by Greg Iles
The rolling cylinder jumped the crossarm on the second pylon, then settled into a steady run down toward the loch.
“When are you jumping off?” Stern asked. “By my count, it’s time to go.”
“The cylinders from Porton Down are scheduled to arrive in one hour,” McShane said calmly. “My lot shoves off then.”
Stern felt a rush of excitement. “Tonight?”
McShane unclipped his safety belt, slid off the crossarm and dug his spikes into the thick pole beneath it. He looked over at Stern and grinned. “I just wish I was going to be there to see those cylinders land in that camp. It’ll be some show, that. One night only, and no one leaves alive.”
“No one but me and McConnell,” said Stern.
“Right,” McShane added quickly. “That’s what I meant.”
Beyond the Arkaig River where it bent north of the castle, McConnell wearily stuffed his chemistry and German books into a leather bag and started back toward the commando camp. He’d had enough studying, and his stomach was audibly begging for nourishment. To shorten his trip, he turned into a section of forest known as the Mile Dorcha, or Dark Mile. The origin of the name was plain enough. What had once been a forest lane was now a tunnel of overarching trees, with the road itself sunk between high banks covered with deep moss and lichens. It was the kind of place where one half-expected to hear the thunder of hoofbeats as a headless horseman galloped out of the trees.
But it was no horseman that stepped out of the forest to McConnell’s right, causing his heart to momentarily stop. It was a tall man of about sixty, wearing a beautiful kilt, a green beret and scuffed brogues. The gray-eyed stranger stood motionless beside the lane. When McConnell drew near, he lifted his walking staff and raised two fingers in greeting.
“Hello,” said McConnell.
“Fine day for a walk,” the man replied, then fell in beside him.
“Yes, it is,” Mark agreed.
The stranger said nothing else. Strangely, McConnell felt no urge or obligation to speak. The kilted walker seemed in absolute harmony with his surroundings, as if he were as much a part of the landscape as the moss and the crooked trees. In the easy silence, McConnell found himself reflecting on the past week. His time at Achnacarry had been a revelation. The emergency surgery on the riverbank had left him exhilarated, reminding him of what he had given up to work in the labs at Oxford. It had also marked the genesis of a careful friendship between himself and Stern. The taciturn Jew still refused to reveal what kind of training he was doing alone, but whenever McConnell heard the ka-whoom of explosions echoing through the hills, he pictured Stern with his hand on the detonator.
Twice more since the episode at the river, he had managed to surprise Stern. Yesterday, Sergeants McShane and Lewis had trotted up to them carrying a massive ten-foot log on their shoulders. Lewis’s knee was heavily taped, but he was making a great point of showing everyone that Stern had not crippled him. When the two sergeants pretended to pass the log to McConnell, Mark stunned everyone by taking it on his shoulder and marching off across the hill with little apparent strain. He didn’t tell them that during high school he had worked summers at a creosote plant, where with twelve tireless Negroes he had hauled sizzling black poles nine hours a day under the Georgia sun.
And last night, when he and Stern stumbled upon a sergeant giving an outdoor lecture on survival cooking, McConnell had entered Achnacarry folklore. The cook had challenged his audience to guess which animal’s flesh they were eating from his fire. When the stumped French commandos—and Jonas Stern—heard that the roasted delicacy in their mouths was Achnacarry Rat, there was a race to the river to vomit. Only McConnell finished his full portion, explaining that during the Depression he had eaten alligator, possum, nutria, snake, and raccoon. He earned the cook’s eternal friendship by pronouncing Achnacarry Rat superior to nutria, which was a large water rodent of the American Southeast.
Such moments had been rare, though. The uncertainty of their impending mission, and their impatience to get on with it, set them apart from the soldiers at the castle, who knew that their own battles with the Germans would not begin until spring arrived.
“You’re the American, aren’t you?”
McConnell jumped at the sound of the voice. So smooth and silent were the movements of the kilted man beside him that he had almost forgotten his presence.
“The pacifist I’ve been hearing about?”
McConnell glanced over at the weathered face of the stranger in the beret, then looked ahead. At the end of the tunnel of trees, an arch of light glimmered like a great cathedral window. “Yes,” he said. “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Sorry. I thought you’d know me by the tartan. I’m Donald Cameron.”
