Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  “Someplace in London, I guess.” He stuffed Chantal’s clothes into his bag. “I need to do something with this.”

  “I can drop it off, sir,” the driver offered.

  “Can you leave it at the officers mess at Fairlop?” Zack asked. “That way, they’ll know we’re coming back.”

  The driver nodded and said he would do that. Then: “I know just the place. Grosvenor Square. Lots of foreign types around there. You’ll mix right in.” When he reached the square, he pulled to the curb. “If you need a room, try the Swan, a pub on Bayswater Road. My uncle’s the publican. Say you know me and he might have something. Be there by closing.”

  “What is your name, monsieur?” Chantal asked in halting English.

  “Peter Abbott,” the driver said.

  She gave him a kiss on the cheek as they piled out of the car. “Merci, Mr. Abbott.”

  The driver beamed and looked at Zack. “She’s no Piccadilly Commando, sir.” He sat at the curb until they had walked away. “Cor, that’s a piece of nice,” he muttered. Then: “I hope he makes it.” The driver was thinking about when the war ended.

  They wandered in the direction of Hyde Park, talking in low voices when no one could overhear them. The quiet conversation bound them more closely, making the moments more intimate. The weather had turned unseasonably cold and damp and they huddled together for warmth. Willi’s well-tailored uniform fit Chantal perfectly except for the long pant legs. The cuffs kept coming unrolled. Finally, Chantal found a bench and rummaged through Willi’s musette bag that she had also borrowed, looking for a sewing kit. She smiled and brought out a thin packet of condoms. She dangled it daintily from her thumb and forefinger. “I see our Miss Wilhelmina travels prepared,” she smiled. Zack blushed furiously and she dropped it back into the bag. Then she found a sewing kit and quickly tacked up her pant cuffs. “Come, let’s find something to eat. I’m famished.” They started to walk again, searching for a restaurant and warmth.

  Much to Zack’s surprise, there were many restaurants, but all were jammed with people seeking a table. He was about to give up and go directly to the pub the driver, Abbott, had told them about when a familiar aroma caught his attention. “Chorizo,” he said, following the smell into a narrow lane. “Mexican sausage,” he explained. “I haven’t had any in years.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” she said, wrinkling her nose up at the foreign smell. Soon they heard the sound of Spanish voices. “That’s a strange accent,” she said.

  “It’s Mexican, not Castilian,” Zack said. He knocked at the narrow door where the smell was the strongest. A robust and heavily built woman in a black dress answered. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun and she was wearing an apron.

  “Señora, por favor,” he stammered.

  “I speak English,” she said.

  “Gracias,” Zack said. “I smelled your sausage cooking and…”

  “A gringo,” she said, “wearing and English uniform who smells chorizo and who comes knocking.” He could hear humor in her voice.

  Chantal interrupted with a flood of Spanish. The woman smiled and motioned them into the kitchen. She and Chantal carried on an animated conversation for a few moments before the woman disappeared. “What did you say?” Zack asked, bewildered by it all.

  “This is the back kitchen for the Mexican embassy,” Chantal explained. “She’s the cook. I told her we were married yesterday and you’re on a three-day pass before leaving on a new assignment.” Chantal waved her hand, flashing the wedding ring she still wore. “I told her the smell of her cooking made you very homesick.”

  “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

  “There are many things about me you need to learn.” She came to him, sat on his lap and gave him a soft kiss. When she felt him respond, her mouth grew more hungry. Then she drew away and looked at him. “Many things,” she whispered. “But I learned something from Leonard.” Her voice was low and sad. “We may only have this one moment to share. I don’t want to lose it.”

  The cook came back. “Come,” she ordered. “You’ll eat with us.” She led them into the servants dining room, where they joined four others at a large table. Within minutes, they were diving into a steaming platter of enchiladas, tamales, and beans spiced with hunks of chorizo. The cook kept smiling at them and commenting on Chantal’s appetite. “That’s good, that’s good,” she kept saying. Occasionally, she would ask Zack a question and learned he was from Oakland, California, and had developed a taste for Mexican food when he worked on a ranch during his summer vacations. That was also where he had picked up a smattering of Spanish.

