I made it to the outskirts of Brixham, and this time there were no marching soldiers or convoys to get in my way. I got lost, since it had been Tom Quick who’d gotten us here on back roads yesterday. I stumbled upon the coast road outside of town and drove up to the old fort, set high on the cliffs overlooking the Channel. I slowed, waiting for the sentries to step out and check my papers. The ramparts were empty except for the ancient rusting cannon. I drove through the entrance into an eerie silence, the flat parade ground empty. Not a soul, living or dead.
The grass was still flattened where the tents had been. Dark stains on the earth that might have been blood revealed where the dismembered bodies had been stacked. The wind blew off the water, cold and salty, whistling through the windows of the crumbling stone buildings. All that remained was a single tent peg protruding from the ground. Not even a cigarette butt had been left behind.
It was as if it had never happened.
Where had everyone gone? Harding had said he was going to check with Dawes about Peter Wiley. Had he come here and found the place like this? Or had he ordered everyone to disperse? Perhaps the last two bodies had been found, and now the big hush-up was in process. Where had Dawes said he was stationed? Exeter. The 13th Field Hospital. I checked the map and found it, maybe an hour north. Time to see the doctor. I thought about radioing in to Harding, but I didn’t want to get ordered back to London right now. If the search for the missing BIGOTs was over, there was nothing to keep us here, but I needed to find out more about Peter Wiley and how he ended up in the drink. Maybe he deserved recognition as Sir Rupert’s son, legit or not. Maybe he really was Ted Wiley’s son. Whoever his father was, Peter shouldn’t have died. Everyone else in that ill-fated convoy had been there because they were ordered to be. Peter went for his own reasons, and until those reasons made sense, I was going to stay on the hunt.
I’d been through Exeter before. It had been bombed heavily back in ’42, when the Luftwaffe conducted their Baedeker raids, so-called because they chose targets from Baedeker guides to England, selecting only those cities that had been awarded three stars for architectural and historical significance. The RAF had gone first, bombing the medieval city of Lübeck and starting a competition to see which side could incinerate or blow up the oldest buildings. I wasn’t keeping track, but I knew the rubble was still knee-deep in parts of town. I didn’t want to inch my way through miles of backed-up traffic, so I pulled over when I came to an encampment and asked the MP at the gate where the 13th Field Hospital was. He gave me directions, and for once luck was on my side. It was close, and I didn’t have to drive through bomb-damaged Exeter.
I drove around the encampment, rows and rows of canvas tents surrounded by barbed wire, green fields on the outside, mud and green khaki the predominant colors on the inside. Goat Town and Spam Town.
A road sign marked the turnoff for the field hospital, and I followed a curved drive that led to a large, three-story brick house. It made Ashcroft look like a cottage. Ambulances and jeeps were parked on one side; in the field opposite were rows of tents with red crosses painted over the olive drab.
Inside, two MPs stood behind a clerk seated at a table. I asked where I could find Major Clayton Dawes.
“Why?” one of the MPs said. The clerk, a skinny Private First Class, fiddled with his pencil and looked down at his paperwork.
“Beat it, kid. Go get a cup of coffee,” I said, and the PFC was gone so fast his swivel chair rolled back against the wall. “Now, let’s start over. Take me to Major Dawes, and show me you’re bright enough to handle basic military courtesy.”
One of the MPs kept chewing his gum like a contented cow. The other, who was trying to appear intimidating but instead looked increasingly nervous, tried to rethink the situation.
“Why, Captain?”
“You’re almost there,” I said. “Shows you’re not a complete moron. Stand at attention, both of you!” For that last bit, I used my best Sam Harding voice. They jumped. The only thing that made me madder than an MP acting like he owned the world was an MP who made me act like an officer. I’m an easy guy to get along with. Ask anyone. But I don’t like to be played for a fool. I stood closer and looked the guy in the eye from about six inches away, waiting. Finally, he got it right.
“Sir! Why do you wish to see Major Dawes, sir?”
“Very good, Sergeant,” I said, stepping back. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll give you an answer. None of your goddamn business. But here’s the thing: now I want to know why you even care. Tell me as we walk, okay?”
“Sir, you can’t see Major Dawes.” He relaxed a bit and I stepped closer again, and that put an end to that.
“Two questions, Sergeant,” I said. “Is Major Dawes here, and can you read?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, deflated.
“Which question are you answering?”
“Both, Captain. He is here, and I can read.”
“Good,” I said. “On both counts. Read this.” I pulled out my orders and waved them in front of his nose. Waved them a good bit, actually, since they were due to run out soon, and I didn’t want him looking too closely. I made sure he took in the name Eisenhower and a few choice sentences, then stuffed the papers back in my pocket. “Now take me to Dawes.”
“Okay, Captain,” the sergeant said, telling his silent partner to stay put. He took me up two flights of stairs and down a hallway flanked by rooms filled with beds, mostly empty, all of them waiting for what was about to come.
“So why’d you pull the tough-guy stuff?” I asked as we strode around a corner, more shining linoleum stretching out in front of us. This place went on forever. “You knew any officer worth his salt wouldn’t put up with that.”
“Orders, Captain. Straight from Special Agent McLean. He’s in this room, with the doctor you wanted.” He halted, pointing to a closed door with a painted sign that said CHIEF SURGEON.
“Special Agent? CIC?” I asked.
“Afraid so, Captain.” He knocked on the door. The US Army Counter-Intelligence Corps was a secretive bunch, but one thing they were well known for was operating in civilian clothes or plain uniforms with no indication of rank. I always figured it was because most of their operatives were noncommissioned officers, and it helped to shield them from the kind of routine I had used on the MP.
“What?” a voice barked out from the office. The MP opened the door.
“This captain wants to see Major Dawes, Special Agent McLean. And he’s got the orders to prove he can.” With that, the MP shut the door behind him, probably glad to be out of the cross fire.
Dawes sat in a chair across from McLean. A second agent lounged against the wall behind him. Both CIC men wore unadorned uniforms, no rank insignia except for the “U.S.” brass collar insignia, which at least told those who knew about these things that the agents were not enlisted men.
“I need to talk with Major Dawes,” I said. “Alone. What’s your beef with him?”
“Security precautions,” McLean said. He was thin and wiry, scraggly brown hair beating a retreat from his forehead, small eyes too close together, and nicotine stains on his fingers. He drew on a butt with about an inch of life left in it and ground it out in an overflowing ashtray. He looked like a man who enjoyed his work. The other Special Agent was dark, silent, and grim faced. He looked like he didn’t enjoy a damn thing. “What do you want the good doctor for?”
“I have a headache,” I said. Dawes looked up at me, panic in his eyes. Maybe he thought he was going from the frying pan into the fire. “How much longer are you going to be?”