Chapter 22 Part VII Sections 93-97

This topic was first brought up as early as April 1943. The raid sirens had been screaming five minutes earlier, and Whitehall, through which Allen had hurried, was almost deserted.A military policeman on a bicycle shouted, "Come on, sir. Come on." Allen ran into an alley and down a short set of stone steps to a wall of sandbags and an iron gate. .A sentry stood outside the door. "Alan Montagu, Petroleum Council," said Alan, "I've come to—" "Yes, sir. Go straight in, please." The building, dubbed "George Street," looked like nothing else.It is nothing.It used to be a warehouse for maintenance workers and janitors.But not anymore.Not anymore.

Allen walked briskly down a smoky hallway.The air of this underground building is filled with blinding smoke.Walking in the blue-gray smoke that hangs in the air is like swimming in an aquarium.It reminded Alan of a bomb shelter he once spent with Tom in Flanders... His contemplation was interrupted.An American colonel named James Langwick stood before him chewing gum. "Are you Montagu?" Allen nodded in acknowledgment. "Alan Montagu? Has a brother at the War Office?" "That's right. Guy." "Yes, he's a good guy. We like him a lot." Langwick nodded, as if to confirm it to himself. "Hey, I have to call base back. Is there a phone...? Is it here?"

He pushed open a door.The room was painted clean, but contained only a telephone, a desk, a lamp and a wooden armchair.It wouldn't be surprising if it looked like a converted storage room.This is a converted storage room. "Can I use this phone?" Allen smiled, "If you want to get through to your president, you can." "President Roosevelt?" "I believe that's his name." The American looked at the closed little room in amazement.He pointed to the office next door, "He...? I mean, is this...?" Allen nodded.The American opened his mouth to say something, but a secretary in the uniform of the Women's Royal Naval Service interrupted him, "He's waiting for you."

Allen and Colonel Langwick were led into another narrow cabin.There was a single bed in one corner of the room, a large table in the other, a microphone, a water bottle, a box of cigars, and a telephone.Winston Churchill sitting behind a cloud of smoke.He was smartly dressed and had the tired, charismatic, combative look on his face that Alan had grown accustomed to.This is the look on the faces of the British people, the promise of victory. "Montague! Langwick," said Churchill, rising a little from his seat out of courtesy, but only a little, for he was old and his energies had better uses. "Both of you must know Brooke." General Brooke, Chief of Staff of the Royal Army, was also in the room, in full military uniform, with a small glass of water beside him.Brooke and Alan knew each other well now, as did Brooke and Langwick, and they chatted for a while.

"Now, Montagu, we have a very far-reaching plan for your consideration, and I hope you will not think that we are rushing it." Churchill began to speak, leaving the floor to Brooke or Langwick when details needed to be clarified.Allen listened in shock.Churchill's demands were impossible—but, in times of war, the impossible often had to be done, and quickly.More importantly, this is not an ordinary task, and the entire course of the war may be changed because of it. "How? How do you say? Can we do it?" Churchill asked this question as if he had to know the answer on the spot.Alan felt again in him the firm determination he had so often felt before.This feeling is like a burst of energy, a surge of will.

"My God. My God." Alan sat there brooding.Of course, Churchill was right.The question has become extremely important now that the United States has entered the war.But the problem seems almost insoluble... "How is it?" Brooke said. "Do you need to think about it before giving us an answer?" Langwick asked. Allen looked up.He didn't hear what anyone else said, he only heard what Churchill said. "Do it? Yes, sir, I dare say we can." "Great. Can you tell us how to do it?" Churchill was silent.The soldiers were silent.Allen felt that all England—the whole free world—was waiting for his answer.He shook his head.

"No, sir, I'm afraid not. I have no idea." It was the beginning of 1944, and that day had been several months ago. Allen has since devoted most of his time to answering Churchill's questions.Another part of the time is used to deal with other war affairs and take a few hours away from time-consuming work to spend with family.Lottie was closer to him than ever.She is his support point, the sun that gives him strength.His family grew up fast, and Alan missed so much of it.Polly had grown into a beauty. Twenty-one-year-old Eliza took up her mother's business, doing a noble job at Lottie's hospital, which was once again filled (to the horror of its founders) with the wounded returning from war.Young Tom had enlisted as a lieutenant in a tank regiment, and Allen prayed for his safety all the time.

But there are also losses in life. His father was one of them.One night he died peacefully in his sleep.The last thing he said to Pamela was, "Can I turn off the light now, honey? There you go. Good night." And Guy.He really walks the talk. In his post at the War Department he devoted all his energies to his work.He still drinks too much alcohol.His mood is often pessimistic and depressed.But he came alive.He and his abilities have finally found the most suitable time and place.He was brilliant then. at that time. Because Guy has entered the kingdom of heaven with his father.He was returning to England from the Soviet Union with a large shipment of much-needed supplies.Just near Cairo, the plane's engine failed and the pilot had to make an emergency landing.The plane started to burn.At that time, Guy could have saved his life and followed the pilot and co-pilot out of the cockpit.But he didn't.Instead, he struggled to get back to the already burning cabin, found much-needed Soviet documents in London, and threw them out the window before jumping out himself.