  Chantal watched as Zack slowly drew the five strangers to him; even the sour chauffeur joined the conversation and lingered over coffee. Since she spoke little English, she concentrated on their gestures and facial expressions. What is it about you that draws people so? she thought. Is it that crooked grin? The way it seems to wander all over your face? Perhaps it is those blue eyes. Yes, she decided, those eyes. Perhaps it’s the way you listen to what people have to say. You listen much more than you talk and you are genuinely interested in what they do say.

  Suddenly, she wanted him all to herself. “Zack,” she said, claiming his attention, “we must go if we’re to find a room.” She almost laughed at the startled look on his face. Then it came to her—this American had never been with a woman before. That worried her. Was he some kind of prude? Americans were notorious for being quirky.

  “Señora Pontowski,” the cook said, “Perhaps I can arrange something.” She barraged the chauffeur with a torrent of Spanish that was too fast for Chantal to fully understand.

  The chauffeur nodded and stood up. “Please come with me. We must go now before the fog gets too thick.” The cook told them to go and after a shower of good-byes and thanks, they were in an embassy car and headed for an unknown destination. They were surprised that a heavy mist had developed so early in the evening, casting a mantle of silence over the city. The drab ugliness of wartime London had changed into whispering, ghost-like shadows. Images would move and materialize into people or another car, slowly making their way to some unknown destination. “I like London like this,” the chauffeur told them. “Besides, Jerry will stay home tonight.”

  The chauffeur drew up outside a small hotel and gave them a key. “Room three on the second floor,” he said. “Leave the key on the table.” For the first time he smiled. “We keep it for visiting guests who need privacy.” Then he eased the car into the fog and disappeared. A curious rule of life had attached itself to Zack: Things are often given to people who can easily afford or do for themselves while other, much less fortunate people, are rarely given such presents. And this was one gift that was embarrassing him.

  “There’s a pub across the street,” he said. “Care for a drink?”

  Chantal took him by the hand and led him across the deserted street as the fog grew even more thick. They passed a couple locked in a passionate embrace in a dark doorway, barely visible as they walked by. Chantal gave his hand a squeeze and pulled him against the wall, pressing her body against his. She pulled his face down to hers. “I want to be like them,” she whispered. “Nameless people lost in a fog, without a tomorrow and only now.” She kissed him, her mouth open, her tongue hungry for his. She caressed his neck, her lips brushing against his ear. “I love you, Zack, always.” It was a whisper, warming his soul, driving the fog of tomorrow away from them. “I knew from the first.”

  “The first?”

  “When we were in the train at Düsseldorf and the bombs were falling all around us, your bombs.” He could feel her body shake and drew her to him. “You would not move away from the window and I watched your face,” she said. “You were afraid, but I remember thinking that you had to witness the death and destruction around you. You were horrified but I also saw compassion in your face for our enemy.” She clasped his hand to her cheek and led him back across the street, into the fog, toward the hotel.

  H
er movement roused him from a deep slumber, the best sleep he had experienced since leaving the duke’s country house. He watched her walk across the floor and throw the curtains back, letting the morning sun stream into the room and wash over her. She shimmered in the light, her nude body glowing. “Come back to bed,” he said. She twisted in the light and looked at him, not smiling, just looking. Then she took the few steps back to the bed, her hips swaying and provocative, and slipped back under the blankets. She reached for him and stroked until he was hard.

  “That didn’t take long,” she said and rolled on top of him. She drew her fingers up his side and rubbed the nipples on his chest. Then she kissed each one and nuzzled his neck. Then she worked her way down his body, her tongue tickling his navel. “It was sweet being the first one,” she said, casting her eyes lower, eyeing her next objective.

