The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  Robinson’s was thin. A medical report pronounced him physically fit and mentioned his athletic prowess. Which told me he’d have the strength to heave a guy from the clock tower, but little else. His army record was clean, but there was an interesting mention of his membership in an Italian American art society that had links to the Fascist League of North America, a pro-Mussolini group.

  Possible sympathies for Italian fascism.

  Was he an art lover who’d associated with the wrong people, or was that a cover for his political beliefs? Either way, I couldn’t see how it mattered. Italy was on our side these days, and Mussolini got by on handouts from the Nazis. Hardly sympathetic.

  I gave Dr. Hughes’s file a quick once-over. Squeaky clean. He may have taken other bribes or stolen drugs for all I knew, but if he had, he’d kept it to himself.

  Major Snow’s file was hefty. He was professional army, so it went back a while. I reviewed his medical report, which had cleared him for a return to duty earlier this year, but with a recommendation for a period of light duty. Saint Albans may have fit the bill, but that had been before the bodies started piling up.

  His SOE activities in Italy were impressive. Part of a three-man team, he coordinated weapons drops for Italian partisans and ambushed German convoys bringing troops and supplies to the front lines. Snow’s main purpose was to unite the various guerilla factions and link them up with the Italian government. But there was bad blood all around, since most of the resistance groups were Communist, and Prime Minister Pietro Badoglio’s royal government of King Victor Emmanuel III was anything but.

  Snow’s mission ended in tragedy. Just as he was about to broker a clandestine meeting between the leaders of a Communist partisan group and representatives from the monarchist government, his team was betrayed to the Nazis. No one knew which side had sabotaged the meeting, but Snow’s SOE men were killed, and he was wounded, barely escaping capture after they were ambushed.

  Snow’s leg was riddled with shrapnel, and, according to doctors here and in Italy, he’d likely walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Bad luck, but at least he was still alive. I flipped through the rest of the pages until I came to memorandums from Dr. Robinson and Dr. Hughes. They’d both been ordered by SOE to approve Snow’s return to duty.

  Hughes was straightforward in his summary. Since the job didn’t require Snow to run, he would be fine and see further improvements over time. That fit with what I’d thought about Snow moving on to another job with SOE. Not in the field, but a step up from babysitting worn-out agents.

  Robinson’s report on Snow was more detailed, beginning with personal data. Snow’s parents had been killed in an automobile accident when he was young. With no living relatives, he’d been sent to an orphanage and joined the army as soon as he was of age. Robinson wrote that the army had been a replacement for Snow’s family, giving him a sense of security and belonging that had never properly developed after losing both parents so early. Interesting, but Robinson had other, more current concerns. He counseled Snow to see him for additional sessions to work out the stress and depression brought about by the disaster in Italy. Snow had been close with his fellow SOE agents and had thought he could trust the Italian fighters and government representatives he had worked with. The betrayal hit him hard, the sense of loss accentuated by his identification with the military as family. According to Robinson, Snow had developed an unhealthy obsession with tracking down those responsible.

  Not unreasonable, in my book. There was no mention of any further sessions. I figured Snow was aching to get back to real SOE work to find out who blew the whistle on their rendezvous. I felt a sympathy for him, thinking of Kaz and his intense desire to stay in the game for Angelika’s sake.

  I closed the file. My candle was burning low, and I couldn’t think of anyone else’s file to snoop through. I did think about mine, but after reading through all these, I decided I didn’t want to know what was in it.

  I returned the files, making sure everything was in its proper place. I blew out the candle and put the keys back, using the letter opener to relock Clarissa’s drawer.

  Now for the hard part.

  I eased the door open and stepped into the foyer. All quiet. I took careful steps, listening for any sounds. I walked down the main hallway, watching the windows for any sign of patrolling guards. The building was silent, and every footfall seemed loud enough to wake Griffin out of his deep sleep.

