The Sentinels: Fortunes of War

by Gordon Zuckerman

  ______

  Hours later, Jacques emerged from the cargo bay door and spotted what he believed to be an unmarked government car. Roger must have called in the first team.

  Seated in the passenger seat, Jacques watched the familiar sights of Washington, D.C., glide past. A short time later, the driver turned into a side street that led to the lower level of the United States Treasury building.

  Roger Malone was waiting near the elevator shaft and walked forward to greet Jacques as he stepped from the car.

  “Jacques, what a pleasure it is to see you alive and well and here in Washington.”

  “Thank you, sir. I can’t tell you how good it is to be here.”

  “You had us worried,” Roger continued. “And it sounds as if we have a lot to talk about. Henry Ainsworth, the Secretary of the Treasury, is waiting for us upstairs. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of filling him in on the industrialists’ plan. He wants to hear every detail.”

  Before Jacques could entirely fathom what was happening, they were seated in the secretary’s innermost private office.

  “As you know,” Roger started, by way of introduction, “Secretary Ainsworth has complete control over the United States Secret Service and the FBI.”

  “Mr. Roth, you have no idea how repugnant this administration considers the idea of the reestablishment of another Reich,” the secretary began. “In fact, our instructions are coming directly from the president himself. If memory serves, I believe his exact words were, ‘I want you to make sure we neutralize the Germans’ capital, put Samson out of business, and send a clear message to the industrial elite that this government is not going to tolerate any future abuses of power.’”

  Jacques nodded, impressed.

  “You and your friends have done a good job so far, but Mr. Malone tells me you could use our help.”

  “Knowing this young man, he has a plan,” Roger said. “Jacques, do you mind sharing it with us?”

  “I haven’t had a lot of time to think through what I’m about to say, sir, but here goes. By now, my guess is the Germans and Samson know who we are, how we duplicated the bonds, and where they are hidden, but so do we. Why can’t you use that information to lure the Samson agents into the open and capture as many of them as you can? We’ll have the bonds sent to us in the books, cash a few of them, and leave a trail. As much as I hate to say it, it may be necessary for you to use the remaining five of us as bait.”

  Turning toward Secretary Ainsworth, Roger said, “Henry, that’s a lot of bait. Do we have the manpower to protect it all?”

  “We have the manpower, but the real question is, do we have enough men whom we can trust? I’m not sure how leakproof the FBI is. It’s been reported that the director has some very… interesting relationships with certain American industrialists who were involved with their German counterparts before the war. I need to give this matter some more thought, but to be on the safe side, the best course of action may be for me to obtain an executive order from the president and use the Secret Service.”

  “Secretary Ainsworth, maybe we can make your job easier, at least at first,” Jacques said. “My friends and I are pretty resourceful. Cecelia and her network of contacts can move our cash and bonds around. That shouldn’t be too much of a challenge for her. Right now, she’s holed up at a friend’s ranch in Napa. It has a massive switchboard and it’s built like a fort, so protecting the two of them shouldn’t require too many men. The rest of us will find a way to take care of ourselves. I’ll get in touch with my friend, Mike, and work out a safe place to stay.”

  The secretary was clearly impressed. But before everything could be agreed upon, Jacques added, “There’s just one more thing, Mr. Ainsworth. My friend, Ian, who’s being held in London, is the one I’m most worried about. If there’s anything you can do to help the French Underground find him—”

  “We’ll do everything possible.”

  ______

  After arriving at Grand Central Terminal in New York a few days after the meeting in Washington, Jacques phoned his doorman for messages. He finally read the one Jacques had been waiting to hear: “All’s well in Napa. Received your message. Know you need help. See you in Boston next Thursday. Meet me at Jimmy’s Harborside at one o’clock, and come hungry. Mike.”

  Chapter 27

  QUEENIE AND GEORGE

  Having skied cross-country over the five miles of hilly terrain that separated the base of Mont Cenis from the small alpine village of Bardonecchia, Claudine arrived in the mid-afternoon, tired, hungry, and unsure of what to expect.

  Are they here waiting for me? Every so often, she would stop, pretending to look at the contents displayed in the front windows of the shops, and study the reflections of the people around her. Slowly, she moved from store window to store window like any other tourist, occasionally entering one of the shops to inquire about some object on display. That gave her an opportunity to look out the window and obtain a better view of the street.

  Unable to detect the presence of any suspicious people, she walked across the street and entered a small tea shop that had a window facing the street and the local train station. As she sat down at a table near the front, Claudine realized just how hungry she was and ordered a selection of finger sandwiches and a pot of tea. This was the closest she had come to normalcy in three days.

  As she ate, no one entered or left the train station. There weren’t any men loitering on the street. Everyone she saw seemed intent on going someplace.

  Convinced that she wasn’t being watched, she finished her tea, ate the last of her sandwiches, and stood up to pay the bill. She left the shop and crossed the street on the way to the seemingly deserted train station. Looking up, she studied the steep, serpentine path of the rail bed that wound its way up four thousand feet before disappearing into Mont Vallon, approximately three thousand feet below its summit. That would be her way out, but it wasn’t exactly a comforting thought.