He saved the file and lost his life.He was rushed to hospital, but died on arrival from severe burns. The news made Allen sad -- but at the same time, strangely happy.Guy doesn't have much fun in life anymore.Sometimes, Allen guessed that he actually wanted to die.And with his death, he'd finally succeeded in doing what he'd wanted to do for so long.He did something that he could definitely be proud of.He died with honor. March 14, 1944.It was a cold day by Texas standards. Tom made a rare trip home—something that was only possible when he was in Dallas on business.They had a big family dinner together.Rebecca wants Tom to sit down to eat, but really all they really want to do is talk. Mitchell, 20, old enough to start studying the oil business, now works as an unskilled laborer on a Norgard well near Houston.Of course the boy had wanted to be in the army and had fought, but the oil business was war business--and Tom's distaste for war, not lessened by his reacquaintance with it, was strictly forbidden for his son to join the army.

Despite Mitchell's protests, he has grown to love the oil world.His conversation was full of oil discussions and small talk and questions, which Tom answered as best he could with a smile.Eventually, the atmosphere slowly calmed down.Mitchell went to bed.The servants finished their evening work.Tom and Rebecca sat alone in the spacious drawing room, he with a bottle of brandy, she with a mug of cocoa, and the wood burning brightly in the fireplace. They stare at each other.Tom's long absence made their time together all the more precious and eager.Rebecca's love for her husband deepened every year.

"Are you all right, dear?" said Rebecca. "Honestly. Honestly, are you all right?" Tom nodded. "Fine. Overworked. Hope I never have to go back to DC." "There's something else," she said. "There's a sadness in you. Something I've never seen." He shrugged. "I guess it's because of the war. It's not fun." She shook her head.In her search for emotional truth, she is never satisfied with such answers. "When you talk about the war with Germany, you get very sad. Very restless. Stuff like that. While you're busy dealing with the situation in Japan, you can be angry, frustrated, sometimes even as you speak. It was boredom—but never sorrow." Tom threw the sticks on the fire, though the fire needed no more wood.Because of the Texas climate, the wood was dry and flammable, and the flames burned vigorously, giving off heat and sparks. "Roosevelt might transfer me to Europe for a while. I don't have much interest in the idea. If he brings it up again, I'll firmly refuse. I'm not going there, no matter who asks me to." Rebecca laughed and reached out to stroke his arm.She hasn't touched him for so long, so she doesn't want to let go as soon as she touches him.She hooked the chair forward with her foot so she could hold his hand as she sat. "Because that would put you on the same side as the UK, wouldn't it? I guess you'd be fighting alongside a lot of old friends. Friends you never talk about." Tom stiffened, and his hands did not respond to her touch. "Ah, no!" she exclaimed, "I was totally mistaken! It was the opposite reason. The reason you left England. Whatever that was. If you go back, you'll have to face it again." She looked again Looking at his face, her eyes flicked from mouth to eyes to body and back to his face. "The only time I ever saw you like this was when you talked about the Blackwater Petroleum silliness - your earlier dispute ... what was the name of the British company involved? Ayrton Oil? Alamo Oil ? Allen soup. Yes, Allen soup." Tom didn't say a word, but he could feel the past.Rebecca was calling it, and he was speechless before it.Rebecca's cocoa has cooled and has a crust on it.She was lost in thought, trying to remember something. "That name. Ellen Tom. I've heard it recently." She searched her memory while Tom dazed beside her. "It's got to be about the war. It's BP. The Petroleum Board. Its chairman used to be the owner of Allen