The librarian, and the real force behind the library, was a little birdlike woman with boundless energy and a no-nonsense disposition. Judy Bloomfield, or Bloomy as everyone called her, was also a dedicated feminist of the very liberal persuasion, and while she liked Matt Pontowski as an individual, she quivered at the notion that she worked for a socially conservative member of the establishment, spoiled by position, wealth, and privilege. When pressed, she would admit that he was a good administrator and served the library well with his astute sense of public relations, his connections, and his good looks. But it upset her when he laughingly described himself as a “retired aerial assassin.” It hurt because she knew he wasn’t joking.
However, Bloomy had no reservations about Pontowski’s son, Zack, who was spending his summer vacation working at the library. She enjoyed his boyish ways and good humor and had put him to work in the foreign collections department, figuring it might give him an incentive to polish up his rudimentary German. She also kept a mental calendar counting down the days to when he went back to school at the New Mexico Military Institute. She was going to miss him.
On the Monday morning following the library’s formal dedication ceremony, Bloomy was still basking in the compliments and accolades over the success of the ceremony. But it frustrated her that the staff was more interested in hearing the details of her meeting with Maddy Turner than in the real substance of the day. When she finally broke free for a late lunch, she realized she hadn’t seen Zack all morning. She went in search and found him in the special collections department, normally under lock and key. He was reading and didn’t see her. She studied him for a moment, seeing a young carbon copy of his father. “Zack!” She feigned indignation. “How did you get in here?”
He gave her the infectious grin that seemed to be in the Pontowski genes, and held up a key ring. He handed her a small diary she had never seen before. “I found this. Grandma Tosh wrote it.” Tosh was Lady Wilhelmina Crafton, the elder Pontowski’s wife and one of the most elegant first ladies ever to grace the White House. He blushed brightly. “There’s some personal stuff in there. Grandma Tosh was jealous because Gramps knew a woman called Chantal Dubois.”
Bloomy turned to the marked pages and read. While there were some very racy passages, there was nothing really damaging, as Tosh and the president later married. It was wartime, she rationalized. She smiled at the thought of a young couple finding love in the chaos of a war that threatened to destroy them. It only added to the Pontowski legend.
“Then I found this,” Zack said. He handed over another small journal. “But it’s written in French.” Bloomy was fluent in French and scanned the little journal. Now it was her turn to blush. “Oh, my.” She read in silence. She would have to verify its provenance, but her instincts shouted, Authentic! She looked for the source, but the donor was listed as anonymous. “Is there anything else?”
Zack showed her a formal document written in German. “I think it’s a death warrant signed by the German governor of a town called Amiens in northern France. It’s for Chantal Dubois and dated February 19, 1944.”
Bloomy was fully alert. “Who else has seen all this?”
“Only me that I know of.”
She made a decision. “Come with me.” She carried the death warrant and two small books to her office, where she locked them in her personal safe. “Are you hungry?” From the look on Zack’s face, she knew she had gotten that one right. “Let’s go for a pizza. We need to talk.”
Zack had found the Pontowski rat.
“General Pontowski,” Bloomy said, “do you have a moment?”
Pontowski looked up from his desk. “For you, always.” He motioned her to the most comfortable seat in his spartan office on the sixth floor of the Annex. It surprised him that she closed the door without asking. Why is she so nervous? Pontowski thought.
“Zack unearthed these.” Bloomy handed him the death warrant, Tosh’s diary, and Chantal’s journal.
Pontowski glanced at the warrant and thumbed through the little books. “My French is very rusty, and I don’t read German. What am I looking at?”
“The document is a death warrant for the execution of one Chantal Dubois, incarcerated in Amiens prison in France. According to Zack, it says she had committed crimes against the Third Reich and is dated February nineteenth, 1944.”
Pontowski pulled into himself. “If I remember right,” he said slowly, “Gramps bombed that prison.” He brightened as it came back. “Operation Jericho. Gramps was flying Mosquitos for the RAF, and they bombed the prison the day before a group of French resistance workers were scheduled for execution. The idea was to blow the place up so they could escape. He was shot up something fierce and wounded but managed to land the Mossie in England. His navigator was killed.”
“Unfortunately,” Bloomy said, “we know very little about his wartime record after that. He was grounded and couldn’t fly. The president never talked much about the last year of the war. I call it ‘the missing year.’”
Pontowski gave her a little smile. “He could be the great stone-mouth at times.” He glanced at the pages Zack had marked in Tosh’s diary. Pontowski chuckled as he read. “It looks like they went at it like bunnies.”
Bloomy ignored the remark and was all business. “Near the end there’s a reference to Chantal Dubois. Apparently the first lady was quite jealous.” Pontowski read the marked passages and again chuckled. “I assure you,” Bloomy said, “it is not funny.” She picked up Chantal’s journal and translated. Pontowski’s eyes opened wide. “To paraphrase your words, General, it looks as if the president and the Dubois woman went at it like bunnies.”
“Oh, boy,” Pontowski murmured. Then his basic good humor reasserted itself. “Well, Gramps always said the Pontowskis were a tight-lipped and lusty bunch. Just good peasant stock from Poland.”
“The dates on the Dubois journal are after February the nineteenth,” Bloomy continued. “Apparently the Dubois woman did escape. But I keep asking myself, why were the death certificate and Dubois’s journal given to us? Memorabilia like these are worth a great deal of money at auction.”
“Maybe they’re not authentic,” Pontowski replied. But even as he said it, he knew they were.
They hadn’t come that far from the destroyed Chinese hamlet, perhaps forty miles. But the trek through the jungle-covered hills was an excursion into hell, and Kamigami wanted the fleeing man to get the full experience. Unfortunately, in his panic the man had bolted, leaving all his gear behind, and Kamigami couldn’t push him too hard. He had to have time to find water. But Kamigami made sure he didn’t get any rest, especially at night, and a little toot on the whistle would get him moving.
At the end of the second day the man was on the verge of collapse, and he needed help. Kamigami left Tel behind to keep an eye on things while he ranged ahead. He found a well-used path, almost wide enough for a small truck. A squeaking noise caught his attention, and he barely had time to hide before a line of men came lumbering down the path from the east, pushing bicycles heavily laden with supplies. Kamigami waited until they had passed, and then set out after them, stalking the last man. As expected, Tail End Charlie was last for a good reason — he couldn’t keep up with the others, and the gap was widening. The man leaned his bicycle against a tree and took a short smoke break.