McLaughlin

Prologue

1944

It was raining in Le Havre. Drops of water the size of a cat’s-eye marble that stung like a pebble against the skin fell from the skies and rolled off the rooftops onto the already sated earth, forming puddles which then stretched to meet others and swelled into small lakes. Heavy winds punctuated by thunderous bursts and bright flashes caused the impromptu lakes to look more like angry seas. The rain had been falling for nearly two weeks. Between downpours a fine mist saturated the air, barely perceptible by the human eye but heavy enough to soak through a man’s cloak in the time it took to cross the street.

The town looked like a ghost town save for the occasional soul who appeared suddenly from a doorway, bent against the wind and clinging tightly to his cloak, and ran as though to important business to another doorway, into which he would disappear. It was not the weather that kept the town’s people from the streets -- the coastal town was frequently hammered by relentless Atlantic storms and its residents viewed the rain much as Egyptians viewed the sun -- rather it was the Germans. German forces had recently occupied a base at the edge of town, which was now held by the Americans who had landed at Normandy only two weeks earlier. Almost certainly German warplanes would soon be roaring over the city in retaliation.

One small, twelve-year-old boy defied the Germans as well as the weather. He wore a coat several sizes too large that did little to protect him against the rain. Under it was a ragged shirt and dirty pants held up by a rope tied around his bony waist. He stomped happily through the cold, wet puddles, just as all the children had done before the war. His feet were covered only with burlap that had been tied at the ankles. The rain beaded on his greasy hair and rolled down his face leaving streaky ruts in the dirt there.

A few years ago Pierre had watched from the stairs while German soldiers put a bullet through his father’s skull and raped and then strangled his mother. His house and all that he knew became German plunder and, like so many unfortunate children of the time, Pierre wandered the streets, sleeping where he could find warmth and eating when, or if, he could find food. Pierre cheered the Americans’ arrival. He had cherished watching the Germans running hastily from the town like a bunch of rabbits kicked from their warren, leaving much of what they had brought. He had watched with relish each German soldier who fell from an American bullet and laughed openly at the pain of those who had not died quickly.

Pierre had already made friends with the Americans whom he found as kind as the Germans were cruel. He alone knew what all other Frenchmen only silently prayed for, knew it as surely as if God had whispered it in his ear; that the Americans were going to win this war and put an end to the German tyranny.

As he neared the edge of town, Pierre broke into a run. He rounded the corner and aimed for the gates to the American base at full speed but had to stop abruptly when a soldier stepped from the guard shack. The soldier who blocked his path stood with his legs apart and a rifle held crosswise in front of him, water pouring as if from a gutter spout off the brim of his hat.

Halt! Who goes there? The soldier’s harsh stare remained fixed well over the top of the small boy’s head.

Pierre stood, stuck to the ground from suction created by three inches of mud and a fear that festered from a German wound. He did not know what to say. He had never been stopped before.

Identify yourself, soldier! The guard’s face barely moved when he talked and his eyes remained fixed on a spot over Pierre’s head.

Pierre shrugged his shoulders, wondering if perhaps he had inadvertently done something wrong.

You’re out of uniform, soldier. The corners of the guard’s mouth turned up just slightly and belied his tone.

Pierre, finally realizing he was being teased, giggled. I’m Pierre, he said in a tone of indignation.

The guard slowly lowered his gaze and then let the smile show fully. Why, so you are, he said when his eyes finally met Pierre’s. He knelt down, the rifle resting on his lap, until his eyes were level with Pierre’s. Are you the same Pierre who tried to sell my own watch back to me?

Pierre could feel the blood going to his cheeks and his throat tighten. I only found the watch. I didn’t know it belonged to anyone.

The guard frowned harshly at him. I know where you ‘found’ it.

For a minute Pierre thought of turning and running. Once, when the Germans had occupied the base, Pierre and a friend had been caught stealing food. They had run and Pierre had been lucky enough to get away. His friend, who was a step or two slower, was shot in the back. Now Pierre’s legs were trembling and weak, but he’d rather see the bullet coming than to make an easy target of his back.

To Pierre’s surprise the guard smiled then. Look, Pierre, he said, his voice softening to a more friendly tone. You shouldn’t steal at all, but you should never steal from your friends. Do you understand?

