James Benn: The Rest Is Silence

“What are we looking for?” Kaz asked.

“Whatever shouldn’t be there,” Harding said. “Your theory of a black-market killing makes sense, but I’m not taking any chances. Watch for anyone who shouldn’t be in the area. It’s a long shot, but if there are any German agents around, they’d have a field day given half a chance.”

“You want us there when they’re using live ammo?” I asked. It didn’t sound like a day at the beach.

“The cruiser HMS Hawkins will shell the beach from zero six thirty to zero seven hundred. Be at the checkpoint outside the restricted area before that starts. At zero seven hundred, the beachmaster will inspect the beach and give the order for the landing to proceed if it is safe. I want you two close by to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“What could go wrong?” I asked.

“Everything,” Harding said. “Nothing. I don’t know. That’s why they call it the fog of war. I need you two close to the action. Now let’s switch jeeps.”

Harding had a field radio installed in the back seat, and he went over the frequencies we were to report on. “I’ll be on one of the LCIs with General Eisenhower. If you see anything out of place, contact me immediately. Got it?”

“You don’t think there’s any threat to the general, do you?” I asked.

“The corpse on the beach probably was some sort of crook. Probably. Or some poor slob who stumbled into a black-market deal. Or a German agent coming ashore who got himself killed for what he saw. Very improbable, I grant you. But impossible? No. So don’t get complacent. If Ike decides to come ashore after the exercise, I don’t want to be looking behind every tree and shrub. I want you to do that before he gets there. Understood?”

“Absolutely, Colonel,” I said. Sometimes Harding was an okay guy. Once in a while you could kid around with him. But most times, this was the essence of his personality: a hard-ass, take-nothing-for-granted kind of guy. He came out of the trenches of the last war in one piece, so I figured he had a right.

The sky was darkening as we turned off the main road and drove through the village of North Cornworthy. It had the usual monument at the center of town, a stone cross listing the names of the dead from the last war. It didn’t seem like there were that many people left in all of North Cornworthy these days. The street was muddy, the one pub dark and uninviting, and the few shops closed. Whitewashed houses with greying thatched roofs stood amidst weeds and looming pines.

“Not much of a place,” I said.

“Many of these small villages were devastated by the Great War,” Kaz said. “Men from the same town served together, whole companies often wiped out in minutes. Then the Depression, another war, the young called up or working in factories, and soon only the old are left behind.”

Outside the village, we found the turnoff for Ashcroft. We took a driveway lined by giant oaks and followed a gradual incline until the trees thinned out and we saw Ashcroft House, rising from the hill like a giant slab of stone. It was a low two-story structure built from the same grey granite as the stone walls in the area. The roof was slate, the only brightness provided by the stark white trim around the windows and doors. The main section had a wing off either side, and it looked like other parts of the house had been added over time. I wondered how old the place was. Centuries, at least, for the main house.

“This is some joint, Kaz,” I said as I parked the jeep in front.

“Apparently David married well,” he said as we grabbed our bags from the rear. “He and Helen met late in 1940 and married rather quickly. Wartime romance.”

If anyone knew about love in a time of war, it was Kaz. He rang the bell. An elderly butler answered the door and told us we were expected, then shuffled off to fetch Martindale. The entryway was impressive. Gleaming marble floors and a wide staircase ascending to a broad upper landing, paneled doors lustrous with polish. The place smelled rich.

Double doors to our right swung open, and the butler stood aside as a figure emerged from the gloom of the unlit room. A good-looking man in a RAF uniform came toward us, a smile on his face. His blond hair was slicked back, and his step was quick and steady. It had to be Martindale, but at first I saw no sign of a wound or injury.

“Piotr!” he said, extending his hand as he drew nearer. “It’s so good to see you.”

As he came into the bright hallway and turned to greet us head on, I almost gasped.

It was his face.

“David,” Kaz said, gripping his hand in both of his. I saw the slightest evidence of struggle cross his features as he worked to find another way to say it was good to see his friend. “It has been too long. I’ve missed you.”

“And you must be Captain Boyle,” Martindale said. “Kaz has told me so much about you.”

“Don’t believe half of it, Flight Lieutenant. Thanks for inviting me.” We shook, and his grip was firm, but I detected a tremor in his hand. Still, he put on a good show. He’d been burned. Badly. But only the right side of his face. It looked as if the flesh had melted, then frozen into a hard, shiny skin. He’d had surgery, to be sure. His right eye was visible, but barely, peeking out from a slit that looked like it never closed. His nose was perfect on the left, a tight bump of scar tissue on the right.

“Glad to have you. And let’s leave rank aside, shall we? From what Piotr tells me, I sense you’d rather not bother about it. I’ll show you to your rooms, and you can wash up before dinner. Thank you, Williams,” he said to the butler, who quietly departed. David waited until he was out of earshot.

“Look, Piotr, I’m sorry I never told you about this,” David said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his ruined face. “I should have prepared you. It must be a shock.”

“It is a shock you are still alive, after all the battles you have seen,” Kaz said. “And I have not come through the war unscathed either.” He made the same small gesture toward his own scar.

“What, that little thing?” David said, and they both laughed, the kind of laughter that comes when two old friends reunite and pick up as if the intervening years had never occurred. Maybe this would be good for both of them. I kept a few steps behind, letting them chat as David led us upstairs.

“I don’t know what to think,” Kaz said later in my room. “I should be glad he’s alive and has all his limbs, but what a price he’s paid. I can’t imagine what life will be like for David.”

“It will be a life. Don’t forget that,” I said as I tied my field scarf, which the army insisted on calling a plain old necktie.

“Yes,” Kaz said, with little enthusiasm. He stared out the window as I finished dressing. I’d brought my new tailor-made Ike jacket. It was a new short-waisted coat, based on the British army’s battle jacket. General Eisenhower had pushed for the new design, and his name was linked to it, even though the quartermaster insisted on calling it the M-44 jacket. I wore it with my dark brown wool pants and chocolate-colored shirt. I looked pretty damn good-sort of a cross between an American gangster and a military intelligence officer. Bit of an exaggeration on both counts, but you get the idea.

Kaz looked elegant, but he always did. All his uniforms were custom-made, and for a guy with a small frame he wore them well. He removed his glasses and cleaned them carefully. I stood behind him and gazed out at the lawns and gardens below, the river in the distance, the sun lighting the horizon with reds and yellows. Below, a couple walked briskly toward the house.

The woman was tall and thin but big-boned, with a purposeful chin and a broad-brimmed burgundy hat that covered the rest of her face. She was gesturing with her gloved hands and seemed to be in earnest conversation with the guy next to her. Husband, probably. He held his hands behind his back, his head tilted slightly as if to catch her every word. He wore a tweed suit and a worried look.