McConnell tried to recover gracefully from the hitch in his stride. “Sir Donald Cameron? Laird of Achnacarry Castle?”
The Highlander smiled. “Aye. A mouthful, isn’t it?” He gazed high into the shadowy treetops as they moved toward the forest’s edge. “Beautiful in the gloaming, eh?”
“Yes, sir. The hills here remind me of some mountains back in my home state.”
“Where would that be?”
“Georgia. Your hills have the same mist, the same wooded slopes as the Appalachian Mountains.”
“I’ve heard of these mountains. A great many Americans come over here, you know. Searching for roots, they say. Quite a few Camerons were pushed off the land during the Clearances, and many went to America. Some to those very mountains of yours.”
The arch of light had grown closer, but it seemed to dim as they approached. “Is that right?” said McConnell. “When I first heard your name, it was a bit of a surprise.”
“Why’s that, lad? Camerons have owned this land for seven hundred years.”
McConnell heard the sound of rushing water. “That’s what I mean. You see, my middle name is Cameron.”
The laird didn’t stop walking, but he turned to face McConnell. “Is that a fact, now? And your last name?”
“McConnell.”
“Hm. Mostly Irish, that.”
“My grandmother was a Cameron.”
“Well, there’s two sets of Camerons hereabouts. The Camerons of Lochiel, and the Camerons of Erracht.” Sir Donald winked at McConnell. “Let’s hope she was a Lochiel, eh?”
The two men emerged from the Dark Mile into lambent winter light. The cool spray of falling water misted the air. The laird led McConnell onto an arched stone footbridge and gestured up toward two waterfalls that cascaded into a peaty brown pool below the bridge. He took a deep, satisfied breath.
“I suppose the men have been giving you a lot of trouble about this pacifist business?”
McConnell hesitated. “A bit.”
“Don’t think you’re cut out for battle, eh?”
“I just think there must be a better way to solve problems.”
The laird smiled wistfully. “Aye, you’d think so, after all this time. Men are bloody-minded creatures though.”
The light was changing fast on the falls, the frothing white turning silver in the twilight.
“When Bonnie Prince Charlie started to raise the rebellion,” Cameron said, “my ancestor—the Gentle Lochiel, they called him—rode straight on to talk the prince out of it. An ill-timed enterprise, he called it.”
“Did he succeed?”
“Oh, no. The rebellion was born, and Lochiel fought like the rest. But he knew it was doomed from the start, ye see. Ended in blood and death at Culloden.” Sir Donald nodded slowly at McConnell. “My point, lad, is that a man isn’t measured by how regularly he struts around beating his chest. A wise man loves peace better than war.” He raised his forefinger. “And a wise man picks his battles. When he can, leastways.”
McConnell was surprised to hear such a philosophy from a Highland Chief, a warrior breed if ever there was one.
“It’s a strange world,” the laird mused. “In 1746 the redcoats burned our old castle
. Now Charlie Vaughan and his English commandos have occupied the new one. I don’t like it, but it’s in a good cause. Hitler, I mean. I’ve no use for the man. No use for a German at all, to be honest. Going to Germany yourself, are ye?”
McConnell felt a shock of disbelief. Brigadier Smith had certainly not confided the target of the mission to a civilian, even if he was the landlord.
“Don’t look so surprised, lad. Not much gets by me. Why else would you be paired with that German Jew? And dinna be worryin’. I’m no’ a talker.”
“It’s true,” McConnell said, feeling an almost confessional relief.
“Must be important, then.” The laird’s blue eyes bore into McConnell’s. “Going into the enemy camp means bloodshed. I guess you know that.”
“I’m figuring it out.”
“Well . . . if they picked you for this job, you must be the right man.”
Mark set his elbows on the stone rail of the bridge. “I didn’t think so at first. But now I have a queer feeling. Almost like . . . well, destiny or something. Take the name Cameron. Right now I may be standing on land my ancestors walked, and only because of this mission.”
Sir Donald nodded. “You listen, lad. When the time comes—when you get to the sharp end of things—you’ll know what to do. I heard how you saved that Frog down by the river.”
