Read sample The Torch Betrayal

PROLOGUE

The cognac-induced buzzing in his head ramped up. The warm air passing over the frosted ground created a moist fog that, coupled with the diversion he’d put in motion earlier, guaranteed that the odds of being undetected were in his favor. Nonetheless, he silently rehearsed his story if he was found on the base so late at night.

His breathing was still a bit labored from his sprint from the maintenance shed, where he’d set kerosene-soaked cloth fuses into the near-empty fifty-gallon drums of aviation fuel. He estimated he had six or seven minutes until the heavy material of the rags burned their way into the drums. He lit a cigarette to calm himself, and when that failed, he flicked it into the fog and pulled a flask from his inside breast pocket and took a long pull, draining it. The cognac’s warm trail was less intense than it had been the first time. He returned the flask to his breast pocket and pulled his pack of Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes back out. As he shook the pack, he heard the first explosion; then, three seconds later, the second. He dropped his cigarettes.

“Shit,” he hissed. He crouched and lost his balance slightly. Both booms were unexpected. He had only been counting on a fire. When he’d tipped each drum, it had seemed there was only an inch or two of fuel – a careless miscalculation, but one that overdelivered on his need for a diversion. He heard shouts in the fog followed by two rifle shots. He checked his jacket pockets for his tools. Feeling the hard shapes of both the wire cutters and the ball-peen hammer, he began to slink across the frost-covered grass, toward the rear of the film lab. At the top of the stairwell that descended to the rear door, he stopped and turned to survey the grounds behind the building. Nothing was visible but fog and the top portion of the stand of trees he’d just exited. He headed down the stairwell. At the bottom, the drain was clogged with leaves and twigs, creating a small puddle. The fetid water threw off a sharp stench, and his leather shoes wicked up the foul water.

The shouts of security personnel sounded farther away from down in the stairwell, and its thick concrete walls easily absorbed the sound of the hammer as he smashed through the dense pane of opaque security glass. Most of the shards landed inside, but a few pieces clung to the wire mesh embedded in the glass. He made quick work of the wire with the cutters, but when he started to push his hand through, it was too small. He reached again for his wire cutters, the handle catching on the lining of his pocket and tumbling out of his hand, into the putrid water at his feet.

The shouts were getting louder, so he forgot the cutters and shoved his hand back through the hole, the wire leaving several rows of scratches on the back of his hand and wrist, and up his arm, like a neatly plowed, bloody field.

The deadbolt slipped in his fingers at first, but he managed to get it unlocked, glass crunching under his feet once he finally stepped inside. The hallway was narrow, and with his right hand out, groping into the darkness so he didn’t run into anything, he took small, quick steps deeper into the building. The chemical smell that wafted from the film processors he crept past made his eyes water and the buzzing in his head got higher pitched. The fumes weakened his focus, but the sound of a pump in one of the processors engaging snapped him back to the present. He pressed on, the dim light from low-watt, naked bulbs hanging above each processor aiding his way.

He was looking for one document. Only one. He headed for a metal locker marked “Lt. Johannson,” located near the front counter of the lab. Once he found the locker, he looked in the deeply stained coffee mug; the key to the file cage was there. The locker reeked of perspiration. A jar of hair pomade along with a comb wedged into a hairbrush’s bristles sat in the bottom of the locker.

Inside the chain-link file cage, where there were rows of file cabinets, he hunted for the one marked “G.D.D.E.” Inside, among dozens of manila files, was the familiar leather satchel, a set of handcuffs attached to its brown Bakelite handle, and a small key to the lock on the satchel’s clasp. He opened the satchel and put its contents on a small wooden table in the center of the room and pulled his lighter out. He used the index finger on his uninjured hand to sift through the myriad documents. He was halfway through the pile when he found it, and adrenaline shot through his veins. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, and his breathing quickened. It was a piece of letter-sized onionskin. Typed instructions with dates and times filled the page. The number 117 was in the upper-right corner. The paper crinkled sharply when he folded it and slid it into his inside breast pocket.

