The Gypsy Moon Page 11

  And this same flower that smiles today

  Tomorrow will be dying.

  “That’s what I believe,” Betje said. “You have to grab whatever happiness comes to you. There’s not much of it.”

  Gabby shook her head. “That same poet once said, ‘Forgive me, God, and blot each line out of my book that is not Thine.’ Gathering flowers isn’t the same thing as loving a man. I want something that will last for a lifetime.”

  “Nothing lasts. I wish it did,” Betje said poignantly.

  The women fell silent until they pulled into the park, where people were already gathering for the fete. Betje looked at her friend and tried to speak, but she felt too sad. She knew she had stirred unhappy memories, and she did not want to hurt Gabby. I wish she were happy, Betje thought. But then, who is?

  ****

  Reverend Karel Citroen moved through the crowd, smiling and greeting those he passed. He was somewhat surprised at the size of the crowd, for given the shadow of a German invasion that hung over the Low Countries, he had thought the festival might be poorly attended. But as he walked across the grass, he thought, Maybe people need things like this more during hard times than when everything is going well. God help us. We’re going to need all the good humor and happiness we can grab.

  He was startled when a hand seized his arm, and he turned to find himself looking into the eyes of Gabby’s friend Betje.

  “Tell your fortune, sir?”

  He smiled at the engaging young woman. Her hair was done up under a red and blue scarf, and her loose costume did not hide her attractive figure. “Yes,” he said, “as long as it’s a happy one.”

  “I tell only what I see in the hand,” she said, one eyebrow raised.

  Betje pulled him over to sit next to her and took his hand in hers. She began to rattle off a patter of events to come in his life, but he paid little attention to the charade. He was thinking instead about Betje’s real existence. Such a waste of a life, he thought. She has so much to give, so much talent, but she wastes it all looking for pleasure. She’ll never find what her heart really needs that way. He spotted Gabby over Betje’s shoulder and saw that she had found a customer. He felt a touch of envy as Gabby held the man’s hand and studied his palm.

  Betje looked up at the pastor and saw that he was no longer smiling. “Beware of blond women. They’ll lead you astray.” She let his hand go and said, “You’re too good-looking to be a preacher.” Her remark obviously embarrassed him, which pleased her. “Come along,” she whispered, pressing herself against him. “Let’s go to the tavern. I’ll let you buy me a drink.”

  “I don’t think so, Betje.”

  “Ah, you’re missing all the good times. What you need is a woman.”

  Citroen was accustomed to her teasing, and for a few moments the two observed the hubbub around them. Gabby’s customer finally left and she approached them.

  “Hello, Gabby,” he said. “It looks like business is good today.”

  “Yes. Everyone wants their fortune told.” She grinned. “Has Betje been telling you yours?”

  “I’ve been trying to get him to go out with me. I’d like to show him what life is all about. Poor fellow! He’s missing out on everything.” Betje laughed as she whirled and moved quickly to grab the hand of a tall young man who was passing by. “Tell your fortune, sir?”

  Karel turned to Gabby after Betje’s customer got settled into a seat and said quietly, “I worry about Betje.”

  “So do I, Pastor.”

  “It’s nice of you to be such a loyal friend to her.” He watched her as she cheerfully greeted some friends. When she turned back to him, he said, “Playacting agrees with you. You really come alive when you do this.”

  “It is fun. I really look forward to it every year.” She suddenly sobered. “You don’t think it’s wrong to pretend to be fortune-telling, do you?”

  “I suppose there’s no harm in it as long as it’s only that—just pretend.”

  “Grandmother’s never liked it much, but I guess she’s decided it’s just silly.”

  “It probably is, Gabby, but we need some silly things in our lives—especially now.”

  Gabby looked at the crowd, at the bright colors of the costumes, the blue sky overhead, and the beautiful flowers. “It seems impossible that war could ever touch this place, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it’s very possible,” Karel said soberly. He noticed the crowd parting to let an entourage through and pointed. “Look, there’s the queen. It looks like she’s getting ready to make a speech. Let’s get closer so we can hear.”

