4

“Easy, Whip. She’s having trouble keeping up.”

“Come on, kid, move her along. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in these mountains.”

Ritter glanced back at the girl, struggling for breath, straining to keep pace with two superbly conditioned athletes, even though Ritter was carrying her weapon as well as his own, plus the briefcase. The run had been grueling. On the go since the Germans poured into the gorge, forcing them to abandon Devan’s body, they jogged steadily over the rocky hills and through the rich valleys, putting as much distance between themselves and the Germans as they could. It was already dawn. Just another two miles or so to Kilkis and the radio. They had to make contact with Cairo and order the pickup.

Melanie hadn’t heard them. She was too exhausted to pay attention to anything except staying on her feet, keeping up. The pain in her side was nearly paralyzing. She concentrated on just putting one sore foot in front of the other.

The run had been tough even for Ritter. A star quartermiler at San Diego, he had always been in top shape. But nothing could have prepared him for this sort of cross-country jaunt over rocky hills in heavy boots. The remarkable thing was Rogers, in unbelievably good shape for such an old fart. He was at least thirty-five.

They jogged on in the moist morning, with Rogers continuing to force the pace, Ritter holding back as much as possible so they didn’t lose Melanie. An autumn ground fog had wrapped itself like a soft gray cloak around them, shielding them from the eyes of searching Germans or anyone else. It was unlikely that the Germans were still behind them or even looking for them. They presumably had their hands full trying to salvage what they could from the wreck and rounding up the Greeks who had scattered when they arrived.

Rogers had another important reason for hurrying. He wanted to reach Kilkis and the radio well ahead of Voko or the other EDES partisans. After what happened, he wouldn’t trust Voko with a K.P. detail. The last, thing he wanted was for Voko to know anything about the pickup point. Rogers couldn’t wait to get away from Greece and the Greeks as fast as possible. As soon as the pickup was set, he and Ritter and the girl would disappear. Hide out until the plane arrived. The girl, who had fallen hard for the kid, was sticking with them. That was okay. They needed someone they could trust as a translator and guide.

As the mist burned off the hills in midmorning, the three of them staggered exhausted into Kilkis. They walked directly to the rundown farmhouse where the radio was hidden, pushed open the door, and collapsed onto the timbered floor like small beached whales, gasping for breath, fighting for relief. A middle-aged woman with rough skin and dull eyes working over the fire in the hearth was startled by the intrusion, but not particularly alarmed. Since they had hidden the radio in her house, she had become used to the unexpected. She also recognized Rogers and quickly brought them water—their first drink in nearly twelve hours.

They sipped gratefully, slowly regaining their strength and their relationship to a stationary world beneath their feet. The woman brought goat cheese and warm bread, which they greedily and quickly consumed. They looked at each other, pleased with themselves and their returning vigor. There was a lot to do, but they had already accomplished a great deal.

Rogers did not permit the pause to be extended into a real rest. As they ate, he began sifting through the mass of papers and documents they had carried from the train. The loose material was a collection of travel orders, passports, family letters, business papers, administrative reports, and other miscellaneous documents.

“Don’t see how you can read that stuff, Whip. It’s Greek to me.” Ritter laughed.

“It’s actually easier to read than it looks. My mother’s a kraut, you know. Also I minored in German lit back before it was frowned on.”

Rogers chuckled as he continued to sift through the documents. Many were interesting and would be useful to Cairo. But he hadn’t yet found what they had come for. “Well, it’s got to be this,” he said, pulling the still-unopened attaché case to him. He slid his commando knife out of the boot sheath and slashed the rich brown leather case open. It was crammed with papers, most of them marked “VERTRAULICH” or “STRENG GEHEIM.”

Rogers sucked air through his lips as he excitedly leafed through the files.

“That it, Whip?”

“Diarrhea special, kid.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Rogers continued with great intensity to leaf through the pages, fascinated by their revelations. “Krauts have doubled some agents working for us and the Brits in Istanbul. Cairo is going to shit when they see this stuff.”

“Too bad we didn’t find the gold too, huh?”

“Ahh, that was impossible,” said Rogers. “Devan was a pretty good guy, I suppose, but he didn’t really have a clue to where that stuff had gone. Some Greek’s probably got it buried in his backyard, waiting patiently for the war to end so he can buy up a fleet of ships or something. That gold can be forgotten about. It’s gone.”

