When Tides Turn Page 17

  Why couldn’t she get that man out of her head? She threw on a smile. “War bonds—care enough to give enough.”

  For the next three hours she patrolled the station. No sign of Yvette and Henri, but it was just now 1830. Tess returned to find the WAVES and the sailors dismantling the booth without a trace of flirting.

  Tess joined in the work, keeping the concourse under surveillance. At 1835, Yvette and Henri strolled from the direction of the Ambassador’s platform. At least they were consistent.

  But where had they gone? Maybe some weekend Tess could take the New Englander and see where they disembarked. Wouldn’t that be exciting?

  Yvette glanced her way, and Tess waved.

  “That’s the last of it, ma’am,” one of the sailors said.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it. All right, everyone’s dismissed.”

  Now she could follow Yvette and Henri without looking suspicious. She pulled on her overcoat and picked up her purse.

  A man strode down the concourse, a large dark-haired man in a black overcoat. What was it about him? He looked familiar.

  Tess gasped. Yvette’s date at the Cocoanut Grove!

  He glanced around the corner after Yvette and Henri, then swept the concourse with a steely gaze—which landed on Tess for the shortest scariest moment.

  Who was he? Did she dare follow?

  Why not? She couldn’t let fear win.

  Tess eased into the crowd. She had every right to go this direction. She climbed the stairs and stepped outside into the chilly moonless night. The streets glistened, drenched from yesterday’s record rainfall.

  Yvette and Henri entered a taxi. But where did the mystery man go?

  Tess spun around. The station doors opened, and there he was at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall and looking at his watch.

  Her breath caught. When did he get behind her? And why?

  Yvette’s taxi drove away, and Tess hopped into the next one. Everything in her wanted to say, “Follow that cab,” but she resisted.

  “Where to, miss?”

  “Um . . .” She opened her purse and grabbed her notepad. “Let’s see. My friend gave me a map, but oh dear, her handwriting. I’ll read it to you. Go straight.”

  “All right, lady.” He pulled from the curb.

  Tess held up her notepad but kept her eyes on Yvette’s cab, which turned toward the bridge. “Let’s see. Take the Charlestown Bridge.”

  She felt very clever and detective-like, but less so when it became clear Yvette was going home. That wasn’t exciting or informative.

  When Yvette’s taxi stopped in front of the apartment, Tess asked the cabby to stop about a block behind. She peered out the window. “Isn’t that lovely? My friend’s moving to Boston, and this place is for rent. She wanted me to see if it was nice.”

  The cabby huffed. “Listen, lady. If you wanted me to follow that cab, you should’ve just said, ‘Follow that cab.’”

  “I—” But she’d been caught in a lie, and she couldn’t deny it. Her cheeks burned.

  “Guarantee that’s what the fella behind us said.”

  “The fellow—”

  “Don’t look. Big man in a black coat, has a dark look to him, you know what I mean?”

  “I do.” Tess sank lower in the seat, her face on fire.

  “You in trouble, miss? Want me to take you to the cops? Or you want me to shake him?”

  “Shake him, yes.” She gave him her address. “No, wait. Go slowly at first. I want to see if he was following me or my friend.”

  “Your friend?” He shook his head and pulled away from the curb. “Listen, lady. I don’t know which of those fellas broke your heart or why, but this ain’t worth it.”

  No, it wasn’t.

  “And he’s following us. But don’t you worry. I’ll shake him so hard, his ears will fall off.”

  “Thank you.” Maybe letting fear win would be wise after all.

  27

  North Atlantic

  Wednesday, March 10, 1943

  A frigid mist stung Dan’s cheeks, but his heavy mackinaw and gloves kept him comfortable. “Finally got our planes up this morning. Can’t wait to hear their report.”

  “It’s about time. I was beginning to wonder why you Yanks were here.” The twinkle in Lt. Clive Sinclair’s light blue eyes showed he was teasing. Sinclair belonged to the team of Royal Navy observers who were sailing with the Bogue on her first cruise to advise on British convoy procedures and communications.

