“That’ll take a minute or two,” Canidy said. “I’ll be back.”
“I’m getting sick to my stomach,” János said.
“Tell him,” Canidy said, nodding at Alois. “He’ll get you something to throw up in.”
Then he went looking for the Countess and von Heurten-Mitnitz.
It was not necessary under the circumstances, he decided, to bother knocking on doors and politely waiting for permission to enter.
He found them behind the third door he opened, nearly hidden under a goose-down comforter.
“Good morning,” he said.
Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz suddenly erupted from under the comforter, reaching for his Walther pistol as his eyes swept around the room.
The movement took the comforter off both of them. They were both naked.
The Countess, as Canidy had thought she might be, was a baroque work of art. His Excellency was a white-skinned, skinny man, from whose chest sprouted no more than a dozen long black hairs.
“What’s all this?” von Heurten-Mitnitz demanded in outrage as he put the pistol down and pulled the comforter over himself and the Countess.
“The team is here,” Canidy said.
“I presume you mean Ferniany,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“No, I mean the team,” Canidy said. “They were dropped about thirty minutes ago. I think you ought to get dressed and get out of here right away.”
I have just decided, Canidy realized, that I am not going to tell them about the Gooney Bird.
“Did everything go all right?” the Countess Batthyany asked.
“One of them has a broken ankle,” Canidy said. “I brought him here.”
“Where did you put him?” she asked.
“In my bed,” Canidy said.
The Countess slid out from under the comforter, modestly turned her back to Canidy, and wrapped herself in a dressing gown. She found shoes, worked her feet into them, and, brushing her magnificent mop of red hair off her face, walked out of the room.
Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz got out the other side of the bed and started to dress. Naked, Canidy thought, and in his underwear—a sleeveless undershirt and baggy drawers, plus stockings held up by rubber suspenders on his skinny calves—von Heurten-Mitnitz was not at all impressive.
“We have one dead man, too,” Canidy said.
“What happened?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
“Natural causes,” Canidy said. “A heart attack.”
Von Heurten-Mitnitz didn’t seem at all surprised by that announcement, which surprised Canidy.
“What are you going to do with the body?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked. “Or the man with the injured . . . leg, you said?”
“Ankle,” Canidy said. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. The first priority, I think, is for you and the Countess to get back to Budapest.”
“I think you’re right,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
Canidy returned to his room.
“You landed the airplane,” the Countess greeted him, looking up from the bed, where she was prodding and pulling on the ankle of the now unconscious János.
Alois had apparently told her, and she would now certainly tell von Heurten-Mitnitz.
“Yes,” Canidy said.
“I will remain here while Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz returns to Budapest,” she said. “It would be better, if I were here when . . . if . . . the authorities come.”
“I think it would be better if you went to Budapest,” Canidy said. “Just as soon as you can.”
She ignored him.
“I have sent for rubber bandage,” she said. “I’m sure there’s some here. I think about all we can do for this man is to wrap the ankle tightly, then stiffen the ankle. You take my meaning?”
“Splint it,” Canidy said, nodding. “Thank you.”
Alois came into the room with von Heurten-Mitnitz on his heels.
“Their airplane landed,” the Countess said.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz looked at Canidy, surprised.
“Intact?” he asked.
“Yes,” Canidy said.
“And you plan to use it to leave?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
Canidy nodded. “If we can.”
“I think it would be best if you took Beatrice with you,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“No,” the Countess said. “I am staying here to do what I can while you go to Budapest. But I am not leaving with them.”
“I don’t see any way that what has happened here can be hidden,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“Then you leave, too,” the Countess said.
“There is a good chance that no one knows about either the drop or the plane landing,” Canidy said.
“I think that is highly unlikely,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“You and the Countess slept through two passes and the landing itself,” Canidy said.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz grunted, reluctantly granting the point.
“I don’t want to have to worry about you, Countess,” Canidy said, “while we’re getting Eric and the professor out of St. Gertrud’s. I want you to go to Budapest, and now.”
She met his eyes for a moment.
“All right,” she said finally. “Just let me do what I can for him.”
Twenty minutes later, the Opel Admiral drove away from the lodge. By then, it had stopped snowing. Canidy wondered if enough snow had fallen to conceal the tracks the C-47 had made on the meadow, or to obscure the outline of the aircraft under the pine boughs.
Since Ferniany hadn’t shown up, there was nothing else to do, so he went to see.
5
1715 HOURS 21 FEBRUARY 1943
Ferniany drove up to the hunting lodge at the wheel of a small, canvas-bodied Tatra truck about the size of an American pickup. Canidy, summoned from the kitchen by Alois, went out to meet him. Ferniany had three men from the Hungarian underground with him, but that was about all.
There had been “a little trouble,” he told Canidy. The Germans, or maybe even the Hungarians, he didn’t know which, had had radio direction-finding trucks in operation, and they had located the radio transmitter from which he had radioed the drop-zone coordinates.
There had been enough warning that the trucks were moving around, together with cars full of police, for him to get away before the police got to the hidden transmitter, but he had had to leave everything behind.
