Through Waters Deep (9 page)

Monday, June 16, 1941

Mary turned the corner and paused in the hallway, her breath bundled up inside her. Outside Agent Sheffield's office, Jim leaned against the wall, gazing the other way toward the main entrance. He wore his dress blues, his hands in his trouser pockets, his long legs crossed at the ankle, his raincoat tucked under one arm.

He cut such a dashing figure—dashing her hopes that her crush would die a quick death. At the Totem Pole Ballroom he'd acted oddly enough to fan her dream that he might return her affections, but on Sunday morning at church, he'd been perfectly normal.

Raindrops beat on the window of the main door. This weather wouldn't help the workers get the
Atwood
repaired so the ship could spirit her assistant gunnery officer back to sea where he belonged.

In the meantime, she had a job to do and a façade to maintain. She stood tall and headed down the hallway.

Jim turned to her, grinned, and pushed off from the wall. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. You know, you don't have to do this.”

“I want to. I'll let you do the talking, I promise. But he knows me from my lengthy interrogation. He likes me, and I think he'll accept your ideas better if I show respect for you.”

“You mean he'll be less likely to call this my pretty little Nancy Drew notebook?” She patted the notebook in her arms.

Jim grimaced. “He said that?”

Mary pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh. He's partly right.”

“We men can be dolts.” He held open the door for her.

Why did she long to pat his cheek and tell him what a darling dolt he was? Mary entered the office and hung her raincoat and umbrella on the coatrack.

Agent Sheffield stood beside his desk, pulling papers out of a cardboard box. At another desk against the wall, a large dark-haired man in a charcoal gray suit did likewise. Sheffield gave Mary a wry look. “I thought you might be back.”

Time to be brave. “I thought you might summon me.”

“Ensign Avery.” The FBI agent stepped forward and shook Jim's hand. “Are you acquainted with this young lady?”

“Yes, sir. We went to high school together.”

“Please have a seat.” Agent Sheffield motioned to one chair and pulled a second from the corner. “May I introduce my partner, Agent Walter Hayes?”

The younger man shook hands, quiet and dark and brooding, looking far more the part of an FBI agent than his slight, rumpled, light-haired partner.

“We're all glad you found that bomb in time. No fingerprints, of course, but plenty of useful evidence. I'd hate to see it destroyed.” Agent Sheffield settled into his chair, rummaged in his breast pocket, and pulled out a cigarette case.

Jim shot Mary a comical look, and she had to look away so she wouldn't laugh. All business, this agent—more concerned with the evidence in the bomb than a whole shipload of men.

Mary smoothed the skirt of her pale gray summer suit. “Agent—”

“I'm impressed with your keen observations, Ensign.” He lit his cigarette.

“Only because of Miss Stirling.” Jim gestured her way. “If she hadn't raised my suspicions, I wouldn't have investigated.”

Agent Sheffield turned to her as if seeing her for the first time. “Tell me again what you have.”

“Yes, sir.” Mary laid the notebook on the desk and repeated everything she'd told him two weeks earlier. “As you see, I've recorded each person's possible motive, means, and opportunity, plus my notes.”

“The gossip.”

Her mouth tightened. “I transcribe conversations.”

“Entire conversations.” Jim leaned his elbows on his knees. “She can take shorthand over two hundred words per minute.”

Agent Sheffield leaned back in his chair and blew out a column of smoke. “All right. Tell me your theories, Miss Marple. Although you're too young to play
that
amateur sleuth.”

She'd pretend she hadn't recognized his patronizing tone. “The obvious suspects are any Nazi sympathizers, perhaps members of the German-American Bund.”

“I agree. Any names come to mind?”

“No, sir. A lot of people suspect Heinrich Bauer, but he's never said or done anything wrong that I know of. He just happens to be German.”

“A suspiciously silent German. Does he talk to you?”

“No, sir. But it all seems rather obvious, don't you think? The swastika and the ‘Sieg Heil'? If he wanted to be subtle, he failed.”

Agent Sheffield tipped his head in an indulgent manner. “One thing I've learned in this business is criminals have
immense egos. They want to draw attention to their cause or to their own brilliance. And the folks in the German-American Bund are thugs. They don't know anything about subtlety.”

