House Of Ghosts Part 30

ITALY, AUGUST 1944 1944.

PRESTON SHIFTED TEN ROWS FORWARD from his usual spot to the left of the entrance and an un.o.bstructed view to the crew of the Brooklyn Avenger Brooklyn Avenger as Dexter completed roll call. All were present. With targets being defended by the Germans at all costs, losses continued to stress the replacement and subst.i.tution lists. Every available officer was in the Quonset and would soon be in the air. Bradford unveiled the target- Manowitz, Poland, another deep penetration raid of 760 miles. "We're hunting for oil again," Bradford opened, drawing the usual chorus of groans. Every target but one to support the invasion of southern France in the last four weeks had been against oil installations and a minimum of seven hours in the air. "The GAF in this region of Poland is for all intents and purposes non-existent. Scattered flak batteries and smoke generators are the prime defenses." as Dexter completed roll call. All were present. With targets being defended by the Germans at all costs, losses continued to stress the replacement and subst.i.tution lists. Every available officer was in the Quonset and would soon be in the air. Bradford unveiled the target- Manowitz, Poland, another deep penetration raid of 760 miles. "We're hunting for oil again," Bradford opened, drawing the usual chorus of groans. Every target but one to support the invasion of southern France in the last four weeks had been against oil installations and a minimum of seven hours in the air. "The GAF in this region of Poland is for all intents and purposes non-existent. Scattered flak batteries and smoke generators are the prime defenses."

Manowitz was a wish come true. It would count toward the fifty missions required to rotate home and wouldn't draw a bead of sweat. The 2nd had seen their share of smoke and flak. Scattered flak was equal to a bunch of pea shooters. It was the swarming Me-109s that caused havoc. Manowitz was going to be a "milk-run." The lights at the rear of the stage were lowered. The first reconnaissance photo was projected. Bradford continued, "This is the IP four miles from the I.G. Farben complex." Four chimneys surrounded by acres of military style barracks filled the screen.

Preston had seen this photo of the Birkenau section of the Auschwitz concentration camp in McCloy's office a month earlier. Bradford made no mention of the concentration camp. Preston wasn't surprised- only a select number of the intelligence community were privy to the details.

The next slide was put up. Bradford moved close to the screen. "This is the heart of the target. The chimney on the boiler house is four-hundred feet tall." He traced the wood pointer across the screen. "A power line runs north from a transformer station to a gas generation plant. It's the least protected in the concrete installation. You hit it, production is kaput kaput, and you don't have to go back."

Preston stared down the row. Paul Rothstein wasn't enjoying the moment with his fellow pilots. Paul turned. A broad smile filled the pilot's face as he flashed the thumbs up. Preston nodded his head in recognition. A surreal bond was forged, like two heavyweight boxers standing in their corners for the start of the fifteenth round.

Colonel Wullien concluded the briefing by warning, "It's real easy to lose your edge when you don't think you're going to get your a.s.s shot off. Stay alert and come back safely."

The a.s.sembly snapped to attention. Wullien and Dexter descended the stage. The crews gathered their belongings and began filtering to the ready room. Paul sidestepped Hornish walking directly toward Preston. "Captain Swedge, you have the uncanny resemblance to someone I knew back in New York who hung around Madison Square Garden. I asked him why he spent so much of his time there. You know what he said? Because it was such a blast."

Preston didn't flinch. "I must resemble more than just one handsome fellow in the city."

Paul closed the distance till they were nose to nose. "The guy had a friend who I'd bet would make a h.e.l.luva fighter jockey." Paul adjusted his cap, took two steps back, and saluted.

Preston's rubbed his clammy hands together resisting the old demons that overcame him in the back seat of his father's Packard that summer day in 1938 on the drive to Princeton. He rested against the wall, thinking about how he became involved in such craziness. Bradford having caught bits and pieces of the conversation slipped un-noticed to his side. "Anything wrong?"

"Lieutenant Rothstein was mistaken in thinking we had met in New York," Preston said, recovering his composure.

Bradford had argued the finer points of Yale-Princeton football with Preston the day before in The Cave The Cave. "How about joining me for a cup of coffee?"