The police by now had found the signal panels, the radio, and the weapons, including the Sten submachine gun Captain Hughson had loaned Canidy on Vis.
“Where did the truck come from?”
“We stole it,” Ferniany replied, just a little smugly.
“How do you plan to get rid of it?” Canidy asked.
Ferniany looked at him, making it clear he didn’t think much of the question.
“Abandon it, when we’re through with it.”
“How many trucks do you think are stolen in Budapest and then abandoned in Pécs?” Canidy asked. “Did it occur to you that the police might find that curious? Or that the SS, now that they’re aware there are people in here with transmitters and signal panels and English weapons, might be absolutely fascinated to learn that a truck had been stolen in Budapest and abandoned here?”
“We’ll hide it in the forest,” Ferniany said lamely. “Bury it, even.”
“The damage is done,” Canidy said. “As soon as the team has gotten our people out of St. Gertrud’s, you do whatever you can about the truck. Either, preferably, get it back to Budapest and abandon it there or take it someplace else. But get it away from here.”
Ferniany did not seem to understand that stealing the truck had been a stupid thing to do. If they had been caught in the act of stealing it, or once they had it in their possession, even the dumbest Hungarian cop would have made the connection between someone barely escaping from the radio-detection operation and someone heading out of town in a stolen truck.
And if he sensed that Canidy was furious, he showed no
sign of it.
“You said, ‘as soon as the team’ gets our people out . . . ,” Ferniany challenged.
“Yes, I did.”
“Major,” Ferniany explained patiently, almost tolerantly, “without the signal panels and the radio, there’s no way we can expect the team to get in here,” Ferniany said. “We’re going to have to do this ourselves.”
“You’ve got some kind of a plan?” Canidy asked. It was all he trusted himself to say.
“Prisons are designed keep people in,” Ferniany said, solemnly announcing a great philosophical truth.
“And?”
“From seven o’clock at night until five o’clock in the morning, there are on duty only six people: five guards and a sort of clerk. And there is only one guard on the motor pool where they keep the trucks and motorcycles.”
“You mean the mine trucks, the ones they carry the prisoners back and forth to the mine in?”
“Right,” Ferniany said.
“So what you’re going to do is knock over the guard at the motor pool, steal a mine truck, and drive it to the prison. You’ll be a little early, but they’ll recognize the truck and pass you inside, whereupon you and your three men will take on the five guards and the clerk, grab Fulmar and Professor Dyer, and make your escape?”
“I detect a little sarcasm,” Ferniany said.
“Not a little,” Canidy said.
He let that sink in, and waited for an angry response. He was surprised when none came.
“Right up there in importance with getting Fulmar and Dyer out,” Canidy said, “is getting them out without calling anybody’s attention to the fact that they are anything but what they were—thanks to your stupidity, we should keep that in mind—arrested for: black marketeers. Don’t you think the Germans would be goddamned curious to learn why two people—who just happen to fit the descriptions of two men the whole goddamned SS is looking for—were busted out of an obscure Hungarian prison with more shooting and dead bodies strewn all over than in a Jimmy Cagney gangster movie?”
Ferniany’s face colored with anger.
“I’m right on the edge of telling you to go fuck yourself, Canidy,” Ferniany said.
“You really wouldn’t want to do that, would you?” Canidy asked primly.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Ferniany said. “According to you, I don’t do anything right.” He paused, but then was carried along by his momentum: “Fuck you, Canidy. Stick this whole operation up your ass. I’d like to hear how you plan to get them out, you wiseass sonofabitch.”
“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Canidy said, even more primly.
“Done what?” Ferniany said, curiously, a smile forming on his face.
“Used naughty words in front of the enlisted men,” Canidy said, gesturing to Alois and the men from the underground, who had been fascinated by the angry exchange, not a word of which they understood. “Whatever will they think?”
Ferniany looked at the four Hungarians. Then, although he tried not to, the innocent curiosity on their faces made him laugh.
That seemed to reassure the Hungarians. The looks of puzzlement were replaced by broad smiles.
“I would be fascinated, Major Canidy, Sir,” Ferniany said, “to learn precisely how the Major plans to carry out this mission.”
XIV
1
NEAR SAN JUAN, ISLAND OF MINDANAO COMMONWEALTH OF THE PHILIPPINES 1815 HOURS 21 FEBRUARY 1943
The commanding general of United States forces in the Philippines had climbed a tree. It wasn’t a very tall tree, and he hadn’t been able to climb very far up it, but it was on the highest point he could find on a bluff thirty feet above a narrow sandy beach, and he was sure that it was giving him the best possible view of the sea.
It was growing dark. In fifteen minutes, it would be completely dark. Moving through the jungle at any time was difficult, and when it was dark, damned near impossible.
He knew he had made a bad decision coming here at all. What he should have done was send Withers and one or two of his men down here to see what happened, not come himself.
But he had wanted so desperately to believe that something would happen. So he had come himself, and brought an unnecessarily large force with him. He knew it was because he wanted witnesses that his hopes had come true. But what else was there for him to do?