Pierre felt his eyes fill and bent his head forward. He nodded slowly, suddenly very ashamed.

The guard looked at him for a minute and then said, Okay, then. He stood up and stepped aside to let Pierre pass.

Pierre felt a wave of relief, a wave as strong as any he’d felt playing in the ocean, wash over him, and for a moment he was not sure it wouldn’t knock him over. He could not move and only looked up at the guard, his tears mingling with the raindrops. Thank you, he finally managed in a strangled voice.

He ran past the guard and through the gates. The incident left him feeling high and light as a feather. He had been caught, but he had been forgiven. He had never before been forgiven and it felt cleansing. The guilt had been swept away and he felt free, somehow purified. Stealing was second nature to Pierre, but he swore to himself that he would never again steal from an American. He would not steal from his friends.

Inside the perimeter fence, the base was made up mostly of a bunch of long, narrow wooden buildings, each with a slanted tin roof. Each building had a big letter attached to its front to distinguish it from all the others. Some had wooden signs, either hung from a protruding piece of wood or fastened to the face of the building, saying things like Mess or PX.

When it rained, as it did now, the sound of the raindrops pounding against all those corrugated tin roofs created a dull roar, like walking into a factory with all its machines running. The ridges in the tin channeled the water down and off the roof in waterfalls, onto the ground, which had been covered with stones to defy the mud, but with so much rain lately the stones acted as a lake bottom to an inch or two of water. The buildings seemed to be floating on a vast lake, their reflections undulating with the ripples caused by the wind and rain. Unlike the town’s people, the soldiers here moved about freely as if there wasn’t a war going on around them. They had rubber boots, raincoats, and hats to protect them from the elements, but Pierre liked their easy, confident stride. This, along with the incident at the gate, canonized the Americans in his mind.

Though his feet were callused, the stones beneath them felt like knife blades. The icy water stung doubly where they hit, but Pierre stomped in defiance of the elements as he made his way between the buildings, causing the water to spray up around him and the soldiers who passed to shake their head in bewilderment. The barracks, where the soldiers slept at night, each had a small porch in front with a peaked wooden roof overhead. Pierre found Mike standing in front of his barracks talking animatedly with another soldier. Pierre splashed his way up the porch steps and to the place where Mike stood.

Mike continued his conversation with only a brief glance in Pierre’s direction then, as if he had just realized that someone else was there, stopped completely and looked down at Pierre.

And where have you been, Little Soldier? Mike asked.

For the few days prior to last night Pierre had slept in relative luxury beside Mike’s cot on a wool blanket Mike had pulled from the locker at the foot of the bed. Last night Pierre had been out past the town limits, clear at the other side of town, throwing rocks at rabbits that had been flushed from their holes by the rain. They had killed three and the boys took them back to an abandoned shack in town and cooked themselves a veritable feast. He had fallen asleep there with a rare full belly.

In town, Pierre said, smiling and pointing toward the town.

Mike laughed and ruffled his hair, his huge hand nearly covering completely Pierre’s small head. Well, I’ll tell you what, Mike said as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a large silver coin and gave it to Pierre. What say you go get me and you some breakfast? How about a couple of those croissants from Henri’s place?

Okay, Mike, Pierre said, delighted to be closing his hand around the big coin. He turned and ran back in the direction he had come.

Be sure and bring those croissants back whole, Mike yelled after him.

On the way back to town the rain had slowed some but the wind had picked up even more, causing what drops were falling to travel nearly horizontally. He finally reached the boardwalk that lined the front of the stores along the main street and provided a little protection from nature’s stinging arsenal.

When he entered Henri’s, Henri was standing with his back to the door but turned at the sound of the bell. His face turned a bright red when he saw Pierre and he raised a large arm and extended a single finger toward the door. Get out, you little thief! he yelled.

Pierre turned and walked back out into the weather out of habit, the familiar shame and pain churning in his gut. He stopped though and opened his hand, staring at the coin that rested there to be sure he wasn’t mistaken. He opened the door again and stepped inside.

But Henri, he said. I have money. He held out his open hand with the coin resting on the palm and showed it to Henri.