Mary sat forward. “But do they want to be seen as saboteurs? They want to rally Americans to their cause, not drive them away. It seems more likely that the saboteur is an interventionist who wants to make it look as if the Nazis are wreaking havoc. That would fan a public uproar, wouldn't—”

“The other thing I've learned in this position.” Agent Sheffield rocked forward, and the front legs of his chair thumped on the floor. “The obvious scenario is usually true. The obvious suspects are usually guilty. Framing is very rare outside of Hollywood.”

Mary tucked away her theory that an isolationist could be framing an interventionist, making it look as if
he
were framing a German. Agent Sheffield would burst into laughter at her convoluted logic.

Jim turned his cap in his hands. “Mary's idea makes sense to me. I think the saboteur wanted the bomb to be found. Why would he hide it in a busy place like a handling room?”

“If it weren't such a crudely designed bomb, you wouldn't have discovered it.”

Jim gave Mary an apologetic look.

“Listen.” Agent Sheffield thumbed through Mary's notebook. “I can't tell a bright young girl not to think, but you'd be better off not trying to figure this out. Let us do our work. Now that we have facts and evidence, the investigation will go into full swing. And your notes might prove useful. I appreciate the work you've done.”

“Thank you, sir.” Somehow his condescension allowed Mary to accept his praise. “And I'll continue—”

“No!” He fixed a strong gaze on her. “Leave the investigation to the professionals.”

“I can still take notes. They might—”

“No. Absolutely not. It's only a matter of time until people figure out you're spying on them. This saboteur is dangerous. He was willing to kill two hundred men for his cause. He won't hesitate to hurt you. Leave it to us.”

Mary rose from her chair, her legs wobbly. “Thank you for your concern, sir.”

“And thanks for listening.” Jim stood and shook the man's hand.

“Yes. Well, keep an eye on this young lady. Make sure she keeps her dainty little hands out of this. Of course, you know how women are.”

“Don't worry, sir. Miss Stirling is smart. She'll do the right thing.” Jim held the door open for her.

Mary gathered her belongings and scrutinized Jim as she left the room.

He gave her a wink, shut the door, and headed down the hallway. “Have time for lunch?”

She glanced at her watch. “Barely. What did you mean by that?”

Jim laughed and slipped on his raincoat. “I meant you're too smart
not
to keep investigating. That you'll keep doing the right thing.”

What a good friend she had in him. She pulled on her coat too. The rain hadn't relented all morning.

Jim reached for her umbrella. “May I? I doubt your dainty little hands could hold it.”

Mary laughed and handed it to him. “The man's impossible.”

“And I'm selfish.” He nudged the door open and raised the umbrella. “The only time an officer is allowed to use an umbrella is when he's shielding a lady.”

“Taking advantage of my friendship so you can stay dry?”

“Guilty as charged.” He offered his arm.

Mary clutched it, taking advantage of the umbrella to stay near to him. Guilty, although she hadn't been charged.

Jim strode forward through the rain toward the yard restaurant. “Agent Sheffield might not want to hear your theories, but I do. What are you thinking? One of the interventionists?”

“Yes. Someone who wants us to fight.”

“Like Kaplan—that's his name, right?”

“Right. He's making a lot of noise, asking why Bauer hasn't been fired, much less arrested.”

“Who else? Winston somebody?”

Mary hopped over a puddle. “Weldon Winslow, naval architect.”

“Now that's a highbrow name. Sounds like he'd associate with Archer Vandenberg and his friends.”

“Perhaps. He's heir to the Winslow Shipbuilding fortune.”

Jim stopped and faced her. “Why does he work here?”

A raindrop scuttled down Mary's collar. She guided Jim back along the way. “His family rejected him when he married a working-class British girl. He renounced his inheritance.”

Jim's lower jaw crept forward, and his eyes narrowed. “I don't understand.”

“People are saying he lied about the feud, that he wants to undermine work at the Boston Navy Yard so his family's company will receive more Navy contracts. Plus, he loves England and desperately wants to help the British people.”

“Because of his wife. Makes sense.”

“But Mr. Winslow says he thinks his family sent the saboteur.”

“Ah, to discredit the wayward son.”

“Yes.”

“Complicated.” His eyes sparkled.