  “Was it that obvious? Ouch! Don’t bite.”

  “You are so embarrassed about some things. I was afraid you might be one of those American prudes.” Now she was working her way back up his body. “I’m glad you’re not. But why?”

  “Why what?” he asked, confused.

  “Why was I the first?”

  He pulled her up and rolled over, resting on his elbows, pinning her to the bed. “I don’t really know why.” His face was inches from hers as he looked inside himself for an answer. “Maybe it just didn’t seem right before.”

  Her hands stroked his hips and she pressed her stomach against his. “It is unheard of that a man should save himself for the marriage bed. But I’m glad.” Her hand wedged between their stomachs and she reached down and guided him as her legs lifted to draw him into her.

  “I love you,” he said, never so sure of his feelings and how right it was.

  The bus dropped them at the gate to Fairlop and the sentry on duty would not let them enter until after he had made a phone call. Then he waved them through. “Sir,” he said, pointing at a low building. “You’re wanted at Station Headquarters.”

  Zack gave Chantal what he hoped was an encouraging grin as they neared the entrance. The driver, Peter Abbott, was standing by his staff car. “I think they’re expecting us,” he told her. “Good morning, Peter,” Zack called. “I hope we haven’t caused you too much trouble.”

  “Not too much.” Abbott grinned. “Other than taking a strip out of my backside.” He pointed inside. “In there, sir. Never seen ’er ladyship so worked up. He’s taking it calmly enough, though. I’ll take you in.”

  The civilian from the house at Wimbledon was sitting on a couch in the room when Abbott opened the door. He glanced up from the newspaper he was reading, took a big puff on his pipe, and turned the haze in the room a darker shade of blue. He laid his paper down but didn’t move. Willi came to her feet with a forced, icy composure. “Just what do you think you were doing?” She stared at him, expecting an answer. Zack only returned her look and said nothing. It made her even more angry. “This,” she spat at him, “raises the question of her reliability.”

  “She has a name,” Zack said. “Chantal, in case you’ve forgotten, and she is in the same room with us.”

  “We may not be able to use her now,” Willi said, determined to make her point. “Of all the utter irresponsible…”

  “She’s been used enough,” Zack said. “Hopefully, you’ll be decent about it and not send her back.” He couldn’t keep from smiling at the stunned look on Willi’s face. “I owe you an apology for last night,” he added. “I had to distract you so Chantal could slip out.”

  “You succeeded,” she admitted, ice still in every word. She didn’t like how easy it had been for him to manipulate her…them. Damn, she fumed to herself, it’s his voice. He uses it like a weapon. “Still, that doesn’t change the trouble you’ve caused…I just don’t see of what use she can be now.” Then it came to her. The American had planned it from the start. He had no intention of letting SOE use Chantal as an agent and had deliberately planted a seed of doubt as to her reliability. Not enough to get her in trouble, but enough to cast suspicion in their minds.

  “Not to worry, Wilhelmina,” the man on the couch said, heaving his bulk into a standing position. “It all depends on what we need her for, does it not? Come, my dear.” He held the door open for Chantal, gave her an encouraging smile, and walked out into the hall.

  Chantal turned to Zack and touched his lips with a finger, silencing him. “Adieu, my love.” Her lips brushed his and she followed the man out the door.

  “Is she that valuable?” Zack asked. There was no answer.

  EIGHT

  The Golden Triangle, Burma

  Heather was working in her office when Chiang and James, his majordomo, knocked and entered. She was wearing a businesslike straight gray skirt, white silk blouse, and for all appearances was the successful corporate executive. “James tells me,” Chiang said, “that the arrangements are completed.”

  “I think,” Heather replied, her voice full of confidence, “that we have done everything we can to care for our guests.” She spread a map across her desk for Chiang and pointed out the various houses and bungalows in the nearby village that she had appropriated for their “guests.” “I’ve grouped them into separate areas and arranged all the necessary transportation.”