  Sinclair had a valid point. The Bogue and her escorting destroyers USS Belknap and USS George E. Badger had sailed from Argentia, Newfoundland, on March 5 to join Convoy HX-228, but high seas and bad weather had limited flight operations to only two days so far. If the carrier didn’t provide air cover, she was no use to the convoy.

  On the sponson gun platform that jutted out from the port side across from the bridge, Dan stood on tiptoes to see over the flight deck. He felt like a small boy peeking up at the dinner table. “This ship is just here for decoration.”

  Sinclair laughed. “A rather frightful decoration, if you ask me.”

  “True.” Despite the rough gray seas and the serious threat of U-boats, his mind flew back to Boston, to Tess longing to be seen as useful and not just decorative. “Don’t ever tell me I’m beautiful. Don’t ever buy me pretty things. Tell me I have a purpose. Buy me useful things.” She’d said those words in anger, but now he remembered them fondly. She’d more than proven herself.

  He could still see her seated at his desk, revising his letter to Captain Short. Her pretty handwriting with its generous loops complemented his angular, utilitarian script. Dan had saved that rough draft.

  Love was turning him into a sentimental fool.

  Even worse, he didn’t half mind it.

  Although he couldn’t deny his feelings for Tess, he didn’t dare admit them, not with both careers at stake. Lord willing, this assignment on the Bogue would lead to a transfer.

  “The torpedo bombers ought to land soon.” Sinclair scanned the sky with his binoculars.

  Dan trained his binoculars to the south. The Bogue had dropped out of her protected position in the center of the convoy to retrieve her aircraft. “There. I see a TBF.”

  “I’m sure you chaps hope to sight a sub, but I doubt the merchant marines share that sentiment.” Farther east, Convoy SC-121 had been ravaged by a wolf pack of U-boats over the last few days. It wouldn’t be long until they turned their periscopes to the next convoy in line.

  The Avenger circled the Bogue, then came in for the landing approach, wheels down. The landing signal officer stood at the stern, far to port, waving his flags to direct the torpedo bomber. A dangerous job. On the Chesapeake in February, the Bogue’s original LSO had been struck by the wheel of a landing aircraft and killed.

  Dan didn’t envy the pilot his job. Landing a plane seemed tricky enough, but on a short and narrow flight deck, pitching and rolling on the North Atlantic? It required sheer bravado.

  The TBF came in lower and lower, right over the stern, and the tail hook snagged one of the nine arresting wires. The flight deck gang rushed to the plane and helped her taxi toward the forward elevator in front of Dan. The pilot, radioman, and gunner hopped out.

  The pilot ran toward the bridge, making sharp gestures toward the sea and toward his plane.

  “I wonder what happened.” Dan climbed the short ladder to the flight deck.

  Sinclair followed. “The old boy doesn’t look happy.”

  The two men jogged over to the TBF. The pilot strode back to his plane, followed by Commander Monroe, the air officer.

  The pilot squatted under his plane and pointed at the bomb bay. “The bomb rack failed to release.”

  “Let’s go down to the ready room,” Commander Monroe said. “We need to clear the deck so the other planes can land. And we need to debrief you, learn everything we can about that U-boat.”

  “U-boat?” A chilly wind tugged at Dan
’s mackinaw.

  “Mr. Avery, this is Ensign Alexander McAuslan, the first pilot of our squadron to sight a sub.”

  Dan shook the man’s hand, questions brimming in his throat, but he’d wait so he could record every detail.

  Down in the ready room, Dan sat around a table with McAuslan’s crew, Sinclair, Monroe, and Lt. Cdr. William Drane, the squadron commander.

  The senior officers asked questions, and the story poured out. Only ten miles away, McAuslan had sighted a surfaced U-boat. He dove at 180 knots and pressed the bomb release button when he was fifty feet above the sub, a perfect approach. But the depth bombs didn’t release. McAuslan yanked back the stick and swung around for another run. By then the U-boat was diving. Once again, the bombs didn’t release.

