“Do not sit at my desk, Lieutenant,” Kilpatrick said. I nodded my agreement as he crushed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, leaving it smoldering as he departed, curses issuing from between clenched teeth. Kaz flopped into one of the chairs facing the tall windows overlooking the runway.
“As usual, we have not made a friend,” Kaz said, his smile tight, almost a grimace, where it touched the scar. “Mere lieutenants with orders from powerful men are viewed with such suspicion. It shows how insecure most officers really are.”
“For some guys, the rank is all they have. Junior officers with clout upset their view of the world,” I said. “I knew a few cops like that back in Boston. But you can’t blame Major Kilpatrick. No one likes being tossed out of their digs, even for an hour.”
“Perhaps,” Kaz said. “Although he could have been more courteous. I am tempted to sit at his precious desk in retribution.” Kaz’s eyes sparkled behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, and I was glad to see his impish humor hadn’t entirely disappeared. Kaz was thin-framed, his motions languid, as if he could barely be troubled to endure the follies of the world. In the right light he reminded me of Leslie Howard, the English actor who’d been killed while flying over the Bay of Biscay a couple of months ago. More so now that Howard was dead, I think. Death became Kaz. It haunted him and he haunted it right back. I was worried that one day he’d follow the grim reaper wherever he led him, but until then I kept my eye on my friend, trying to keep him amused. And alive.
“There,” I said, as an array of dots coalesced into a formation of B-24s approaching the airfield. PB4Ys, as the navy called them. I could make out the camouflage colors, white on the bottom and a dull grey on top. These guys were probably headed for antisubmarine duty, hunting U-boats in the Mediterranean or off the Atlantic coast of France. What that had to do with me, I had not a clue.
The big four-engine bombers lumbered in for a landing, jeeps and trucks racing out to direct them as they taxied off the runway. We watched as engines switched off and crews exited the aircraft, stretching after hours in cramped, cold quarters. No one seemed in a hurry. Crewmen began climbing aboard trucks which rolled off toward buildings on the other side of the runway. Mess hall, perhaps. If they’d flown in from Dakar, they’d probably been making the South Atlantic run from the States. I’d be hungry myself, but if I carried orders from General Marshall I might put that aside.
“Perhaps this is not the flight we are waiting for,” Kaz said.
I was almost ready to agree when a jeep with an officer at the wheel raced across the runway, straight for us. It was a navy officer, still wearing his fleece-lined leather jacket in the North African heat. That had to be our man.
The jeep braked hard a few yards short of the window, spraying a cloud of dust that swirled around the driver. He got out and removed his flying cap and leather jacket, tossing them nonchalantly on the seat as he looked around, waiting for someone.
Then I recognized him. Square jaw, thick black hair, gleaming eyes.
It was Joe Goddamn Kennedy.
Chapter Two
“What the hell are you doing here?” I said, advancing on Kennedy as he stood by his jeep, casually stowing his aviator’s sunglasses.
“Inside, Boyle, and don’t think I like this any better than you do,” Kennedy said, brushing past me and ignoring Kaz as if he were invisible. He stood at the door, expecting to be escorted inside, like a rich snob waiting to be taken to the best table in a restaurant. I led the way, and shut the door to Kilpatrick’s office once we were all inside.
“What gives, Kennedy?” I said. I saw Kaz trying to catch my eye, but I was in no mood for introductions. Or caution, if that was what he was trying to signal.
“Simmer down, Boyle,” he said, moving to sit at Kilpatrick’s desk, commandeering the seat of authority. Typical. “I’ve been flying since Miami. Any chance of getting a cup of coffee around here?” His glance lighted on Kaz, as if he were a servant with nothing better to do.
“We just got here ourselves. So if you want coffee, go look for it yourself,” I said, my curiosity doing battle with my astonishment and resentment. The former won out and I decided to make introductions. “This is Lieutenant Piotr Kazimierz, of the Polish Army in Exile. Kaz, this is Joe Kennedy Junior.” I stressed the word junior.
“Lieutenant,” Kennedy nodded, his lack of interest palpable.
“It’s Baron Kazimierz, actually.” As soon as I said that, Kennedy’s eyes registered interest, and he looked at Kaz as if he was a real person, not simply staff to do his bidding.
“We met several years ago, Lieutenant Kennedy,” Kaz said. “At Cliveden, when we both were guests of Lady Astor.”
“Oh yeah,” Kennedy said, recognition dawning. “It was one of those English weekend things at her country place. You left early, didn’t you? We didn’t have a chance to talk.”
“Indeed. Lady Astor’s pro-Nazi statements were too much to bear, not to mention her anti-Catholic comments. I’d been invited by her son, Jakie, but I think he, too, was embarrassed.”
“Jakie?” Kennedy said, furrowing his brow. “You mean Jacob? How is he?”
“Fine, the last I heard,” Kaz said. “He’s serving with the Special Air Service. Perhaps to maintain the family honor after being associated with the Cliveden Set.” That was the name given to the pro-Nazi appeasers associated with Lady Astor. Joe Kennedy would fit right in. SAS was a British commando outfit, and old Jakie must have felt the family needed some serious rehabilitation. Not that I cared about aristocratic Brits, or Bostonians, for that matter. But I did care about what brought Joe Junior here.
“Okay, that’s enough of old home week,” I said, taking a seat and leaning back, hands clasped behind my head in what I hoped was a show of disdain for Kennedy. “What do you want?”
“I don’t want a damn thing from you, Boyle,” Kennedy said, gazing out the window. “But Father does.”
“What does Ambassador Kennedy want with us?” Kaz asked.
“Former ambassador,” I said.
“You retain the title after your service,” Kennedy said. “So it’s Ambassador Kennedy.” Joseph Kennedy Senior, in return for his substantial support for President Roosevelt, had been made ambassador to Great Britain in 1938. He lasted less than three years. Joe Junior sounded exasperated having to make the point about the title. The Kennedy family liked titles.
“Okay,” I said. “Tell us what your old man wants and why you’re here.”
“I’m merely the messenger, Boyle. I’m on my way to England, to fly antisubmarine patrol over the Bay of Biscay. Father thought it best that I deliver the orders in person, so there would be no confusion.”
“And of course the War Department had no problem arranging that,” I said.
“Of course not,” Kennedy said, not picking up on the sarcasm. And of course they wouldn’t. “Here’s the deal. It hasn’t hit the papers yet, but it will, very soon. My kid brother, Jack, managed to get his PT boat sunk the hard way. He was run over by a Jap destroyer.”
“I didn’t know Jack was in the Pacific,” I said. “I’m surprised they took him.” Joe’s younger brother wasn’t the healthiest specimen of a man.
“Yeah, well, you know how that goes,” Joe said, meaning influence, political pressure, and all the other tools of the Kennedy family trade. “Jack was supposed to have a desk job in intelligence, but then he got in trouble with some dame in D.C. and they transferred him out. Somehow he wrangled himself a combat assignment zipping around in those plywood boats.”
“Was he hurt?” I asked, still wondering what this had to do with me.