After returning the satchel to the file drawer, he locked the enclosure gate and raced back to Johannson’s locker. He dumped the key back into the mug and shut the locker. As he approached the rear door of the lab, he skidded to a stop, realizing he didn’t have a handkerchief or rag to clean up his blood, nor did he have the time to search for one. He pulled down the right sleeve of his jacket and swiped at the mess, but the drying blood was stubborn. As he pressed harder, he heard shouts from outside, closer this time. Plenty of people had his blood type – it was time to go. He stepped into the stairwell, his right foot landing unevenly in the puddle. The wire cutters. As he bent over to retrieve them, the buzzing in his head intensified.

Outside, the air was choked with the smell of burning aviation fuel. The fire seemed to be sapping the fog of its moisture. As he raced away from the shouting, he was pleased with his performance – but he would be happier once he put his hands on more cognac.

CHAPTER ONE

The humiliation that Lieutenant Commander Harry Butcher, USNR, suffered over losing his lunch was slightly lessened by his having Miss Weddington leave his office beforehand.

He couldn’t believe it had taken him only nine weeks to screw up his plum assignment as General Eisenhower’s aide. Visions of boarding a slow boat back to the States by order of the general and being reassigned to a desk deep in the bowels of the navy’s communications department filled his head. That selfish thought was soon overpowered by the magnitude of what Weddington had just told him: a document – one containing the directives of the Allies’ first joint offensive action against the Nazis – was missing.

“Miss Weddington, you can come back in now,” Butcher shouted as he shoved the fouled wastebasket behind the blackout curtains. He looked out his window. Heavy, gray card stock checker-boarded the large window where panes of glass existed before the Blitz. Through the window’s few remaining glass panes, he watched an invasion of low, black clouds marching swiftly northward from the English Channel.

As Elizabeth Nassar Weddington, Butcher’s secretary, entered the office and approached his desk, Butcher noticed her eyes were red and swollen. The slender-built woman was the only daughter of a long-tenured British Foreign Service diplomat and a mother who came from a prosperous Egyptian family. As Weddington stood before him in a faded blue dress, she tugged nervously at a handkerchief, contrasting with her normal poise.

Weddington’s nose wrinkled – no doubt she had caught the stench that drifted from the wastebasket in the cramped office he shared with the general’s stenographer. Butcher dropped his gaze and cleared his throat. “Tell me again – slowly. And don’t leave anything out.”

“I am at a complete loss to explain it. I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am. I simply do not understand how I … misplaced … it,” she said.

“Miss Weddington,” he tried again, stifling his mounting frustration. “Start again from the beginning. And speak slowly.” Weddington fired off a string of words in her Egyptian Arabic  – tinged British accent, mumbling half of them as she tried to explain, but he caught a phrase here, another there. She paused and inhaled noisily through an open mouth, then began speaking more slowly.

“I started merging the official documents with the personal ones, renumbered them, as I always do, into one set of pages. Then I placed all the pages in the satchel. Staff Sergeant Billings handcuffed the satchel to my wrist, per required protocol. Then, the sergeant and I left for the film lab.”

“Where did you gather the pages?”

“Outside your office, at my desk. And I had the outer office door locked.”

Satisfied that Weddington had followed protocols, Butcher nodded. “Go on.”

“We took a staff car to the film lab, and from the time we entered the lab to the time we left, nothing out of the norm happened.” Weddington again tugged at her belt.

“Whom did you pass the diary pages to?”

“The same lab technician I always do – Lieutenant Johannson. I work only with the lieutenant because of his security clearance. I picked up the prior batch of microfilm and left the lab. I told Lieutenant Johannson I would be back on Saturday to collect what I had just dropped off.”

Butcher rested his chin on his clasped hands and lowered his gaze to his desk blotter. Tucked into a corner of the blotter was a picture of him shaking Eisenhower’s hand on his first day as the general’s naval aide.

“You’re absolutely sure about the specific page that’s missing?” Butcher asked.

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid I’m sure,” she said.

Butcher slumped back in his chair.

“Today’s batch included pages 103 to 150. Every typewritten page with any pasted or stapled notes still attached came back except page 117.”

Butcher began to sweat. “Thanks, Miss Weddington.”

Weddington, with her handkerchief pressed tightly against her lips and her eyes welling up, turned to escape the office.

