The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  “Any connection there?” Big Mike asked.

  “Not unless an Italian American art society, Communist partisans, and the Badoglio government are all in cahoots,” I said. “Snow is chomping at the bit to get back at whoever ambushed him and threw a monkey wrench into plans to better organize partisan support.”

  “Coulda been the Krauts, the Commies, or some stuffed-shirt monarchist,” Big Mike said. “I hope he’s got something to go on.”

  “Can’t blame the guy,” I said. “His pals were killed, he’ll have a gimpy gait for the rest of his life, and he couldn’t fulfill his mission.”

  “It would eat at me, I gotta say. So, anything else?”

  “Two mentions of something called Operation Periwig. Once in reference to Markstein, and once in a conversation between Densmore and Blackford,” I said, and told Big Mike about my foray into the listening post.

  “Periwig, eh? What’s that mean, anyway?”

  “No idea. I should’ve asked Kaz,” I said. “Blackford wanted Densmore back because of it, though. He’d also pestered Sinclair about a transmitter and ways to make a parachute look like it malfunctioned.”

  “Sounds like he wanted to dispose of someone and make it look like an accident,” Big Mike said.

  “Sinclair did call him a murderer,” I said.

  “Set Europe ablaze,” Big Mike said. “That’s what Churchill ordered them to do when he set up SOE. I’d call that highly organized murder. Maybe Sinclair’s confused.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” I said. “I also found out that Holland had started to talk. He’d been mute, but recently he’d spoken to Faith and Dr. Robinson. All he managed with Robinson was to ask about his SOE team and his friend Markstein. When Robinson couldn’t help, he clammed back up.”

  “Wait, they bugged the psychiatrist’s office? That’s low,” Big Mike said.

  “Yep. I wonder if Robinson knows. I half thought about telling him,” I said. We passed through a small village, and houses and shops started to fill the roadside. Farming country slipped away, and we approached the outskirts of London. I pulled out the sheet I’d pinched from the listening post and read it to Big Mike.

  “Be careful who you show that to,” he said. “That’s classified information.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be careful. But this tells us Densmore was feeling remorse about Periwig and the red horse organization. Then he turned up murdered,” I said.

  “Right after he confessed that to Dr. Robinson, who has a soft spot for Mussolini,” Big Mike said.

  “I wish I knew what Periwig was all about,” I said, thinking about the obvious point Big Mike had just made. Maybe I was right last night, and Robinson needed to be higher on my list of suspects. “As for the red horse, that appears to be a German anti-Nazi group. Makes sense that the German Section would be involved with them.”

  “But then why would Densmore feel bad about it?” Big Mike said. “Anyone in SOE ought to have a thick hide when it comes to agents. I can’t see Vera Atkins falling apart over the chances her people take in France.”

  “You’re right. There’s something else at work here. Something we don’t understand. Yet.”

  We drove on, passing through Edgware and leaving the last of the green fields behind. The area became thick with more shops, houses, and apartment buildings. I recognized the road that would take us right to Hyde Park and the Dorchester Hotel.

  It had been a long time. I was eager to track down George Markstein, but I planned on a long bath and a solid meal first. I began to daydream about what I’d order. Even with rationing, the kitchens at the Dorchester could work wonders.

  We stopped at an intersection. I turned to check on Harding, giving a quick wave as the staff car pulled up behind us.

  The world exploded.

  Suddenly, violently, the road before us erupted in a massive flash, mushrooming fire, smoke, and debris high into the air. The concussive blast hit us like a tidal wave of hot fury. I threw my hands up, shielding my eyes from the smoking cinders that rained down on us. I had no idea what was happening. I craned my neck to scan the skies for bombers and listened for the sputtering sound of a V1 rocket about to fall. There was nothing but blue sky marred by ghastly smoke rising from the shattered street.

  Big Mike was ahead of me, brushing debris from his shoulders as he dashed to the staff car, asking if everyone was okay.

  “We’re fine,” Harding said, stepping out of the sedan. “What happened?”