"I appreciate the offer, but I have a few things to wrap up before leaving for Washington," Preston replied, not wanting to extend the conversation.

Bedford shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe we'll meet at one of the games."

Preston figured the odds were slim and none. "I look forward to it."

In groups of six and eight, crews boarded the trucks waiting to ferry them to their ships. Paul and Shep Peterson exchanged handshakes with the big Texan bending down to speak into the smaller New Yorker's ear. Preston marveled at the unlikely pair's friendship.

Returning to the bivouac, Preston walked the rows of tents, making certain the area was deserted. It wasn't uncommon for pilots who weren't flying for medical reasons to be in their tents. He made his way to The Alamo The Alamo. Gigham mentioned that Rothstein kept a diary and he was determined to find it.

The footlocker stenciled "Rothstein" on the side yielded two uniforms and five books, the bed nothing. Preston moved to Peterson's cot. Under the pillow were two letters addressed to Paul's family. Knowing that Rothstein couldn't take the diary onto the plane, it had to be in the tent, doubting Paul trusted anyone other than Peterson to keep it.

With limited places available to conceal an object, he focused on the wood slat floor. Lines scribed into the ever-present film of dirt led to the legs of Peterson's cot. Using his pocketknife, he pried up a one-foot square section, revealing a .30 caliber ammunition box.

Preston extracted the metal box. Releasing the latches on the lid, Preston found what he was after-a manila envelope. He replaced the box into the floor, and returned the cot to its original position. Tearing the envelope open, Preston removed four composition size notebooks, making sure they were Rothstein's. Putting the letters and the diaries into the envelope, he tucked the package under his tunic.

Secluding himself into the office provided by Wullien, Preston read Paul's diaries, questioning if he would have possessed the character necessary to complete the mission conceived and planned by his older brother if the roles were reversed. "Captain," Buckley yelled through the thin pine door, "the birds are returning to the nest."

Preston packed his satchel and picked up his travel bag. Buckley didn't look away from his typewriter. "I'm signing out one of the Jeeps," Preston said. "I'll make sure it's returned from Foggia."

Buckley didn't miss a beat at the Remington. "Wave that piece of paper from Mr. McCloy when you get there..."

Preston didn't wait for Buckley to finish turning the knife. The drive up the mountain seemed to be longer and the stairs to the tower seemed a little steeper. Acknowledging the controllers, he made his way to the observation deck. Preston felt the weight on his chest growing heavier and had to make an effort to engage Wullien in a conversation. "The crews were saying this was going to be a milk run. Is there really such a thing?"

Wullien lit his pipe. "This one should be a piece of cake, but the Seventeen sometimes does funny things. A free-wheeling prop, lost oil pressure or an exploding engine can take out a crew."

The familiar shout of incoming planes was heard. The ground crews began their ch.o.r.eographed welcoming dance. Despite the presumption of an easy mission, the medical personnel were ready for the worst.

Lips moved in unison, counting aircraft. The sky remained flare free, there were no wounded. It was indeed a milk run. The count was started. There was an aircraft unaccounted for. "Now you see, Swedge, why I'm going gray," Wullien grumbled. "I didn't have a one until I took this command. Sergeant, find out who it is."

The sergeant returned holding his clipboard. "It's the Brooklyn Avenger Brooklyn Avenger, Rothstein's plane."

Weston tapped his pipe against the railing. "You want a ride back for debriefing?"

Preston made a point of checking his watch. "I have to get back to Foggia." For a second, he could see Wullien question why he had bothered to go to the control tower if he wasn't going to the debriefing session.

"When you get back to Washington, tell them what life is really like over here."

"Colonel, my report will reflect your concerns," Preston said. He needed to get a message to "Uncle John."

Chapter 40.

PRINCETON, NJ DECEMBER 2000.

"SON OF A b.i.t.c.h!" MANNY SAID, slamming the last installment of Preston's diaries on his desk. For nearly two hours, the corpulent publisher sat at the scarred desk that had been in the office before Lincoln was elected. "I can't f.u.c.king believe it." He removed his foam neck support from the bottom desk drawer and adjusted it under his chin.

"Three hundred thousand Hungarian Jews died after Rothstein was shot down," Joe said. "I'm positive that Gloria Johnson knows all about her husband having his hand in it."