Soup, didn't he?" Tom nodded like a doll. "It's him, isn't it?" said Rebecca. Tom's position had not changed since Rebecca leaned forward to touch his arm.But his face lost the color.He sat there, stiffer than a plank. "Him? What do you mean, him?" His words sounded uncertain to himself.Almost thirty years after her relationship with Alan fell apart, Rebecca found out about his secrets.He knew he had nowhere to run. "What's his name?" she said.Her voice changed again.Now she didn't need to seek the truth; the truth was right in front of her.Her voice is soft.She put her warm hand on his arm again. "Montagu," said Tom blankly, "Ellen Montagu." "What else? You two know each other?" Tom nodded.All his senses were numb.It was as if he had been drugged when he spoke. "You two are familiar? You used to be friends? Friends since childhood?" "No, not friends. Never been friends." "No? Tell the truth, Tommy, tell the truth." "No, no, not friends," said Tom, shaking his head resolutely. "We're much more than friends." He swallowed and told her everything.Their childhood, their quarrels from time to time, the war, that bad moment when he and Lisette were lying in bed when the bedroom door was suddenly thrown open, and there stood Alan staggering with rage and indignation. "You slept with his woman?" Tom nodded. "But that's not the point. I mean, it's too much to do, but we'll forget about it—at least I think we will. It's just that we never got there." Tom told her all that followed.The suicidal mission Allen recommended him to carry out.His unexpected survival.His years in prison.Run away and get caught.Letters received no reply.the death of his father. "There's nothing in England worth keeping. I just want to leave and never go back." He shrugged. "That's it. All of it. You know the rest." His tone was flat.His feelings are still far from him.Anger, love, bitterness, self-pity, all hovered yards from him.Rebecca nodded.All that was left of the fire was a pile of embers.Neither she nor Tom wanted to add wood. "That dispute," she said, "you were trying to get Blackwater out of your backyard. No wonder you're so crazy about it." "I don't feel comfortable with an Englishman — any Englishman — buying land in Texas. And it makes me feel worse that he's buying it." "I can understand." Tom shrugged. "We've been fighting since we were kids. Never give up. Never. It's like that again. Only it's a real fight." She nodded, "Poor baby." "But that's all right," said Tom. "There's no reason for me to go back there." "Oh, Tommy!" "what?" "Honestly, Tommy, honestly." "What? I told you all. I swear I—" "Don't swear. I know you're telling the truth. But there's another truth. You must go to him. You must go to him." "No, why? Why should I go? I'm not going to meet him. Simple as that." "you will." "I won't. He wants to kill me. He wants to mess with my company." "You're going to do it because he's showing up again. You've been battling this every day of your life. I know what you're doing in those bad years after Signal Hill Struggle. I never knew what it was. Now I do." Rebecca frowned slightly, still aching from the difficult first few years. "Back then I was just trying to get the oil out." "No," Rebecca shook her head.It was difficult to see the expression in her deep black eyes in the dim light. "You're fighting him. You're fighting him on Signal Hill. You're fighting him on those stupid abandoned wells in Texas. You're fighting him on Blackwater. You're still on Fight him. You'll never be at peace until you see him." "He's the last person in the world I want to see." "That's right, so you must see him." Churchill's request to Allen was simple.Not easy, but simple.The request is this: Fuel for landing in Europe. Get ready in a year. Rule out the possibility of failure. According to a rough estimate, the landing force will be equipped with about 150,000 motor vehicles.The amount of oil these vehicles would need was astronomical—and the faster and smoother the landing, the greater its need for fuel.Fuel