The professor pushed the last photo over so Lee could see it clearly.
“Another German ship?” he asked.
“No, this is the Simbirsk. This is the vessel believed used in the Russian experiment. Our agents now report she cannot be located anywhere in the world.”
Without warning, Hamilton, with just an acknowledgment through the dip of Garrison Lee’s head, reached over and pulled the map and the photos from the desktop.
“I believe, at least, that you believe this is a viable threat. So I hope you have your bags packed, Professor. I’ll get you to Washington, and once there, you can explain your theory to my boss. If you’re lying to us in any way, you’ll soon learn that we backward Americans aren’t as backward as you might think. Now if you’ll—”
The bullets smashed through the closed window and sprayed the far wall. Lee immediately dove over his desk and knocked Wentz from his chair. Hamilton slammed his body against the far wall and allowed the map depicting the sudden storm positions and the black-and-white photos of the two warships to fall to the floor. He pulled a Colt .45 from the back of his trousers and went into a prone position.
In the main office area, an explosion sounded as a grenade detonated. The interior windows exploded outward and into Lee’s private office, showering them with tinted glass. He heard the reports of several .45s explode as the team inside the office laid down a covering fire. Lee had his full weight on the professor as he kicked out to get Hamilton’s attention.
“It’s time to move operations; I think our secret is out!” Just as the words came out of his mouth, another potato-masher-style hand grenade burst through the already shattered window. Lee ducked his head as the grenade went off, the concussive force sending his body off the professor to slam into the far wall. Then another detonation went off, and then all went silent.
Thirty minutes later, Lee’s eyes fluttered open, and he realized he was in a cool place. He automatically reached for his hat but found his head bare as he sat up. The cot was hard and far too short for his body. He rubbed his head and felt the bandage that partially covered his left ear. But all he knew or cared about at that moment was the fact that he was missing his hat. He looked around the bare room and saw young Hamilton getting treated by a man in a filthy white lab coat.
“What in the hell happened?”
Hamilton looked over as the doctor applied the last piece of tape to the gauze that was wrapped around his left forearm.
“Well, Colonel, let’s just say we got evicted in no uncertain terms. We’re at the safe house in Santiago.”
“You all right?” Lee asked as he placed his bare feet on the cool floor. Again, he reached for his fedora before he remembered he didn’t have it.
“The hat didn’t survive. Neither did the good Professor Wentz. That second grenade landed right on top of him. What’s left was on the shirt you were wearing.”
“Who’d we lose?”
“Three. Nancy Chalmers, Peggy Grace, and Will Nelson. The new kid from Rhode Island.” Hamilton lowered his eyes as Lee stood on shaky feet.
“Potato mashers. Goddamn Germans. Should have seen it coming.”
Hamilton nodded that the doctor should leave. When they were alone, young Hamilton tossed Lee a new, clean shirt after securing the door. “Potato mashers, yes; Germans, no. The professor covered his tracks pretty well. No one knew his intentions. I went through his valise and found maps and communication supplements. He had dates and times of where we were. He had been planning on approaching us for quite some time, Colonel.”
“Then who?” Lee asked as he buttoned up his new shirt. His countenance was troublesome to Hamilton as he turned and opened the thick door.
“Bring the bastard in, Jerry,” Hamilton said as he stepped aside as Lee tucked in his shirt.
The man was small, gruff, and hadn’t shaved in weeks. The heavy flannel shirt he wore was stained in blood, and the dark-haired man looked as if his treatment by Lee’s team hadn’t been too gentle. This man had only met the soft side of the OSS. Lee’s eyes fixed threateningly on the man who was being held upright by Jerry Lester, a second lieutenant from the army also on detached service. Lee sat and slipped on socks and shoes as the small man struggled arrogantly against the larger man holding him. Hamilton tossed a folder onto the bunk where Lee sat tying his shoes.
“We have more on this guy than Photoplay has on Rita Hayworth. This is Ivan Nevalov, Stalin’s number-two man in Argentina, also number one on our elimination list.”
The small, filthy-looking man looked up at the mention of his name and then spit blood onto the floor, which elicited a nice slap on the side of his head from the angry agent holding him. “He and his hit team tried to make it look like German agents by using their equipment. Even the bullets and weapons were German made.”
Lee didn’t have to look at the folder containing the intelligence on Nevalov. The KGB operative was quite well known in these parts and had been suspected in the disappearances of at least three Americans operating in South America. Allies or not, Lee hated the Russians.
“Why eliminate the good professor, Ivan?” Lee asked as he tied off the last shoestring.
The man smiled through bloody teeth but said nothing.
“We know you’re concerned about the spread of certain technology about this theory on the bending of light. Do you want to discuss it?” Lee finished and then stood. He walked over to a chair and removed a Colt .45 from a holster and charged it. He turned and he wasn’t smiling.
“I think we can make a deal here, I mean being allied nations such as we are,” Nevalov said in very good English, and then the man spit blood once more from his mouth.
“Actually, Ivan, I just wanted to know if that was the reason for your assault on my place of business. Unlike my superiors, I don’t deal well with cold-blooded murderers. And I am sure as hell not sitting down to talk with a man who killed three of my people. Step away, Lester.”
“You Americans and your bluffing. This is not your Wild West and the RKO Corral. This is not a poker game; this is not—”
The .45-caliber bullet caught Nevalov in the top of his forehead, and his brains went all over the wall. Jerry Lester and young Hamilton only stared at the body of the Russian agent as his limp frame finally slid to the floor. Lee tossed the still-smoking weapon on the bunk and then fastened his belt buckle. He looked up and saw his two men staring at him in shock.
“We didn’t have time to deal with this guy. We already know what he knows.” Lee grimaced as he stepped toward his two men. “And I am sure as hell not into the habit of sitting down and exchanging pleasantries with a man who just killed three of my people.” Garrison tore off the bandage covering his right ear. “Write it up in your reports if you see fault in my actions. Now gather up what work we have from Wentz.”
“What are we going to do, Colonel?” Hamilton asked as he watched Lee nonchalantly step over Nevalov’s unmoving body.
“You, Mr. Hamilton, are going to establish another cover inside Buenos Aires and set up a new shop. As for me, I’m flying out to go have a talk with our boss and the Department of the Navy.”
Hamilton and Lester watched as Lee left. They exchanged looks of unease.