Henri peered at it with his nose wrinkled as if he were viewing a cockroach pulled from his kitchen. American money, I see, he said with a scowl. Well, be quick about it then.

Pierre had no intention of being quick. Though he knew exactly what he would purchase, he examined each pastry on the shelf fully, taking in the savory smells and full advantage of the warm dry air from Henri’s ovens. Finally, fully aware of Henri’s impatient scowl behind him, Pierre pointed to the croissants and said, Two, please.

When he left Henri’s, Pierre had his prized package, two croissants wrapped in paper, under his coat to protect them from the rain. Running full speed down the middle of the street, he imagined sitting on Mike’s bunk eating croissants and looking at the beautiful American women in the magazines that he knew were in the locker at the foot of Mike’s bed.

The running was easier on the return trip with the wind at his back. This time, as he turned the corner to the gate, the guard once again stepped out with his legs apart to stop him but Pierre scooted easily between his legs and through the gate, hardly breaking stride.

As he wound between the buildings on his way to Mike’s bunkhouse, he passed the building with a big K on its front. As usual there was a line of uniformed men waiting to get into the building. It was, he knew, the building where the newly arriving soldiers had to be processed and assigned quarters. He knew this because Mike had taken a great deal of time showing him around the base and making him aware of what each building was for and which ones he was to stay away from. He wondered, as he had many times in the past few days, watching that eternal line move hour by hour, that one day there wouldn’t be more Americans in France than Frenchmen.

As he looked over the line for a gap wide enough for him to run through without slowing his pace, he stopped suddenly and his heart started to pound. He moved quickly to the building opposite and dropped to his knees, losing his precious croissants in the process, and crawled through the water and under the porch. He waited for a minute for his breathing to slow and then peaked out at the tall blond man who waited in line and seemed to stare only at his shoes.

Pierre crawled back out from under the porch and ran around behind the building to avoid having to pass through the line of men. He ran quickly to Mike’s barracks and, once inside, looked for Mike. Unable to find him, Pierre went to Mike’s bunk and dug through the locker until he found the pistol he knew was stashed there. He checked it to be sure it was loaded and then headed back to building K.

When he reached the building opposite K once again, the blond man had already entered and was evidently being processed. Pierre waited there with the gun under his coat in the same place where the croissants once were. Finally the blond man came out of the building and walked directly toward Pierre. When the man had covered half the distance between the buildings, Pierre pulled the gun from under his coat and pointed it at the man’s chest. It seemed like forever until the man looked up into Pierre’s eyes. At first the man only looked confused, then there was a look that Pierre took for recognition, and finally, what he wanted, a look of horror.

Pierre squeezed the trigger and the gun exploded in front of him, spitting fire and deafening him with the blast. The gun’s recoil picked the small boy up and deposited him on his back in the water. For an eternal moment all Pierre could hear was a ringing in his ears and then only the sizzle of the gun lying in the water. The blond man had grasped his chest with one hand and Pierre saw the blood that oozed from the gaping hole there run out between his fingers. The man pulled his hand away and looked down at his chest and then, with the look of horror still pasted there like a Shakespearean mask, back up toward Pierre. He crumpled into a heap where he stood and Pierre watched what seemed like gallons of blood mixing with the water and spreading out away from the body.

For a moment it seemed to Pierre as if time just stood still and then suddenly there were dozens of men with rifles all pointing down at him. Suddenly Mike broke through the crowd and looked down at Pierre. He looked around him and then at the dead soldier lying face down in the water. He reached down and picked Pierre up by the lapels of his coat and started shaking him. Why, Pierre? Why? he asked.

For a moment Pierre couldn’t catch his breath to speak and finally, tears running down his cheeks, through the sobs, he said, He was a spy! He looked up into Mike’s eyes and explained once more, He was a spy.

Mike stopped shaking him and just stared at Pierre for a minute. Are you sure? he finally asked.

Pierre wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt and nodded slowly.

Chapter 1

Richard’s New York Style Deli was actually a full continent away from New York, located on a busy street at the southern edge of San Francisco. Foot-square floor tiles, once white but now a dull gray, with inlaid gold specs disappeared under paneled walls painted so many times that the paint would surely stand on its own. A permanent, dark, L-shaped stain where some divider or counter had been removed separated smokers and nonsmokers.