He put the one and only pair of binoculars in the hands of U.S. forces in the Philippines to his eyes.
He would search the open sea one more time, until his eyes started to tear from fatigue, he decided, and then he would order the withdrawal of this force by night to the mountains, and on the way maybe he’d think of one more credible excuse why “the aid” hadn’t come this night either, one more reason to hope that maybe tomorrow—
There wasn’t one miserable fucking thing on the surface of the water.
Somebody tugged on his shoe. He looked down in annoyance.
It was Master Sergeant Withers. He was pointing down at the beach, his hand shaking, and with tears running down his cheeks.
There was a submarine down there, in far closer to the beach than Fertig would have believed it possible for a submarine to maneuver. Torrents of water still gushed from ports in its side, but there were people on the conning tower, and then the colors went up on a mast over the conning tower.
Fertig’s eyes filled with tears.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch, there they are!” Withers said.
There was all sorts of activity on the submarine now. Sailors ran purposefully about the narrow decks, objects were handed up through hatches.
The commanding general of USFIP slid down the tree trunk and slid down the bluff to the beach.
They had to wait for what seemed like an hour, but what was really not more than five minutes, before a rubber boat appeared close to the surf.
Half a dozen of his men ran out in water to their shoulders to reach it, to help it ashore.
Fertig thought, idly, that they seemed to be having a hell of a hard time pulling it.
And then somebody jumped out of the rubber boat, and Fertig walked into the receding surf to meet him, although he had told himself he would not, the salt water would be hell on already deteriorating boots.
He was a tall and good-looking young man in khakis.
He splashed through the surf to Fertig.
And then he stopped, still in water to his knees, and came to attention and saluted.
“Captain Whittaker, General,” he said. “United States Army Air Corps.”
“Welcome to Mindanao, Captain,” Fertig said, returning the salute crisply, controlling his voice with a massive effort, glad now that it was dark enough that Whittaker wouldn’t be able to see the tears on his cheeks.
“Sir . . . Sergeant Withers?”
Fertig pointed to the second rubber boat coming through the surf. With the same apparent difficulty that those helping the first boat had had, Withers was trying to hurry it ashore.
“Excuse me, sir,” Whittaker said, and ran into the surf. He returned with a very small sailor riding on his shoulders.
“Send ’B,’ ” Whittaker ordered as he set the small sailor onto the beach.
Joe Garvey flashed the Morse code signal for “B,” a dash and three dots, from a flashlight with an angled head.
There was an immediate response from a signaling light on the conning tower of the submarine. Garvey hurriedly took a pad from his pocket and wrote it down.
“What was that?” Fertig asked.
“Garvey sent them ’B,’ ” Whittaker explained. “ ‘B’ is ‘safely ashore, with equipment, in contact with U.S. forces in the Philippines.’ ”
“Sir,” Radioman Second Joe Garvey reported, “Drum messages, ‘Aloha. God Bless.’ ”
Fertig looked out at the submarine. It was under way. The colors had already been hauled down. Its deck was already awash. It was going back under.
It didn’t matter. If one came, others could. Others would.
“My m
en seem to be having a time getting your boats ashore, Captain,” General Fertig said, trying valiantly to sound nonchalant.
“We’ve got medicine for you, General,” Whittaker said. “And some small arms and ammunition. And a million dollars in gold coins. You wouldn’t believe how much a million dollars weighs until you try to tow it around in a rubber boat with a five-horse outboard motor.”
2
ST. GERTRUD’S PRISON PÉCS, HUNGARY 0630 HOURS 22 FEBRUARY 1943
The Tatra dump truck scraped the stones in the tunnel between the courtyard and the street with the left edge of its bumper.
A little harder than usual, Eric Fulmar, riding against the cab in the bed of the truck, thought idly. And then there was immediately another proof that it was going a little harder than usual. Instead of squeaking on through, the truck jerked to a stop and, with a clash of gears, backed up.
Oh, Christ, now what?
Then the gears clashed again, and the truck moved forward, and they were through the tunnel and onto the street.
It had snowed again overnight, not much, just a white dusting over the slush. Fulmar had hoped for freezing rain. That made the ride to the mine more interesting. He had concluded that all the truck drivers he had met since they had been locked up shared one quality: They had all learned how to drive last week and tried to hide this by driving as fast as the trucks would go.
On the slippery cobblestone streets on the way to the mines, they often skidded the truck into a ditch or into something hard enough to bend the fenders into the tires. This was routinely followed by marvelous displays of Hungarian temper and absolutely marvelous attempts to get the trucks out of the ditches by doing precisely the wrong thing.
Sometimes, as much as two hours would be lost. It was more pleasant than handling a donkey in the mines, and Fulmar looked forward to icy road conditions. He was disappointed this morning when the driver managed to negotiate a turn that had several times seen the truck skid into a ditch so steep that the rear wheels of the truck left the ground.
They were maybe a kilometer away from the mine when he felt the brakes lock, and the truck skid, and then jolt to a halt.
The Fighting Agents Page 40
