Silver Stars. Майкл Грант

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      RAINY SCHULTERMAN—NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA

      “Sergeant Schulterman, sir.”

      “At ease. Please take a seat, Sergeant; we are not very big on formality around here.”

      Rainy removes her cover—her cap—and sits in a well-worn wooden chair, the kind with arms that come around and are too high for her to prop her elbows on comfortably. She places her hands flat, palms down, on her neatly ironed olive drab uniform slacks, keeps her mirror-polished shoes flat on the linoleum floor, and trains her eyes on the lieutenant colonel. Rainy is on leave in New York, having returned from a successful mission in North Africa.

      Colonel Corelli is middle-aged, with steel-gray hair cut a bit too long, a pale face, and thoughtful brown eyes sunk deep beneath bushy brows. The brass on his uniform says colonel, but his look, his demeanor, says professor.

      No sooner is she seated than there is a brief knock and they are joined by a very different sort of creature. He is a civilian in a passable dark-gray suit, starched white shirt, conservative tie, and expensive and properly shined—but not military-polished—shoes.

      The colonel performs the introductions. “Sergeant Schulterman, Special Agent Bayswater, FBI.”

      Rainy’s heart sinks. She knows immediately what this is about. The end of her career in the US Army may be only minutes away. Her expression turns from curious to deliberately blank.

      “Agent Bayswater.”

      “Sergeant Schulterman.”

      They do not shake hands, and she does not rise from her seat.

      She doesn’t like him. It’s a snap judgment, in part a reaction to what she expects he will be saying next. But beyond that, there’s something smug and condescending in the way he looks her up and down, like he’s trying to decide whether she’s a crook or a piece of meat. He has a bent nose, broken while boxing perhaps, and that prominent twist in his nose has given his mouth a permanent sneer.

      “I don’t suppose you know why you’re here, Sergeant,” Colonel Corelli says.

      “No, sir.”

      “Oh, I bet she’s got some idea,” the FBI man says. “Don’t you, honey?”

      Colonel Corelli winces, the way refined people do when they hear someone being rude or unpleasant.

      Rainy turns slightly toward Bayswater. “Sergeant. It’s Sergeant Schulterman.”

      “Is that so? Well, Sergeant, you’re supposed to be a very bright girl, so I’m betting you have a pretty clear notion of why the FBI is here. Am I right? Or have I been misled and you’re not so bright after all?”

      “When my superior officer informs me as to his reasons for bringing me here, then I will know,” Rainy says frostily. She places the emphasis on his reasons. She is a soldier, not a civilian, and she does not take orders from the FBI.

      The colonel takes the opportunity to lean forward, his body language favoring Rainy. “There may be a mission. A mission you may be able to carry out better than anyone else.”

      Rainy is intrigued and ready to feel relieved, but she keeps her face guarded and neutral. Rainy Schulterman is of medium height and medium weight with frizzled, medium-brown hair that has been pinned down to stop its tendency to spring up and out. Her eyes are brown and distinctly skeptical, even judgmental. She gives the impression of being closed up tight, self-contained; not quite hostile, but not one to suffer fools gladly either. For a person of the female sex, neither large nor powerful, possessing neither rank nor title, and young besides, she is unsettlingly intimidating.

      “Yes, sir,” Rainy says.

      “Your old man’s a crook,” Agent Bayswater says.

      Rainy shoots to her feet. “Colonel, do I have permission to return to my duties?”

      The colonel smothers a grin and waves her down. “Sit, sit. You don’t have any duties, Sergeant, you’re on leave.” He pulls a slim manila folder from atop a pile of folders, opens it, and reads. “In fact, you are on thirty days’ leave in recognition of your actions in Tunisia, where you parachuted—and with only the most minimal training—into the middle of a retreat, joined a lost platoon, and managed by the end of it to come away with a Waffen SS colonel in your custody. I understand you’ve been recommended for a Silver Star.”

      “I have that honor, sir, though it was the GIs in that platoon who did the real work.”

      “Well, it was a hell of a thing,” Colonel Corelli says, shaking his head in admiration. “I’ve read the reports from your colonel and from a Sergeant Garaman who was in command of the patrol after both the officers were killed.”

      Bayswater isn’t having it. “Which doesn’t change the fact that your father, Shmuel Schulterman, is a numbers runner for Abe Vidor, who works in turn for the Genovese crime family. And that could mean hard time in Dannemora prison for your old man.”

      Rainy turns a cold glare on the FBI man. “Agent Bayswater, you want something from me. Threatening me is not the way to get it.” There are times, she reflects, when her own chutzpah amazes her.

      “On the contrary, honey, I don’t want a damn thing. It’s your people, Army Intelligence, who want something from us. I’m just making sure you understand who’s in charge, and it ain’t you.”

      The colonel sighs and raises pacifying hands. He has no patience for this posturing, but neither does he have the force to end it. “Maybe we should get to the point. Schulterman, the US Army is planning an action—I won’t say where or when—but there is a person in the . . . let’s say, target area . . . who may be of some use to Army Intelligence. Agent Bayswater, perhaps you’d like to explain your end of it.”

      Bayswater stares at Rainy. It is a hard, aggressive stare, an intimidating stare, no doubt a stare he has used to cow many a criminal suspect. Rainy is worried, but she is not intimidated by Agent Bayswater, and she lets him know it by returning his gaze with a blank, emotionless expression.

      Finally, the FBI man sighs, shrugs his shoulders, and mutters, “Broads in the army. You can keep ’em. It’ll never happen in the FBI; I can promise you that.”

      “A woman might have gotten to the point by now, rather than playing games,” Rainy snaps.

      Bayswater snorts a derisive laugh. “A real woman would still be gossiping; I don’t know what you are, honey. But okay, I’ve got things to do, and maybe you do too. So here it is. We’ve tried working out deals to get help from the crime bosses. A lot of ’em have connections overseas, and in addition to that they could help with labor troubles on the docks. But all any of them wants is for Lucky to be let out of jail, and that ain’t gonna happen.”

      “He means Lucky Luciano,” Corelli explains unnecessarily. Charles “Lucky” Luciano is the boss of all bosses in New York crime. He is in prison for “pandering” which is a polite way of saying he ran a prostitution ring, along with gambling, protection rackets, union rackets and assorted other profitable enterprises.

      “Luciano СКАЧАТЬ