"Stalin wants them for poker chips, that’s why. He wants to make sure we don't put up a fuss about the Russians grabbing all this territory for themselves. What the Russians have done is wrong, plain and simple. Our government is afraid to act officially, because we're walking on eggshells here in Europe. Everyone is so damned scared of upsetting the Russians."
The general interrupted. "The president ought to do something about this. It's not right."
Senator Whitlock waved a hand. "Truman is all right, but he’s a weakling where the Russians are concerned. He doesn't want to start another war. To be honest, nobody in America wants another war. So the president is just going to roll over and do what Uncle Joe tells him."
Cole was a little shocked to hear the senator talk about the president that way, and the way he said it made it clear that he knew Truman personally. "Sir, what's this got to do with me?"
Senator Whitlock smiled. "Gentlemen, why don't you leave me alone with the sergeant for a few minutes?"
The general and major looked at one another. It was the major who spoke up. "Senator, I don't know if—“
"Go on," Senator Whitlock said, waving a hand again like he was shooing flies. "The sergeant and I need to get to know one another."
Whitlock waited until the two officers left, and then closed the massive doors behind them. Then he went over to the sideboard and brought back the decanter to refill their glasses.
"This is fifty-year-old cognac. Wonderful stuff. Why should we let the general have it all to himself, ha, ha! Now let's get to brass tacks, Sergeant Cole. Any American would be indignant to learn that the Russians are holding our soldiers hostage. It's only natural. I’m as mad about it as you are. But let me be frank. You see, I have a personal interest in this as well. The Russians have my grandson. His B-17 was shot down in April, at which point in time he was captured by the Germans. I have confirmation that he was taken to a stalag in a part of Germany now held by the Russians. He has since been taken by the Russians and transferred to a remote Gulag — that's a Russian prison camp, by the way — in northern Russia. Fortunately, it is within a few day's walk of the Finnish border.”
The senator stopped short of explaining that Gulag was not a proper name, but an acronym for the Russian words for Main Administration of Camps. The Soviets had made their harsh system of more than one hundred forced labor camps sound as innocuous as possible.
“How do you know all this, sir?”
“We have our spies, just as the Russians do.”
Suddenly, Cole understood where the conversation was going.
“You want to get him out of there,” he said. “Why me?"
The senator looked him over. "You know, it's kind of interesting. Here's a young man from Appalachia who can't read, who probably grew up without shoes on his feet, a real nobody. Does that sound like you?" In what was becoming a familiar gesture, the old man raised a hand to wave off the angry response on Cole's lips. “I don’t say this to insult you, Sergeant. Quite the opposite.”
“I ain’t so sure about that.”
Whitlock went on, “You know what else is interesting? When I had my people ask around to find someone capable for this sort of mission, your name came up. More than once. Here's a nobody who lands at Normandy and a year later he's not a nobody at all. I would call that sort of person a somebody. Somebody who is respected. Does that sound better to you?"
Cole didn't have an answer to that.
"I have to say, it wasn't always in a good way that you were mentioned,” Whitlock added. “People are a little scared of you. They say you’re a killer.”
Cole had heard enough.
"Why should I do this?" he asked sharply. “Go all the way to Russia to rescue some rich guy’s grandson? It’s crazy.”
Whitlock nodded. He leaned back in the chair and studied Cole, as if reconsidering him. “I can't order you, simply put. This wouldn't even be a military mission. It can't be, not officially. I am asking you because you are the best we've got. That, and the fact that the goddamn Russians have taken our soldiers hostage, including my grandson.” The senator pounded the desk so hard that the general stuck his head in for a second to make sure everything was all right, then retreated. “My question for you, Mr. Cole, is what kind of man are you?”
"I reckon I don't understand the question."
"Oh, I reckon you do." The senator locked eyes with Cole. There was nothing soft there — they were as flinty as his own. Then Whitlock nodded. "You don't need to answer the question, Mr. Cole. I can see it in your eyes."
"So what kind of man are you, Senator?"
Whitlock spread his hands as if the answer was obvious. "I am a man who gets things done. I would consider this a personal favor to me, one that I could repay someday."
"There ain't nothin' I need."
Whitlock laughed. "I'm not talking about getting you a carton of cigarettes and a week's furlough, Cole. I am talking about a personal favor from a United States senator, the sort who pulls ropes, by the way, not strings. That favor is the kind of thing you bury in the Mason jar out back for a rainy day."
"Like I said—"
Whitlock touched Cole’s knee. “I know that you are a proud man, Cole. I wouldn’t expect anything less. We can all use a favor now and then. Even you. However, here’s the real reason that you’ll take on this mission.”
“And what’s that, Senator?”
The senator leaned in close and spoke quietly. “You’ll do this because you’re bored now that there’s no one left to fight. You miss it. Are you going to argue with that?”
Cole said nothing.
Senator Whitlock nodded. “Now, let's get the general and the major back in here and talk details, shall we?"
CHAPTER 12
Two days later, the mission briefing was held at the Munchshofen Air Base in Germany, where the Army Air Corps had taken over the former Luftwaffe hanger and the surrounding airfield. Senator Whitlock wasn't there, but the briefing was run by Major Leon Dickey, who had been present at the initial meeting between Cole and the senator.
During that meeting, a couple of other understandings had been reached between the senator and Cole. The first was that Cole would not be in charge. Senator Whitlock explained that while the mission was off the books, it was still a quasi-military operation, and Major Dickey wanted someone he already knew and trusted in charge of the team. That was all right with Cole, who preferred to be the lone wolf. The second accommodation was that Cole managed to get Vaccaro added to the team.
The major met Cole outside the door of the briefing room, and gave him a hearty handshake. "Good to see you again, Sergeant." Then he turned to Vaccaro with an uncertain expression. "Who's this?"
"This here is Corporal Vaccaro," Cole explained to Major Dickey. "Second-best shot in the Twenty-ninth Division. I reckoned we could use another man."
Dickey shook his head. “Maybe you talked the senator into it, but I’ve already assembled a team. We need to keep this small and tight."
"The way I see it, major, is that you got your team, and I got mine."
"Like I said, Cole. We've got everyone we need."
"There's two in this here poke. You want me, you got to take him."
"Poke?"
"That's what I said, ain't it? Now, do we go in or do we leave?"
The major looked from Cole, then to Vaccaro. "It's your funeral, soldier. Go on in, the two of you."
They entered the cramped, windowless room. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and smelled strongly of aftershave. Cole could smell someone’s spearmint gum. Two men already sat in folding chairs around a battered table. They looked up with interest as the door opened.