Sitting alongside the other workers, the surprised federal agents were stuck. Firing would have been too risky in such crowded quarters. They had no choice but to submit to the Samson gunmen.
Intent on guarding the people inside the cookhouse, the Samson agents failed to see a separate contingent of Secret Service men coming out of the barn and taking up positions directly behind them. Quietly and without gunfire, they disarmed the intruders, handcuffed them, and marched them into the barn, out of sight of the second group of intruders, who were concentrating on the cave.
Four heavily armed men discreetly entered the wine storage facility where Tony and his friends were having lunch. Flattening themselves against the walls, they made their way into the dining area.
Tony was the first to see the Samson agents enter the room. At first, he wasn’t alarmed, since he was used to seeing the agents on duty carrying guns while performing their drills. But something was wrong about this scene. Squinting carefully at their faces, he couldn’t recognize any of these men as they advanced.
Without warning, two of the waiters serving lunch tipped over the heavy oak table where Mike was seated and Cecelia was making her toast. Cecelia’s eyes grew wide when she saw pistols, automatic weapons, and shotguns fastened to the underside of the table. It was at that moment that they all realized that this was no drill.
More men, dressed in farm-laborer clothing, entered the cave behind the Samson agents. They dropped to a kneeling position and pointed their weapons toward the gunmen. Mike was partially shielded by the overturned table, but Tony and Cecelia found themselves standing between the intruders and their protectors, directly in the line of fire.
Tony launched himself toward Cecelia, hitting his petite friend with the full force of his weight, knocking her to the floor, and covering her with his own body. It all seemed to go in slow motion, until the first shots were fired.
The first rounds were quickly followed by the sound of automatic weapons being unloaded. Tony could hear what was happening, but he couldn’t move, shielding Cecelia until the gunfire stopped. One bullet hit his shoulder, another hit his arm, and a third lodged in his thigh.
The intruders were caught in the cross fire between Tony’s cousins, who had been working as waiters inside the cave, and the federal agents who had been positioned in the bottling plant. Two of Samson’s agents were killed instantly; another one was wounded and lying on the floor, not more than ten feet from Cecelia and Tony. The fourth threw down his gun and raised his arms.
For a moment, the silence seemed surreal. Then, Tony rolled off Cecelia and inspected her for any signs of wounds, unconcerned about his own condition. When Cecelia saw the blood, she screamed.
Looking down at his thigh, Tony became conscious of the bullet holes in his body. His vision started to blur, but he could make out someone running toward him from the bottling plant. In seconds, ambulances, squad cars, and unmarked government vehicles squealed to a halt just outside the entrance to the limestone cave.
Mike and Cecelia rode in the ambulance that was taking Tony to the emergency room. Sitting in the confined space, Mike was just beginning to comprehend what had happened and understand the ruthless nature of the war in which they were now engaged. Cecelia, crying softly, didn’t require any additional reality lessons.
______
Two days later, under the care of Mike and Cecelia, Tony was released from the hospital and taken back to the ranch. They cared for him, cooked for him, and handled the day-to-day operations activities of the winery. Before long, without realizing what was happening, both of them were learning a great deal about Garibaldi Vineyards.
There was something very idyllic about this sort of life, especially after all the spy games they had been involved in. But, all too soon for Mike, there was an appointment he had to keep in Boston.
Chapter 29
BURNING BOTH ENDS
Kevin sat on the edge of Cricket’s desk. It had been a long, frustrating day. All his efforts to locate any of the remaining Six Sentinels had produced no results; he was hearing rumors that the Germans were ready to buy back their bonds, costing him his finders’ fees; and his sure bet at the racetrack had failed to finish in the money.
“If the Germans make a deal to buy back the remaining duplicates, they don’t pass through our hands,” he said.
“We’re the ones who discovered the forgers’ identities and found the location of the bonds. Samson’s failure to recover them doesn’t excuse the Germans from paying us our fee,” Cricket said.
“Absolutely not,” Kevin responded. “But just in case they don’t feel the same way, do you have any backup plans?”
“Well,” Cricket said, studying the pencil she was twirling in her hand, “how much do you suppose the rest of the six would be willing to pay to know where the Meyer lad is being held?”
Kevin nodded his head, thinking about the last names of the six kids he had seen in that photo. “Their families have got some swag, right enough. You might be on to something, love.”
______
Erhart Schmidt gripped the phone receiver, listening carefully to the argument the president of IFIC had been making. He waited for the man to finish before exploding: “What do you mean you expected to be paid your fee up front? Six hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money for us to just give away, particularly before we have the bonds in our hands. Your people didn’t do much of anything! If we fail to recover them ourselves, we’re the ones who’ll be forced to negotiate with those forgers… and have you considered what will happen if they decide not to sell?”
It was something that Herr Schmidt himself did not like to consider, but he answered his own rhetorical question nonetheless. “No one will see any money then!” He slammed the phone back into its cradle.
This astonishingly bad phone call was followed by a meeting with a European Samson agent. “According to our people on the West Coast, two more of our agents have been killed, one was seriously wounded, and six have been captured… bringing the death toll up to six, if you count the two missing agents sent to capture Claudine Demaureux. These are very significant losses.”