  Sirens began to wail, heralding the fire trucks racing to the scene. Harding told his driver and Feliks to stay with Skory, and we walked across the intersection. A bobby, a look of total bewilderment on his face, was escorting several dazed and bloody civilians away from the scene.

  Windows were shattered on the buildings nearest us. People filed out, many of them bleeding from shards of broken glass sent flying by the explosion. Neighbors ran out of undamaged buildings to help them, everyone wearing expressions of stunned incredulity.

  More sirens announced the arrival of ambulances. Shrieks and cries sounded as shock was replaced by pain, numbness giving way to gasping horror.

  A woman’s leg laid in the road, wisps of smoke curling up from flesh, the shoe still sporting a dainty green bow. We gave the limb a wide berth and made our way through the glass and wood shards scattered in the street.

  The sight ahead was pure devastation. A jumble of bricks and shattered timbers surrounded a crater ten feet deep. Flames crackled from the interior of the pile as smoke swirled into the sky, riding the heated air and sending aloft a beacon to mark the disaster.

  “What was it?” Big Mike asked. I didn’t know if he meant the explosion or what had once stood here.

  I touched his arm and pointed, words failing to find a foothold. All that was left standing was a single wall on the left side of the structure. The roof and three floors had been blown away, but, for some reason, that wall stayed upright. Fireplaces along the chimney marked three living rooms. A second-floor bathtub was suspended crazily, dangling from its pipes. One picture still hung in a place of pride, scorched and blackened. It was like looking at a dollhouse that had been vandalized by a vindictive child.

  A man shuffled toward us, his clothing covered in soot, and brick dust coating his hair. He appeared uninjured, but his eyes were wide with shock.

  “What happened?” Big Mike asked him. “Did you see anything?”

  “A silver flash in the sky,” he said, then looked up. “I saw it out of the corner of my eye. By the time I looked it was gone. Then everything exploded.” He walked away, weaving through the rubble until he disappeared into the growing crowd of onlookers, police, and firemen.

  “Rakieta,” a voice said from behind us. It was Skory, with Feliks holding on to his good arm. He spoke Polish to Feliks, urgently.

  “This was the V2 rocket, he tells me. No sound, no warning. Large explosion,” Feliks said.

  “That guy told us he spotted a sliver flash in the sky,” I said. Feliks translated. Skory nodded his head and spoke a few words.

  “Definitely the V2. It has begun,” Feliks said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Harding said. “We have work to do.”

  It took almost an hour to extricate ourselves from the traffic jam created by the emergency vehicles and closed-off roads. I spent most of that time thinking about Diana and the V2 facility at Ravensbrück. I hoped to God she wasn’t working there, since that might mean the Krauts would refuse to release her. If this strike was any indication of the power of the V2 rocket, I could see them doing anything to protect its secrets. I hadn’t thought much about the implications of this new weapon, but that woman’s leg had had a sobering effect.

  “No need to bring me to the Dorchester,” I said. “After you deliver Skory to the Rubens Hotel, I’ll walk to Scotland Yard and look up Inspector Scutt. I’d like to
know how he’s doing with the fingerprints.” I didn’t mention the fact that I wasn’t in the mood for a hot bath. It didn’t seem right. Nothing did.

  “You sure?” Big Mike asked. “You don’t need a rest or anything?”

  I held out my hand. “Steady as a rock. I’ll be fine. But I need to do something. I think I’d go crazy waiting around.”

  “Okay. But head to the Dorchester when you’re done. I’ll check in with you soon as I can,” Big Mike said. “Then we can track down Vera and Blackford, see if they’re in at Baker Street.”

  “All right. I can hoof it to Scotland Yard in about fifteen minutes, a little longer back to the Dorchester. I ought to be there by noon,” I said, turning to watch the plume of smoke marking the V2’s devastation.