  I finally came to a door that opened to a stairwell. This is where the guards had come from when they’d evacuated the building while Sinclair was popping off rounds. I wasn’t surprised it was unlocked, since the main doors were locked tight. The patients were all under guard on the second floor, and I knew from my time there that these stairs didn’t connect to that floor.

  The question was, would the third-floor door be locked?

  I took the steps as lightly as I could, pausing on the landing to catch my breath. I had no idea what or who I might find up here, but if there was a chance to sneak into the listening post, it was worth a shot.

  I took one last deep breath and steadied myself. I put my hand on the latch, thankful for a steady grip. It opened, the rusty hinges creaking in protest. I left the door ajar and stood back, listening. Nothing.

  From inside the stairwell, I peeked out into the corridor and saw a splash of light as a door opened at the other end. A figure walked away, his footsteps echoing as he clattered down the far stairwell. The hall was deathly silent. Was he the only one on duty? In the dim light from the hallway windows, I could see the other doors were shut. I walked past Densmore’s room, then stood in front of the listening post. No telltale light spilled out from the edges of the door; no murmurs or sounds of recording devices came from inside.

  Luck was with me. For now.

  I opened the door and was greeted by darkness. I shut the door behind me and let my eyes get used to the blackness. In a minute I could see that the blackout curtains were drawn, and, as my vision improved, I could make out the headphones and hardware on every surface. Wires dangled from the ceiling like trailing vines. How many rooms were bugged?

  I decided to risk lighting the candle. It wouldn’t be spotted from outside, and the light was too faint to leak out under the door. I hoped.

  I struck a match and lit the wick. There was a small stub left to the candle, and it gave off a faint flickering glow, barely enough to read by. And there was plenty to read. Stacks of typewritten sheets adorned each desk. It was a small room, made even smaller by the array of recording devices, headphones, and typewriters. I sat at a desk and tried to make head or tail out of the typed entries.

  Each one was preceded by a code of some sort. MB, NW, SW, GQ, CN, and SP. Easy enough to figure; main building, north wing, south wing, guest quarters. CN and SP, I had no idea. Did CN stand for canteen? Maybe. The two-letter codes were followed by a number, probably denoting the location of the bug. I flipped through the papers until a name caught my eye.

  MB32: Subject DENSMORE tells BLACKFORD he will soon be ready to return to work. BLACKFORD says more Periwig missions are imminent and needs him back soonest.

  That was two days ago, and Densmore was dead not long after. Was that connected to Periwig and Markstein? Intrigued about the guest quarters’ bugs, I flipped through the pages until I found a recent one, hoping for some clue as to Cosgrove’s killer. The only transcription was from the day Blackford arrived.

  GQ4: BLACKFORD met with subject SINCLAIR and asked if he felt well enough to return to work. SINCLAIR declined. Much unintelligible. Argument ensued about a transmitter and parachute malfunctions. SINCLAIR called BLACKFORD a murderer and departed.

  That was the same dispute they’d had the day Sinclair grabbed the rifle. Blackford certainly had been persistent.

  GQ4: COSGROVE enters. Tells BLACKFORD he has business with the Poles. BLACKFORD suggests a drink later with SNOW. CO
SGROVE agrees. Asks BLACKFORD about a red horse. Unintelligible. Laughter. COSGROVE departs.

  They both knew about the red horse. As soon as we got a fingerprint report from Scotland Yard, I’d have to show that postcard to Blackford.

  I moved to another desk and rifled through the paperwork. There might be full recordings somewhere, but it looked to me like they were mainly monitoring conversations and noting anything suspicious. A lot of it was innocuous. And boring. What did these guys ever do to deserve a detail like this?

  NW7: Subject MILLER attempted to engage subject GRIFFIN in conversation. Began story about his mission. GRIFFIN promised to report him if he continued, then departed.

  Most of it was along those lines, with plenty of names I didn’t recognize. Any slip of security was noted. I went through more of the sheets, which were arranged at each desk in chronological order. Near the bottom of one stack, I found these.