“That was my medical training. I’m not trained for this.”
Cameron’s bright eyes flashed. “Bugger all that! If you’ve got Cameron blood in your veins, ye’ve got the fight in ye. You’ll bear up when the time comes.”
He leaned his staff against the bridge rail and pulled a deer-skinning knife from the stocking of his right leg, then looked McConnell in the eye. “I wish I were going with you, that’s God’s truth. But I’m too old now. My son is about your age. He’s with the Lovat Scouts. In any case, you’re a Cameron by one branch or the other, and you’re entitled to wear the tartan.”
McConnell watched in amazement as the laird sliced off a six-inch swatch of his heavy woolen kilt.
“You take this, Doctor,” he said. “Might bring ye luck in the hard places.” He slipped the knife back into his stocking. “There’s not a Hun in the world could stand before a Cameron with his blood up. Mark my words.”
McConnell stood straight and carefully folded the green, red, and yellow cloth into the pocket of his army denims. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll keep it close by.”
“You do that, lad.”
The light was nearly gone. In the distance McConnell heard a muffled explosion, yet another prelude to the great cataclysm that would soon smash to rubble what was left of Europe.
He leaned on the bridge rail and watched the water sluice over the falls. You could lose yourself in that sound, he thought. In the sound, and the smell of wet stone and woodsmoke and mist. As he stared, a great salmon leaped from the shadowy pool below the falls. Its sides gleamed like pewter dipped in oil, and its tail flashed darkly in the dusk.
“Did you see that!” he cried, looking to his right.
No one was there. Only the empty stone bridge, and the lane leading back into the mossy tunnel of the Dark Mile. The Laird of Achnacarry had vanished. As crazy as he felt doing it, McConnell reached into his pocket to make sure the swatch of tartan was still there, to make sure he hadn’t hallucinated the whole damned thing.
He hadn’t. The cloth felt reassuringly coarse against his fingers. He started back toward the castle, thinking of what Lochiel had told him. Pick your battles. He hadn’t picked this one. Duff Smith had picked it for him. It was odd. In war you ended up taking orders from men like Smith, pragmatic generals who assessed casualty projections with all the detachment of actuaries at Lloyd’s. Why couldn’t it be a man like Sir Donald Cameron who sent you in harm’s way? A man of flesh and blood and compassion. A leader who didn’t manipulate, but inspired?
McConnell slung his book bag over his shoulder and broke into a run, feeling his temples throb with frustration. He’d had it up to the neck with training. It was time to get on with it.
While McConnell ate alone in the solitary hut behind the castle, Jonas Stern sat in Colonel Vaughan’s office, still half expecting to be raked over the coals by the colonel for stealing the bicycle. It was not Charles Vaughan who appeared at the door, however, but Brigadier Smith. The SOE chief wore a heavy raincoat and his stalker’s cap, but tonight he carried no map case. He sat down heavily in Vaughan’s chair, pulled a bottle of single-malt whiskey and two glasses from a file cabinet, and poured two fingers into each glass.
“Drink that,” he ordered Stern.
Stern sat motionless. “What’s wrong? You haven’t scrubbed the mission?”
“Scrubbed it? I should say not. McShane and his men are flying toward Germany as I speak.”
“What is it then?”
Smith’s voice carried a note Stern had never heard from him before. Almost . . . compassion. “I drove over from the takeoff point just to see you,” he said. “We’ve had some news out of Germany. It may concern you.”
“How?”
The brigadier pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his inside coat pocket. “Three days ago, SOE scraped a Pole off a Baltic ice floe. He’d worked wonders for us, but he was blown. He managed to bring out one last haul. Among his papers were several lists of names. People who’d died at certain camps. One of those camps was Totenhausen.”
Stern nodded slowly. “And?”
Smith handed the sheet across the desk. Scanning it quickly, Stern saw about fifty names, some obviously Jewish, others not. There were numbers beside each name. He found it near the bottom of the page, a name that stood out like letters of fire among the others: Avram Stern (87052).
Stern cleared his throat. “How old is this list?” he asked in a shaky voice.