  Queen Wilhelmina was a sweet-faced middle-aged woman who always appeared cheerful. She loved her people, and they adored her. Gabby had once seen her riding along the street on a bicycle. She had waved as if she were an ordinary person, and Gabby had waved back. She had never forgotten that, but now as she pressed closer with the pastor by her side, she saw that the queen looked weary. “She looks worried, doesn’t she?”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Queen Wilhelmina began to speak, and for several minutes she spoke of her pleasure at being at the fete and how important it was to keep such events alive. Suddenly, however, a cloud passed over her face, and she dropped her head. Startled, the crowd fell silent, and when Wilhelmina finally looked up, there was pain in her fine eyes. “A dark day, my friends, has come to our country. Just a few moments ago I received word that the German air force has attacked our Dutch cities. After our country, with scrupulous conscientiousness, had observed strict neutrality, Germany made a sudden attack on our territory without any warning.”

  The crowd quickly burst into worried conversations, but as the queen continued, they quieted. “Our gallant air force has fought off waves of gliders carrying German troops, but they are being overwhelmed by superior numbers. . . .” She spoke for some time of the invasion, in a firm voice that carried easily on the still air. “Our nation has been overrun by other nations in the past, and even though we are being invaded, we will never, never, never give up our liberty!”

  ****

  Betje had come to stand beside Gabby and Karel to listen to the queen speak. When the royal entourage left, she said bitterly, “I’d like to kill every German in the world!”

  “Not all Germans are evil,” Karel responded.

  But Betje was furious. Her face was pale, and she shook with anger. “They’re not human!”

  “A statesman once said as the Great War began, ‘The lights are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them turned on again in our lifetime.’ ”

  Karel took Betje’s arm and looked straight into her eyes. “God will not forget us. He will not allow the world to fall into darkness.”

  “That’s right, Betje,” Gabby said. “God is still on the throne!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Operation Jonah

  Major Ian Castleton sat at his desk, his eyes closed, half dozing in the heat. He slapped at the large fly that circled his head. “Blast!” He straightened up. For a time he stared hopelessly at the mass of papers on his desk and wished he were out fishing for trout instead of serving England in a stuffy office. He laughed at his disloyal sentiment. “Can’t go fishing with the Germans taking Europe by storm!”

  The door popped open, and a skinny sergeant stepped inside. “Colonel Flynn to see you, Major.”

  “Well, show him in, Sergeant.”

  Castleton got to his feet. He was a sturdy man of thirty-four, but his prematurely gray hair made him look much older. He stepped around his desk and saluted when the officer entered. “Good morning, Colonel.”

  Colonel Colin Flynn returned the salute. “Hello, Ian,” he said with a smile. He came over and shook the hand of the shorter man. Flynn was tall, well over six feet, lean and fit. His face showed lines of fatigue, however, and there was a tense nervousness in all of his actions.

  “Will you have a whiskey, sir?”

  “I shouldn’t, but I will.”

  �
��My sentiments exactly.” Castleton opened the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He filled each of them and handed a glass to Flynn. He held his own up and said, “ To victory.”

  “To victory.”

  The two men drank and then sat down. “I’ve been working on the movement you spoke of, Colonel,” Castleton said.

  “About Operation Jonah?”

  Castleton shook his head, and a weary disgust seemed to touch his features. “I don’t think it has a prayer.”

  “Neither do I, but it’s got to get done.”

  Castleton rose and got the whiskey bottle. He offered it to Flynn, who shook his head as he went to look out the window. Castleton poured his own glass half full again and drank it down, shuddering as the raw alcohol bit at his throat. He slammed the glass down, anger washing across his pale features. “Another impossible task assigned by the powers that be. Who dreamed up this little gem?”