had to be shipped from England and America to the beaches of France.In the process it will be constantly attacked. There are only two ways to transport oil.Either use a pipeline or use a tanker.But both routes have problems.Pipelines are great, but they can't be built underwater, and they can't be built in a matter of days.Tankers are nice, too, but there are few things slower to cross the sea than tankers - and few things are easier targets for German patrol planes to spot and destroy. This is where the problem lies.There is no doubt that this is definitely the most difficult task in the history of military logistics. And the fate of the free world depends on the successful completion of this task. "Hey, man!" Lyman Budd cheered as he watched the man who was technically still his boss striding across the sun-bleached fields. "Welcome to West Osiman No. 4. Three hundred barrels a day. More if we can figure out how to raise the pressure." "Is this a survey well?" "Survey well, friend?" Bud was shocked.In the past, it was absolutely impossible for Tom not to know every detail of his oil well. "This is a follow-up well, remember? Well No. 1 produced oil, and No. 2, No. 3, and No. 4 were all follow-up wells. The purpose was to measure the size of the oil field." "Oh, yes, yes, I remember." Bud looks anxious, "Do you remember we own this field? Eight thousand acres leased. The first three wells are all dry wells, East Osiman wells 1 through 3. The geology tells us to go to hell , but the survey boys swear they smelled oil, so we dug another one to prove it. We dug Theosiman 1, our first producing well." "Yes, yes, you're talking to me." Tom sat down heavily on a pipe on the ground. Not long. "Oh! Damn it!" Tom jumped up like a monkey with his ass on fire, slapping his bottom with his hands. "Jesus, my friend, if you can't even recognize a steam pipe, then I really have to drag you back from Washington. That pipe is hotter than a pig on a grill." "Damn it." Tom kicked the pipe.He has been away for too long.As good as Tom was at his job in Washington, he hated it.He deals with soldiers and politicians, navy and bureaucrats.As people, they are all good people, but they are not dry oil.They don't know what it's like to dig a new well.They treat oil as if it's just another ammunition of war, no different from tanks or bullets.They don't know that this thing is sacred.Tom got his first good look at Theo Seaman No. 4.The rig was so crammed with drill pipe that it looked unnatural. "What the hell are you trying to build in there?" said Tom. "It doesn't look like a drilling rig. It looks like a drawer for underwear." Bud laughed. "Dude, you've been gone too long! We're drilling over 10,000 feet down here. You've got to have enough drill pipe to get down to 10,000 feet." "Ten thousand feet! My God! How much will that cost?" The two started talking about oil.To Tom it was like a hot bath and a glass of whiskey.He didn't want to leave Texas at all.He didn't want to leave the oil fields at all.Perhaps one day, when the war was decided but not over, he would resign from Washington and return to Norgard.He could dig some wells, pump some oil, make some money... The two chatted for half an hour; a happy intermission during the war. After a while, Tom sighed. "Is Mickey around?" "Of course. He's a good boy, that boy." Bud paused, and wanted to tell Tom something, but held back. "What? What's the matter?" "nothing." "There must be something." "No, don't worry, I won't stop talking." "Lyman, don't—" "Hey, hey, well, but don't tell Rebecca. If she finds out, she'll kill me, and she'll kill you, too." Tom nodded, and Bud continued. "There's a well that's blowing out all the oil. It's bad. We're trying to get it under control and cover the well. Your Mickey is as strong as a lion. A man of iron. Anyway, we've almost The manhole was covered, and that's when a pighead dropped a bundle of sockets on the pump room floor, sparking. The gas ignited. Bang! Your son Mickey turned into a fire beetle on