“Not as complicated as my other theory.”

“What's that?”

Mary held his arm tight and frowned. “What if an isolationist is framing an interventionist?”

“An isolationist . . . ?”

“Think about it. What's one of the strongest isolationist arguments? That the British used false propaganda to trick us into fighting the First World War. Now, what would happen if an interventionist made it look as if the Nazis were trying to sink our ships and kill our men? How would the public react?”

Jim nodded. “They'd be furious. It might tip the scales and make people want to enter the war.”

“Exactly. But what if that interventionist were proven to be framing the Germans? What if he were caught in the act of tricking the public?”

“I see. Then the public would be even more furious that they'd been fooled. They'd be even more opposed to entering the war or helping the Allies. Say, that's clever, Mary.”

She stopped at the entrance to Building 28. “I don't know about clever. Remember what our dear FBI agent said about the obvious scenario usually being right. He's far more experienced than I am. Reading mysteries isn't the same as solving them.”

Jim opened the door for Mary and shook out the umbrella. “Well, keep up your work. I promised him I'd keep an eye on you, after all.”

“Now who's being clever?” Mary stepped inside and unbuttoned her raincoat.

“One thing's for certain—the saboteur succeeded in his primary purpose. My ship is not at sea, and everyone here is busy putting her back together instead of building new ships.”

Mary sighed and hung her coat on a row of hooks. “And with all the tensions whipped into a frenzy, productivity has slowed to a crawl.”

Jim shrugged off his coat. “All the more reason for Mary Stirling to continue her amateur sleuthing.”

“I will.”

In the restaurant, the tables were crowded with workers. Mary smiled at some of them and greeted others. After four years, they felt almost like uncles and cousins. Some were rough around the edges, but they were the salt of the earth, hardworking and trustworthy.

How could any one of these men commit sabotage? Would any of them really try to hurt her?

“Mary?” Jim's voice sounded husky.

She faced him. “Yes?”

He gripped her arm, right above the elbow, with an intensity in his gaze she hadn't seen before. “Be careful.”

In that crowded room, surrounded by boisterous conversation, all she could see was the concern in his eyes. “I will.”

Tuesday, July 1, 1941

Lieutenant Reinhardt signed the form with a flourish and passed it to Jim without a glance. “Take that up to the captain.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Jim exchanged a look with Gunner's Mate Homer Udell. Ever since they'd discovered the bomb, Reinhardt had rarely looked them in the eye. Could be he was angry at Jim and Udell for going over his head. Or it could be he was embarrassed that they'd been forced to do so, that he hadn't acted himself.

Either way, Jim handled the gunnery officer as he would a caged bear. Feed him regularly with work well done. Don't provoke him. Don't get caught alone in a room with him.

Jim stepped out the door of the handling room onto the main deck. He fanned his khaki shirt against his sweaty chest. In the high eighties today with plenty of humidity and a chance of thunderstorms.

For the past two weeks since they'd returned to Boston, everyone had worked hard tearing the ship apart and putting her back together again—under the supervision of armed Marine guards. Would they get liberty before they shipped
out for their second attempt at a shakedown cruise? Jim hadn't seen Mary since their meeting with Agent Sheffield.

The granite and brick buildings of the Navy Yard taunted him with their nearness. How could he pursue Mary if he never saw her?

Jim huffed out a breath and climbed up to the bridge. Friday was the Fourth of July. Surely Durant would give the men a break for the holiday.

Durant's voice floated down from the bridge—and another, more familiar voice. Jim doubled his speed up the stairs. Could it be?

Sure enough, out in the sunshine on the wing of the bridge, Durant stood chatting with Jim's oldest brother, Lt. Daniel Avery, wearing dress whites in contrast to the khakis worn by the crew of the
Atwood
.

“Dan!” Jim sprang forward to shake his brother's hand. “I mean, Mr. Avery. Good to see you, Mr. Avery.”

“Good to see you too, Mr. Avery.” Dan's hazel eyes sparkled beneath strong dark brows, and he gave Jim a hearty handshake.

“What are you doing here?”

“The
Vincennes
put in to Hampton Roads. I have a week's leave. Thought I'd see how my little brother is getting along.”