“We don’t know. Could be months, could be as recent as a week. Is it your father, lad?”
“How the hell do I know?” Stern exploded. “There could be a hundred Avram Sterns inside concentration camps!”
“In the Rostock area?” Smith asked softly.
Stern raised his right hand, pleading for silence. “I told him,” he said, staring at the floor. “I begged him. But he wouldn’t leave. I was fourteen and I could see it. But he’d fought for the Kaiser in the Great War. Said Hitler would never betray the veterans. What shit. What shit!” He stood up and moved to leave.
“Hold on a minute,” Smith said. “I know this is a hard blow. I debated whether or not to show you that list. But it’s a man’s right to know. You may not come back from Germany yourself.”
Stern nodded dully.
“You’re going in tomorrow night. Almost the dark of the moon.” Smith seemed hesitant to proceed. “I’ve got to say this. You know you can’t bring anyone out with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Jews,” Smith said firmly. “No one is coming out of Germany but you and McConnell. If you do bring anyone out, the sub won’t take them aboard. Clear? No one can ever know about this mission, Stern. Ever. Especially the Americans.”
“To hell with the Americans. How can I bring anyone out if I’m not going inside the camp until after the attack?”
“That’s exactly my point. See that you don’t.”
Smith examined his fingernails. “Is the good doctor still trying to talk you out of going?”
“What? Oh. No. He talks. Doesn’t mean anything. Talking never adds up to anything.”
“So you’re ready, then? Even if McConnell loses his nerve, balks, whatever. You’ll carry it through?”
Stern looked up in exasperation, his burning black eyes answer enough.
“And the prisoners?”
“I know what has to be done.”
“There’s a good lad.” Smith gave a satisfied grunt, then poured himself another whiskey and took a measured sip. “There’s one last bit of business we have to discuss. It’s rough, but necessary. And you’re the man for it, I can see.”
&nb
sp; “I’m listening.”
“You’ve been in hostile territory before. You know how it works. There can be no question of either of you being captured alive. Especially McConnell, with all he knows. It simply wouldn’t do.”
Stern reached into his shirt and brought out a small round medal with the Star of David engraved on it. Smith had never noticed the chain before. Stern worked the dull silver between his fingers, then opened his hand. In his palm lay an oblong black pill.
“I’ve carried it ever since North Africa,” he said.
The brigadier raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Good show. Usually best for everyone, yourself included. However, I doubt whether Dr. McConnell shares your philosophy of preparedness. In fact . . . I doubt the man would take cyanide even if he had it.”
“He wouldn’t,” agreed Stern.
Duff Smith sat without speaking for nearly a minute. Finally, he said, “You understand?”
Stern’s black eyes never blinked. “If that’s the way it has to be,” he said in a toneless voice. “Zol zayn azoy. So be it.”
When Stern had gone, Brigadier Smith folded his list of names and put it back into his pocket. Then he drank the whiskey Stern had left on the desk. He hadn’t really wanted to lie, but he had no alternative. In all his experience, he had never ordered a mission quite like this one. War always required blood to achieve victory, but never had he seen the equation so starkly laid out. BLACK CROSS did not require the sacrifice of trained soldiers at the hands of the enemy, but the murder of innocent prisoners by one of their own people. Under the cold light of a planning table, it was a simple calculus of casualties versus potential gain—enormous gain. But Smith had enough experience in the field to know that for the man on the ground, who would himself have to take those innocent lives, cold reason might not be enough. In that situation a man needed conviction that burned like lye in his belly.
He had just given Jonas Stern that conviction. SOE really had scraped a Pole off the Baltic coast three days ago. And the Pole had been carrying a list of dead Jews. But there was no Avram Stern among the names. Smith had no idea whether Avram Stern was alive or dead, and he didn’t much care. He’d gotten the name from Major Dickson in London, who had a file on Jonas Stern an inch thick, requisitioned from the military police in Palestine. The funny thing, Smith reflected, was that his lie about Stern’s father dying in Totenhausen was probably as close as anyone would ever come to knowing his true fate. And if that lie gave the son the fire he needed to carry out BLACK CROSS, then the old Jew would not have died in vain.