Manny finished the last of the doughnut holes that Joe bought on his way into town. "You have to call Driscoll. If Jake Rothstein is alive, he might be of value in finding him. Bob asks about you whenever we speak."

Robert Driscoll was the FBI agent in charge of the case when Joe and Manny suffered their injuries. Joe held Driscoll responsible and hadn't spoken to the special agent after being released from the hospital. "I've done it. The putz is supposed to get back to me."

Manny re-adjusted his neck brace. "After Clark's murder, I was amazed how the young widow handled things so well. In retrospect, Ellis Price did her a favor. Let's go over to Gloria's and relieve her of the burden of having to conceal Clark's dirty little secret."

Manny insisted that they take his car. "I have to make a quick stop," he said, pulling into Princeton Gardens. He ran into the store, returning with an a.s.sortment of orchids. "Gloria's favorite. They'll throw the old girl off."

Steel gray skies and a dropping thermometer produced a mixture of snow and sleet. "Looks like the weathermen might be right for once," Joe said, cracking the window of the ten year old Saab. He lit a cigarette. "The old lady is going to have a s.h.i.t fit when she sees me. She'll use the flowers as a weapon."

"I'll run interference," Manny said, making a left from Na.s.sau onto Cedar Lane. Sounds of whirring chains saws and splintering wood drowned out the jalopy's rattles. A hollow stump was the remains of a Dutch Elm in the center of the lawn. The main trunk was sectioned and stacked in the rear of a dump truck from Skillman Nurseries. Two laborers were feeding small limbs into a wood chipper.

Manny parked across the street. "I'll draw the prey to the door. Skirt along side of the driveway and be ready to pounce. Give me thirty seconds head start." Darting across the no-man's land of heavy equipment and tree debris, he cut directly to the fieldstone landing. Hiding the bouquet behind his parka, he gave the bra.s.s knocker two sharp raps.

Gloria Johnson appeared with the sc.r.a.ping of the deadbolt cylinder. "Manny! I thought it was the tree-man." A broad smile eradicated the innumerable lines on her face.

With a sweeping motion, Manny presented the flowers.

Gloria's blue eyes beamed with delight. "They're beautiful!" she said. Out of the corner of her eye, the Princeton matron saw Joe leaning on the five-iron at the side of the walk. Her smile turned to ice. "I didn't realize you knew each other."

"We need to talk," Manny said.

Gloria took the flowers, stepping back into the foyer. "You both know the way to the kitchen. I'll find a vase."

Joe closed the door. In the two months since his first visit, Gloria had re-papered the hall. Gone were the falling leaves, replaced by a pale green gra.s.s weave. He stopped to view the family picture gallery, zeroing on Clark's "look at me, I'm the cat's pajamas" picture. "Now that was one heck of guy," he whispered to Manny, smudging the ruddy face with a spit laden thumb.

Manny and Joe sat at the kitchen table while Gloria busied herself cutting the stems and arranging the orchids with the accompanying greens. She placed the cut crystal vase on the center island next to her handbag and keys. Not looking at her guests she said, "I baked these this morning." Her trembling hands clawed at the clear wrap covering a plate of cookies. "I had a feeling I was getting company."

Without hesitation, Manny took a chocolate chip. "We were in the neighborhood and decided to say h.e.l.lo."

Gloria scowled at Joe. "Don't patronize me. This isn't social, it's about Preston and my husband."

"The jig is up. Preston's diaries landed in my lap," Joe said. "Did Clark talk about a mission that he flew on August 20, 1944?"

"If he did, he did it with Preston," she said with considerable unease.

"Come on Gloria," Manny snapped. "Clark and his good buddy were bonded not only by their Princeton days but also by the blood on their hands. No matter how he tried, Clark couldn't wash it away. Maybe that's why he fell into the bottle."

Gloria became unglued. "Why must you stir things up?" she asked, searching through her bag. "I don't see any good in rehashing the past." A pack of Merits tumbled to the counter. Gloria clamped a cigarette between her lips.

