the request of the … contractor’s audit division. . . .’
‘And totally necessary!’ Oliver could not conceal his fury at the small
Italian. ‘You laboratory … people don’t reconcile! You’re children!’
For the next thirty seconds the three agitated men babbled excitedly in
counterpoint. Swanson looked over at Vandamm. Their eyes met in
understanding.
Oliver was the first to recognize the trap. He held up his hand … a
corporate command, thought Swanson.
‘Mr. Undersecretary.’ Oliver spoke, stifling the pitch of his anger. ‘Don’t
let our squabbling convey the wrong impression. We turn out the products.’
‘You’re not turning out this one,’ said Swanson. ‘I recall vividly the
projections in your bids for the contract. You had everything turned out
then.’
When Oliver looked at him, Alan Swanson instinctively felt he should reach
for a weapon to protect himself, The Meridian executive was close to
exploding.
‘We relied on subordinates’ evaluations,’ said Oliver slowly, with
hostility. ‘I think the military has had its share of staff errors.’
‘Subordinates don’t plan major strategies.’
Vandamm raised his voice. ‘Mr. Oliver. Suppose General Swanson were
convinced it served no purpose withholding funds. What kind of time limits
could you now guaranteeT
Oliver looked at Spinelli. ‘What would you estimateT he asked coldly.
Spinelli’s large eyes swept the ceiling. ‘In candor, I cannot give you an
answer. We could solve it next week. Or next year.’
Swanson quickly reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew a folded page of
paper. He spread it out in front of him and spoke swiftly. ‘According to
this memorandum … our last communication from ATCO … once the guidance
system is perfected,
53
you state you need six weeks of inflight experimentation. The Montana
Proving Grounds.’
‘That’s correct, general. I dictated that myself,’ said Spinelli. ‘Six weeks
from next week. Or next year. And assuming the Montana experiments are
positive, another month to equip the fleets.’
‘Yes.’
Swanson looked over at Vandamm. ‘In light of this, Mr. Undersecretary,
there’s no other course but to alter immediate priorities. Or at least the
projections. We can’t meet the logistics.’
‘Unacceptable, General Swanson. We have to meet them.’
Swanson stared at the old man. Each knew precisely what the other referred
to.
Overlord. The invasion of Europe.
‘We must postpone, sir.’
‘Impossible. That’s the word, general!
Swanson looked at the three men around the table.
The enemy.
‘We’ll be in touch, gentlemen,’ he said.
54
3
SEPTEMBER 12,1943
THE BA SQ UE HILLS, SPAIN
David Spaulding waited in the shadows of the thick, gnarled tree on the
rocky slope above the ravine. It was Basque country and the air was damp and
cold. The late afternoon sun washed over the hills; his back was to it. He
had years ago -it seemed a millennium but it wasn’t – learned the advantage
of catching the reflections of the sun off the steel of small weapons. His
own rifle was dulled with burnt, crushed cork.
Four.
Strange, but the number four kept coming to mind as he scanned the
distance.
Four.
Four years and four days ago exactly. And this afternoon’s contact was
scheduled for precisely four o’clock in the afternoon.
Four years and four days ago he had first seen the creased brown uniforms
behind the thick glass partition in the radio studio in New York. Four
years and four days ago since he had walked toward that glass wall to pick
up his raincoat off the back of a chair and realized that the eyes of the
older officermere looking at him. Steadily. Coldly. The younger man avoided
him, as if guilty of intrusion, but not his superior, not the lieutenant
colonel.
The lieutenant colonel had been studying him.
That was the beginning.
He wondered now -as he watched the ravine for signs of
55
movement – when it would end. Would he be alive to see it end?
He intended to be.
He had called it a treadmill once. Over a drink at the Mayflower in
Washington. Fairfax had been a treadmill; still, he had not known at the
time how completely accurate that word would continue to be; a racing
treadmill that never stopped.