Peter Delacroix sat at a corner table on a wrought iron chair that wobbled uncomfortably beneath him. The smell of fresh bread and spicy meat mingled with perfume, sweat, and the exhaust fumes that poured in from the buses and taxis out front every time the door was opened. The net result approximated the heavy, mildewy odor of yeast. In front of Peter an untouched corned beef-on-rye sat surrounded by a prospectus that he was trying, with little success, to concentrate on.

Behind the counter, three men shouted orders back to customers and at each other loudly enough to be addressing Carnegie Hall. The phone, which rang constantly, made a sound much like an English police siren in an old spy movie. All three men would ignore it until one of them passed closely enough to sweep it off the cradle on the way by and shout into it, raising his voice another unbelievable decibel in an apparent attempt to make up for the added distance of the caller. The door, which had an object hanging over it that looked and sounded like a cowbell, clanked every few seconds as patrons entered and left. The cash register drawer opened regularly providing a counterpoint ch-ch-chink, a sound that Peter liked in theory but in practice felt like Chinese torture. To add to the cacophony, a TV set sat precariously on a shelf overhead and blared out a ball game loud enough to entice the foot-traffic outside.

Peter finally gave up on the prospectus and gathered the papers into a heap, stuffing them into a file folder in his briefcase. He began to nibble absently on his sandwich. Eric Delaney, Peter’s two o’clock, was now twenty minutes late and Peter, normally a stickler for punctuality, would have left by now, but with traffic the way it was these days the trip from LA could be unpredictable so he was trying to practice the patience his wife kept telling him he needed more of. Besides, he wanted to get this particular meeting out of the way.

At the next table a man held a newspaper high up in front of him, dropping one corner surreptitiously like a cheap detective in a B movie to peek at the ample-bosomed blonde seated in the opposite corner. The headline, Halstead Jet Explodes Over Atlantic, had caught Peter’s attention and he was trying to catch the gist of the story without appearing rude. Halstead was a cargo hauler with whom Peter had done some business a few months ago.

The sound of money dropping on the floor caused Peter to look toward the door where a large woman wearing a nondescript print dress had evidently been counting her change on the way in and had dropped it and was now bent over trying to retrieve it.

Eric Delaney was standing behind her. He made an obscene gesture toward the woman’s upraised buttocks and then grinned mischievously toward Peter. Peter wondered, not for the first time, what had ever convinced him to invest two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars in this overgrown child.

Delaney had invented a lighting system that was far superior to the current fluorescent technology. He had broken up the trust his father had left him and put all the money into building a production facility. When the facility was finished there was no cash left for materials, marketing, and operating expenses. A professor at UCLA where Eric was attending at the time put Eric in touch with Peter. Peter had come down and toured the plant one afternoon, then spent the entire night hammering out a deal with Eric. By the time the sun rose the next morning they had a signed contract and Peter had written Eric a check for a quarter of a million dollars, a figure that they both agreed should be adequate to the task. It was Peter’s classic style of doing business. He detested lawyers and wasting time on paperwork and long drawn out negotiations. He favored hammering out the details one-to-one with the decision maker and even more so when he knew he held all the high cards in whatever particular deck they were dealing from. In these games the high cards were all spelled C-A-S-H and that Peter had plenty of. If the terms weren’t right for him, well there were always plenty of hungry young entrepreneurs hanging around with their hands out and willing to do almost anything to get their pet projects off the ground. It wasn’t that he took advantage of them and he always genuinely wanted to see these talented young people succeed and he liked most of them, but Peter was good at what he did and rarely lost money on a venture.

Judging by the tone of Eric’s recent faxes, Peter knew Eric was once again out of money with his first lighting sale yet to be made.

Eric’s aftershave, a cheap commercial brand, reached Peter before Eric did. He was wearing a white pinstriped shirt, a burgundy knit tie, and blue jeans. A pair of sunglasses with large, florescent pink and green rims dangled on a bright green string draped around his neck. His sandy blond hair had a wavy, blown look that could have just come off the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly.