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“And now you give up that advantage?”
Rainy shakes her head. “No, Don Vito, because now you’re going to have me checked out, and you’ll soon find out that I’m often used as a translator.”
“I’ve always said Hebes were the smartest race . . . next to partenopeos. That’s people from Naples, see.”
Rainy stands up and discovers that her knees have gone a bit wobbly and her breathing is ragged. Yes, there is something about these people that is similar to what she’d felt coming from the SS colonel. It was like trying to hold a calm discussion with a hungry tiger.
Don Vito stands and comes around the desk. He takes Rainy’s hand in two of his and holds hers firmly but not harshly.
“You’ll do this?”
“If my commanding officer orders me to, yes.”
Rainy disentangles herself and leaves, by way of the pool hall. There’s a new song playing, the bleary, slow-tempo tune with lyrics sung over a mellow sax.
What’s the use of getting sober
When you’re gonna get drunk again?
Rainy is trembling as she reaches fresh air, and the stress catches up with her. Down the street she finds an all-hours diner with a pay phone in one corner. She fumbles in her purse for a nickel and makes a call to Colonel Corelli.
Ten minutes later an unmarked army staff car picks her up a block away.
8
RAINY SCHULTERMAN—LAGUARDIA FIELD, NEW YORK, USA
Amateur.
That’s what Bayswater said of Corelli and his organization. Amateur. He’s going to get you killed. And it eats at Rainy. From her first days in the army she’s been taught that her first duty is to obey orders. She has latched onto that thought, relied on it, let it shape her thinking about the army and her job in that army.
It is comforting to be able to shift responsibility, to be able to shrug and say, I’m following orders. But what if the person giving the orders doesn’t know what he’s doing?
Rainy saw the colonel again, was congratulated, thoroughly debriefed, and sent home for two days. Then she was summoned to see Corelli a third time and given a sealed packet of orders along with instructions not to open it until she is airborne out of New York. She pats it through her overcoat as her car and its driver come to a halt on the bleak tarmac.
The C-47 is a twin-engine tail-dragger, meaning that it lands on the wheels beneath its wings and lets the tail settle down onto a third, smaller wheel. It is the workhorse of American air forces with variant versions used to haul supplies, to haul men, to haul VIPs, and to carry airborne troops to drop zones. Its civilian version is known as a DC-3.
This plane sits tail down, with both engines running, round nose pointed optimistically toward the eastern sky. A light, early morning rain falls, slicking the concrete runway and turning the green-painted fuselage almost black. The props are kicking up a horizontal tornado of mist that plucks at Rainy’s cap, so she has to hold it with one hand while hefting her light pack on one shoulder.
At least she won’t be jumping out of this plane. Hopefully.
Ground crew lead her from the colonel’s thoughtfully provided car to the doorway abaft the wings, which means passing right through that gale of backwash. She shouts a “thank you” that the ground crewmen cannot possibly hear.
She is helped up the steps by a sergeant, who grabs her bag and with quick, practiced movements whips it into one of the seats and ties it down with a series of cords. The seats run down both sides, facing toward what would be the center aisle on a DC-3. Inside the plane are some crates, one quite large, lashed down with thick straps.
There is only one other passenger, a civilian, obviously Cisco Camporeale. At first glance he doesn’t look like a gangster, though there is something flashy and cheap about him. He’s dark of hair, eye, and complexion, of medium height, solidly built. He’s dressed in an expensive overcoat with an equally expensive and fashionable dark suit beneath. His tie is silk, somewhat flamboyant, and carefully knotted.
Rainy is shown to a seat beside him and has her seat belt fastened for her. A second, more careful inspection takes in the way the young gangster looks at her. His eyes are large and moist, framed by girlish lashes. His lips are thin and rest in an ironic smile. It is a handsome face, a very handsome face, but his expression, at first predatory, softens into dismissal.
Apparently, Rainy is not his type.
She breathes a sigh of relief at that. She’s been worried he might, over the course of a long mission, get ideas that would make Rainy’s job harder.
“I’d stand up, you know. I am a gentleman, but I’m strapped in,” Cisco says, and extends his hand with a languid superiority that almost suggests he expects it to be kissed rather than shaken. “Cisco Camporeale.”
His palm is damp, either with nerves or perhaps just a result of the steam rising from wet clothing.
“Sergeant Schulterman,” she says.