  We motored by the Wellington Arch, then passed Buckingham Palace on our way to the hotel. The Polish government-in-exile had set themselves up in a swanky neighborhood, right across from Buckingham Palace Gardens. I couldn’t begrudge them a bit of luxury, especially since they needed to impress the Brits as a legitimate government. Someone was going to be making a lot of decisions about Poland once the war was over, and, now that the Soviets were edging closer to the Polish border, the free Poles were going to need all the support they could muster.

  We pulled over in front of the posh Rubens Hotel, one of the fancier joints in a city full of them. Curved windows set in finished red brick stonework flanked the large entrance, where doormen sprang into action, only to be elbowed aside by uniformed men all wearing the red shoulder flash with poland emblazoned across it.

  “That’s quite a reception committee,” I said to Harding as we stood aside for the Poles to escort Skory in, Feliks at his side. There were several high-ranking officers, both Polish and British, along with civilians in their standard somber civil service suits. They’d been waiting for Skory.

  “There’s a lot riding on the information Skory brought out,” Harding said, as one of the civilians headed our way, a noticeable limp not slowing him down. Dark-haired, with an aristocratic nose and a languidly long but grim face, he shook hands with Harding. The colonel introduced me to Duncan Sandys, a Minister of Works in Churchill’s cabinet and chair of a committee charged with creating defenses against German rocket attacks.

  “Thank God he’s alive,” Sandys said. “I hope he’s got something for us. Our people are poring over the parts he brought out, but no joy as of yet.”

  “We nearly drove into a V2 hit,” Harding said. “South of Edgware, an hour or so ago.”

  “Mum’s the word, Colonel,” Sandys said. “The official explanation is that it was a gas-main explosion. We can’t have panic.”

  “We spoke to one man who said he saw a silver flash in the sky right before the impact,” I said. “If he saw it, others probably did as well.”

  “Yes, yes. But we still need a cover story for as long as it will hold. And I heard the damn thing myself. Knew it was a rocket from the sonic boom. Two loud cracks, unmistakable, at least for anyone with a bit of scientific knowledge.”

  “We didn’t hear anything like that,” Harding said.

  “You wouldn’t have. The sonic waves follow an object traveling faster than sound, like the wake of a ship. It flew over here on its downward descent, and the boom followed it,” Sandys explained.

  “Word will get out soon,” I said.

  “Yes. Which is why we need to talk with our Polish friend. He may know more about this rocket than anyone outside of Nazi Germany. He’s been assessing bits and pieces of crashed rockets for months. With this last haul, we may finally learn something that will help,” Sandys said, his brow knitted in worry. He didn’t sound exactly confident.

  “And if that doesn’t work, what then?” I asked.

  “Then considerable bombing forces will have to be reassigned from their strategic missions to destroy every V2 facility we can identify,” Sandys said. “We can intercept and shoot down the V1 rockets. Unless we can come up with a method to stop the V2s, we may have to reallocate bomber resources. Which would be a bit of a victory for the Hun in and of itself.”

  And a death sentence for Diana, Angelika, and countless other slave laborers.

  “Get some rest, Boyle,” Harding said, his hand on my shoulder. “Big Mike can drop you at the Dorchester.”

  “I’ll walk,” I said. “Do me good.”

  “Okay. Take it easy,” Harding said, following Sandys into the hotel. He was trying to be considerate, but I liked the other Harding. The one who was perpetually angry and impatient. I didn’t like being treated like an invalid. Or maybe I simply wanted everything back the way it was before Paris. Well, I was partway there. Kaz was making his recovery and would soon be back on duty. I wasn’t shaky, incarcerated, or crazy. Okay, I could work with that. Next things were to catch a killer and get Diana out of Ravensbrück. With Angelika.

  I had no idea how I’d accomplish that last bit.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Before I set off, I asked Big Mike to talk to Harding about finding out who was taking Cosgrove’s place at the Foreign Office. Under the guise of ensuring we got every piece of intelligence we could about the V2 rocket production, I wanted to be a hundred percent certain Diana’s name was on the list of inmates to be released. And to convince the new man to add Angelika, since she was picked up for her small hands, which meant she was also an underground operative the Krauts had unknowingly placed within the Siemens V2 factory.