Joe, watching her fumble with her lighter, fished his Zippo from his jacket and pushed away from the table. He flicked the Vietnam relic, producing a welder's flame. Gloria swept her pageboy out of harm's way and lit the cigarette. "Take a seat," Joe said, guiding an unsteady Gloria by the elbow.

"No one wanted those people," she said defiantly. "Do you want examples?"

"Like the ship the St. Louis? St. Louis?" Joe asked.

"Yes," Gloria said, looking into the distance. "Roosevelt did nothing to allow it to dock in Florida where it was floating off the coast for days." She took a deep pull on the low tar cigarette. "Roosevelt's sister wasn't even for bringing Jewish children here, because she said they were like kittens-they grew up."

Manny chomped on a cookie. "So it's all right that three-hundred thousand innocent people including my grandfather's brother were ga.s.sed and cremated after August 20, 1944 when one bomb could have destroyed the means to kill them?"

"Who am I to say what was right? Many decisions were made during the war that now seem callous," Gloria said. "This was Preston's doing. He brought the orders from John McCloy. Clark was in a no win situation"

"They were just following orders," Manny said with disgust. "The same defense used at the Nuremberg war trials."

Veins in Joe's neck stood, stretching against his skin. "Clark bragged he and Preston saved the world," Joe charged. "From what?"

Gloria fiddled with the string of pearls around her neck. "From having to deal with the European Jews after the war," she murmured.

"Despite McCloy's machinations, Israel became a state," Manny seethed. "Clark's partic.i.p.ation in the scheme to prevent immigration to the area was for nothing."

Stretching for the ashtray in the center of the table, Gloria smashed out her cigarette. Joe leaned against the center island. In a way he felt sorry for Gloria. Her long deceased husband had been a down to the bone b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She knew it. Having it thrown into her face after forty years couldn't be pleasant. "Did Clark ever express any remorse for killing Rothstein, the other nine men on his plane, and to what happened to the innocent on the ground?"

"Clark weighed the consequences of what he did, whether it was on the job, or if he was buying a garden hose," Gloria said with a faint smile. "I never heard him say he was sorry about anything." She struggled to her feet. "I'll be right back." With measured steps, she crossed the kitchen to the hall leading to Clark's room.

"We better lighten it up," Joe said. "I don't want to be responsible for giving her a heart attack."

Manny s.n.a.t.c.hed another cookie. "Gloria is a tough old bird who can take it as well as she can dish it. She wouldn't have admitted anything if we didn't bash her over the head."

Gloria returned with a paper shopping bag. "I've been saving these since 1960," she said, dumping the contents on the table.

Joe picked an invitation size envelope off the chocolate chip cookies. Gloria's name and address were in a clean rigid script of a man's hand. There was no return address. The stamp was cancelled on August 19, 1972 at the main post office in Manhattan. He opened the envelope and read aloud, "Happy anniversary."

Manny opened another envelope. "The same."

"I received one this year. They're identical and always are delivered on the 20th of August." Gloria said, lighting her second cigarette. "I was afraid to call the police, but it doesn't matter any longer. Lieutenant, can you make them stop?"

Gloria's vinegar was gone. She was aging before their eyes. "I'll make it a priority," Joe said.

Chapter 41.

WESTFIELD, NJ JANUARY 2001 2001.

ARTIE SHAW'S BEGIN THE BEGUINE blasted from Joe's cell phone. Without opening an eye, Joe searched the night table. "Bob Driscoll here, go ahead and say it for old time's sake."

"f.u.c.k you," Joe complied, sitting up.

"Now I feel whole," Driscoll said with an imperceptible laugh. Joe's carping was wearing thin. "I've finished digging around."

Joe picked a cigarette from a pack on the night table and chewed on the filter, fighting to light up. He was smoking two packs a day. "You were..."

Driscoll cut him off. "Meet me at the diner on North Avenue in fifteen minutes."

"You were supposed to get back to me weeks ago," Joe said. He waited for a torrent of expletives. The special agent could invent anatomical positions unknown to the Kama Sutra Kama Sutra. There was nothing but silence. Joe looked at the face of the phone. He was talking to himself. Driscoll had ended the call. "s.h.i.thead."

"Jozef," Alenia cooed. "Lie down and cud-dle. This is the last day before Harry comes home and..." She buried her head in her pillow.