"Of course," answered Stephen Fowler from his study over the long-distance wire to his editors in Chicago. "I've been a fan of Father Quinn's muddled theology for years. It's about time someone took him on, isn't it?"
Stephen Fowler typed:
Can a Christian sit by, in the safety of his own home, and watch his neighbor's house in flames?
Displeased, he leaned back and stopped typing. Other things were slipping into perspective this evening and they drew his attention away from his writing. He stared at the framed portrait at the corner of his desk. He saw himself and Laura, arms entwined during more agreeable days. The photograph had been taken on the ramparts of Quebec City during their honeymoon. In the picture, they stood smiling broadly, arms entwined, possessed of a love that seemed it would last two lifetimes. Laura, at age twenty-three, was so very beautiful. How had he let his marriage get so out of hand?
He brooded suddenly. He had not heard from her since she had gone home to England.
He wondered if she still loved him. He told himself that he had only one person to blame if she did not. Himself.
Reverend Fowler picked up the typewriter and moved it aside, clearing his desk. Only one unsatisfying sentence of his current article had been written. He could get back to it, he told himself.
He drew a piece of personal stationery as well as an envelope from his desk. He fished in a side drawer for a ten-cent stamp for airmail to England. Then in the methodical neat script of his own hand he addressed the envelope to Laura Worthington Fowler, care of her father's name and address in Salisbury.
He wrote Laura a short but succinct letter. He said the things that finally needed to be said. He was sorry for his inattentiveness, he wrote. Ideas had swept him away and taken his eyes off what he cherished more than anything: her. Could she come home and forgive him? He wrote that he still loved her and prayed that she loved him.
He sealed the letter. He took it from his study and placed it on the table near the front door. He would be sure to mail it the next morning even if it meant a special trip into town. He was about to return to his study, when something caught his eye through the window by the front door. He looked again. He was certain-or was he?-that he had seen a man leaving his church.
Stephen Fowler stood very still and stared. The trees between St. Paul's and the parish house obscured his view, particularly when they rustled. He could obtain no clear sight lines, but he watched for several seconds.
Why would someone be at his church at this hour? Though the doors were unlocked, Reverend Fowler was the only one ever to have cause to enter the church in the evening. He continued to watch. He caught his breath and held it. He felt a certain apprehension and he stared hard, as if intensity might help. He searched and scanned for the ghost of a tall crooked figure in a dark coat that he may or may not have seen. But the shadow, or whatever it had been, was gone.
He exhaled and the air rushed from his lungs. He breathed again as he relaxed. He was now convinced that he had probably seen a rustle of leaves, an errant configuration of branches, or a stray dog. He admitted to himself how much he had been on edge recently, particularly since his wife had left him. A man could imagine many things under the circumstances and very few of them were any good.
And so what if someone had passed by the church? This was Liberty Square, New Jersey, population four thousand gentle souls, established 1759. It was not New York or Philadelphia. A parishioner might have simply wanted to offer an evening prayer, or seek the comfort of the Almighty's presence.
What could be more innocent? Why else were the church's doors always open? Reverend Fowler watched for another half minute. When no one appeared or emerged from the front doors of his church, he returned to his writing. There was no use in worrying about the unimportant things. Not with his country-and the world -- in the state it was in.
FIFTEEN
The next evening Siegfried locked the door of his clandestine radio room and pulled the curtains across the single window. He unraveled his antenna and strung it carefully across the floor, up the cream-colored walls, along the bookshelf that held no books, and parallel to the molding where the ceiling met the walls. He positioned the wire for optimum communication with Hamburg. He checked his watch. It was 10:17 on a Wednesday. He had more than enough time.
The spy plugged in his receiver. It hummed as it warmed up. Then he adjusted the tone by tuning into the dots and dashes of various amateur operators in the area. He donned a set of heavy headphones, plugged in his transmitter, and connected his telegraph key. He limbered his fingers, then cut his own power and monitored a dummy transmission of his own steady hand on the key.
Satisfied, he moved his transmitter back to an ON position, tuned the receiver to the assigned frequency for AOR-3, and raised the volume as high as possible. He listened to static on the frequency as he checked his watch again.
It was 10:48. He was ready. He smoked two Pall Mall cigarettes. His anxiety heightened as he watched the minute hand on his watch edge with painful slowness toward the twelve. Would the hour for transmission never come?
As a safeguard against his own timekeeping-which he knew to be compulsively precise-he reached to a boxy Dumont table radio that he always kept turned to 660, WRCA in New York, pilot station of the Blue Network. WRCA always had the precise time, a gong right on the hour.
He listened, keeping his headphones slightly ajar. Then it was eleven; 2300 hours on a Wednesday. Those bastards in Hamburg better be listening!
He leaned toward his telegraph key and concentrated. He turned off the radio and fixed the headphones perfectly around his ears. He rubbed the moisture off his palms and he tapped out his own call letters to identify himself: C…Q…D…X… V… W… 2.
He waited. When there was no response for a full minute, he tapped out his letters again. And again he waited as utter silence, confusing and forbidding, greeted him through the atmosphere.
Siegfried cursed violently. He had risked his life the previous day for these cowards safely back in the Reich. Why couldn't they be at their receiving station at the proper time? Angrily, Siegfried repeated his call letters at ninety-second intervals. His face reddened and the moisture from his hands dripped onto the key. It was essential that all messages emanating from North America be quick and methodical. They had to comprehend that in Hamburg!
Who knew who else was listening? The Americans would eventually set up monitoring stations. Siegfried tapped out CQDXVW-2 a tenth time. Then his insides jumped. His headphones came alive with a faint but unmistakable signal. Siegfried recognized the call letters of AOR-3 in Hamburg.
Huffily, Siegfried tapped out his greeting: IT'S ABOUT TIME YOU MORONS! HAVE BEEN SENDING FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES! CQDXVW-2
To which Hamburg replied: REGRET DELAY. PROCEED. AOR-3
Siegfried drew a breath and glanced with annoyance at his watch. So much precious time had been wasted. It was essential to beat the listeners. Siegfried transmitted in German:
AMERICANS BOARDING PERHAPS AS MANY AS TEN THOUSAND MACHINE GUNS ABOARD ADRIANA. HAVE ALSO SEEN MOTORCYCLES AND SIDECARS, OBVIOUSLY BOUND FOR U.K. CARGO ALMOST COMPLETELY LOADED AND ALL SHORE LEAVE FOR ADRIANA CREW CANCELED AFTER AUGUST 27. REPEAT: AUGUST TWO-SEVEN. SUSPECT DEPARTURE SOON AFTER THAT DATE. CQDXVW-2
Siegfried reclined slightly, but a faint response flew through the atmosphere within seconds.
HAS ADRIANA BOARDED ANY ANTIAIRCRAFT GUNS? AOR-3
Siegfried responded.
HAVE SEEN NONE. WHEN WILL YOU IMPROVE YOUR BLOODY SIGNAL? EXTREMELY WEAK. HAVE YOU NO COMPETENT ENGINEERS? CQDXVW-2