“Call over to the lab,” he called after her, causing her to briefly slow her exit. “Tell whoever is in charge that no personnel are to leave until we get there.”

Weddington scurried out of the office without responding and closed the door behind her. A brown-framed wall clock, its face pale yellow, ticked off the seconds noisily.

It was time to deliver his news.

Butcher’s head began to throb, which made it difficult to focus on what he was going to say to Eisenhower. He took a deep breath and exhaled fully as he rapped on the man’s office door. For a moment, there was nothing but silence on either side. Then a muffled voice said, “Enter.”

Butcher pushed aside the heavy oak door to General Dwight David “Ike” Eisenhower’s office. The sturdy and graying Colonel William “Wild Bill” Donovan settled back in his chair as Butcher entered. Donovan was the director of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), the fledgling secret intelligence organization that had been formed a mere four months prior. Eisenhower loomed over maps of the North African coastline, their corners pinned down by ashtrays that overflowed with cigarette butts and Hershey’s candy bar wrappers. He held a foot-long rubber-tipped pointer in his hand.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, his face leaden with fatigue.

“General, excuse the interruption, but I need a minute.”

“My guess, given your face, is that it can’t wait.”

“You would be right, General. It concerns Torch.”

Eisenhower cocked his head, the tiredness on his face giving way to confusion. “What about Torch?”

A bead of perspiration trickled down Butcher’s spine. “Simply put, General, a page that was sent over to the army film lab on Thursday to be microfilmed along with a large batch of documents has been reported … um …” Butcher stopped. He realized that he didn’t know if it had been misplaced, accidently destroyed, or … stolen.

“Butch, I am sure this is important enough for you to interrupt Colonel Donovan and me, so get to the point,” Eisenhower said, tossing the pointer onto the desk.

“Yes, sir. A page sent to be microfilmed has been reported … missing. Specifically, it was page 117. That was the page from the combined chiefs of staff that detailed the objectives of Operation Torch.”

“My God,” blurted Donovan.

Eisenhower glowered at Butcher. Their time spent together in Washington – while Eisenhower had been assigned as assistant to the chief of staff for the assistant secretary of war and Butcher was vice president and general manager of the CBS radio station WJSV – had allowed them and their spouses to establish a strong friendship. But Butcher couldn’t help but think that Eisenhower was now questioning his decision to have Butcher assigned as his aide. Eisenhower didn’t ask much of Butcher, just had him run interference with the press, hold the blue-haired British socialites at bay, be the one person he could talk to without having to worry about being told what people believed he wanted to hear, and keep his personal diary.

Eisenhower came around his desk to face Butcher. “Butch, you and Miss Weddington have been doing this for months. What the hell happened?” Eisenhower’s neck above his starched collar was turning pink.

“We sent forty-eight pages to be microfilmed. All the original documents were returned except for one – the directives from the combined chiefs for Torch. I don’t have an explanation beyond that.”

Eisenhower turned away from Butcher, walked to the window behind his desk, and stood motionless for a several moments. “The prime minister, as you both know well, has been relentless in his pursuit of a firm date for Operation Torch. Up to this point, my reluctance was based on concerns over logistics, controllable military matters,” he stated, his voice calm and clear. Then he turned toward his desk and grabbed the back of his chair. “What we now have, among other things, is another example for the British of our inability to manage confidential matters. Amateurs, they say. Well, that characterizes it kindly, I’d say.”

“General, maybe we’re overreacting,” Donovan said, rising from his chair.

“I don’t believe overreaction is possible, given what’s at stake. If the invasion of North Africa is successful in drawing off men and materiel from the eastern front, and we think it will be, it will be critical for the survival of the Soviet Union. And Torch’s success is not possible if the element of surprise isn’t maintained.” Eisenhower stabbed the pointer at the south coast of England. “Not to mention we have ships from both the eastern and western task forces taking on the last of their cargoes with tentative embarkation dates of October 22 and 23.” Eisenhower shook his head slowly and dropped the pointer on the desk. “Setting a firm date for the invasion is something I must do within days; otherwise, it will throw our whole plan into utter confusion,” he finished, his eyes locked on Butcher.

“General, we have time to get to the bottom of this,” Butcher offered.