the spot. Hair It's on fire, the clothes are on fire. As Mickey was running out, there was this guy called Fishtail Shorthausen—you remember him? His nickname was Fishtail because—" "Lehmann, are you going to waste your time telling me how Fishtail Shorthausen got his nickname? My only son's hair is on fire." "Uh, well, I'm sorry. Anyway, Fishtail grabbed him and jumped him into the tank we put nearby. They stayed underwater for about a minute. Mickey's fire was out, But he almost drowned. He kicked and kicked his tail and came to the surface. We let him soak in the tank for most of the night, and that was the only way to cool him down. His skin was fine, just his hair All burnt and head as bare as a duck egg. Had to send him to a gas station in Florida for a few weeks or I'd be beaten to death by Rebecca if she knew her son was being fueled by us It exploded." "Is he all right now?" "Fine. As much hair as we both, but the eyebrows don't seem to grow much. I guess it's just a matter of time. Besides, what the hell are eyebrows for?" Tom nodded.The oil fields were dangerous places, but it had never occurred to him to shelter Mitch—and besides, Mitch wouldn't let him. "I've got to see him, really." Bud nodded, but he noticed something strange in Tom's tone. "You've been here too long, haven't you, friend? You've been in Washington too long, and you're starting to miss it. They tell motorists to cut down on gas, have you heard? It's like something from the Soviet Union. out, right?" "There is a war now, don't forget." "But this is America, don't forget." Bud spat.In the US, you should be able to fight a world war in Asia and Europe at the same time, win in both places, and still give motorists as much cheap oil as they want. "I'm going to Europe," said Tom. This is the truth.Tom's role in the Pacific War was increasingly unnecessary.The oil war has been completely won, so there isn't much work for an oilman to do anymore.From an oil perspective, the real action is shifting to Europe.Tom is the top oil strategist in the United States, so it is necessary for him to go to Europe and establish a close relationship with the British Petroleum Council. But that doesn't mean he wants to go.The Secretary of State made the suggestion.Tom declined.President Roosevelt made the suggestion.Tom declined.Then Roosevelt called Tom into the Oval Office and told Tom he had to go if he, Roosevelt, ordered him to go.Only then did Tom, extremely reluctant but unable to refuse again, say yes. "You're just going there," Bud said, "or—" "No, there's work to be done. A lot of work." Bud stared hard at his boss.There can only be one reason for Tom to go to Europe.The Americans are finally going to war on Hitler, and Tom will be the one holding the gas valve. "Damn it," Bud said, "you gotta quit your job over there, listen to me. Oil is hard enough, let alone those Germans who shoot you." Tom nodded in agreement.He didn't say anything, but Bud was right.Never before in the history of warfare has a program of this magnitude been undertaken, and it is the most difficult part of the supply logistics associated with oil.The U.S. Quartermaster Corps calculated that each Allied soldier would need about seventy pounds of supplies and equipment.Fully half of them are related to oil. The moment was getting closer, but Tom was finding it harder and harder to concentrate.He's going to meet Alan in London.He couldn't even think about it.The thought was like a piece of red-hot metal.If he allowed his consciousness to touch it, even for a second, he would have to turn his attention away immediately with a pang of psychological pain.Allen once wanted to kill him, wanted to bring down his company, and tried his best to ruin his life.Tom is willing to give away all his possessions - even his oil well - to avoid seeing his twin brother again. Bud looked at his boss with concern, "Are you okay, friend?" Tom forced himself to grin. "Nothing, I guess they'll keep me busy." "So it's like some sort of farewell visit?" Tom