It slowed down occasionally. The physical and mental pressures demanded
deceleration at certain recognizable times – recognizable to him. Times
when he realized he was getting careless : * I or too sure of himself. Or
too absolute with regard to decisions that took human life.
Or might take his.
They were often too easily arrived at. And sometimes that frightened him.
Profoundly.
During such times he would take himself away. He would travel south along
the Portuguese coast where the enclaves of the temporarily inconvenienced
rich denied the existence of war. Or he would stay in Costa del Santiago –
with his perplexed parents. Or he would remain within the confines of the
embassy in Lisbon and engross himself in the meaningless chores of neutral
diplomacy. A minor military- attach6 who did not wear a uniform. It was not
expected in the streets; it was inside the ‘territory.’ He did not wear
one, however; no one cared. He was not liked very much. He socialized too
frequently, had too many prewar friends. By and large, he was ignored …
with a certain disdain.
At such times he rested. Forced his mind to go blank; to recharge itself.
Four years and four days ago such thoughts would have been inconceivable.
Now they consumed him. When he had the time for such thoughts.
Which he did not have now.
There was still no movement in the ravine. Something was wrong. He checked
his watch; the team from San Sebastiin was too far behind schedule. It was
an abnormal delay. Only six hours ago the French underground had radioed
that everything was secure; there were no complications, the team had
started out.
The runners from San SebastiAn were bringing out photographs of the German
airfield installations north of Mont-deMarsan. The strategists in London
had been screaming for them for months. Those photographs had cost the
lives of four …
56
again, that goddamned number … four underground agents.
If anything, the team should have been early; the runners should have been
waiting for the man from Lisbon.
Then he saw it in the distance; perhaps a half a mile away, it was
difficult to tell. Over the ravine, beyond the opposite slope, from one of
the miniature hills. A flashing.
An intermittent but rhythmic flashing. The measured spacing was a mark of
intent, not accident.
They were being signaled. He was being signaled by someone who knew his
methods of operation well; perhaps someone he had trained. It was a
warning.
Spaulding slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled the strap taut, then
tighter still so that it became a fixed but flexible appendage to his upper
body. He felt the hasp of his belt holster; it was in place, the weapon
secure. He pushed himself away from the trunk of the old tree and, in a
crouching position, scrambled up the remainder of the rock-hewn slope.
On the ridge he ran to his left, into the tall grass toward the remains of
a dying pear orchard. Two men in mud-caked clothes, rifles at their sides,
were sitting on the ground playing trick knife, passing the time in
silence. They snapped their heads up, their hands reaching for their guns.
Spaulding gestured to them to remain on the ground. He approached and spoke
quietly in Spanish.
‘Do either of you know who’s on the team coming inT
‘Bergeron, I think,’ said the man on the right. ‘And probably Chivier. That
old man has a way with patrols; forty years he’s peddled across the
border.’
‘Then it’s Bergeron,’ said Spaulding.
‘What isT asked the second man.
‘We’re being signaled. They’re late and someone is using whaes left of the
sun to get our attention.’
‘Perhaps to tell you they’re on their way.’ The first man put the knife
back in his scabbard as he spoke.
‘Possible but not likely. We wouldn’t go anywhere. Not for a couple of
hours yet.’ Spaulding raised himself partially off the ground and looked
eastward. ‘Come on! We’ll head down past the rim of the orchard. We can get
a cross view there.’
The three men in single file, separated but within hearing of each other,
raced across the field below the high ground for nearly four hundred yards.
Spaulding positioned himself behind
57
a low rock that jutted over the edge of the ravine. He waited for the other
two. The waters below were about a hundred feet straight down, he judged.
The team from San SebastiAn would cross them approximately two hundred yards
west, through the shallow, narrow passage they always used.
The two other men arrived within seconds of each other.
‘The old tree where you stood was the mark, wasn’t iff asked the first man.
‘Yes,’answered Spaulding, removing his binoculars from a case opposite his
belt holster. They were powerful, with Zeiss Ikon lenses, the best Germany