Eisenhower pulled out his chair and slumped into its leather cushion. “Butch, get back to the lab and trace where that document went. Find it before those task forces set sail.”

“Yes, sir. On my way,” Butcher said, relieved at having received an order instead of being sacked, and made a quick move for the door.

“I’ll take my leave, General.” Donovan grabbed his trench coat and hat.

“Wait a minute,” Eisenhower said. Both Butcher and Donovan stopped in their tracks. “Here’s a heads up, Bill. We have an invasion to finish planning. That is my top priority. If Butch doesn’t turn up something within the next few hours, I’m turning this over to the OSS.”

“Forewarned is forearmed, General,” Donovan said, quickly making for the office door. Butcher held the door open and lowered his head as Donovan passed.

Before Butcher exited, he saw Eisenhower reach for a cigarette and his Zippo. As he quietly closed the door, the ticking desk clock underscored Eisenhower as he shook his head and muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

CHAPTER TWO

Thorn hated sitting on his ass, waiting for something to happen. It made him uneasy. And he didn’t like being uneasy one bit. The cooling temperatures and slight breeze from the Port of Tangier brought the scent of spices – pepper, ginger, and turmeric – mixed with the stench of oil and rotting fish. One moment, the air was blissfully fragrant; the next, nauseating.

Thorn, a twenty-six-year-old former lieutenant in the US Navy newly assigned to the OSS station in Tangier, had been waiting behind the wheel of the dark-green 1939 Chevrolet Deluxe four-door sedan for twenty long minutes. He sat, eyes locked on the rearview mirror, as he incessantly rotated a gold wedding band around his finger. The car was parked on the Rue Skiredj, a constricted street no more than one hundred yards long that was barely wide enough for two-way traffic. The Rue Skiredj was more like an alley that ran along the backside of the two-story buildings that housed residents of the Arab quarter. There were no vendor stands on the street, which was one reason it was chosen for the pickup.

The quiet that enveloped the area was occasionally shattered by the high-pitched voice of a woman screaming the names of her children. The setting sun was pushing the shadows of the buildings across the narrow street, and Thorn observed his partner, Chester Booth, an anthropologist and field archaeologist for Yale University who had spent time digging up Morocco in 1939, lounging in the backseat, loading his ever-present pipe with cheap Moroccan tobacco.

It was a quiet night in Tangier. Too damn quiet. Something’s not right.

With his ass starting to numb, Thorn got out from behind the wheel and took a screwdriver and a soiled rag from the glove box. Booth stayed in the backseat, feeding a flame from his lighter into the bowl of his pipe. Thorn, feigning engine trouble, opened the long hood of the sedan and stuck his head under it without compromising his line of sight in either direction. Darkness was fast approaching, as was the time for Tassels to make his appearance.

Colonel Eddy, who headed up the OSS Tangier station, believed it was a notable achievement to have recruited Tassels. Tassels was the code name for a notorious tribal leader from the mountainous Riff region of Morocco and who was also an important part of the OSS’s underground organization of informants among Arabs and the Berber tribes. The information that Tassels provided was critical in helping plan the invasion of North Africa. Thorn was well aware that if the authorities saw Tassels with the Americans, he would be shot – which was a good reason to disguise him as an Arab woman for transport to his meetings with Colonel Eddy.

After resetting the engine’s six sparkplug wires for the second time, Thorn spotted Tassels turning the corner onto Rue Skiredj, then stopping to look over his shoulder. Apparently seeing nothing of worry, he continued toward the sedan. Thorn wiped his hands on the rag and slammed shut the engine hood. Once Tassels recognized Thorn, he picked up his pace and Thorn opened one of the back doors for him. Booth slid over and Tassels, who was sweating freely, jumped in.