  As Dan took down his report, he heard the pilot’s frustration. Not only did he want a kill to his credit—who wouldn’t?—but that U-boat remained free to summon his friends and attack the convoy.

  Protocol demanded radio silence, so McAuslan couldn’t call in help. Low on gas, he’d flown to the nearest destroyer and dropped a message to the deck. But valuable time was wasted.

  Dan stared at his neatly written report. What a shame. A sighting, a determined pilot, a flawless approach, and a well-executed follow-up run. All foiled by a mechanical glitch.

  After he finished his paperwork and ate his lunch, he headed to the open bridge to find out the latest news. An icy wind whipped around the men and equipment.

  Sinclair greeted him. “The destroyer didn’t find a trace of that U-boat. Neither did the other aircraft.”

  Dan shook his head and glanced around from his high vantage point, his knees bent to absorb the twenty-degree roll of the ship. “Now we’re back in the center of the convoy and can’t launch more planes.”

  Captain Short hung up the telephone-like Talk Between Ships communication system and addressed the senior officers on the bridge. “Our destroyers tried to refuel from the escort tanker again and failed.”

  Dan winced. The Belknap and the George E. Badger were old World War I–era destroyers, considered “short-legged.” They couldn’t make it to Britain without refueling.

  The captain glanced at his watch. “We have to turn back.”

  In the gray mist, sixty cargo ships braved the seas, bearing explosives and oil, grain and sugar, all desperately needed in the United Kingdom. The ships also bore hundreds of merchant marines and passengers.

  “We can’t turn back now,” Dan muttered to Sinclair.

  “You don’t have a choice.” The British officer leaned his elbows on the railing. “A dreadful shame. The battle is heating up, and we’re blind to the enemy’s activity again.”

  Neither Dan nor Sinclair were privy to the classified details, but the Allies had lost a vital source of intelligence. The Bogue was needed at sea, but she needed her destroyers for protection. And if her destroyers ran out of fuel . . . “You’re right. We don’t have a choice.”

  Sinclair twisted to face Dan. “This wasn’t a very fruitful cruise for you, was it?”

  “No.” Only six days at sea, five days with the convoy, two days with flight operations, and one U-boat sighting and attack—which failed.

  Hardly enough to justify Dan’s presence. When they returned to Argentia, would Commander Lewis recall him to Boston? If he did, chances were he’d never approve similar duties in the future. Then how could Dan prove himself and obtain a transfer?

  The last few days at sea had felt right—the soothing pitch and roll of the ship, the invigorating brace of air, the camaraderie of a crew on duty. Even though Dan was working, he felt more rested than in his office with Randolph’s nitpicking and busywork.

  The icy air tasted of salt and fuel oil and purpose. Dan closed his eyes. Lord, help me get this transfer. I need to be here. It—it’s like a Sabbath.

  Admiral Howard had taught him much about hard work and strong character and the Navy way, and Dan would always be grateful to him. But in his death, the admiral taught lessons he never intended—the importance of rest and the emptiness of being alone.

  Dan leaned on the railing beside Sinclair. He was already applying the first lesson. God had commanded people to rest for their own good, a command born out of mercy and kindness, out of a knowledge of human frailty.

  But companionship? The desire wrestled with his ambition. Could he have the career he wanted with a woman at his side? If so, what about Tess?

  Dan thumped his hand on the railing. What about her? She thought of him as an annoying big brother. A grumble-bee.

  And grumble-bees flew alone.

  28

  Boston

  Tuesday, March 16, 1943

  “We missed you last week.” Agent Sheffield motioned for Tess to take a seat in front of his desk. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

  “I am, sir. Thank you. Just a touch of bronchitis.” The huskiness in her voice proved it. The bronchitis provided a convenient excuse to skip the French meeting the day after she’d been followed. It had taken a week to recover her courage.

  “How was last night’s meeting?” The agent extended his hand for her written report.

  “First, I have to tell you I was followed recently.” She related her story.

  With each sentence, the agent’s jaw jutted out further and further. “Don’t do that again.”

  “Follow Yvette?”