  The ticket agent sat dozing behind his counter. She tapped quietly on the booth window.

  “Yes, my dear,” the agent said, suddenly coming to life. “The next train is leaving for Modane at ten tomorrow morning. You can clear Italian customs right here in the station with me. May I see your passport?”

  Claudine hadn’t given much thought to border-crossing problems. As a skier, it hadn’t been an issue. But here she was, faced with a strange man asking questions.

  Don’t panic. It’s not the German, Italian, or French governments that are after you.

  “Ah, Swiss,” the man said happily, looking at her passport photo. “We don’t see many Swiss down here this time of year. Are you traveling on business or pleasure?”

  “I’ve been skiing, but now I’m afraid my vacation is over. I have to call on some clients, so I guess you would say that I am traveling on business.” She smiled, handing him one of her business cards. “Even in wartime, banking must go on.”

  The agent handed her the ticket and her stamped passport, then walked out of the booth and pointed up at the tunnel. He had a captive audience.

  “This tunnel and the railroad were conceived in the 1840s to provide a more-efficient overland route from London to India and a better connection between Italy and France. Prior to its construction, goods were transported over water from Marseille to Alexandria—a twenty-seven-hundred-kilometer journey that required seven to eight days. These rails reduced that to two or three days and allowed cargo sizes to be increased.”

  Claudine smiled warmly at the man standing at her side. It was the first conversation she’d had in days, and it made her feel human.

  Encouraged, he continued. “This route represents some unbelievable engineering accomplishments. Before it could even be selected, the owners had to agree on what form of energy and equipment could bore an eight-kilometer hole through a mountain. There were only two known sources of energy: steam and compressed air. The final solution involved the hydraulic use of water taken from natural st
reams to compress air, then the use of pipe lines to transport the air to the point of excavation. The final route was determined by the existence of these naturally occurring streams. That’s why it’s so winding,” he concluded.

  Oddly, being in possession of that information made Claudine feel better about the vertiginous trip. “How are trains able to go up and come down such steep slopes?” she asked.

  Walking over to a picture of the train on the wall, the ticket master said, “That’s the best part. The engineers designed two horizontal wheels with beveled teeth to mesh with a third rail built between the two regular rails. You can see from this picture how the whole thing works. On the way up, power is applied to these wheels to help the train ascend eight- to twelve-degree inclines—and on the way down, extra brake power is used to control the rate of descent.”

  Satisfied with the explanation, and less wary about her approaching morning commute, Claudine thanked the man, left the station, and began her search for a pension, complete with clean sheets and a hot shower.

  As she walked away, the ticket agent picked up a phone and dialed a number. It had been written on a piece of paper, next to a photograph of her that had been left with him earlier that day.

  ______

  The next morning, Claudine contacted Denise to relay her change of plans. Then she returned to her usual window seat in the tea shop to continue her surveillance of the train depot. About thirty minutes later, encouraged by the empty streets, Claudine got up and crossed to the depot.

  At precisely ten o’clock, the train left the station. The two engines, the coal-carrying cars, the freight cars, and the one passenger car all looked like something out of an Old West movie. The rail bed itself had been constructed over a system of switchbacks carved out of the steep eastern face of the Alps.

  When the train rounded an outside corner, Claudine looked down. My God, it looks like a thousand-foot drop. On the inside turns, she felt as if she could put her arm out the window and touch the granite face of the mountain.

  Relax, girl. If this were so dangerous, they wouldn’t still be running the train.

  Slowly, it plodded its way up the approach to the Mont Cenis tunnel. After a time, Claudine decided to stop worrying about the risk and start concentrating on the view. From her vantage point ten thousand feet up in the air, she could see well into Italy. On a clear day, she had heard that you could see all the way to Turin.

  Apparently, today is not going to be one of those days.

  Content to watch the scenery, Claudine was surprised by the sudden darkness of the tunnel as they began the eight-mile run under Mont Vallon.

  Her eyes readjusted as the train emerged from the tunnel, beginning its slow descent down the western slope of the Italian Alps, toward the little French village of Madone—and French customs.

  If there is going to be a problem, it will occur at the customs station at the point of entry into France. For some reason she couldn’t explain to herself, she suddenly felt panicked about having changed her plans.

  Finally, the train started slowing for its stop in Madone. Peering out the window, Claudine couldn’t see anything strange or out of place.

  There doesn’t seem to be anyone who looks like an enemy agent or a member of the Gestapo… whatever they’re supposed to look like.

  Stepping from the train, Claudine began to make her way to the small customs shack, located on the far end of the station platform. Heart beating fast, she presented her passport to the lone official standing behind the counter.

  Typical bureaucrat, taking his sweet time.

  The agent twisted around in his booth, searching for the stamp.

  It was at that moment that she felt something press into her right rib cage. “Excuse me, Miss Demaureux, would you mind coming with us?” said a quiet voice next to her ear.