  Flynn mentioned a name as he watched a squad that was drilling on the parade ground. He turned and grinned. “That startled you.”

  “Well, he’s capable of thinking up such a harebrained idea. I suppose we’ll have to try it.”

  Colonel Flynn leaned back against the wall and folded his hands across his chest. “Numbers won’t work with this one, Ian,” he said in his high-pitched voice. “It’ll have to be a small group.”

  “You’re right. As a matter of fact, it’ll all pretty much depend on one man.”

  “Yes, with some good backup.”

  “I’ve gone over the dossier of every man we’ve got, but I hate to make this choice.”

  “Well, you do have to make it, so who will it be?”

  Castleton walked over to a battered filing cabinet and yanked the drawer open. He shuffled through several files, pulled one out impatiently, and handed the manila folder to the tall man. “He’s my pick.”

  Flynn sat down at Castleton’s desk and opened the folder. He read slowly, his head bent over the stack of papers. Ian Castleton watched him carefully. He was not at all happy about this Operation Jonah. For one thing, he did not like the name. It sounded like a failure by definition. The silence grew thick in the room, interrupted only with the buzzing of the fly that circled his head. He waved it away impatiently but did not speak until finally Flynn looked up.

  “Are you sure he’s on our side, Ian?” the colonel asked sarcastically.

  “He’s a maverick, but he’s done some very difficult things.”

  Colonel Flynn studied the paper again and shook his head doubtfully. “Well, I don’t think a spit-and-polish officer would serve in this case. I’d better meet him. Is he on the station?”

  “Yes, he’s between assignments. But when I heard you were coming, I kept him available.”

  “Have him come up, will you?”

  Picking up the phone, Castleton’s voice crackled, “Sergeant, find Captain Bando and get him here at once.” He put the phone down and slumped into a chair, looking miserable.

  “Dailon Bando. What kind of name is that?”

  “He’s a Welshman.”

  “A Welshman?”

  “Yes, to the bone. His friends call him Dai.”

  “Most Welshmen are pretty emotional, Ian. We can’t have that for an operation like this.”

  Ian Castleton laughed shortly. “He’s emotional, all right. Got a bit of a temper, loves poetry, has a sentimental streak that he covers up.” He paused for a moment and ran his hands across his face in a weary gesture. “But he’s hard as nails, sir. He’s into the martial arts—a black belt, I understand. He’s the best shot in the service, and he speaks French, German, Dutch, and two or three more languages, I think.”

  “What makes you think he can pull this thing off?”

  “I’m not so sure he can.”

  The answer ruffled Colonel Flynn’s nerves. “Then why are you recommending him?”

  “Because he’s the best I’ve got.” He rose and poured himself another whiskey. “I’m drinking too much,” he said, looking at the glass. He carefully poured the liquor back into the bottle and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I gave him a test.”

  “A test? What kind of test?”

  “I told him to try to get the file marked Operation Jonah out of my safe. That was two days ago, and it’s still there. I checked it this morning. But I didn’t expect he would succeed. Security here is as tight as a jug.”

  The two men sat talking about other special projects they had taken on. The two were often reassigned from their usual duties and directed to the most difficult and dangerous work, which required top secrecy. Both Castleton and Flynn had come up the hard way, and now with the war pressing in upon them, they were working day and night as Hitler pushed his way through Europe. It was not a service with any outward rewards. There were no pictures in the newspaper of the men and women who succeeded. The very essence of these private armies was to keep their agents as far from the newspapers as possible.

  The door opened, and the sergeant announced, “Captain Bando is here, sir.”

  “Send him in.”

  Both men stood up as the captain came through the door. “Reporting as ordered, Major.”

  “Bando. Captain, this is Colonel Flynn.”