“Yes, well, you have the Meyer boy, don’t you? Have you been able to learn anything from him?”
“Nothing that we haven’t already put in our reports to you.”
“Yes. I now know that my bonds are sewn into some old books. But have you done anything about locating the books themselves?”
“So far, that task has proven more complicated…”
“I can see that, you fool! Why don’t you put some pressure on Meyer—make him tell you where the books are.”
“We have, Herr Schmidt. Once the books left the Meyer & Co. warehouse, they were dispersed among a host of locations, in private libraries throughout England and America… and probably other countries, from what we can tell. Very widely dispersed, mein Herr. We’ve used our most… reliable methods of questioning, and I am convinced he is telling us all he knows. And we can’t very well make direct inquiries, can we, mein Herr? I mean, going up to the house, knocking on the door, and asking to look at the book collection? Oh, no. Very complicated, indeed. Rather clever, actually.”
Schmidt’s face was reddening as he rubbed it with his hands, but the Samson agent bravely ventured on to the main purpose of his appointment. “When we accepted this assignment, we didn’t count on the French Resistance and the American Secret Service being involved. I am not sure how much longer our people will be willing to continue our contract with you.”
“I am not asking for much longer,” Schmidt said, pounding a fist upon his desk. “In fact, I am asking that you find them fast!”
______
Since Claudine’s arrival at La Garoupe months earlier, time had seemed to crawl.
In the beginning, the staff, many of whom were members of the French Resistance, knew not to ask questions. They took her in and treated her like one of their family. Before long, however, Claudine was deeply involved
with what appeared to be her new family’s principal activity: espionage.
In addition to her regular tasks of going to the market, serving cocktails and meals, and cleaning up in the kitchen, Claudine soon had a new assignment—gathering information from the German officer-guests.
For the most part, the colonels and generals were battle-hardened veterans who had seen action in Russia, North Africa, and Italy. On duty, they were the feared masters of the German army that had invaded and occupied most of Western Europe. On their rest and recovery assignments at La Garoupe, however, dressed in nonmilitary clothes and with no one to intimidate, these same men acted in a civil and polite manner befitting their privileged backgrounds in Germany before Hitler came to power.
Some were just lonely; they had been away from home for a long time. Others were tired and depressed from the war and the change in its direction. They were all worried about their next assignments. And they all enjoyed Claudine’s seemingly sunny disposition. They looked forward to her company and treated her with dignity and respect.
When she first began her new job, the officers were very guarded about speaking with one another whenever she entered the room. In less time than she imagined, they began to relax and let down their guards, especially after Claudine served them a few drinks. From experience, Claudine knew that men of this class often regarded the staff as nonpersons. Often, they would continue their conversations about wives, girlfriends, and children as if they were alone. That was a benefit to Claudine, since they sometimes also talked about the war.
Each night, in the privacy of her small room, Claudine made notes about anything she had heard and believed to be important. When the last of the lights went out, she went outside and hid her notes in the tubes of her bicycle handlebars, concealed behind the rubber handle grips.
The next day, when she went to market in Antibes, she’d pedal her bicycle the extra distance to the markets in Nice. If she were asked by one of the officers why she didn’t do all her shopping in Cap d’Antibes, she would simply say, “The markets are better in Nice.”
After some quick shopping, she would stop at Queenie’s gelato shop near the beach and order a cool, smooth dessert. Queenie was always there to greet her and accept the messages she had for George. Once the notes were delivered, Claudine never knew what happened to them. She just assumed they were passed along to the appropriate people, and hoped that they’d help shorten the war.
Claudine became comforted by her daily routine. It was the nights that she dreaded. In her small room, she felt vulnerable and utterly alone. That was when she’d think about the German officers sleeping such a short distance away. During the day, they seemed to be lonely men, tired of war and wanting to go home. At night, however, in her mind, they transformed into the evil villains that had captured, killed, and exterminated so many of their enemies.
Sleeping only meters away, she couldn’t help but realize how exposed she really was. If any one of those officers began to suspect why she was there, there was absolutely nothing she could do to protect herself. She had no papers, no work permit, not even a French passport. She was literally sleeping with the enemy. Terrified of what might happen if she were discovered, she would try to shift her mind to more pleasant subjects.
Every night for months, she had been forcing herself to think about her home life with her father and fantasize about her future with Jacques. It was the thoughts of their life together after the war that gave her the hope and strength to continue her French maid charade there, in enemy territory.
______
Ian huddled in the corner of the damp cellar room. They kept him blindfolded, but he had learned to tell the time of day from the traffic sounds that filtered in from the street above. He had lost track of how many days he’d been at this particular location. It was better than some of the others. Not too many rats, at least.
Maybe they’d finally believed him that he’d told them all he knew. At least, the interrogation sessions had become less frequent. For the thousandth time, he thanked his lucky stars that he’d hit on the book idea for the disposition of the bonds. The moment he was shoved into the lorry in the alley behind the French Club, he’d known that he didn’t have the emotional strength or the physical courage to withhold information from someone who didn’t care if he lived or died. Ian knew his limitations, and the idea of betraying his friends through his own weakness was unthinkable. Fortunately, he really didn’t know enough to betray them—not quite.