Although Jim stood two inches taller than Dan, he still felt like a gangly, goofy kid next to him. Dan had a way about him, had it all his life—commanding, confident, no-nonsense.

“Your little brother is doing well for himself.” Durant nudged Dan in the arm. “Earned a medal. He's the one who found the bomb.”

“And Gunner's Mate Udell, sir. He alerted me to the situation. And don't forget Mr. Banning gave the orders.”

Durant and Dan gave him matching appreciative looks—both men valued competence and disdained boasting.

Why did Jim feel like a puppy receiving a pat on the head? Ridiculous. He was a grown man. He pulled himself tall, glad of his height, and gave the report to the captain. “Sir, from Mr. Reinhardt. All four 5-inch guns are back in working order.”

“Good. Good.” Durant perused the form. “Sooner we can get this ship in shape the better.”

“We need destroyers out there,” Dan said.

“I know.” Durant nodded to Jim. “Your brother's ship has been out on Neutrality Patrol.”

Now Jim felt like the boy being asked to sit at the grown-up table for Thanksgiving dinner. Best to keep his opinions to himself in case he sounded foolish. “What's it like out there, Da—Mr. Avery?”

A flicker of a smile from Dan. He'd never been much of one for laughter. “Tense. As you know, we aren't escorting convoys yet. But we patrol the Security Zone and report any German ships.”

Roosevelt had extended the Security Zone past Greenland, almost reaching Iceland, making a giant portion of the Atlantic off-limits to Axis ships.

“Anything to report?” Durant asked in a confidential tone.

Dan edged closer. “Our sonar operator made a sound contact, but it disappeared in minutes. Could have been a whale.”

Despite the heat, a chill raced up Jim's arms. “Or it could have been a U-boat.”

Dan adjusted his white cover. “I like to think the
Vincennes
scared it away.”

“The Nazis can't afford another mistake after they sank the
Robin Moor
,” Durant said.

The Avery brothers murmured their agreement in unison. In late May, a U-boat had sunk the freighter in the South Atlantic, although she flew under the neutral American flag
and was unarmed, as were all American merchant ships. The crew had survived, but only after spending two weeks in lifeboats.

A light breeze cooled Jim's face. “The Nazis won't provoke us—not when they're fighting on two fronts now.”

“True,” Dan said. Germany had shocked the world the previous week by invading the Soviet Union, turning on their former ally. “Hitler may have spread himself too thin.”

“Not at sea.” Durant crossed his arms, the report from Reinhardt fluttering in his hand. “The war with Russia is a land battle. The U-boats are free to roam. England might not have to worry about invasion for a while, but she can still be starved of food and supplies. The sea's her lifeline. Her strength—and her great weakness.”

Dan wrapped his hand around the railing. “It's hard for Brittania to rule the waves when U-boats lurk underneath.”

“Say . . .” Durant glanced at his watch and then at the halyard lines stretching to the yardarm at the top of the mast. “I thought Mr. Shapiro was going to drill his flag crew at 1100 hours. Mr. Avery, please remind him.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Back to messenger boy.

“I'll go with you.” Dan clapped the captain on the back. “Don't forget about our dinner plans, Cal. I'm looking forward to it.”

“Me too. See you at 1800.”

Jim led the way up to the signal deck, on the roof of the pilothouse and at the base of the gun director. He gave Dan a teasing look over his shoulder. “Calling the captain by his first name, eh?”

“We go a long way back.”

“You're only four years older than I am.”

“That's a long way back.” Dan's eyes glowed with the pride of accomplishment. He'd already made a name for himself with the brass.

Up on the signal deck, Lt. Maurice Shapiro chatted with two sailors. “Hey, Mr. Avery!”

“Hi, Mr. Shapiro.” Normally they called each other Mo and Jim, but not with Dan right behind him. Jim introduced his brother to the communications officer.

“I assume the captain sent you. We're ten minutes late with our drill.” Mo's green eyes twinkled, a startling contrast with his olive skin and black hair. “Go ahead and keelhaul me.”

Jim frowned at the water some forty feet below. “Hard to do at port.”

Shapiro clicked his heels and saluted. “I shall commence posthaste.”

“Good. Good,” Jim said in his best Durant imitation. “Posthaste.”