“Ahh, Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Jefferson. A pleasure to see you both again,” said Tassels as he wiped perspiration from his forehead. Every time someone used the cover name bestowed on him by Colonel Eddy, Thorn imagined Honest Abe shaking his head in disgust. Thorn slid behind the wheel, started the car, grabbed the gearshift, and forced the car into first. As he popped the clutch, he saw the dim headlights of a dark-colored Mercedes behind them in his rearview mirror, no more than fifty yards away and moving slowly. He slammed on the brakes and turned to look out the back. The Mercedes had stopped, choosing not to close the distance between them. Despite the waning light as the sun set, Thorn was able to identify the car from the damage to its left front fender. While on a survey of the harbor the day before, he’d witnessed the Mercedes plow into the rear of a delivery truck. The driver had emerged from the car shaking his left fist as he screamed at the truck driver. He’d recognized the driver of the Mercedes from the headshots of local Gestapo agents he’d studied upon his arrival in Tangier. Thorn felt for his KA-BAR knife in its sheath, strapped upside down against the inside his left forearm.

“Well, that’s not good,” Thorn muttered.

“What is it?” asked Booth, who was busy tending to Tassels’s disguise.

“That Mercedes, the car of choice of the Gestapo. I recognize the driver, one of the Gestapo’s senior agents. Tassels, are you sure you followed all our instructions?”

“Of course. As I always do. I noticed no Mercedes following me, or anyone on foot for that matter.” Thorn always struggled to believe what Tassels told him. His struggle was intensified by his belief that the lazy Booth had done a half-assed job of validating Tassels’s intentions and loyalties. Tangier drew spies from all the major powers like bees to a honey pot. Europe had Lisbon, and Africa had Tangier. With its proximity to Gibraltar, a mere twenty-five miles across the Strait of Gibraltar, and its central location between Casablanca and Rabat to the south, and Oran and Algiers along the coast to the east, Tangier was a mecca for the lawless, who rubbed elbows with military attachés, consuls, reporters, and those passing through the city on their way to Lisbon, the last gateway to America for refugees seeking safety.

“Well, let’s see what happens,” said Thorn as he turned back around and popped the clutch. The car lurched forward.

“Just pull over and let them pass,” Booth said loudly as he fidgeted nervously in the backseat, straining to get a good look at the Mercedes. That’s what pissed Thorn off about Booth. He was a trained academic who failed too often to see a developing storm of shit about to rain down.

Thorn stopped the car and looked in his rearview mirror. “They don’t want to pass. They want to follow us. They want to see where we take Tassels. We can drive around the city all night, but Tassels here would miss the radio transmission to London that Colonel Eddy has scheduled for” – Thorn looked at his watch – “thirty minutes from now.”

Booth leaned forward, sitting on the edge of the seat. “Listen, Thorn, priority one: don’t get caught. The scheduled transmission is not the top priority.”

“I do not plan on getting caught or missing the scheduled transmission. So hold on.”

Thorn put the car back in gear and buried the gas pedal. The tires squealed as they headed toward the end of the street. The Mercedes, caught off guard, reacted slowly. After traveling no more than twenty yards, Thorn slammed on the brakes. Booth and Tassels slid into the back of the front seat. Thorn wasn’t sure who it was, but someone had oofed the air out of his lungs when they hit. Thorn threw the Chevrolet into reverse and again stomped the gas. He stopped no more than five feet from the front bumper of the Mercedes and jumped out of the car, leaving the engine running and his passengers scrambling to regain their seats.

“What the hell are you doing?” Booth yelled.

My job, Chester. That’s all.

Thorn approached the driver’s side of the Mercedes and motioned for the driver to roll down his window. The stunned Gestapo agent complied. Thorn leaned forward so he was eye to eye with the driver – the same driver he saw a day ago – and, shaking his head, began to speak German – much to the surprise of the two Gestapo agents

“Ihr Motor klingt wie Scheiße. Aber ich werde ihn repariern.” He sidestepped to his left and sprang open the hood of the Mercedes as the two men in the car shared a look of utter shock and then began arguing. Thorn slipped his knife from its sheath and slit the sparkplug wires. The engine coughed feebly, then died. As he retreated to his car, he resheathed his knife, leaped behind the wheel, dropped the gearshift into first, and popped the clutch

The two agents jumped out of the Mercedes; the driver raised his gun and squeezed off several shots. Thorn slammed on the accelerator and yanked the steering wheel frantically from side to side to present a more challenging target, throwing Booth and Tassels violently about.

“What the hell are you doing?” Booth managed to scream between grunts.

You got to stop asking that question. It’s driving me crazy.

