Next to Grenville sat two of Pembroke’s people: Collins and Stewart. They looked particularly gruesome in black, he thought.
Stewart, sitting next to him, said, “Have you ever done a night jump, lad?”
Grenville had done one at O’Brien’s suggestion. He answered, “A few.”
Stewart said, “It’s easier from a stationary helicopter.”
“Yes—”
“Except in weather like this. A fixed-wing aircraft will hold fairly steady. A chopper can roll and yaw.”
Grenville nodded unhappily.
Stewart went on, “It’s like trying to jump off a pitching boat. Be careful you don’t collide with the pontoon. Saw that happen to a lad once in the South Atlantic.”
Grenville nodded again. The South Atlantic, he’d learned, meant the Falklands. Stewart seemed intimately knowledgeable about every mishap and calamity that could befall a human being.
Stewart added, “Broke his neck.”
Grenville felt his stomach heave, but took comfort in the fact that the greasepaint hid the true color his face had probably turned.
Collins lit a cigar and the smoke filled the cabin. He spoke in a strong Irish brogue. “This wind’ll blow yer arse all over the feckin’ terrain if ye pop yer chute too soon, lad.”
Grenville nodded miserably.
Collins advised, “Wait till the last second, then give it another few seconds to be sure, then say a quick Hail Mary and pull yer cord.” He laughed.
The jumpmaster put his hands over his headphones, listened, then spoke into his mouthpiece. “Roger.” He stood and said, “The word is go.” He ducked into the cockpit, tapped the pilot, and gave a thumbs-up. The Sikorsky’s idling engine revved with a deafening roar.
Grenville felt the big bird straining to break water, then the rocking stopped as the hull and pontoons cleared the turbulent sea. The rocking was replaced by a swaying motion as the Sikorsky ascended into the wind. Grenville turned his head and peered through the large square window behind him. They were already at a hundred-feet altitude, but his stomach was still at sea level.
Stewart spoke over the roar of the engine. “Damned moon’s three-quarter full and the clouds are too thin to mask it. They’ll spot us for sure, Tom.”
Grenville pressed his fingers against his eyes.
Stewart added ominously, “I could do without the damned lightning, too. Ever seen a chutist hit by lightning, Tom?”
“Not recently.”
“What’s that, lad? Can’t hear you!”
Grenville stared at him for a few seconds, then shouted, “I said I love to jump at night in a fucking storm! I love it!”
Collins roared with delight, “Oh, Tom, me boy, we’ll make a commando of you before the night’s out.”
Grenville stood and moved to the door. He held on to the airframe and stared out into the night as the helicopter rose higher through the turbulence. He didn’t want to be a commando. He wanted to be a senior partner in the firm, and he was willing to work hard to achieve his goal. But sometimes Van Dorn and O’Brien asked too much. A night jump into an armed enemy position was really too much.
59
Joan Grenville paced around the small cellar room, lit brightly with rows of fluorescent tubes. Above was an enclosed tennis court that had once been part of Killenworth but now belonged to the local YMCA. A high chain link fence, topped with barbed wire, separated the Christians from the atheists.
Joan remembered that Tom had mentioned that the FBI supposedly headquartered themselves in the Y’s main building, but she’d seen no sign of anyone but the OSS.
Stanley Kuchik, sprawled on a large crate, watched her pacing. “You scared, Mrs. Grenville?”
She shot a glance at him. “For the tenth fucking time, call me Joan, and for the fifth fucking time, yes, I’m scared.”
Stanley had never heard an older woman swear like this one did. In fact, there was a lot about Joan Grenville that interested him. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. The black body-suit fitted like skin. He said, “Hey, you can stay here if you want. I can handle this.”
Joan gritted her teeth. “Stanley… stop treating me like… an adolescent. I am a grown woman. I can do anything you can do, and better.”
“Sure, Mrs. — okay, Joan.” Stanley smiled at her. “I guess this is a two-man job.”
Joan pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I’m getting a headache.”
Stanley asked, “Are you one of Van Dorn’s secret agents?”
She lowered herself onto a bench. “I guess I am now.” She put her head in her hands, remembering Van Dorn’s blackmail threats. And Tom, the jerk, had just sat there.
But then Van Dorn had come up to her and put his hands on her shoulders, and said, “Joan, we both know you wouldn’t do what I’m asking because of threats. But your country is in danger. You’re needed.” He explained briefly, then asked, “Will you help your country?”
Stanley broke into her thoughts. “How did you get hooked up with this crazy bunch?”
She looked at him. “My country needs me.”
Stanley hesitated, then said, “I do it for kicks. This is my tenth mission.”
Joan looked at him dubiously, and the word bullshit was on her lips, but then it struck her that her life might well depend on this horny adolescent. She gave him a look that conveyed wonder and awe. “That’s incredible.”
Stanley flushed. “Stick close to me and I’ll get you back okay.”
You damned well better. She gave him a wide smile. “Okay.” Joan reflected on what Van Dorn had told her, and it sounded very scary. She did not want the party to end. She was not committed to much in life, but she was deeply committed to fighting for the continuation of the party. Patriotism, she reasoned, came in many forms.
Stanley glanced at the military watch they’d given him, then tugged at the black body-suit. It was some kind of stretch material, and it looked like something a ballet dancer would wear, but the guy who outfitted him said it was a cat-burglar outfit, so maybe it was okay. Stanley felt the pistol tucked into the elastic pouch on his abdomen. He said, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
Joan came out of her thoughts. “What…? No, certainly not.” She added, “But I’m capable of it.” She thought she’d like to shoot Tom, George, and Marc, not necessarily in that order.
The door at the top of the stairs opened and two sets of footsteps echoed on the concrete stairs. Stanley drew his pistol. Joan snapped, “Put that away.”
A man and a woman appeared, both well advanced in years, but with quick movements and alert expressions. They wore expensive warm-up suits, but Joan knew they weren’t looking for tennis partners. The woman, Claire Goodwin, advanced on Joan and extended her hand. “How are you, Joan?”
Joan stood and took the older woman’s hand. “Just fine, Claire.”
Claire said, “I didn’t see much of you at George’s.”
“I was lying down upstairs.”
“Poor dear. Do you know Gus Bergen?”
Joan took the man’s hand. “Yes, we’ve met.” Bergen, she recalled, had been on the ill-fated Hanoi mission with Tom’s father during the war.
Bergen said, “What’s Tom up to these days?”
“He’s taken up parachuting.”
Bergen smiled and turned to Stanley, who was standing. “Hello, young man.”
Stanley shook hands with Bergen and Claire. Claire said, “I’ve heard some good things about you.”
Stanley mumbled something and glanced at Joan.
Joan had heard some good things about Claire, too, like the fact that Claire had slept with half the German diplomatic corps in Switzerland during the war. For God and country, of course. Joan thought she should have been given an assignment like that instead of this. She felt ill-used.