One of the sailors slouched against the flag bag. “Ah, posthaste means fast, don't it? All we do is drill, drill, drill. When're we gonna get liberty? We're tired.”

“I know what you mean.” Jim sent him a smile of commiseration. “We could all use some liberty. Best way to get it is by doing these drills crisp and fast.”

Dan cleared his throat and tilted his head toward the far side of the little deck.

Jim followed and turned to see the drill. He loved watching the sailors string up the colorful signal flags.

“Jim,” Dan said in a low voice. “Don't let the boys talk like that.”

“Like what?” But a sinking feeling told him the truth. He'd breached etiquette.

“The grumbling. And definitely don't join in. It's bad form. Believe me, when you're out at sea with the gales blowing and the sea heaving, those boys will wish they were back at port running drills—especially when this turns into a shooting war.”

“Only a matter of time, eh?”

Dan's eyes darkened. “Very soon.”

“All the more reason to give the men some time off. I know I could use some.” The Bunker Hill Monument rose to starboard, with Mary's cozy apartment at its base. “I'd love a night out dancing.”

“Do you have a girl?” Dan's voice curled in disapproval.

Jim hadn't even told Arch about his intentions, in case an innocent slip or a not-so-innocent jest undid his efforts at subtlety. “Four of us. Arch and his girlfriend, Gloria, and my friend Mary Stirling from back home. She works here at the Navy Yard.”

“Stirling?” Dan's dark eyebrows drew together. “Any relation to Harriet Stirling? She was in my class. Popular girl.”

“Probably. Mary has two older sisters, but she's quite a bit younger. They aren't close.”

“This isn't that silly blonde girl your friend Hugh was dating.”

Jim swallowed hard. “No. In fact, Quintessa is Mary's best friend.”

“Quintessa.” Dan shook his head. “How could I forget a name like that?”

For Jim, forgetting her came easier every day.

Dan squinted at the signal flags racing up the halyards. “Well, see you don't get involved.”

Jim read his brother's message as easily as he read the flags. “Ah, yes. The philosophy of the eminent Aloysius Howard.” Dan had studied under the admiral at the Academy and then had served under his command at sea—and he wanted to follow in every one of his hero's distinguished footsteps.

“He's right.” Dan straightened his white tunic. “A woman slows down the serious naval officer. She cries when you go into danger, so you hold back. Or she has her own ambitions for your career and pushes you in the wrong direction.”

Jim smiled at the bright red and yellow and blue and white
flags flapping above him. Mary was brave enough to send him to sea and gentle enough not to manipulate him.

“More importantly . . .” Dan tapped Jim's arm with the back of his hand. “What if you face a situation at sea? What if your destroyer is escorting a convoy, and a U-boat approaches? The proper thing is to make an aggressive attack and protect the convoy. But what if you have a pretty wife at home, maybe a couple of children? You might be tempted to save your own neck for their sakes. That would be wrong.”

How could he resist a tease? “What about Durant? He's married, has four of the cutest girls you've ever seen.”

Dan glanced behind, below. “Why do you think he's only commanding a destroyer? At his age, he should be a lot further along. He's a good man, probably the best I've served with, but his family slows him down.”

Never mind that the Navy strongly encouraged officers to marry. Never mind the long line of new ensigns waiting to wed at the Academy Chapel on graduation day and parading their brides through Annapolis in horse-drawn carriages. When Dan Avery fixed on an idea, he couldn't be budged.

Jim shrugged. “The captain seems happy.”

“And he deserves that.” Something in Dan's tone said he thought Durant deserved more.

Another line of signal flags shimmied up to the yardarm. Jim wouldn't float his way into a career or a relationship. He needed a plan for both. He needed God's guidance for both. “You have to decide what matters most to you.”

“I want to make admiral.”

“And you will.” Jim's goals seemed flimsy in comparison. What exactly did he want? To serve in the Navy. To work with people. On shore or at sea, it didn't matter. And he wanted a family, a pretty wife at home waiting for him, and the picture in his dream had changed to a blue-eyed brunette.

“What do you want, Jim?” Dan's gaze prodded him—not to tear him down but to build him up. “You have it in you too. You could make admiral.”

The corners of Jim's mouth eased up. “I'll have to see which way my path lies.”