blue coat will approach you and ask for two cigarettes.”
“Why two?”
“Because anyone might ask for one. Say no, they are too expensive these days. He will place you in the produce car and seal you in. When you reach Stazione Vaticana, another contact will take you off the train.”
“An OSS agent in the Vatican?” I said, wondering why we were making the trip.
“Let’s just say someone who provides favors now and then. Not an actual agent.”
“So all we need to do is evade the German guards and jump in with a load of rutabagas? I gotta say, you have a way of making the impossible sound downright simple. This isn’t a Hollywood movie, this is the real thing, Sterling.” I said his real name as loud as I could, knowing he wanted to keep it under wraps. His optimism was beginning to bug me.
“Hey, I’m giving you a choice, buddy,” he said. “You can go either way, but you’re going. You can take the planned route, which means you’ll have to trust the people moving you along it. Or you can take the train and trust your papers. Me, I’d go on my own if I had a cover story as good as yours. Less complicated.”
“It can’t be that easy to move around in occupied Italy,” I said.
“I never said it was easy. Sailing back and forth to Yugoslavia isn’t easy either, but we do it all the time. Have some confidence, goddamn it!” He slammed his fist on the table, splattering lukewarm tea on the surface. People turned and stared, then moved away, leaving us to our subdued argument.
“All right, sorry about the Hollywood wisecrack,” I said. “It seems so tenuous, that’s all.”
“Tenuous,” Hamilton said, relaxing a bit. “That’s a good word for life these days, and I can tell, you’re not a guy who minds tenuous. I think you can handle tenuous. So why so jumpy about which way you go in?”
“I want to be sure we get there, that’s all.” Hamilton was sharp, I had to give him that. I looked away, not wanting my eyes to meet his.
“What brings you here, Boyle? There’s something different about you, something you’re holding back,” he said as he leaned across the table and fixed me in his glare. “Most guys going behind the lines are nervous or busy working hard not to show it. You seem to be somewhere else, like you have your own private war going on. You’re not nervous about the Germans; you’re nervous about not getting into Rome. Who are you, Boyle, and what’s your game?”
“I’m a man on a mission,” I said. I was sure Hamilton and the rest of the OSS didn’t know about Diana, and I wanted to keep it that way. The fewer people who knew, the fewer there were to stop me. I tried to stare him down, but Hamilton had his own tough-guy face, maybe from the movies, maybe for real.
“Can you keep a secret?” Kaz asked.
“Hell, secrets are my business,” Hamilton said.
“Billy is General Eisenhower’s nephew,” Kaz said. What that had to do with anything, I had no idea, but it did move the conversation away from Hamilton’s questions, and I guess that’s what Kaz intended. “We both work for him.”
“No shit?” Hamilton.
“It’s the truth,” I said. “I was a cop in Boston before the war, and Uncle Ike wanted a trained detective on his staff.” The truth was more complicated than that. I was related to General Eisenhower, on my mother’s side, sure enough. But when the war broke out, Uncle Ike was an unknown general laboring in the bowels of the new Pentagon building in Washington, D.C., not the head of Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. We were a family of cops, Boston Irish, and proud of both. My dad and uncle were both on the force, and they’d lost their older brother Frank in the First World War. According to them, this was another damn war to protect the British Empire, and not worth another Boyle family sacrifice. Since I wasn’t a fan of either the English oppressors of my ancestors or of dying, I tended to agree. So the family called in some political favors and got me a commission and an assignment to work for Uncle Ike in D.C. and sit out the shooting war as an officer and a gentleman. Worked like a charm, until Uncle Ike got sent to London and decided to take me with him.
“So that’s why they picked you for this mission, being a detective,” Hamilton said, rubbing his chin and giving me a fresh appraisal.
“Yeah, and Kaz because he knows a boatload of languages.” I didn’t mention that I owed my detective rank to the fact that my Uncle Dan sat on the promotions board.
“Well, if there’s something else going on and you want to keep it to yourselves, that’s fine with me. Glad to help out a fellow New Englander. I began sailing out of Gloucester, used to go drinking in Boston every now and then. Maybe you rousted me once or twice, eh?”
“Maybe. I’ve tossed a few drunken sailors in the clink. Guy your size though, I would’ve left him in the street.”
“Good one, Boyle! Let’s go.” Hamilton pointed to the doorway, where a bearded figure stood, a head taller than anyone in the room. He wore a brown wool cap with a bright red star, along with a well-worn British uniform, a Sten gun slung over his shoulder, and a menacing look on his face. He noticed the Italians, and his eyes narrowed to hard, dark slits. A sneer crept into his mouth, and one hand moved to the revolver at his belt. The Italians froze, fear etched across their brows.
“Best not to keep Stjepan waiting,” Hamilton said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Stjepan was at the wheel by the time we got to the jeep. Hamilton took the passenger seat, and Kaz and I scrambled into the rear as the scowling driver took off.
“Everything set?” Hamilton asked, one hand holding his cap, the other clutching the windshield as the vehicle accelerated.
“Set, Hamil-tone,” Stjepan said, speaking deliberately and enunciating each syllable as he turned to glance at us. “Priest clothes will fit. Good enough.”
“Good man,” Hamilton said, slapping the Partisan on the shoulder. “We’ll cast off as soon as everything’s loaded onboard.”
“What else are we taking?” I asked.
“It’s not for you,” Hamilton said. “After we land you at Pescara, we head due east and make a delivery across the Adriatic.”
“Guns for Partisans,” Stjepan said, turning to look at us again, indifferent to the other traffic on the road. “Kill Germans and Ustashi. You make us wait.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I just found out about this trip myself.”
“Waste of time,” Stjepan said. “Partisans need guns now. You will die like others. Waste.”
“What others?” I asked, suddenly more interested in the conversation.
“S-O-E,” he said, pronouncing the letters slowly. “English talk too much. Like god-damn Italians.”
“Don’t worry these boys, Stjepan,” Hamilton said. “They’re in our hands now. Ah, there’s the boat.”
If I was worried about Stjepan’s prediction, I now had something else to worry about.
“I do not like any boat,” Kaz said. “Especially not that one.” The jeep descended a curved road leading to a line of rotting docks, home to three rusted fishing trawlers and a sailboat that looked like it had been through one too many hurricanes.
“Good boat!” Stjepan roared, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. For the first time, he smiled. “Damn good boat, eh?”
“Aye,” Hamilton said, nodding in appreciation. “She’s a twin-masted fifty-foot schooner. Completely rebuilt diesel engine runs like a charm, right Stjepan?”
“Charm,” Stjepan agreed as he braked enthusiastically, halting the jeep less than a foot from the dock.
“She’s not much to look at,” I said.
“Exactly. We prefer not to draw attention to ourselves,” Hamilton said. Where there was paint, it was peeling, showing gray, weathered wood below. Instead of railings, there was a rough framework of boards filled in with smooth stones from the beach. Armor, of a sort. Yugoslavian Partisans were busy loading crates of weapons and supplies, lashing down what didn’t fit below on the exposed deck. “She’s seaworthy, don’t worry about that. We keep her looking sloppy, which is more work than you’d think.”