  “It is a most clever solution,” James added. As Chiang’s chief of security, he had been worried about allowing such a large group of armed men inside their defenses. One group, sensing a temporary advantage, might decide to dispose of their competition in short order. But Heather had housed the leaders with a small number of their personal bodyguards in the compound under Chiang’s immediate protection and then separated the others in the village.

  “The entertainment,” Heather continued, “has been arranged and the chefs will arrive the day before.” She had saved the best for last. “The, ah, escorts are here and in isolation. They have all been given a thorough medical examination and we are waiting for the test results to be sure none have AIDS.”

  “You have done well,” Chiang said, “considering how critical this meeting is to the Consortium.” He had made it abundantly clear that the Japanese and Colombian-German ringleaders who were coming to the meeting were vital to the new enterprise he was putting together. He estimated that if he could get them to agree to join with him, they would control between 60 and 70 percent of the world’s drug traffic.

  But there were dangers. If the men sensed any weakness on his part, they would brutally eliminate Chiang’s organization and take over his operation. Yet, the combination of money and control flowing from the Consortium held the promise of real power on a global scale, and that outweighed the dangers.

  “Now,” he said, “please undress.”

  Heather was confused and embarrassed. They had been discussing business and James was still in the room. What had changed?-She slowly shed her clothes until she was standing in front of the two men only wearing her shoes. “Turn around and bend over,” Chiang ordered. She did as he commanded, her eyes fixed straight ahead while he walked up to her. She felt his hands spread her buttocks.

  “Most interesting,” James said, inspecting the tattoo of the coiled snake. “At least one of our guests will be fascinated by this.” She started to cry.

  “Please excuse us,” Chiang said. James gave a bland nod of his head and retreated out of the office. Chiang led her to a couch, dropped his pants and sat down, pulling her onto his lap. “There, there,” he said, kissing and wiping her tears away as he entered her. “Daddy will take care of you.”

  Samkit found Heather curled up in the corner of the couch, shaking and sobbing incoherently. She ran into the bathroom, moistened a face cloth, and snatched up a bath towel before sitting down and taking her into her arms. She covered the girl and bathed her face, speaking softly and trying to calm her.

  “It was horrible,” Heather gasped between sobs. “He was like my father when I was eleven. I don’t understand. I thought I was special to him.” Slowly, she recounted all that sh
e had done to help Chiang with his Consortium.

  “He’s using you,” Samkit said, all traces of her pidgin English gone, “like he has used the others.”

  Heather clung to the woman, numb, drained of emotion. Her life had come full circle.

  The lighted windows in her hooch hurried Samkit up the steps to the small bungalow she called home. Weariness from the long day slipped away as she entered the single room and saw her son. She made a graceful wai as a serene feeling captured her. “My humble home is yours,” she said, not looking directly at him, not caring that their connection might be exposed. Her son was with her.

  The Buddhist monk motioned her to a seat, not touching his mother. “It was necessary that I come,” he said. “We have an ally.” The heavyset German anthropologist stepped out of a shadowy corner. “You can trust him.”

  “How will I explain his presence?” she asked.

  “You are still a beautiful woman, Mother, and he is older than you. He can be your lover.”

  “That is acceptable,” Samkit said. “I have much to tell you.” She recounted all that Heather had told her. Then the monk rose and disappeared into the night. She glanced at the stranger and started to cook them dinner.

  Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina

  The Pave Low MH-53 helicopter approached Pope Air Force Base from the south. Gillespie called the tower for an approach and landing and was cleared in perpendicular to the main runway. He hovered over the grass, not crossing the Active until the tower cleared him to taxi to the ramp. He eased the cyclic forward and, firmly touching the ground, taxied in. Ground control cleared him to Base Ops and he guided the twenty-ton goat down the taxipath until he parked in front of the canopy that marked the entrance to Base Ops. The crew shut down the two turbo shaft engines and the six-bladed main rotor spun down, its incessant beating fading away.