  It made sense to me, but it was still a long shot.

  Big Mike said Sandys might be worth approaching. He chaired the Bodyline Scientific Committee, and it was their job to come up with a defense against the rockets. Sandys had something else going for him. He was Winston Churchill’s son-in-law.

  I liked the sound of that, since he could be approached from several angles.

  I made my way down Birdcage Walk, a pleasant tree-lined street with Saint James’s Park on one side and white stone government buildings on the other. It felt good to walk freely, dressed in my neatly tailored Ike jacket, though it was baggier than the last time I’d worn it. The battlefields of France and a spell in an asylum had taken their toll.

  I took Horse Guards Road and passed the guarded entrance to Winston Churchill’s underground lair. Soldiers were unloading fresh sandbags to replace the old sagging and leaking burlap bags. Someone was wasting no time. After all, a gas-main explosion could happen anywhere.

  Across Parliament Street, I drew close to the Thames Embankment and the swirling waters of the river, where I craned my neck to take in the turreted, white-and-red brick headquarters of the London Metropolitan Police, aka Scotland Yard. At the duty desk I asked for Detective Inspector Horace Scutt. A uniformed constable brought me upstairs to the Criminal Investigations Department. When I walked into the room, I felt right at home. Cops at work. Desks pushed together, filing cabinets along one wall, and a large city map hung on the other. Heavy black telephones jangled, and a low buzz of conversation, sharp frustration leavened with rough laughter, carried across the room.

  I saw Scutt in his windowed office at the far end of the room, telephone to his ear as he busily scribbled notes. His shock of white hair and mustache were easy enough to spot. Horace Scutt should have been retired by now, but the manpower shortage had kept him in harness. There’d be time to tend the roses once the shooting stopped.

  I studied him through the glass. He looked thinner than a year ago, the last time I’d seen him. And perhaps more tired. He glanced up and motioned me to come in as he continued to nod in response to whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying.

  “Yes, Chief Superintendent, we will,” Scutt repeated, with the look of a man who had to listen to his boss go on far too long. “Certainly. Very good, sir.” He cradled the receiver as a tired sigh escaped his lips.

  “How are you, Inspector Scutt?”

  “My ea
r is sore, and it’s Chief Inspector these days. I see we’ve both come up in the world, Captain Boyle. You were a lieutenant last I saw you. You look a bit worse for wear, if you don’t mind me saying so. Are you well, lad?”

  “I’m recovering from a vacation in France. But I’m well enough and getting better,” I said, surprised that I looked different enough for Scutt to notice. Then again, he was a cop, and noticing details was his stock-in-trade. “Congratulations on your promotion, Chief Inspector.”

  “Can’t say I enjoy much of it. More paperwork and too much time behind this desk. And makes it easy for the chief superintendent to find me and pass down bad news. Truth be told, I’d rather be chasing villains in the streets. Only problem is, I’d never catch most of them these days, so here I am. Now, I expect you’re here about the postcard your sergeant left with us.”

  “I am. Any luck with fingerprints?”

  “We were able to lift several good prints, but matching them will take some time,” Scutt said.

  “Big Mike said you had a fingerprint file for SOE personnel,” I said. “How long will it take to go through that?”

  “Longer than I’d like. Our people must analyze ridge endings and ridge dots, then code them according to established patterns. Whorls, loops, arches and all that. It’s not easy, nor quick. Plus our filing system is backlogged. We’re short-staffed and this is hardly a priority. We have government security checks from the past four months to organize and file. That’s not only SOE but anyone with a security clearance. We shall do our best, Captain Boyle, but it will take time.”

  “I understand. And I know this is not an official request, so I appreciate whatever you can do,” I said. I was impatient, but there was nothing to be gained from pushing Scutt.

  “Always glad to cooperate with our allies,” Scutt said with a smile that vanished in a second. “But tell me, is this going to come down on my head? We’re dealing with people who like their secrets kept under lock and key. I don’t want the Special Branch blokes from upstairs to take me out of here in irons. It would be embarrassing.”