James Benn - Death

“So that’s why they picked you for this mission, being a detective,” Hamilton said, rubbing his chin and giving me a fresh appraisal.

“Yeah, and Kaz because he knows a boatload of languages.” I didn’t mention that I owed my detective rank to the fact that my Uncle Dan sat on the promotions board.

“Well, if there’s something else going on and you want to keep it to yourselves, that’s fine with me. Glad to help out a fellow New Englander. I began sailing out of Gloucester, used to go drinking in Boston every now and then. Maybe you rousted me once or twice, eh?”

“Maybe. I’ve tossed a few drunken sailors in the clink. Guy your size though, I would’ve left him in the street.”

“Good one, Boyle! Let’s go.” Hamilton pointed to the doorway, where a bearded figure stood, a head taller than anyone in the room. He wore a brown wool cap with a bright red star, along with a well-worn British uniform, a Sten gun slung over his shoulder, and a menacing look on his face. He noticed the Italians, and his eyes narrowed to hard, dark slits. A sneer crept into his mouth, and one hand moved to the revolver at his belt. The Italians froze, fear etched across their brows.

“Best not to keep Stjepan waiting,” Hamilton said.

Stjepan was at the wheel by the time we got to the jeep. Hamilton took the passenger seat, and Kaz and I scrambled into the rear as the scowling driver took off.

“Everything set?” Hamilton asked, one hand holding his cap, the other clutching the windshield as the vehicle accelerated.

“Set, Hamil-tone,” Stjepan said, speaking deliberately and enunciating each syllable as he turned to glance at us. “Priest clothes will fit. Good enough.”

“Good man,” Hamilton said, slapping the Partisan on the shoulder. “We’ll cast off as soon as everything’s loaded onboard.”

“What else are we taking?” I asked.

“It’s not for you,” Hamilton said. “After we land you at Pescara, we head due east and make a delivery across the Adriatic.”

“Guns for Partisans,” Stjepan said, turning to look at us again, indifferent to the other traffic on the road. “Kill Germans and Ustashi. You make us wait.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I just found out about this trip myself.”

“Waste of time,” Stjepan said. “Partisans need guns now. You will die like others. Waste.”

“What others?” I asked, suddenly more interested in the conversation.

“S-O-E,” he said, pronouncing the letters slowly. “English talk too much. Like god-damn Italians.”

“Don’t worry these boys, Stjepan,” Hamilton said. “They’re in our hands now. Ah, there’s the boat.”

If I was worried about Stjepan’s prediction, I now had something else to worry about.

“I do not like any boat,” Kaz said. “Especially not that one.” The jeep descended a curved road leading to a line of rotting docks, home to three rusted fishing trawlers and a sailboat that looked like it had been through one too many hurricanes.

“Good boat!” Stjepan roared, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. For the first time, he smiled. “Damn good boat, eh?”

“Aye,” Hamilton said, nodding in appreciation. “She’s a twin-masted fifty-foot schooner. Completely rebuilt diesel engine runs like a charm, right Stjepan?”

“Charm,” Stjepan agreed as he braked enthusiastically, halting the jeep less than a foot from the dock.

“She’s not much to look at,” I said.

“Exactly. We prefer not to draw attention to ourselves,” Hamilton said. Where there was paint, it was peeling, showing gray, weathered wood below. Instead of railings, there was a rough framework of boards filled in with smooth stones from the beach. Armor, of a sort. Yugoslavian Partisans were busy loading crates of weapons and supplies, lashing down what didn’t fit below on the exposed deck. “She’s seaworthy, don’t worry about that. We keep her looking sloppy, which is more work than you’d think.”

“Don’t the Germans stop you?”

“They haven’t yet. We make our moves by night, and hole up in some small inlet, under camouflage nets all day.” Hamilton led us aboard as the Partisans eyed us suspiciously. They were clad in a variety of uniforms, the only commonality a red star on their caps and a pervasive odor suggesting bathing facilities were hard to come by in the mountains of Yugoslavia. They were also well armed, here on this dock on the Italian coast, far from the front lines. Pistols and knives at their belts, Sten guns and rifles near at hand. These were men-and a few women-who lived on the edge, in that place where sudden violence could erupt at any moment, and you were either prepared for it or fell victim to it.

“Hamil-tone,” a voice boomed out from belowdecks, stretching out his name the same why Stjepan had. “Have you brought me those fucking excellent cigarettes?”

“Goddamn right I did, Randic,” Hamilton shouted. “Come up and meet our guests.”

The door to the companionway slammed open and a short, thickset man burst through. He embraced Hamilton and let loose with a volley of what I guessed was Serbian. He had long brown hair, sticking out at all angles from under his wool cap with the standard-issue red star. His mustache was broad and nicotine-stained, but it did little to hide his devilish grin.

“Hell with guests, where are my god-damn Lucky Strikes, you American bugger?”

“Right here,” Hamilton said, pulling two cartons from his pack. “Randic, this is Lieutenant Piotr Kazimierz and Lieutenant Billy Boyle.”

“Our freight, yes? Come, below,” Randic beckoned. We followed him down the narrow steps as Randic tore open one of the cartons of smokes. The main cabin was filled with stacked supplies: blankets, crates of ammo and Spam, brown greatcoats and medical supplies. Randic slid in on a bench and gestured for us to take a seat around a wooden table marked by cigarette burns and carved initials as he lit up.

“Randic is the commander of this detachment,” Hamilton said as he grabbed a bottle of wine and four glasses that could have used a scrubbing. He poured, and I figured the grimy glassware was all part of the boat’s disguise.

“God-damn all, Hamil-tone, I am,” Randic said. “But it is your boat and your supplies, so we must take these men north for you. Ziveli.”

“Ziveli,” Hamilton said, answering the toast. “Let us live long.”

“Funny, eh?” Randic said after he’d drained his glass. “How many dead men have made that toast?”

“Faol saol agat, gob fliuch, agus bas in Eirinn,” I said, raising my glass.

“What bloody god-damn language is that, my friend?” Randic said.

“Gaelic. It means ‘Long life to you, a wet mouth, and death in Ireland.’”

“I like it, you god-damn bugger. Life, wet mouth, death in your homeland. What else is there to drink to? You Irish from America?”

“Yes.”

“And you,” Randic said, pointing at Kaz. “Are you a son-of-a-bitch Romanian?”

“No, I am a son-of-a-bitch Pole, but I speak the language. Why?”

“Good,” Randic said, pushing his glass toward the wine bottle. Hamilton poured. “Your papers are excellent, but this one-Boyle-he looks too well fed, even for a god-damn priest. You, Pole, you are good. Skinny. Not much food in Rome, even for the Pope.”

“Did you get the clothes?” Hamilton asked, finishing off his second glass. He and Randic were puffing on Luckies and downing red wine as if they were in a drunkards’ race.

“Yes, yes, cassocks, shoes, everything you asked for, even underwear, all Italian.”

“Fellas, we need you to strip down and leave everything behind,” Hamilton said. “You’ll be outfitted as two priests traveling on church business would be. No weapons, nothing out of the ordinary. We have two small suitcases and some food for you to take along. Boyle, we didn’t change your name, to make it easier for you. Lieutenant Kazimierz, your Romanian name is Petru Dalakis.”