He prayed that his captors hadn’t completely given up hope that he still knew something useful. From what he could tell, that uncertainty was the only thing keeping him alive.
Chapter 30
REPORTING FOR DUTY
Mike came walking into Jimmy’s Harborside Restaurant in downtown Boston as if he owned the place. It was obvious he had been there many times.
Jacques was sitting at a corner booth that commanded a view of the entire dining area. Mike crossed to him, tossed down the hanging garment bag and sports duffle he carried, and gripped his friend in a long hug. He slid into the booth.
“Jacques, my old friend, the cat with nine lives. How is it that you are still kicking?”
Over lunch, Jacques brought Mike up to date. “They’ve got Ian. I think I’m almost more worried about him than I am about Claudine.”
Mike nodded. “You know, between what I witnessed in Napa and what you’re telling me now, there is one thing I’m sure of—we need a very safe place to hide. And that’s why I brought these,” Mike said, patting the bags he’d brought.
“Should I ask what’s in them?”
“Only if you’re prepared to say how brilliant I am. They’re genuine U.S. Navy uniforms! Where we’re going, they’ll be our passports to obscurity… and maybe a lot of fun.”
Jacques ordered a bottle of wine. “Okay, buddy, I’ll bite. How do the sailor suits figure into our safety—or our fun?”
“You remember that place my family has, on the bluffs overlooking Newport harbor? Before the war, I used to spend the summer there with some friends of mine from Yale and Harvard whose families also own homes in Newport. But since the start of the war, not many people go there to vacation anymore. The bluffs will be practically deserted—and we should be safe, at least for a little while.”
“You mean I’m going to finally see the great Stone mansion that I’ve heard so much about?”
“Well… not quite. If we went to my parents’ house, we’d make it too easy for Samson to find us; that’s probably one of the first places they’d look. I have something else in mind that may make their job a little more difficult.”
They finished eating and polished off the wine. As they stood up to leave, Mike grabbed the check.
“There’s nothing better than fresh New England seafood, especially when someone else pays the tab,” Jacques said.
“Well, if you like fresh seafood, you’re going to love this next part.” They left the restaurant and headed down to the docks, where sleek powerboats were moored and waiting.
Mike spotted the dock manager and walked over to him. “Hey, Metro, it’s nice to see you again. I believe Pete Ashby sent you a note asking that my friend and I be allowed to use his boat?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Stone. The boat’s been fueled and wiped down. She’s all set to go. I tied her up at the guest dock, just over there.”
“Metro, some people may come looking for me and my friend. It’s very important to me, and very profitable for you, that they not be able to find us.”
“I completely understand, Mr. Mike, sir. You can count on me.”
The boat was different from anything Jacques had ever seen. It appeared to have been converted from an old plank-bottom, forty-two-foot luxury oceangoing cruiser into a commercial fishing boat. At the stern, there was a large deck, significantly larger than anything normally required to support two sportfishing fighting chairs. It ran from the stern to the aft portion of the captain’s bridge. Upon closer inspection, J
acques could see the extra reinforcing on the sides. Two cranes were anchored near the outer edges of the deck, the kind of cranes that would be used to handle fishing nets or lift heavy cargo. Wide hatches in the middle of the deck appeared to lead to below-deck storage. A large dinghy lay on top of the bridge. The outside was lined with plate steel; windows were constructed of double-thick, bulletproof glass; and there were what looked like turrets where weapons could have been attached.
“This doesn’t look like any fishing vessel I’ve ever seen,” Jacques said, “unless the fish are packing bazookas. This thing is like a floating tank.”
Mike smiled and nodded.
A few minutes later, Mike was maneuvering the vessel between the other boats in the harbor. Between checking the nautical chart and looking around to find landmarks, he ignored Jacques’ nonstop questions.
“Who’s Pete Ashby and how are we able to use this boat?”
“What’s with this boat, anyway? This sure isn’t a fishing boat.”
“If we’re not going to your family’s place, where are we headed?”
With his course set to put Allerton Point to starboard in about ten miles, Mike began to focus on Jacques’ questions.
“At Yale, Pete Ashby was a Deke fraternity brother of mine. We actually roomed together for two years. He’s one of the friends I spent summers with in Newport. His family’s mansion is near ours.”
“And that’s where we’re going to stay, at the Ashby mansion?”
“No, that would still make it too easy for them to find us. That’s the second place they’d come looking for me, if they keep doing their homework like they have so far.”
“Then where are we going?”
“Another place, the Maddox mansion. It’s just around the point from the Ashby place. Maddox was an old rumrunner during Prohibition. His son, Parker, and I went to Harvard Business School together. The parties we had in his house when his parents were out of town were legendary, even by our standards. There’s rack after rack of some of the world’s best wine and liquor in his cellars, all left over from the days of Prohibition. When we get there, it may be our responsibility to make sure that none of that stuff has spoiled.”
The Sentinels: Fortunes of War Page 19