The radio operator and owner of the house appeared breathless in the room. He had heard of the Americans’ arrival and had returned hastily from his olive grove. A short man with thick arms and a neck the shape of a beer barrel, he stared at the papers strewn around. If the Germans were to find any of these in the village, it would be the end for all of them.

“Call Cairo,” said Rogers, looking up. Melanie repeated the order in Greek, just in case the man hadn’t understood.

“Net doesn’t open for another eight hours,” said the Greek in heavily accented English.

“Use emergency procedures,” snapped Rogers.

“Wouldn’t work,” said the man, shaking his head.

“Try it,” insisted Rogers.

“Such an extended call will alert the Germans. It will give them time to pinpoint the transmitter, this house. It is safer to wait until Cairo calls. The outgoing transmissions will be much shorter.”

“You’ll have to risk it this time,” said Rogers.

“Voko forbids it.”

Rogers moved his hand over to his M3. He laid it across his lap, clicked the bolt into firing position while scowling directly at the Greek. “I just authorized it. Do it now.”

The Greek frowned. With a shrug of resignation he shuffled to a corner of the room, and pulling up the floorboards, brought out the battery-powered transmitter.

After three or four minutes to warm the tubes, the ancient set began to crackle and hiss. Tuning the receive channel across the band, the Greek passed through a noisy selection of pulsing radioteletype signals, high-pitched whines and screeches of jamming transmitters and sunspot interference, general Morse traffic, and finally someone singing “Lilli Marlene” in German. Rogers shifted the M3 in his lap. The Greek began the emergency-procedure call.

“Calling White Owl. Calling White Owl. This is Blue Jay. Over.” The Greek repeated the call several times, trying to catch the attention of the full-time radio room in Cairo, hoping the operators would quickly hear the emergency call words and respond.

Minutes slipped by. Long, agonizing minutes that also gave German counterintelligence radio teams valuable moments to spot the call and make a fix on it.

Finally the crackle of a faint reply. “White Owl. Come in, Blue Jay.”

Rogers grabbed the microphone. “White Owl. This is Barrister,” he said, giving Devan’s private call sign. “Request soonest prosperous flamingo for hotcake number. Advise. Over.”

“Wait, Barrister. Over.”

More tense long minutes ticked by. Cairo transmitted a pulsating beep to verify its continuing presence on the frequency. The Germans knew this transmission was coming from Cairo and thus the fix meant nothing. But it also alerted them for a local return call. The faint but distinct beep emphasized the long wait. Ritter could feel a warm moist sensation spreading under his arms.

“How long do they need to find us?” Melanie asked.

“Hard to say,” Rogers said. “Sometimes only minutes. Depends on how busy they are, what general interference problems they have, the German response time, luck, lots of things.” Ritter, still watching silently, realized he was chewing on his nails. One finger was bleeding slightly. He sucked it clean.

The beeps continued. More static. Then a faint voice. “Hello, Barrister. This is White Owl. Confirming flamingo at …” The signal faded.

“Ahh, fuck,” shouted Rogers.

The radio crackled. The Cairo carrier signal drifted back, but the message was over.

“Hello, White Owl. Say again, please. Say again. Over.”

More static on the carrying signal. And then faintly: “Flamingo at pumpkin echo. Designation Prosperous. Confirm. Over.”

“Roger, White Owl,” said Rogers with obvious relief in his voice. “Love to Cinderella. Out.”

Rogers glanced down at his watch. Just after 1045 hours. “Let me see the map,” he said.

The barrel-necked Greek left the room and returned with an area map. Prosperous was one of two emergency pickup points they had memorized before leaving Cairo. It was in a valley sheltered by a small stand of mountains south of Anxioupolis, about twenty miles from Kilkis.

“Better get moving,” said Rogers. “We’ve got almost nineteen hours, but it’s a pretty good walk.”

Ritter looked at Melanie. Dark semicircles had formed under her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks, but she registered no reaction to Rogers’ comment. She wouldn’t complain.