As they neared the end of the street, a bullet smashed through the rear window of the car, shattering it. Tassels screamed, prompting Thorn to grab a quick glimpse in the rearview mirror. The informant cupped his left ear, but blood was flowing through his fingers.

Shit, Tassels is one hell of a lucky guy.

Thorn pulled the car into the courtyard of the Italian-style villa, home to Colonel Bill Eddy, and brought it to an abrupt stop. The fountain that dominated the center of the courtyard, its upper portion shaped similar to an oversized birdbath, gurgled with water, the splashing so loud that Thorn could barely hear Booth, who exited the sedan covered in blood and yelling at the figure standing on the whitewashed balcony overlooking the courtyard.

“Colonel, I’m done with him. He’s a reckless cowboy, and I won’t ever trust him again. He practically got Tassels and me killed.”

Thorn reached into the backseat to help Tassels out. The man held a bloodstained handkerchief to his ear while moving his lower jaw in a circular motion. Thorn noticed that Tassels’s disguise had soaked up most of the blood that hadn’t seeped into the rear seat or onto Booth’s linen suit.

“Conor, you better get Tassels to the kitchen and send someone for the nurse right away. Then come to my office,” Colonel Eddy said to Thorn, his deep baritone echoing in the courtyard.

“Yes, sir.” Thorn took Tassels’s arm and helped him into the villa as Booth started up the staircase at a brisk pace, red-faced and breathing heavily.

It had been a typically warm day, but with night falling, Thorn sensed a coolness as it rose up from the terracotta floor in the dimly lit hallway leading to Eddy’s office.

As Thorn knocked and entered the office, Colonel Eddy, who was standing behind a large, ornate desk, put his hand up to stop what Thorn was sure was Booth’s rant about that evening’s escapades.

“Have a seat, Thorn. You too, Booth.” They both took seats in dark-mahogany chairs with rounded backs that came up to their shoulder blades. Colonel Eddy, who’d lost his right leg in World War I at the age of twenty-two, took a seat, sat back, and propped his legs on the corner of the desk, his artificial one making a sound when it hit the desk like a car door slamming shut.

“Booth tells me that you took unnecessary risks tonight that could have seen a valuable informant – one that, by the way, took me months to recruit – fall into the hands of the Gestapo. What the hell happened out there?”

“As far as the actual events, I’m sure that Booth covered it, Colonel.”

“I am sure he did also. But let me hear it from your point of view, and add a little commentary as to why you did what you did.”

Thorn nodded, leaned forward in his chair, and began. It took him close to three minutes to recount the night’s events. As he told his story, it all made sense to him: his decisions, the timing of his actions. When he finished, he sat back and gripped the armrests, squeezing tightly.

Eddy sat silently for a moment, then shifted his lean frame in the chair.

“Booth, anything you want to add?”

Thorn glanced at Booth and noticed that he was no longer red in the face.

“No, Colonel. I have made my case.”

“OK then, thanks. Why don’t you go grab something to eat before you head back to the legation?”

Booth nodded and stood. “I’ll wait for you downstairs, Thorn.”

Eddy lowered his legs, stood, and ambled over to the sideboard, a persistent squeak coming from his artificial leg. “Conor, you scare Booth. And, if you must know, you unnerve a few other legation staff. Maybe the only one you don’t is Heugle, but he’s a little off balance too.”

Thorn chuckled quietly. Heugle, a longtime friend of Thorn’s who had washed out of the academy only to become one of Donovan’s new recruits, regularly showed signs that he wasn’t right in the head.

“Listen, Colonel, I do what I think needs to be done to get results. I will admit that, since I came to Tangier, I haven’t done much to tip the scales in this war in favor of the Allies. Maybe I should have figured out a way to stay in the navy.”

“From what I know, it wasn’t up to you.”

Don’t remind me. It was a fucked-up situation. “I was talking about … Ah, just forget it. You’re right – it wasn’t up to me.”

“I’d say that Colonel Donovan pulled your bacon out of the fire. Would you agree?”

“Yes. Yes, I would. He’s been a great friend of the family’s and particularly to me. I’d hate to disappoint him. And I don’t think I have … up to this point.”