nodded, "Yes." "Well, good luck to you, friend. I suppose you'd be honored to be able to serve your country, indeed." Tom nodded. "I'll take you to Mickey." Tom nodded again. "Okay." He hesitated. Bud raised his eyebrows, "Do you need help?" "Yeah, listen, do me a favor, okay?" "Of course, as directed." "Don't tell him I sat on that goddamn steam pipe, okay?" This day is May 18, 1944. pipes or tanks. Choose one.An option could not be built.Another option was nothing less than an invitation to German aircraft to "come and bomb here".so what should I do now? Allen did the only thing he could do.Together with his best engineers, he ordered the invention of a state-of-the-art technology, one that had never been used anywhere in the world before.They hammered out the design concept in an all-night session, which began with tea and smoke and ended as dawn descended on London's treetops, filling the air with smog and optimism.They build scale models.Mathematicians perform calculations, come up with wrong answers, and recalculate.Allen ordered prototypes and mock tests until he was sure the thing was ready for practical use.But here's the thing: there's only one trial that really matters, and it's coming soon. Of course, this project is strictly confidential - although Tom Calloway is also involved.But it needs a code, and Allen is the one who named it.Its name, once you think about it for a moment, becomes obvious.There's only one name to call it: "Pluto." The fate of the free world will depend on something called "Pluto". The Boeing seaplane bobs awkwardly on the surface, which is extremely uncomfortable.The engine started, and the propeller splashed gray water.The noise of the engines grew to a loud rumble, and the plane banked a bit, then took off, yawping slightly in a slight crosswind.They rose to a predetermined altitude, and the pilot drove the plane around a long arc, heading east.Below them, a dirty Atlantic swell foamed around the rocky Newfoundland coast before that wave too was left behind.Only when they were a few minutes away from their destination did they see the shoreline again. The inside of the plane was not heated and it got freezing cold very quickly.There was a pile of American Army blankets in the back of the cabin, so Tom and the other four passengers were not shy about using them.While this is technically a night flight, there isn't much darkness this far north at this time of year.Tom tried to fall asleep, but couldn't.Instead, during the 13-hour voyage, he sat under a pile of blankets, half-deaf from the noise, sipping coffee from his carry-on thermos and gazing out the window at the blue-gray world below. He tried to think of other things.He tried to think of Rebecca or Mitch or Lyman Budd or Norgard Oil.He tried to focus on his work.He thought about Pluto and the great test it was about to face.But all in vain. It was the first time he had returned to his country of birth since he embarked in Liverpool in 1919.Back to England.Go back to Alan.He tried to turn his thoughts elsewhere, but failed.His atrium was locked tightly and could not be accessed.His senses were numb.He felt like the seascape passing under the wings of an airplane: cold, gray, forlorn. A strangely shaped ship with a thenardite funnel was slowly approaching them.The sea breeze is in the opposite direction of the tide, and small spray rolls across the water.Alan watched the ship long and hard through a pair of binoculars.She looked like nothing else: a snub-nosed seagoing cargo ship, incongruously among the crowded naval vessels.However, although she doesn't look pretty at all, she is the most important ship in the harbor. Standing with Alan—after the death of his father and brother, he was now Sir Alan Montagu—on the pier was a lieutenant colonel from the American General Staff.He had the sunny demeanor of a Westerner with the soft, wise eyes of a true professional.He looked at the ship for a moment, then said, "How is it? Can I see it now?" "What did you say?" "Go and see it. 