“So, who is it that is killing the scientists of Iran?” I asked Mac. We were seated way down the bar from the Amen Corner, and it felt unusual. Unbalanced. John-with-and-H was seated next to us. Apparently he is keeping his distance from Old Jim, who was occupying his usual seat, but entertaining some civilian guests.

“I don’t know,” he said. I assume it is Mossad, since they have clearly been let off the leash by Benjy Netanyahu,” he said, looking happily at his glass of Racer 5 Pale Ale.

“I am hearing that the MEK is involved, too, in a sort of unholy alliance between the Israelis and the counter-revolutionary Iranians.”

“I remember MEK,” I said. “They were anti-Shah Marxists back in the day. They have changed a lot over the years. Saddam used them as a lap-dog during his war with the Mercedes Mullahs.”

“They could be a front, sure,” said Mac thoughtfully. “I have heard Mossad has been masquerading as the CIA, running all sorts of false flag operations.”

“Well,” I said. “It is not like they are not the first target of a Shia Bomb. I certainly understand where they are coming from, but it seems like they ought to be nicer about their only real ally in the world. Even crumbling Superpowers have feelings.”

“Feelings, schmeelings,” he responded firmly. “It is war, and if people don’t recognize that it is already underway, too bad. This has the potential to jump over into something hot, and suddenly, too.”

“I feel like I have been running into Iran every time I turn a corner since 1979.” I said, watching Tinkerbelle fill up my glass with happy hour white. She gave a decent pour, since she was running around manically with Katya and Jasper since the bar and dining room where filled with foodie tourists due to the extended Restaurant Week promotion. She was wearing her Eurotrash glasses, which if anything enhanced her look of sweet vulnerability.

Mac turned over a piece of paper that was face down next to his glass of beer.

“Wendy Furnas died,” he said, turning over the page to show me.

“Lot of that going around,” I said.

Mac nodded. “He relieved me three times- At CINCPACFLT, at the Office of Naval Intelligene and in London. We were friends since the end of The War.” For Mac, of course, there is only one “The War,” though in my life there are now so many that it is hard to keep track.

“Wendy was in the college class of 1934,” said Mac. “He came to the Navy in a curious way.”

“I remember, him,” I said. “didn’t you tell me he was in charge of shutting down the Combat Intelligence Center in 1945?”

“Yep. The CIC was down to just him. He was told to get rid of the trinkets and souvenirs and padlock the place and walk away.”

“Wow,” I said. “I can only imagine the value of that stuff now. Then, I imagine it was just stuff to be disposed of.” I thought about the stacks of things in Bill and Betty’s house in The Little Village By the Bay, and the garage full of junk. I had been wading through estate paperwork all afternoon, and did not want to think about it.

“Wendy had quite a life,” said Mac. “He was a little older than me, I guess 94 when he passed. He had an exciting start to his war.”

“How so?” I asked, taking a sip of wine.

“Well, he often said he was the luckiest man in China, for one thing. He accepted a teaching position at the Shanghai American School after he graduated from college. In the spring of ‘40, Americans were advised to leave Shanghai because of deteriorating relations with Japan. They closed the Shanghai School, so Wendell transferred to St. John’s University as an English professor. Simultaneously he worked as an editor for two Chinese/American language newspapers.”

“So he ignored the advice to get out?”

Mac nodded. “By this time Shanghai was shelled, a British gunboat was sunk, and the city was taken over by the Japanese. Wendy attempted to leave the country and traveled under cover of night with a band of escaped Marines and others led by KMT guerrillas.”

“Man, that is unreal,” I said, trying to imagine being on the lamb in occupied China.

“After four days of travel they were captured by the Japanese Army. They were sent to the Bridge House Prison in Shanghai, where they were interrogated and tortured and some were put to death. While he was there, the crew of a Doolittle Raiders bomber was incarcerated and before the war ended, two were executed and two died of malnutrition.”

“How did he get out?” I asked looking for Tink to give me more wine.

“He was actually sentenced to death by the Japanese, but was exchanged for a high-value Japanese prisoner Tokyo wanted back. That is why he called himself the Luckiest man in China.”

“That is a fascinating story,” I said. “We are losing some Great Americans these days.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” said Mac with a smile. “You are creating some new Great Americans right now. But I will tell you more about Wendy tomorrow when I dig out my old notebooks.”

“I am looking forward to it, Admiral,” I said, happy to be back in a world that I actually had a fighting chance at understanding.

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com