A big lean man in a pepper-and-salt suit, with a soft hat on his knees, was sitting in Henry’s outer office. Henry did not realize how big he was until he stood up; he was six feet three or so, and he stooped and looked a little ashamed of his height, like many overgrown men. “Commander Henry? I’m Palmer Kirby,” he said. “If you’re busy just throw me out.”
“Not at all. Welcome. How’d you get here?”
“Well, it took some doing. I had to dodge around through Belgium and Norway. Some planes are flying, some aren’t.” Kirby had an awkward manner, and somewhat rustic western speech. His pale face was pitted, as though he had once been a bad acne sufferer. He had a long nose and a large loose mouth; altogether an ugly man, with clever wrinkled eyes and a sad look.
The yeoman said, “Commander, sir, couple of priority message on your desk.”
“Very well. Come in, Dr. Kirby.” Pug sized him up with relief as a serious fellow out to get a job done; not the troublesome sort who wanted women, a good time, and an introduction to high-placed Nazis. A dinner and some industrial contacts would take care of Palmer Kirby.
WARSAW
9 . 1 . 39.
BYRON HENRY NATALIE JASTROW SCHEDULED LEAVE CRACOW TODAY FOR BUCHAREST AND ROME AM ENDEAVORING CONFIRM DEPARTURE. SLOTE.
This dispatch, in teletyped strips on a gray department blank, gave Henry an evil qualm. In the afternoon bulletins, Berlin Radio was claiming a victorious thrust toward Cracow after a violent air bombardment. The other message, a slip of the charge d’affaires’ office stationery, was an unsigned scrawled sentence:
Kirby said he would be glad to wait. Victor Henry walked down the hall to the richly furnished suite of the ambassador where the charge had held the staff meeting.
The charge looked at him over his half-moon glasses and waved at an armchair. “So you were at the Reichstag, eh? I heard part of it. How did it strike you?”
“The man’s punch-drunk.”
The charge looked surprised and thoughtful. “That’s an odd reaction. It’s true he’s had quite a week. Incredible stamina, though. He undoubtedly wrote every word of that harangue. Rather effective, I thought. What was the mood there?”
“Not happy.”
“No, they have their misgivings this time around, don’t they? Strange atmosphere in this city.” The charge took off his glasses and leaned back in his large, leather-covered chair, resting the back of head on interlaced fingers. “You’re wanted in Washington.”
“Sec Nav?” Pug blurted.
“No. State Department, German desk. You’re to proceed to Washington by fastest available transportation, civilian or military, highest priority, prepared to stay not more than one week in Washington, and then return to your post here. No other instructions. Nothing in writing. That’s it.”
For twenty-five years Victor Henry had not made a move like this without papers from the Navy Department, orders stenciled and mimeographed with a whole sheaf of copies to be left at stops on the way. Even his vacations had been “leaves” ordered by the Navy. The State Department had no jurisdiction over him. Still, an attache had a queer shadowy status. His mind moved at once to executing the assignment. “If I have nothing in writing, how do I get air priorities?”
“You’ll get them. How soon can you go?”
Commander Henry stared at the charge, and then tried a smile. The charge smiled back. Henry said, “This is somewhat unusual.”
“You sent in an intelligence report, I’m given to understand, on the combat readiness of Nazi Germany?”
“I did.”
“That may have something to do with it. In any case, the idea seems to be that you pack a toothbrush and leave.”
“You mean today? Tonight?”
“Yes.”
Pug stood. “Right. What’s the late word on England and France?”
“Chamberlain’s addressing Parliament tonight. My guess is the war will be on before you get back.”
“Maybe it’ll be over.”
“In Poland, possibly.” The charge smiled, and seemed taken aback when Henry failed to be amused.
The commander found Dr. Kirby, long legs sprawled, reading a German industrial journal and smoking a pipe, which, with black-rimmed glasses, much enhanced his professorial look. “I’ll have to turn you over to Colonel Forrest, our military attache, Dr. Kirby,” he said. “Sorry the Navy can’t do the courtesies. I’ll be leaving town for a week.”
“Right.”
“Can you give me an idea of what you’re after?”
Dr. Kirby took from his breast pocket a typewritten sheet.
“Well, no problem here,” Pug said, scanning it. “I know most of these people. I imagine Colonel Forrest does, too. Now, Mrs. Henry has a dinner laid on for you, Thursday evening. As a matter of fact” — Henry tapped the sheet — “Dr. Witten will be one of the guests.”
“Won’t your wife prefer to call it off? I’m not really much on dinner parties.”
“Neither am I, but a German’s a different person in his office than he is at a table after a few glasses of wine. Not a setup, you understand, but different. So dinners are useful.”
Kirby smiled, uncovering large yellow teeth and quite changing his expression to a humorous, coarse, tough look. He flourished the trade journal. “They don’t seem to be setups, any way you look at them.”
“Yes and no. I’ve just come from the Reichstag. They’ve sure been a setup for this character Hitler. Well, let me take you across the hall to Colonel Forrest. It may be he and Sally will host the dinner. We’ll see.”
Driving home through the quiet Berlin streets Pug thought less about the summons to Washington than of the immediate problem — Rhoda and how to handle her, and whether to disclose that Byron was missing. The trip to the United States might well prove a waste of time; to speculate on the reason for it was silly. He had been on such expeditions before. Somebody high up wanted certain answers in a hurry — answers that perhaps did not exist — and started burning up the wires. Once he had flown three thousand miles during a fleet exercise only to find, on his arrival aboard the “Blue” flagship in Mindanao, that his services were no longer required, because the battle problem had moved past the gunnery scoring.
She was not at home. By the time she got back, he was strapping shut his suitcases. “NOW what on earth?” she said breezily. Her hair was whirled and curled. They had been invited to an opera party that evening.
“Come out in the garden.”
He told her, when they were well away from the house, about the strange Washington summons.
“Oh, lord. For how long?”
“Not more than a week. If the Clippers keep flying I should be back by the fifteenth.”
“When do you go? First thing tomorrow?”
“Well, by luck, they’ve got me on a plane to Rotterdam at eight tonight.”
“Tonight!” Vexation distorted Rhoda’s face. “You mean we don’t even get to go to the opera? Oh, damn. And what about the Kirby fellow? Is that on or off? How can I entertain a person I haven’t even met? What an aggravating mess!”
Pug said the Forrests would be co-hosting the Kirby dinner, and that the opera might not be on. I saw Frau Witten at the hairdresser’s. They’re planning a marvelous supper, but naturally I won’t be there. I’m not going to the opera unescorted. Oh, hell. And suppose England and France declare war? How about that, hey? That’s going to be just peachy, me stranded alone in Berlin in the middle of a world war!”