'Pluto.'" Although Alan has been exhausted these days, he still can't help laughing.Apparently no one had told the American what he was going to see.Allen pointed to the other side of the sea, "There. 'Pluto'." "What? Are you kidding me?" "No." "That small...boat?" "Oh, it's not the ship, it's something on the ship." The American took another look.The ship had passed in front of them, and it was clear that her cargo hold had been modified for a special cargo, but it was empty. "I don't quite understand," said the American. "There's nothing on board." "Exactly. That's the beauty of it." But Allen wasn't thinking about 'Pluto'.He was thinking about Tom.Tom is in England now.In a little over a day, they will meet.He tried to turn his thoughts elsewhere, but failed.His atrium was locked tightly and could not be accessed.His senses were numb.He felt like a crowded seascape before him: windy, gray, and forlorn. The passenger plane landed lightly on the water in Strandriel, Scotland, and the sea was blowing with strong winds.The biting wind outside the plane smelt of salt.Tom walked ashore from the plane half his clothes were soaked.An American soldier was waiting for them in a car. "Welcome to England, sir. Is this your first time?" Tom didn't even answer the question.The car drove him all the way to the train station, where he and his luggage were dropped off.It's all so familiar.Victorian railway architecture.Big platform clock.Subtle manners that can be seen on closer inspection.There was a smell of hot tea in the waiting hall. It's all so familiar—yet so foreign.For a moment Tom couldn't understand, and then he understood.It's about social class.Not that everything has changed, far from it.But the country he returned to was no longer the country he left.Who is a gentleman and who is a worker when the whole country is at war?Who is rich and who is poor when the entire country is ruled by rationing and sacrifice? Tom waited a moment on the platform, the old and the new worlds hitting him equally.He waited for a moment, then found it intolerable. He dropped his luggage and ran out of the station.Opposite him must be the Station Hotel.He ran in. "I have to call America. It's urgent." He put his badge on the table to show his rank.The girl at the table glanced at the papers, then led Tom into a hideous little booth, stuffy and airless, with nothing but a telephone and a scrap of paper.He asked the operator to put him through the phone.He waited for forty-four minutes.With only three minutes left, he gave up.He was already getting up to leave when the phone rang.He grabs the phone. "I've put you through the phone," the operator said. Then the bell rings. In the distant Norgard estate, a maid answered the phone.Tom asked her to fetch Rebecca, and ran to get her as quickly as he could.From the phone he could hear the girl's footsteps running on the wooden floor as she went to find the mistress.Tom looked at his watch.two minutes.a minute and a half.Another footstep, and then: "Tom?" "Becca, my God, I can't stand this—" "But you've only just arrived. Why don't you—" "Can you come over? Come as soon as possible? My office can arrange the itinerary." "It's not that simple. I'm busy here. Let's talk about it after I'm done with the Foundation in July." "Jesus, I better be out of here in July. Can't you come over right now?" A moment's pause.The phone line was unstable, but the pause had nothing to do with the line. "Because it's in England? Is it because it's seeing Ellen Montagu?" "I just want to see you." Another pause.This time it was longer. "No, Tommy dear, you're on your own...call me from London." "Please, Becca, I—" "Call me in London, Tommy. Good luck." This day is June 4, 1944. The next day, June 5, Tom Calloway/Creary will meet his former twin brother Ellen Montagu for the first time in nearly three decades.One day later, in the early morning of June 6, a landing fleet will land in Normandy, and this landing will determine the direction of the war. 汤姆坐在空旷的头等车厢里，看着乡间风景从窗前闪过。时间和距离正在缩短。