Rogers saw the exchange of looks between Ritter and Melanie. “You can get your beauty sleep once we get to the site. With a bit of luck, there’ll be time to rest before pickup.”

“With a bit of luck,” said Ritter.

A small explosion not more than two hundred yards from the house blasted the late-morning stillness of the village.

“Germans,” whispered Melanie.

Rogers moved like a cat to the window, peering cautiously out. “Wrong again, Melody. Your countrymen are up to their usual tricks. The leftists must have already gotten word about the double cross at the train and decided on a little catch-up ball.”

Melanie swore in Greek. “Fools,” she shouted. “They’re like children. It’s always shoot first, think last.” She was shaking with anger.

“Hold the speeches,” said Rogers. “We’ll have to leave your countrymen to settle this one on their own.” He spotted a shepherd’s knapsack in the corner. “Put all the stuff in here.”

They quickly assembled the papers and crammed them into the sack. Without a word, Ritter grabbed it and slipped it over his arms onto his back. Melanie looked at Rogers. He winked at her and smiled. He understood her anger. He liked her, and approved of her and Ritter. She hadn’t been sure.

The barrel-necked Greek picked up a bolt-action M1903 and charged out the front door, looking for the intruders.

“No time for formal good-byes,” said Rogers. “Have to send thank-you notes from Cairo. Now, Melody, if your boys will just concentrate on their fellow Greeks, we’ll get out of here.”

“This way,” the girl whispered. She peered out the back door. The shooting seemed to be concentrated on the other side of the village. They made their way out cautiously, dashing for the base of the hillside behind the house. Once over the crest, they would be safely away.

They scrambled upward, leaving the sounds of battle in the village below. Less than fifty yards from the top, shots popped around them. Ritter looked up. Two or three men were firing at them from a concentration of rocks about one hundred yards along the ridge top slightly above.

Rogers pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and waved it “Let ’em know we’re neutrals in this one,” he said. “America—” he started to shout. He never finished the word. A single shot crashed into his forehead just above the right eye, blasting directly through his skull. He twisted and fell back, his mouth open, without making a sound. Melanie screamed.

“Whip!” Ritter shouted. Crouching, he lowered his M3, aimed it at the ridge, and fired the entire thirty-round clip in a single blast. No answering shots. He reached over, grabbed Rogers’ M3, and dashed up the hill where the shots had come from. Whoever had fired them was already gone. He had a brief glimpse of two men dashing down the other side of the ridge between the rocks, already well out of effective range. He fired the thirty-round clip in frustration and anger.

Ritter turned and scrambled to Melanie, who was stooped over Rogers. Tears were streaming down her drawn face. Ritter couldn’t speak. He didn’t dare. Biting the insides of his cheeks, he knelt and shoved his fingers under Rogers’ jaw below the ear. Nothing. Rogers was not going back to Cairo. Ritter leaned back, barely able to hold himself together. A taste of blood in his mouth. He wouldn’t cry. Whip wouldn’t approve.

Reaching into Rogers’ shirt, he found the dog tags around his neck. He yanked them off, stuffing them into his pants pocket. Methodically he went through the rest of Rogers’ pockets, finally locating a small leather wallet. It contained a U.S. Army identification card and a badly creased picture of an attractive young woman sitting on a chair in a garden. There also were three letters written in faded blue ink in an elegant female hand that looked as if they had been read at least one hundred times. He shoved them into his pocket with the leather billfold. Drawing the eyes closed, he stripped off Rogers’ jacket and laid it gently over his friend. No time for a proper burial.

Ritter slipped his hand under Melanie’s arm and pulled her to her feet. She clutched at him, and shuddered as she choked back a sob. It could have been any of them.

* * *

They arrived at Site Prosperous sometime after dark. Hungry and exhausted, still shocked by the death of Rogers, they were both badly chilled. It would be a long, uncomfortable night.

Prosperous was an 800-yard-long meadow cleared by EDES partisans for quick landings by SOE resupply and pickup flights. Twice a week a local shepherd brought his sheep onto the meadow to keep the landing-strip grass the right length. He also used the time to pick up any rocks or other debris that had surfaced or otherwise made their way onto the crude strip, keeping it clear for aircraft. Both from the air and on the ground it looked like just another clear meadow area, a bit flatter and less rocky than most, but generally there was nothing about it to give the ordinary observer any suspicions about its use.

