Black Cross by Greg Iles Page A

mind,” he said. “But for now I must stand by what I said tonight.”
    The Supreme Commander rose and moved toward the study door. As he reached for the knob, something stopped him. A brief intimation that perhaps he had won too easily? He turned and fixed Churchill in his gaze. “As I’m sure you will, Mr. Prime Minister.”
    Churchill smiled in resignation. “Of course, General. Of course.”
     
    When Eisenhower’s party had gone, Brigadier Duff Smith joined Churchill in his private study. A single lamp burned at the prime minister’s desk. The one-armed SOE chief leaned forward.
    “The air seemed a bit chilly when Ike collected his men,” he observed.
    Churchill laid both pudgy hands on his desk andsighed. “He refused, Duff. No bombing of the stockpiles, no demonstration raid if we develop our own gas.”
    “Bloody hell. Doesn’t he realize what Soman would do to his sodding invasion?”
    “I don’t think he does. It’s the same old American song, the same schoolboy naivete.”
    “That naivete could still cost us the war!”
    “Eisenhower has never seen combat, Duff, remember that. I don’t hold it against him, but a man who’s never been shot at—much less gassed—lacks a certain perspective.”
    “Bloody Yanks,” Smith fumed. “They either want to fight this war from six miles up in the air or by the Marquess of Queensbury rules.”
    “Steady, old man. They’ve acquitted themselves quite handily in Italy.”
    “Aye,” Smith conceded. “But you’ve said it yourself a hundred times, Winston, ‘Action This Day!’ ”
    Churchill stuck out his lower lip and fixed the brigadier with a penetrating stare. “You never thought Eisenhower would agree to the bombing, did you?”
    The SOE chief’s poker face slipped ever so slightly. “That’s a fact, Winston. I never did.”
    “And of course you have a plan.”
    “I’ve had thoughts.”
    “No matter how desperate a pass we’ve come to, I’ve never gone against the wishes of the Americans. The risks are enormous.”
    “The threat is greater, Winston.”
    “I believe that.” Churchill paused. “You couldn’t use any British personnel.”
    “Give me some credit, old man.”
    Churchill tapped his thick fingers on the desk. “What if it failed? Could you cover your tracks?”
    Smith smiled. “Bombers go off course all the time. Drop their loads in the strangest of places.”
    “What would you need?”
    “To start, a submarine that can hold station in the Baltic for four days.”
    “That’s easily enough done. The Admiralty is the one place where my word is law.”
    “A squadron of Mosquito Bombers made available for one night.”
    “That’s quite another matter, Duff. Bomber Command is the sharpest thorn in my side.”
    “It’s an absolute necessity. Only way to cover up if we fail.”
    Churchill raised both hands in a gesture of futility. “I hate going to Harris hat in hand, but I suppose I can suffer through it once.”
    Smith drew in a breath. He was about to ask for the near-impossible. “I’d also need access to an airfield on the southern Swedish coast. For at least four days, preferably longer.”
    Churchill drew back in his chair, his face impassive. Dealing with putatively neutral countries was a tricky business. For Sweden, the price of aiding the Allies could be fifty thousand uninvited guests from Germany, all wearing parachutes. He aimed a stubby forefinger at Smith. “Can you pull this off, Duffy?”
    “Someone had better, old man.”
    Churchill studied his old friend for several moments, weighing his past successes against his failures. “All right, you’ll get your airfield. In fact, let’s just save some time.” He took a fountain pen from his desk, scrawled on a sheet of notepaper, then handed the page across to Smith. The brigadier’s eyes widened as he read:
To All Soldiers of the Allied Expeditionary Force:
Brigadier Duff Smith, Chief of Special Operations Executive, is hereby authorized to