The four people spoke for a few minutes, then Bergen looked at his watch. He said, “Well, it’s time to get moving.”
The small room fell silent.
Bergen continued, “You’ve both been briefed on what to do inside there. Now I’m going to show you how to get inside.”
Bergen moved to the far wall and pointed to a round hole near the top of the concrete foundation. “That’s an old service conduit that runs from here to the main house. It once contained the pipe from the mansion’s steam plant, water pipes, wiring, and such. Since the partition of the estate, the YMCA provides the utilities for this tennis building, of course.”
Stanley stared up at the opening, which he hadn’t noticed before. It looked no bigger than a pizza, large size.
Claire said, “It’s free of pipes now. Gus had to use midgets to do the work.” She added, “Gus is a member of the local Y board.”
Stanley nodded appreciatively.
Joan thought, Member of the YMCA. Midgets. Conduit to the Russian house. Typically bizarre. She stared up at the opening and said, “There are still wires coming out of there.”
Bergen replied, “Cables, actually. You see, it’s several hundred yards to the basement of the main house, all upgrade. Nearly an impossible crawl. So I’ve installed an electric pulley.”
Stanley smiled. These old dudes had it together.
Bergen and Claire Goodwin briefed them for a few minutes, then Bergen said, “Any questions?”
Stanley shook his head.
Joan asked, “How are you so sure it opens into an unused room?”
Bergen looked at Stanley. “You were in the boiler room once, weren’t you, son?”
Stanley nodded. “Nobody there then.”
Joan shrugged sulkily.
Bergen looked at her. “You don’t have to go, of course.”
Joan Grenville glanced at Stanley. He was frightened too, but his budding male ego would propel him into that black hole, with or without her, as surely as if he’d been forced into it at gunpoint. She said, “I do have to go, of course. So let’s go.”
Bergen wheeled a painter’s scaffold to the foundation. “Stanley.”
Stanley Kuchik pulled his black hood over his head. Bergen said, “Good luck.” Stanley climbed to the top of the scaffold, where he saw two small flexible trolleys. He peered into the black, endless tube for some seconds, then lay on his back and positioned the trolley beneath his buttocks. He reached up and held the pulley cable with his gloved hands. “Okay.”
He heard the motor hum and the cable began traveling, pulling him with the trolley beneath him toward the round opening. Like a torpedo, he thought, being rolled into its firing tube.
Joan Grenville said to Bergen quietly, “You must be awfully desperate or insensitive to send that kid on a mission like this.”
Bergen replied coolly, “He’s seventeen. I know men who saw combat at seventeen.”
Joan shrugged. “Well, women and children first.” She climbed up the scaffold and peered inside the small conduit opening. She called in, “Do you have room for one more?”
“Sure,” Stanley’s voice echoed.
Joan looked down at Claire Goodwin and Gus Bergen. She hesitated, then said, “Look, I know this is important. If anything happens to us, remember, we volunteered. So don’t feel bad.”
Claire replied, “We would feel bad if something happened, though not guilty. Good luck.”
Joan looked at them. Tough old birds. Old OSS. They were all screwy. She took a deep breath and lay down on the trolley, then reached up and grabbed the cable with her gloved hands. “Ready.”
The electric motor hummed again and the cable dragged her into the dark tube. She listened to the sounds of the rubber trolley wheels on the clay pipe, the distant hum of the motor, the creaking of the pulleys, and the rubbing of her shoulders against the sides of the pipe. She cleared her throat and called out softly, “Stanley?”
“Yeah.”
“How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
Joan observed, “This sucks.”
Stanley laughed weakly. “Beats crawling.”
Neither spoke again. The light from the opening faded and the sound of the electric motor grew fainter.
Joan knew she could let go of the cable anytime and the trolley would roll her back to the basement of the tennis building. But she knew she wouldn’t.
Another few minutes, she thought, then we’ll be there. She’d always been curious about that house anyway.
60
George Van Dorn stood at the bay window and watched the skyrockets rise from his empty swimming pool in the distance. He picked up one of three newly installed army field phones on the wide bay sill and cranked it.
Don LaRosa, the senior pyrotechnician, answered.
Van Dorn said, “How are we fixed for rockets, Mr. LaRosa?”
“About three hundred left, Mr. Van Dorn.”
“All right, I want airbursts low over the target. I don’t want the terrain lit too much, but I want noise cover.”
“Okay. Hey, did you hear the motherfucker rocket blow?”
“I believe so.”
“Scared the shit out of your wife’s cat, Mr. Van Dorn.”
Van Dorn glanced at Kitty standing across the room. “I’m happy to hear that, Don. Listen, is the tube ready?”
“Ready any time you are.”
“Plan for midnight. I want a sixty-to-eighty-second time on target — no fewer than twenty rounds of high explosive. Then, when you’ve made kindling wood out of the target, I want about five rounds of Willy Peter to finish off whatever’s left.”
Don LaRosa repeated the fire mission.
Van Dorn added, “I have an amphibious chopper on station to lift your people and your tube out of here immediately. You’ll land at the Atlantic City pier. All arrangements made.”
“Sounds super.”
“Speak to you later.”
Van Dorn hung up. It would be super, he thought, if Mr. LaRosa and his friends could spend the night gambling and whoring until dawn. He wouldn’t half mind joining them.
Kitty said, “What is Willy Peter, George?”
“Just a military expression, dear.” He added, “Actually, it’s white phosphorus. It burns.”
“Oh. That’s awful. Such a beautiful house.”
“War is hell, Kitty.”
“It’s so destructive.”
“Yes, that too.” He walked to a stereo stack unit and turned up the volume. He listened to the sprightly notes of George M. Cohan’s “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy,” which was being blared out from his loudspeakers on the polo field. Van Dorn hummed along as he bobbed his head to the music.
Kitty said, “George, are you really going to blow up those awful people next door?”
Van Dorn turned off the sound. “What? Oh, only if my ground attack fails. Have you arranged things with Dr. Frank and Dr. Poulos?”
“Yes, they’re in the basement aid station, setting up. Oh, Jane Atkins and Mildred Fletcher are assisting. They’re so thrilled to be able to lend a hand. They were both WAC nurses.”
“Well, I’ll try not to disappoint them, Kitty. If there are no casualties, I’ll shoot myself in the foot.”
“Belle La Ponte is a psychiatrist. Should I get her?”
“Why not? We’re all crazy.”
“I mean, she’s an MD—”
“Fine, Kitty. Are the medical supplies satisfactory?”
“I believe so. Dr. Frank seemed very impressed.”