在几个小时内，他和艾伦将会再次碰面。汤姆不知道自己会说什么，不知道自己会有什么感觉。 1944年6月5日，黄昏时分。 汽车向前行驶着。树木在寒风中哀号，汽车微弱的灯光将影子拉得又细又长。艾伦开着车，洛蒂坐在他身边的副驾座上。美国石油管理局的驻英办公室设在一个小乡村里，离温莎堡几英里远。他们正往那儿开去：去见汤姆。 “你有什么感觉？”洛蒂问。 艾伦摇摇头，“天啊！我一点都不知道。” 洛蒂微笑起来，“那你是更想杀了他还是更想拥抱他？” 艾伦又摇摇头，“不知道。虽然我不认为我会拥抱他……除非……” 洛蒂的音调提高了一两分，“除非他先道歉？你认为他会说出同样的故事？” “说实话我不在乎。” 洛蒂没有回答，只是噘起嘴巴看着窗外。当然，她知道所有的事情。她知道丈夫跟汤姆之间的疯狂斗争。她提出过反对，然后放弃了。就像身在得克萨斯的丽贝卡一样，她曾力劝他们两人见面，但没能成功。 艾伦沉默地开着车。行程中的一次爆胎耽误了他们好几个小时，而在黄昏时分开车则缓慢而费劲。艾伦很紧张，开车开得太快。一列军用卡车从旁边隆隆驶过，向南开去。对于明天凌晨即将在诺曼底展开的重大行动来说，这是为数不多的迹象之一。 “路上有很多卡车，”洛蒂说。 “明天会发起一场大规模行动，”艾伦说，之前他一直小心翼翼地避开这个话题。 “登陆？” Allen nodded. “在法国，我猜？” Allen nodded again.洛蒂的问题并不愚蠢。从一开始盟军的计划就保持高度机密。在英国只有几个人知道这一秘密。艾伦是其中之一。洛蒂不是。 她深吸一口气，“它会……？我想它会……” 艾伦飞快地侧头看了一眼，然后又将视线转回路面上。“成功吗？对，大概吧。它可能会失败吗？对，有可能。不管哪样，我们早晚都会知道结果。” 他没有提到“冥王星”，但这个念头一直在他脑中挥之不去。 他们的谈话陷于沉默。洛蒂决定休息一下，于是盖着毛毯蜷在后座上。 就在战争爆发之前，艾伦给自己买了一辆酒红色的宾利车。这车开起来是一种享受，它的巨大发动机在机罩下发出平稳的轰鸣声。几英里过去了。但他发现自己很难集中注意力。有两次，他没转好弯。这两次，他抓住方向盘即时改正过来。每次，他都会通过后视镜看看有没有惊醒洛蒂。每次，他都发现她睁着大大的蓝眼睛看着他。他为自己的粗心大意咕哝了一声对不起，然后又让她沉入睡眠。 他们现在已经接近温莎堡。他看了一下方向，然后沿着一个陡峭的滑坡向下开去，开向下面的小山村。 然后事情就发生了。 “小心！”洛蒂在后座尖叫着。 车灯的灯光中出现一个巨大的红灰色物体。艾伦踩着刹车，转了一下方向。那是一头鹿，它受惊地跑进灌木丛中。 “小心点，”洛蒂说，“小心点。” 焦虑不安的艾伦对她的大惊小怪感到很恼火。他踩着加速板，将这辆大车调回马路中央。一阵奇怪的声音传来，就像是金属的叹息。声音只持续了片刻，然后就寂静无声。 随后另外一样东西出现在灯光中。一只银黑色的轮胎沿着陡峭的山坡滚了下去。那是车子的轮胎。它滚下山去，有两次高高弹起，然后就不见了。 "Dear!" 洛蒂的声音尖锐而紧张。 艾伦本想去踩刹车，但是如果他这么做，这辆大车马上就会失去控制，一头栽到山下。他决定尽量控制好方向沿着山路往下开，让车速在地面上自然地减慢。 “抓紧了！”他说。 他把车灯全部打开，照亮路面。山坡陡峭危险。艾伦咬紧牙关，看着车前闪着微光的柏油路。他转了一个弯。又转了一个弯。车子向前冲得越来越快。他又踩上刹车。 这是一个错误。 车子完全脱离了他的控制，自由地冲了出去。一棵白晃晃的大树耸然出现在车灯耀眼的光芒之中。树和车迅速冲向彼此。 There was a loud bang. 汤姆在华盛顿同僚中素以沉着冷静而闻名，这足以让那些早年认识汤姆的人感到惊诧不已。但今晚的他却不是这样。 吹过树梢的每一阵风听上去都像是一辆车开来的声音。汤姆没有理会灯火管制的规定，把所有的大灯全都打开。他把电话线检查了五次。他踱来踱去。他极度紧张。 到了10点钟的时候，外面一片漆黑。汤姆让他的助手和屋里的英国职员全都回寄宿处睡觉去了，屋里只剩下他一个人。这栋屋子以前是个教区长住宅，后来被改成了办公室。他愿意放弃他在世界上的一切东西来换取远离英国，远离艾伦。 他下楼走进厨房，想找点热东西喝。里面没有咖啡，只有茶。厨房里有一个旧式的火炉，一只黑色的水壶，一个要么不出水要么就喷水的水龙头。整个地方看上去就跟四十年前的惠特科姆庄园一模一样。就连烟囱的通风口都发出同样音调的风啸声。汤姆甚至觉得自己一转身，就会看到从前的厨娘怀特太太在厨房一角做着糕点。他把炭放进火炉，在壶里装满水，然后找到茶叶。火炉开始变热，水壶的温度慢慢升到室温之上。 汤姆不耐烦地等着水开。他的手指被火炉烫了一下。他渴望着能够回家。他想着丽贝卡这个时候正在做什么。他想着米奇在钻塔上干得怎么样了。水壶开始鸣叫。 汤姆伸手想将它从炉子上提下来，可是，就在他碰到水壶的时候，突然之间传来重重的敲门声，插销一阵摇晃，一股冷风迎面吹来。一个女子就像一阵风一样卷了进来。 “拜托……我丈夫……请你帮帮忙。他出了严重的车祸……他在那边的路上……我看到了你的灯光……谢天谢地你还没睡。” ＊＊ 洛蒂一点都不知道自己进了谁的屋子。 她当时在后座睡着了，根本不知道车祸是怎么发生的。可有一件事很清楚：她很幸运，她前来求助的是一个能够提供极大帮助的人。虽然洛蒂浑身颤抖、语无伦次，但这个强壮的美国人还是快速准确地问出了事故的经过。他马上打电话派人去找医生、切割装置、消防队员和救护车。 “谢谢，”洛蒂说，“谢谢，谢谢。” 他没有理会她的道谢。相反，他一把把她塞进停在外面的奥斯丁车里，迫使她想起事故发生的确切地点。奥斯丁车又旧又小，但那美国人开起它来就像开着赛车。车只开了一分钟左右，就到了转弯的地方。奥斯丁的车灯照亮了那棵树和那辆宾利车，还有地上的滑痕。 一眼就能看出车里的司机肯定已经死了。引擎被撞得陷进车内。周围到处都是破碎的玻璃和扭曲的金属片。洛蒂还是第一次看清现场，她抽了一口气。 “哦！”她喊道。与其说这是一个字倒不如说这是一声哀鸣。 就在这时，引擎里闪起一个火星。“引擎！”洛蒂喊道，“引擎着火了！把他弄出来！” 那美国人迟疑着。 任何人都会迟疑。车里的人可能已经死了。那车可能马上就会变成燃烧的地狱。迫切想要救出丈夫的洛蒂抛出了仅剩的最后一张牌。 “这非常重要！”她喊道，“车里的人是艾伦·蒙塔古，石油委员会的。你得——” 可就在她说话的同时，车子前部的火苗已经窜得更高，那美国人的脸被火苗印成红色，还不时闪过机罩油漆燃烧时的绿色和紫色。他的神情十分惊骇，洛蒂的话大大地惊倒了他。 她转头看车，打算再次求他帮忙，但她看到的情景让她闭上了嘴巴。火苗已经变成了大火。现在如果再爬进车里，那就是疯子所为了。洛蒂本能地退缩了。 她瞥了一眼那美国人，看看他在做什么。她看到他做了任何人都会做的事。他在奔跑。不是跑向那辆车，而是跑开。 她的惟一想法就是：这个人正任由我的丈夫死去。 ＊＊ 汤姆奔跑着。 在知道车里的人是艾伦·蒙塔古之后，不是跑向那辆车，而是跑开。 他跑是因为艾伦在里面。 他跑向山下三十码处的一条小溪，扯掉外套和衬衫，把它们泡在水里。 然后他又开始奔跑——真正的奔跑——就像山风一样跑向那辆车。他拿起路边的一根树枝抽打着车罩的前部，直到它向上抬起，放出一阵火焰和热气。汤姆退后几步，等着火焰退回去，然后把他的湿衣服扔到引擎上。火焰发出嘶嘶声，但没有熄灭。 汤姆看到那个英国女人——艾伦的妻子！——像他一样，拿着外套跑向小溪。汤姆在奥斯丁的后座上找到两条毛毯。他从蒙塔古夫人手上拿过湿衣服，然后把毛毯递给她。他走近引擎，摆放着湿衣服。 火焰仍然很危险。油箱里有足够的汽油。汤姆知道，洛蒂也知道，他们正在跟一枚随时可能爆炸的炸弹玩着碰运气的游戏。汤姆快速地向洛蒂下着简短的指示，洛蒂马上照办。他们俩做了所有能做的事。 汤姆把湿透的衣服堆在引擎上。猩红色的小火花不时冒出，提醒着他们碰运气的游戏还没有结束。他们仍然不知道车里的人是死是活。 “过来，”洛蒂说。 Tom shook his head.他把手放在宾利车的挡泥板上，像是要在汽车爆炸的时候宣称自己拥有死亡豁免权。 “过来，”洛蒂又说一遍，可当汤姆再次摇了摇头后，她也走到他的身边，两人一起看着车。火焰闪烁，窜起，闪烁，然后熄灭。 “你知道我是谁吗？”他说。 她摇摇头，“不过不管你是谁——” “我是汤姆，汤姆·卡洛威。我是——” “啊！”洛蒂张大嘴，“那我就知道了。” 他们望着彼此，然后汤姆咧开嘴笑了。不知为什么，在这么疯狂的时刻，他的笑容看上去极为自然，就像是他们两个刚刚分享了什么天大的笑话。他们俩都全身湿透、只剩半身衣服，油迹斑斑，满身泥泞。洛蒂暗想——人的思维是多么怪异啊！——卡洛威看上去真是帅气：他那灿烂炫目的笑容，他那不顾一切的勇气。 ＊＊ 然后汤姆又走到车边。他用身体撞着车子，扳开变形的车身，把碎玻璃弄到一边。 “艾伦！”他喊道，“听到了吗？艾伦！艾伦！” 洛蒂也加入进来：“艾伦？亲爱的？艾伦？听到了吗？” no answer.洛蒂开始哭泣。 “艾伦！艾伦！是我，是汤姆。” silence.只有浸透的引擎传来滴水声。 然后从车里传来一个声音，很微弱的声音。 “该死的美国人，总是大喊大叫。” "Alan!" “汤姆！” 等到汤姆的眼睛适应了车内的环境之后，他可以看到一张苍白的脸被压在方向盘上。他一生中从未经历过这样的时刻。所有的仇恨，所有的苦涩，所有的长期对立都散去无踪，变得毫无意义。现在惟一重要的事情就是保证艾伦的安全。 “别死在我面前，兄弟。” “我没打算这么做。” 汤姆尝试着够到艾伦。艾伦的腿被引擎外壳给压住了。他身上的其它部位血迹斑斑，到处都是擦伤，不过都没有大碍。但他的双腿正在流血。 严重流血。