  The passport official was still searching for his stamp, and he didn’t even look up as the Samson agents moved her well out of sight of the customs shack. She heard a “cough, cough” sound and the two men dropped to the ground, blood quickly spreading from holes in the front of their coats. Staring wildly about, Claudine saw a man and a woman, pistols in hand, approaching at a quick walk. She clenched her fists, expecting it all to be over soon.

  Instead, they rushed past her, toward the bodies. “This one’s dead,” said the short, stout woman with yellow, peroxided hair.

  “So is this one,” said the large, swarthy man with her. “Nice shooting, old girl.”

  Claudine was bewildered, trying to comprehend what had just happened. She was standing motionless when the woman seemed to first notice her and extended her hand. “Miss Demaureux, we’re friends of Denise. I’m Queenie and this is George, my husband. We’re part of the Resistance, sent to fetch you and deal with any… uh… problems that might occur.”

  Queenie looked down. “George, I hate to say it, but I think we need to take the bodies with us so they aren’t associated with Miss Demaureux. Let’s roll them up in that old tarp you keep in the boot. Between here and Cap d’Antibes, we should find a suitable place to dump ’em.” She smiled at Claudine. It was as if she had been discussing a way to get rid of broken kitchen appliances.

  ______

  It was late, well after dark, when the old French Citroën, minus two bodies, drove through the gate marking the entrance to La Garoupe. Denise was waiting as they pulled to a stop at the servants’ entrance, at the rear of the chateau. She gave Claudine a hug, then listened quietly as Queenie and George delivered their report.

  She seemed to take everything they were saying in stride, thanked them, then turned her full attention to Claudine, grabbing her by the hand and leading her into the house, almost as if Claudine were the final guest to arrive for a slumber party.

  Too excited to wait until the next morning, Denise woke up all the servants. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to Claudine, the new French maid.”

  Chapter 28

  ATTACK AT NAPA

  Mike, Cecelia, and Tony were waiting on the porch of the ranch house in Napa when the unmarked motorcade of the Secret Service agents entered through the front gates.

  A portion of the ranch bunkhouse had been cleared to provide accommodations. Farm and winery working apparel had been laid out on the bunks. The government cars were hidden in the barn.

  An hour or two later, a careful inspection of the ranch workforce would reveal that there were several new faces. Their lack of a tan identified them as people who were used to making a living indoors. A look at their soft, pink hands was further evidence that these men weren’t used to earning their living on a ranch. But Samson agents wouldn’t have a chance for such careful inspection, since twenty-four-hour protection was now in place.

  Taking no chances that the government’s manpower was adequate, Tony had called his family back east, asking for more help, and a few of his “cousins” had arrived. Under different circumstances, the two groups sent to Napa to protect Tony and his friends would have been natural enemies. But here, they shared common goals.

  However, pragmatic planning called for the two teams to be kept intact and away from each other. Each group was assigned different duties, shifts, and locations throughout the vineyards—the bottling plant, the ranch house, the winery, and the dining facility in the limestone cave.

  With every inch of the ranch covered, Tony, Mike, and Cecelia decided not to allow the threat of trouble to interfere with their daily routines. Today was the day Tony had chosen to demonstrate how he’d be selling Sentinel wines. Lunch had been prepared and would be served on the heavy oak tables normally used for entertaining wine buyers, owners of fine restaurants, and managers of leading hotels. Today, there would just be two special guests: Mike and Cecelia.

  The area for entertaining was located in the limestone caves, midway between the big oak barrels used for the aging of wine and the mouth of the cave. The atmosphere was a cool sixty-two degrees, the perfect temperature for aging wine. In this incredible enviro
nment, Mike and Cecelia were enjoying the opportunity to play the role of visiting buyers.

  Tony greeted them the same way he would have welcomed any of his other guests, making them temporarily forget that they were virtually being held prisoners for their own protection.

  “Welcome to the Garibaldi Vineyards.” Handing them a small folder, he continued, “Here is a list of all of our wines. A reservation sheet has been included in your folder.” He smiled charmingly, causing Cecelia to cover her mouth to hide her own grin. She was acting the part of a wine buyer, and this was supposed to be all business.

  “After our tour of the facilities, we will be serving a three-course lunch specially prepared for you today,” Tony announced. “For that, I have selected three of our newer wines that we are eager for you to taste. At Sentinel Vineyards, we believe that the food should be chosen to best suit the wine.”

  “For a guy who can be so quiet,” Mike said to Cecelia when Tony walked away toward the vats, “he can be a hell of a talker when he chooses to be. ” They followed him, staying in character throughout the rest of the tour, but the three of them cut loose over lunch, laughing and sharing bottles of wine at the communal oak tables.

  “This,” Cecelia said, standing for a toast, “is the right way to spend an afternoon.”

  ______

  The Samson agents timed their attack on the caves to coincide with their raid on the ranch house. They approached the compound through the vineyards, and then split into two groups. One went toward the cookhouse and the other toward the caves.

  Quietly, the first group took up their positions around the cookhouse, waiting for the workers to take their places at the long, picnic-style tables. On cue, with their automatic weapons loaded and cocked, they entered the narrow building from both ends.