letting people see who’s in here.”

  Nola looked at him a moment. He considered what Canidy had said, then looked around the room. He saw two large candles and a box of matches on the flimsy folding table in the middle of the kitchen. He pulled the curtains closed and then lit the candles.

  “I will go check if anyone is here,” Nola said, then motioned toward the two wooden chairs at the flimsy table. “Sit. This will be our home.”

  Canidy looked around the kitchen. It was filthy. A garbage can stood un-emptied. The sink overflowed with foul-looking plates that were crusted with what was left of some rice and chopped meat, maybe pork or lamb. The tiled countertop had a collection of dirty glasses. One was half empty, a nasty growth of some type floating in it. A fat black cockroach scampered out of a chipped bowl, then disappeared into a gap in the grout where the counter met the wall.

  Our home? Canidy thought. Not in this dump, if we can avoid it.

  “Please, sit,” Nola said, adding: “I be right back.”

  Nola started for the back of the apartment.

  “Nicole!” he called as he went. “Mariano!”

  In moments, they could hear him going up wooden steps, still calling out the names.

  Canidy put his duffel on the floor beside one of the chairs, pulled the chair back from the table, moved it so that he would have a view of the window and door, and sat down.

  He motioned to Fuller.

  “Go ahead, Tubes. Take a load off your feet.”

  Fuller slid the suitcase under the table, then put his duffel on the floor, untying the pouch from its strap. He put the pouch on the table.

  Canidy looked at it, and, when it showed movement inside, he grinned.

  “Thank God for small comforts, huh?”

  Fuller shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Keep an eye on them,” Canidy said lightly. “Those two may not stand a chance in hell against the cockroaches in this place.”

  Fuller didn’t respond. And Canidy now realized that he really had not regained all the color in his face. He still looked fairly pale.

  “You’ll be all right, Tubes,” Canidy said. “We all will.”

  He looked at the pouch.

  “So far so good, right, Adolf? Eva?”

  Tubes made a small smile.

  Canidy reached down to his duffel and began pulling out what Fuller recognized as pieces of a rifle.

  As Canidy put the weapon’s receiver on his lap, he noticed Tubes was watching with interest.

  “Johnny gun,” Canidy said. “Officially, Johnson Model of 1941 Light Machine Gun.”

  “Never seen one.”

  “Not many have,” Canidy said. “Marine Corps reserve officer Melvin Maynard Johnson, Jr.—a Boston attorney—wanted something to beat the Browning Automatic Rifle. So he built this. It’s eight pounds lighter than the BAR, and a helluva lot more flexible.”

  He pulled its barrel out of his duffel, then quickly and effortlessly assembled it to the receiver.

  “See?” Canidy said. “Unscrewing the BAR’s barrel is such a bitch, it’s next to impossible. Leave it to a jarhead to come up with a practical design for the easy swapping of barrels and for general field servicing. Plus, it packs compact.”

  He reached back into the duffel bag, brought out two curved box magazines and held one up.

  “Twenty rounds of thirty-aught-six Springfield, same as the BAR,” he said, then smacked the mag into the mount in the left side of the receiver.

  “Presto. Ready to go.”

  He turned and stood the Johnny gun on its butt, leaning its muzzle against the cabinets where they formed a V.

  “Helluva weapon,” Canidy said. “Too bad the bureaucrats killed its chances of mass production.”

  Fuller nodded, then reached into his duffel, and brought out his British-made Sten 9mm submachine gun and a magazine.

  Holding the Sten with its barrel pointed to the ceiling, he fed the magazine into the opening under the receiver, and checked to make sure the breech was clear. Then he slug its strap over his right shoulder, letting the weapon hang there, ready.

  “Now what?” Fuller said.

  Nola came back into the room. He had a look of worry.

  “No one here—” Nola announced, then paused when he saw the long guns.

  “That would mean that Tubes’s question remains all the more valid,” Canidy said.

  Nola’s face was questioning.

  “To wit, now what?” Canidy said.

  “I’m not sure,” Nola said. “It doesn’t appear that anyone has been here for some time.”

  “No shit,” Canidy said and jerked his right thumb toward the sink. “Looks like they may have left in a hurry, too.”

  Nola glanced in that direction, then looked to be in deep thought.

  “So far,” Canidy went on, “the only thing we have confirmed is, one, that the cargo ship blew up and, two, that there weren’t mass deaths from the nerve gas.”

  Fuller looked at Canidy.

  “Those men who were hung,” Fuller said.

  Canidy raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “What do you think they were trying to get? I mean, the people who hung them.”

  “Me,” Canidy said.

  “You?”

  Canidy nodded.

  “If they had hung them just to kill them,” Canidy explained, “then that’s what they would have done. They’d have strung them up, then disposed of th
em, probably just thrown their bodies to the sharks.” He paused. “Hell, not even that. They’d have just made them get on their knees at the end of a pier and put a bullet in the head. Then fed them to the hammer-heads and makos, kicking them into the sea if they hadn’t fallen in when shot. They’re evil and lazy.”

  “They,” Fuller said. “You keep saying they.”

  “The SS,” Nola offered. “Or the OVRA, the Italian secret police.”

  “It’s the SS,” Canidy said. “No question.”

  “Why are they after you?” Fuller said.

  “They’re looking for whoever blew up the cargo ship.”

  “You,” Fuller said.

  Canidy shrugged.

  “Yeah. That’s what those SS sons of bitches do. That’s how they smoke out anyone who’s in or supports the Resistance. They’ll literally crucify a whole village—slaughter men, women, children—to make them examples of what will happen to anyone else who works against the Nazis. Sometimes, it’s not even for the message. Sometimes, it’s just pure, unadulterated evil, often in the name of revenge.”

  Fuller tried to comprehend that. It was clear he had other questions.

  And then, after a moment, he asked, “What happened to their eyes?”

  “What do you mean?” Canidy said.

  “The eyes of the men who were hung,” Fuller said. “They were missing, nothing but bloody sockets.”

  “Birds, probably the seagulls, got them.”

  Fuller nodded. That he understood. He’d seen seagulls tearing into fish on the beach. They had, at once, disgusted and impressed him by how they got inside the fish—pecking in with their beak through the soft parts of the eyes and the anus.