Ritter and Melanie lay down under some gnarled olive trees at the edge of the meadow, using the paper-stuffed knapsack as a common pillow.

“What time will they come?” she asked.

“Just after dawn. About five o’clock,” he said. “Pumpkin is midnight. Echo is the fifth letter of the alphabet. Childishly simple, but easy to remember. Hopefully no one listening was clever enough to figure it out.” She nodded her head. She was not really listening.

“I liked Rogers,” she said. “I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“Me too,” said Ritter. There was a lot he didn’t say. It was hard to accept that the loud, hearty voice was gone forever. Rogers had meant more to him than just about any other person he’d ever known. And now with a simple and irretrievable act, he was gone. It would be a dark void in his life for a long time to come. He heard Melanie say something.

“Uh?”

“I said, why did he always call me Melody?”

“Cause he liked you.”

She didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. They moved closer together, too exhausted to make love, but more loving than they’d ever been. The crisp autumn cold chilled them both, but it was too dangerous to light a fire at this time. Uncomfortable, unhappy, exhausted, they finally slept.

Ritter suddenly opened his eyes around 0330. Still dark. But he knew it wouldn’t be much longer. The motion of looking at his watch woke Melanie.

“Must have dozed off,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “What time?”

He told her.

“Quickly,” she said. “We must get the fire going. Without it, they will not land.”

As they stood, fighting the stiffness that had attacked their bodies, a trace of gray cracked the sky. They began collecting scraps of wood and brush that would easily ignite. They worked steadily for over an hour, gathering and stacking into a large heap anything they could find. Because they didn’t have any fuel, the dew-moistened wood would be hard to light. Hopefully some of the drier loose material would be enough. They didn’t dare start the fire until they heard the engines. Two passes were all the pilots ever made. If they were not satisfied with what they saw from the cockpit, they went home.

Large streaks of blue began to crowd out the morning oranges and reds. It was going to be a brilliantly clear day.

Ritter thought he heard the faint drone of motors. He fished around in his pockets for matches. Suddenly it was over them. A Blenheim, just like the one that had brought him and Rogers in.

“Quickly now,” she said. “The fire.” He needed no prompting. He struck a match and lit the loose dry material. Blowing on it, he coaxed it along. The brush caught quickly, starting to smoke. It was a good signal. The Blenheim passed over, wiggled its wings, and turned back. The pilot could tell from the smoke which way the wind was blowing.

“Got us,” said Ritter. “Here he comes.”

“Brian… I love you,” she said. “When will you come back?”

“As soon as I can,” he said.

She pushed hard against him and kissed him with desperation. She wanted to believe what he said.

The Blenheim was turning into the approach. The wheels were extended. Slowly it drifted down, bouncing onto the grassy strip.

She undid the top button of her blouse and pulled at the silver cross she wore around her neck, sliding it off and slipping it over Ritter’s head.

“It belonged to my grandfather. We believe it will bring good luck to whoever has it. Wear it until you come back.”

He smiled. “Stay away from Voko and his boys, Melanie. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The Blenheim taxied up, the wash of the propellers blowing hard against them. The rear fuselage door swung open. It was the same pilot who had ferried Ritter in. “All right, old boy, let’s go. Haven’t got all day, you know.”

Ritter turned back to Melanie, kissed her again, and ran for the plane. Grabbing his outstretched arm, the pilot pulled him up. Suddenly bullets smacked into the side of the fuselage. The pilot slammed the door. No time for even a last wave.

“Roll it, Max,” the pilot shouted over the roar of the engines to the copilot.

Several more bullets hit the plane as it hastily taxied down the strip and roared off. Ritter walked forward to the flight deck behind the pilot, who had returned to his seat.

“Close,” said Ritter.

“Fairly routine, I’m afraid, old chap. Where are your pals?”

“Couldn’t make it,” said Ritter.

They gradually gained altitude and then circled over the strip, heading south. Ritter looked down. A line of German trucks and open cars had pulled up just beyond the olive trees. Some gray-uniformed men were firing upward at the Blenheim. Others were running after Melanie. He fingered the cross around his neck as the plane banked around and she was lost from sight.