  MB5: Subject HOLLAND spoke in session with ROBINSON. Asked for a glass of water. Nothing else.

  MB5: ROBINSON asked subject HOLLAND if he wanted to talk. Long period of silence. HOLLAND then asked about members of the Stationer circuit. How many survived. ROBINSON said he had no information. Urged HOLLAND to talk about his arrest. HOLLAND silent.

  MB5: Subject HOLLAND asked ROBINSON to find out if a friend from SOE training was alive. GEORGE MARKSTEIN. HOLLAND had recommended him for German Section. ROBINSON said prohibited by security. HOLLAND silent.

  That was it for Holland in Robinson’s office. Faith had told me he’d begun to speak, and it seemed his entire focus was on finding out about his SOE team and his pal Markstein. It wasn’t much to go on. But the fact that SOE had eavesdropped on Dr. Robinson was unsettling. I didn’t much like the thought of a government bureaucrat typing up my innermost thoughts about Diana and Paris. Was Robinson aware? Was his role to encourage agents to spill their guts, to see who could keep their secrets bottled up, as Griffin had said?

  There was one more stack to go through. As I carried the candle to the next desk, I realized there wasn’t any storage to speak of in this room. Each stack I’d gone through so far went back no more than ten days. They must cart this stuff off to be filed away somewhere, maybe here or at SOE headquarters.

  The candle flame was guttering, the wick about burned away. I went through the papers, stopping here and there when a name popped out at me, but nothing struck me as important. Until I came to a mention of Densmore in Robinson’s office.

  MB5: Subject DENSMORE in session with ROBINSON. Agitated. Stated subject HOLLAND had approached him. Recognized him from SOE Selection Board. Asked about MARKSTEIN. DENSMORE refused comment. Told ROBINSON he felt tremendous guilt over the red horse business. Said he sent men to their certain death. Wept.

  One of the murdered men had expressed guilt about his role in a German Section operation. Densmore felt responsible for the death of Periwig agents. Densmore was already suffering from nervous exhaustion, so it wasn’t surprising that he took it hard. But that was what SOE did, wasn’t it? Sent men and women to certain death? Diana and her group were all dead or captured. The life expectancy of a wireless operator in occupied France was only six weeks. In Nazi Germany, it had to be even less.

  This entry was significant, proof of a link between Holland and the others who’d been murdered. I folded the sheet and put it in my pocket, next to the photograph of Holland and Markstein. I still wasn’t sure what it all added up to, but at least I had a couple of souvenirs from my last night at Saint Albans.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Voices echoed against the walls, headed this way.

  I blew out the candle and froze, listening. Two men, talking, sounding like they were in a hurry, and coming this way.

  There was nowhere to hide.

  I ducked under the desk farthest from the door.

  The door opened and the lights flashed on.

  “Come on, get this stuff together,” one of them said. “The courier is waiting. Snow’ll have a fit if he finds out we weren’t ready.” I heard a briefcase snap open.

  “Take it easy, mate. The driver is having a smoke,” the other said as I heard them packing the papers. “Snow’s dead asleep. He’ll be none the wiser.”

  “You know how he is about these notes. Mighty particular. Hurry up. Hand me that last bunch, and we’re done.”

  That bunch was on the desk I was hiding under. Luckily the other fellow reached across the desk with a grunt and grabbed it without stepping around.

  “Let’s go,” I heard, and the case was latched shut, the lights flicked off, and the door slammed behind them. I finally exhaled.

  I got up and blinked my eyes, adjusting to the dark after the bright lights. Then I spotted it. The candle I’d blown out was still on the desk, a small waxy stub that had no business being there. In their rush, they hadn’t even noticed.

  I snatched up the candle. I’d used up all the luck of the Irish I was entitled to for one night, so I made my way back to the guest quarters. GQ, that is.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  We pulled out at 0700. Big Mike and me in a jeep, and Colonel Harding and Feliks in the staff car with Skory, who’d managed to walk out of the hospital under his own power. His arm was in a sling, and he sported a bandage over one eye, but he was in good spirits. Hell, who wouldn’t be after getting a one-way ticket out of Nazi-controlled Poland?