  “Follow anyone. You aren’t trained, and this is what happens. I only asked you to attend meetings and bring me reports. Even that is a risk. When you play sleuth, you endanger the entire investigation.”

  Tess’s chin threatened to quiver, but she didn’t let it. “And the man who followed me?”

  Agent Sheffield pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his rumpled gray suit. “The description is too vague. Large man in his thirties, dark hair. It could even be Hayes here.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t.” She shot Agent Hayes a reassuring smile, but then her cheeks warmed. She sounded silly. “Of course not.”

  Agent Sheffield busied himself with lighter and cigarette. He probably wished he was working with Mary again instead of babbling Tess.

  “Here’s my report.” She slid it across the desk.

  His face brightened, and he read it. “Attendance has fallen.”

  “The bomb scared a lot of people away.”

  He nodded and read some more. “So Pierre Guillory wants the group to recruit spies for the Office of Strategic Services? They can handle their own recruitment.”

  “He made a good point. I’m sure the OSS could use people who speak fluent French and know French ways.” Madame Robillard had protested about jumping from airplanes. The thought of the tiny plump baker in a parachute brought up a chuckle, but Tess turned it into a mild cough.

  “I see Jean-Auguste Fournier brought up his usual hogwash about Allied spies and the Resistance being bad for France, stirring up trouble and riling up the populace.”

  “Yes. Madame Robillard agrees because she’s worried about Nazi reprisals on civilians. Namely, her sons. Solange parrots everything Madame and Jean-Auguste say.”

  “No one speaks up for the Resistance anymore except Mr. Guillory?”

  “That’s right. Everyone writes him off as a hothead, but he’s the only one who speaks sense. The Resistance is vital.” Each act of sabotage in a factory slowed production of weapons for the Nazis. And when the people were riled up, the Germans diverted troops from the front lines to keep them in check. But the Resistance required outside help—help provided by Allied agents.

  Sheffield set down the report and tapped ashes into the ashtray. “And Professor Arnaud?”

  Tess sighed. “He used to sound patriotic, but now he wants everyone to stop bickering and discuss food and family and culture.”

  “Of course he does. Anything else I might be interested in?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “All right. We’ll see you next week.” He stood to shake her hand. “Remember what
I said—no searches, no following, no seeking clues. Attend the meetings and bring me reports. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” She raised a polite smile, but it wobbled. How much good did her reports do anyway?

  In the reception area, Tess retrieved her raincoat and attached the havelock to the back of her cover. The flap protected her hair and kept rain from trickling down her collar, but it also made her look like a member of the French Foreign Legion.

  Tess took the elevator down to ground level and exited the granite-block office building with its Art Deco bronze-and-glass doors. Darkness and rain and the dim-out darkened Post Office Square, and Tess turned right on Congress Street toward the subway station.

  She ducked under the eaves at the corner newsstand for a reprieve from the rain.

  The evening headlines turned her stomach. Censorship kept most of the details off the front pages, but the message was clear. The Allies were taking a beating on the high seas. The U-boats had sunk dozens of merchant ships in the past few weeks.

  How about the escort ships?

  How about Lt. Daniel Avery?

  No. Tess marched forward through the rain. He needed to be at sea. Would she love him as much if he were the kind of man who chose the safe route over the good route? No, she wouldn’t.

  Regardless, she missed him. Oh, Lord, if only he could return my love.

  Tess crossed the street. That seemed like a selfish prayer, and yet it wasn’t. In the past, she’d wanted men’s affections so they’d give her attention and adoration. But not with Dan.

  She wanted to give him love. She wanted to walk by his side. She wanted to encourage him, make him smile and laugh, help him play and relax, so he could be an even better officer. She wanted to help him be both the admiral and the little boy.

  Tess wiped some raindrops off her face. If she had to love him as a friend rather than as a girlfriend, well then, that’s what she’d do.

  Turning onto State Street, she twisted her head to shield her face from the rain. The Old State House rose before her in its solid colonial brick, a regal clock hanging above the balcony where the Declaration of Independence was first read to the people of Boston.