  “Hello, Captain,” the colonel said. He sized up the officer who stood at attention before him. The man’s age was hard to fix. He could have been anywhere from twenty to forty. He had coarse black hair and a squarish face with rough features. He was not at all handsome, but he guessed that women would call the man masculine or even virile looking. His eyes were strange, a light green that glowed against his rather dark complexion. He had high cheekbones and a deep cleft in his chin. His shirt fit him tightly, outlining his muscular chest, and yet there was a suggestion of speed about him as well as of power. “Your record is bad, Captain Bando. Insubordination is not a good quality for a man in your job.”

  Captain Bando’s face did not change, and he didn’t speak.

  “What do you say to that?” Flynn pressed.

  “On the sort of job I do, there’s never an officer standing beside me to ask permission for what must be done. They’re all off in an office somewhere.”

  “Let’s have none of your insolence, Bando!” Major Castleton said. “And, by the way, you failed the little assignment I gave you.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t fail.”

  Both officers stared at him.

  “Operation Jonah is designed to penetrate German security at the highest level,” Bando said, as if reading aloud from a paper. “A team will make contact with Professor Dalton Burke, who now serves as a scientist for the Third Reich, convince him to defect, and—”

  Castleton exploded, “How in heaven’s name did you get that information?”

  “Out of a folder in your safe.”

  “Impossible! It’s still there.”

  “Look at the folder, sir.”

  Castleton strode across the room and removed a picture from the wall. He turned the tumbler on the safe until it clicked, then swung the door open and pulled out a folder. He turned to face Bando, a challenge in his stiff face.

  “Look at the back of the last sheet, Major.”

  Castleton turned the file over and looked at it. Without a word he handed the file to Colonel Flynn, who took it and read aloud, “ ‘Your security is not very good.’ ” He looked up and smiled. “It’s signed ‘Dailon Bando.’ ”

  Major Castleton was half angry but secretly pleased. “Why didn’t you take the file, Bando?”

  “Because you’d know I had it.”

  “Did you make a copy?”

  “Only in my head. It’s usually not a good idea to write down top-secret information.”

  Colonel Flynn finally laughed and stuck out his hand. “All right, Bando, you’re elected. Do you agree, Major?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just let us know what you need,” Flynn said. “Men, equipment, money.” He went on for some time to describe the
urgency of the mission.

  When Flynn paused, Bando asked, “What has this bloke got that we want so badly?”

  “A brain that could win the war,” Colonel Flynn said bluntly. “Now, let’s get started.”

  ****

  For two weeks Dai Bando had searched for information on Dalton Burke. He had uncovered extensive information about Burke’s professional accomplishments, but he still knew little about the man’s personal life. He had exhausted all of his resources and still felt that he had really gotten nowhere. “Any clerk could have found out what I’ve discovered,” he muttered.

  He was walking along swiftly, headed for the coast. He had heard, almost by accident, that a group of Dutchmen had escaped from Holland shortly after the invasion and were now in England. In desperation he had decided to question them. “Probably do no good,” he grumbled, “but blast if I know what else to do.”

  He found the headquarters of the Royal Air Force and had some difficulty at first persuading the officer in charge, a rather irate major, of his identity. He waited patiently until he had been checked thoroughly, and finally the major said, “Well, there are four of them. All of them were fliers in the Dutch Air Force, but since there is no longer a Dutch Air Force, they’ve come to join us. I’ll have the sergeant take you down to the barracks we’ve assigned them to. I don’t know if they’re there or not.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  Bando followed the sergeant to a low rectangular building with no identifying characteristics. The sergeant opened the door, and after Bando stepped in, he said, “There’s one of them right over there.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  The barracks was hot, almost stifling, and Bando wiped sweat from his face as he approached the man. “Good afternoon.”

  The man he spoke to was short and stocky with light blond hair and a pair of steady blue eyes. “Hello. You have come to take us to our new assignment?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m Captain Bando. I need to question you a little.”

  “Question? About what?”

  “Let’s start with your name.”

  “Mogens Roosevelt.”