Chapter One
SUSAN GILBERT REALIZED SHE COULD BACK OUT if she wanted. No one would say a word.
The war in Europe had been over three months now. She was already a civilian in the eyes of God and man and U.S. Naval Intelligence. She had a teaching position lined up—Contemporary American Literature at the University of New York at Stony Brook.
And then there was the matter of her last mission to Berlin. One nice thing about being imprisoned in a sewer and nearly eaten alive, you could be a little choosy about your next assignment. People understood.
A couple of spooks from Naval Intelligence were trying to be convivial as they drove her to this warehouse down by the old submarine pens. She was as polite as a girl can be with two guys she’s going to ditch the moment they look away.
The quiet one in the Plymouth’s passenger seat must have been aware of what she was thinking, yet he never bothered to talk her out of it. He simply promised her something “interesting” if she hung on.
Susan didn’t need to ask what “something interesting” meant. Just looking at these two Watermark spooks, she could guess this was gremlin work.
The nonchalant kid behind the wheel had endeared himself to her the moment he’d picked her up at her apartment. “You must be the one who sends me all those secret memos,” he drawled.
She could feel a migraine out there with her name on it. “Excuse me?”
“You know—Watermark Clearance-Level Emerald, Eyes Only?” Ah yes. Emerald eyes. Bogen, you card.
The other one, the sad-eyed one, simply smiled tolerantly. They looked like they had a great Mutt-and-Jeff routine going. Too bad she was going to miss it.
The kid at the wheel—Bogen would be his name—spotted a deserted biergarten, “The Four Winds.” This was some sort of landmark. His hands got rigid on the steering wheel. He cast a sidelong glance down the street. “Hold tight back there.”
The sudden right turn brought them just behind the gutted bar, up a small alley and into the shadow of an old warehouse. A U.S. Army Jeep loomed, and the kid hit the brakes, nearly spilling her into the front seat as they stopped.
He glanced back at her through the rearview mirror. “You still with us?” The quiet one just rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. Maybe he sighed.
A pair of military police were blocking the light in a second-floor doorway. She saw their weapons come out at the sight of the car.
“Oh great,” she said to herself, “ ‘something interesting.’ ” The two MPs looked interested. They looked absolutely wide-eyed with interest.
Bogen went up to clear things with them. Susan took in every darkened door and alleyway entrance. “I’ve never really done this sort of thing,” she said. “Don’t you guys need somebody a little more experienced in counterintelligence?” She guessed from the MPs that this was some sort of crime scene. Three years of tradecraft told her that hanging around crime scenes was a great way to get famous.
“No choice,” The quiet man apologized. “Regular Naval Intelligence wouldn’t know what they were looking at.”
“I thought Watermark was Naval Intelligence.” She pulled her collar up around her face and her hat forward. She felt about as inconspicuous as Ginger Rogers.
Bogen flashed his hand torch down at them, twice: Come on up.
The quiet man smiled at her. “If we wanted anyone else, they’d be here. Just use your experience; see what you can find.” Almost as an afterthought, he stuck out his hand. “Charley Shrieve.” He smiled. “Hi.”
His tone betrayed a hint of curry. She wondered where Charley Shrieve had spent the war. She liked his face. He had these little cheek muscles that guys get when they’re down to around ten-percent body fat.
She introduced herself. “Susan Gilbert,” she said.
One of the MPs stopped her at the second-floor landing.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. This is a restricted area.”
At least he was polite. At this point in the war, she was easy to please.
“It’s all right, Shaw,” came a growl from the darkness. “She’s with us.”
Susan smelled cigar smoke at the door. “Commander Foley,” she said out loud.
A roundish man in a business suit stood back for her. He had been here awhile. A layer of blue haze congealed among the ceiling lights over his head.
“Ensign Gilbert,” he said. She could guess he was smiling by the way his cigar tilted up against his silhouette. “You’re a hard person to get hold of.”
“I’m a civilian,” she said. She figured it couldn’t hurt to remind him.
Walter Foley came into the light, his hands clamped together behind his back in the manner of the great ship-bound naval officers he always talked about. Foley had never spent much time on a ship himself, but he did seem to prize the cut of a sea-going officer—the way they rolled with the deck, the way they stuck their heads forward like pit bulls.