Eddy’s eyes locked on Thorn. “Bottom line, Conor, I think you acted decisively and boldly. I’ll give you that. But we operate as a team here. We have to be able to trust the other fellow. There is no room for men who think with their balls and not their head. Simply put, because you scare the hell out of people, they don’t trust you.”

Thorn sat silently. There wasn’t anything more he wanted to say.

“I have no choice. I am going to ask Colonel Donovan and David Bruce to reassign you. It will be up to them as to where.”

Thorn’s stomach turned and his mouth fell open. But I did all the right things, damn it. If they think I can’t cut it in this backwater shithole, I’m headed back to the fucking States for sure. Out of the war, with zero chances to repay some debts. He kept his eyes on Eddy and didn’t blink. Thorn began to say something about a second chance but stopped himself.

“Be ready to move on in the next couple of days. I’ll arrange for you to meet with the colonel and Bruce in London for your next assignment. And good luck.”

Thorn sat silently for a moment before he rose and walked out of Eddy’s office. He stood on the other side of the office door and processed his decisions from earlier that evening.

What could I have done differently? Wasn’t it better to act than be forced to react? The Gestapo showing up gave me no choice. Thorn shook his head. He decided to check on Tassels and headed down a level to the kitchen.

Ten feet from the doorway, Thorn heard Tassels recount his near-death experience to someone. His voice echoed in the villa. In the hallway, the aroma of lamb and garlic lingered from an earlier meal, and as Thorn entered the room, he saw Tassels flat on his back on a low-slung butcher-block table. His arms mimicked those of an orchestra conductor as he related his story to Bobby Heugle. Heugle’s dark hair was cropped high and tight, his round face was tanned from the Moroccan sun, and he looked up as Thorn entered.

“Well, well, here’s the hero now. Tassels here says you saved his ass from falling into the hands of the Gestapo. He says he would like to adopt you.”

Thorn chuckled and shook his head, happy for the friendly jab. “Will you please pipe down?” Thorn turned to Tassels and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You feeling OK, considering?”

Tassels struggled to sit up, his cotton shirt now stiff with his dried blood. “I am fine, Mr. Lincoln,” Tassels said. “Much better than I would be if I had fallen into the hands of those German barbarians. It is quite possible you saved my life.”

“Apparently not everyone sees it that way. But that’s not your problem,” Thorn said.

“Is there something you want me to do? Permit me to vouch for your actions to the colonel.”

Thorn chuckled. “No, don’t worry about it. He seems to have his mind made up. But thanks anyway.”

Thorn and Heugle headed for the courtyard. They approached the Chevrolet Deluxe, and both leaned back on the car’s front fender, shoulder to shoulder.

“So … I’ve got some news. Want to hear it?” Heugle asked.

“Only if it’s good. Had enough bad news today.”

“I’m shipping out. Sunday.”

“You’re kidding. Where to?”

“London. New assignment. OSS liaison to the navy. Some big operation coming up and Donovan needs eyes and ears close by. You believe that? London. Adios to this stink hole.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“Whoa, what the hell are you talking about? The colonel is sending you to London?”

“More like kicking me out of Tangier. It seems that I am a little too reckless,” Thorn said as he looked up at the lights burning in the windows of Eddy’s office. The wind, now heavy with humidity, kicked up and brought with it the foul stench from the harbor. The scents from the spice stalls had finally been overwhelmed.

“Kicked out, transferred, reassigned – who cares what you call it, you lucky shithead,” Heugle shouted, his eyes lighting up.

“Are you kidding me? I’m far from lucky. Too far,” Thorn said while he spun his wedding band around his finger. When Thorn noticed that Heugle was staring at him, he dropped his hands and slid them into his pants pockets.

“Don’t you get it? It’s London. With no more Blitz, it’s the gold ring of postings.”

“And far from the front lines. At least here we can mix it up with the Gestapo.”

“You’re so confused. Give it a day. It’ll all sink in.” He paused briefly. “Tell me something. Why do you still wear that thing?”

Thorn shot him a hard look. “That … thing?” He shook his head in disgust. “I wear it … out of respect.” Even I don’t believe that. So what is the answer? he wondered.

“Respect for … Ahh, forget it,” Heugle said, sliding off the fender, away from Thorn.

“Yeah, good idea.”