  I’d only had a minute with Kaz. He’d been drinking tea and studying Griffin’s notebook. He told me to leave him alone, which was his way of letting me know he was feeling much better. I told him to leave a message at the Dorchester if he came up with anything.

  “When I come up with something,” was all he’d said, sipping tea and keeping his eyes riveted on the numbers.

  It was nice to have Kaz back.

  “How’s it feel?” Big Mike said as the gate to Saint Albans closed behind us. I looked back as he shifted gears and sped away from the asylum. The last thing I saw was the clock tower.

  “Strange,” I said. “I don’t like leaving Kaz there, but he’s in good hands.”

  “The Shirleys say he’s doin’ great,” Big Mike said. “Don’t you worry about him. Just make sure your head stays screwed on straight.”

  “Amen to that,” I said, holding out my right hand. Steady as a rock.

  “Okay, so spill. What’d you find out last night?” he asked.

  “I found out how Holland fits in,” I said. “At least how he’s connected to the German Section. Blackford, Densmore, and Cosgrove were all on Holland’s SOE selection board. Seems like Holland volunteered for a mission into Germany, which is probably why Blackford and Densmore were on the board. But they decided he was too valuable to risk, although I don’t think they ever told him that.”

  “Pretty tenuous connection,” Big Mike said as we took a turn. He glanced back to make sure Harding’s vehicle was keeping pace, and eased up on the accelerator. We were driving through forested land on a narrow road, trees blocking out the light of the rising sun.

  “Here’s the real connection,” I said, holding up the photograph of Holland and Markstein. “George Markstein and Holland were pals in college. Both spoke perfect German, and both joined SOE at the same time. Holland had asked the selection board if they could be assigned to the German Section together. For some unknown reason, they decided to take Markstein, but not him.”

  “Is the guy still alive? He might be a suspect,” Big Mike said.

  “Don’t know. If he was dropped into Germany, all bets are off. But if he’s still in England, I sure do want to talk to him.”

  “What are you going to do? Tell Colonel Blackford the name George Markstein just popped into your mind? He ain’t gonna tell you a damn thing,” Big Mike said.

  “Well, I’ve got a couple of things going for me,” I said, enjoying the feel of fresh air against my face. The woods began to thin out as the
road dipped and brought us through cultivated fields. “I’m going to start with Vera Atkins. You remember her?”

  “Yeah. Head of intelligence for the SOE French Section. She knew Diana,” Big Mike said, then caught himself. “I mean, she knows Diana.” Vera had been involved in the planning for Diana’s missions into occupied France.

  “Right. I don’t think she knows about the upcoming deal with Himmler and the Swedish Red Cross. She might help if I bring her the news that Diana may be released,” I said. “Maybe she can find out where Markstein is.”

  “Maybe,” Big Mike said, slowing as we passed a farmer leading a donkey hauling a cart full of potatoes. The countryside unfolded itself as we left the woods, its gently rolling hills filled with ripening crops and dotted with small farmhouses. The air felt pure and clean in a way it never had at Saint Albans. “But those SOE types are tight-lipped. What’s the other thing you mentioned? I hope it’s better than that.”

  “I go direct to Blackford and tell him Markstein can lead me to whoever is killing people associated with the German Section,” I said. “Any information he gives me can help save his own life.”

  “Persuasive,” Big Mike said. “You know, it’s strange Cosgrove never owned up to knowing Holland wanted in with Blackford’s outfit. Neither of them. Must be something damned important they’re hiding.”

  “There’s a truth here that explains everything,” I said, lifting my face to the sun and letting the warmth and the wind wash over me. “A truth we’ve yet to find.”

  I went on to detail Robinson’s association with a pro-fascist Italian society, and the background to Snow’s betrayal and wounding in Italy.