Double Cross Blind

by Joel N. Ross

After a cold hour, Highcastle returned to the car and they drove toward Hennessey Gate. Halfway there, Highcastle said, “His daughters—Rupert’s daughters—they heard my voice. They thought I was their father. They come downstairs in their pajamas, shoving and pushing. Little hooligans. They knew it was past bedtime; they wanted a good-night hug.” He stared silently at the dark countryside. “What was left of her husband? Joan wanted to know. Was there enough to bury? A pair of shoes with feet still in them. Bits of two dead children and a gold cuff link. All that remains of Rupert Davies-Frank, God have mercy on my soul.”

  It was dawn. Tom was back at Hennessey Gate. Back at the beginning, talking to Sondegger one last time. Highcastle wanted Duckblind’s location, or an excuse to hang the Hun. He’d rather have the latter, he said—and he’d get it if Sondegger didn’t produce Duckblind.

  Upstairs, in the room at the end of the hall, Sondegger sat erect at his desk. Blood from split lips tinted his teeth red. “Have you heard of the Japanese ambassador general, Oshima Hiroshi?” he asked Tom, his voice silken. “He’s a boon companion of Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop, a right-thinking man. Right-thinking, Mr. Wall—a pun for your benefit.”

  “Not in a laughing mood, Hans,” Tom said. “Tell me about Duckblind.”

  Tom dragged an upholstered chair next to Sondegger’s bolted wooden seat. There was pressure in his ears, the rushing of water. He was tired; his mind was slipping gears. He watched Highcastle pace at the far end of the room, his knuckles raw and his yellow eyes worse.

  Sondegger ran his tongue over bloody lips. “Oshima is a member of the Führer’s inner circle, a linchpin of German-Japanese relations. He is the man who—”

  “I need a description and a location. You don’t give Highcastle a reason to keep you alive, he’ll be a very happy man.”

  “Oshima informed Tokyo of the invasion of Russia weeks before it occurred. He—”

  “You have daughters,” Tom said. “There was a little girl, ten years old—Duckblind killed her.”

  “I was asked for Duckblind’s location. I gave it.”

  “That girl was somebody’s daughter. Your wireless man is killing children.”

  “I acted in good faith.” Sondegger glanced at Highcastle. “Am I to blame that your tradecraft is inadequate?”

  Highcastle lowered his head and stepped forward. Tom raised his hand—they’d decided he’d speak to the Hun before other steps were taken.

  “Duckblind was warned,” Tom said. “He knew they were coming.”

  “Duckblind is a professional.” Sondegger took the pencil from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth like a cigarette. “Give me your hand.”

  “You don’t feel like talking, don’t talk. Highcastle could use some good news.”

  “Oh, I’ll talk. There are facts I’m willing to share. But I never rush my lines. Your hand, please.”

  “My hand’s the same it was yesterday.”

  “It is vulnerable, Mr. Wall, as am I. I feel a certain empathy. You sustained the injury how many months ago? Four?”

  “Six.”

  “It was infected? If you don’t change the strapping soon, it’ll happen again. Lend me your hand, Mr. Wall.”

  Tom looked across the room. Highcastle was gripping the back of a chair. He needed that information—needed Duckblind stopped and Sondegger executed and the Twenty saved. And the only road to Duckblind was through Sondegger.

  “Swell.” Tom placed his hand on the table.

  Sondegger picked at the bandage with the blunt end of his pencil. “Duckblind is twenty years old,” he said, too low for Highcastle to hear. “Did you locate the book?”

  “They sold it to a jobber.”

  “Duckblind has blond hair—unless it’s dyed. Is it lost to you?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Duckblind has green eyes, a scar behind the left knee, crescent-shaped, two inches in length.” Sondegger spun the pencil in circles, the bandage coiling round it. “The microphotograph contains proof of the surprise attack against your country—partial proof—sufficient to stop it, if you act in time. You can enlarge the photograph?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course—with the help of your brother’s wife.”

  Tom glanced at Highcastle to be sure he couldn’t overhear. “Yeah.”

  “Duckblind spent years in London. There are those in the chain of command who believe a more appropriate trade name would be ‘Butterfly.’” Sondegger inspected Tom’s hand. “The surprise attack will claim thousands of American lives. What would you do to prevent it?”

  “If you’re against it, I’m all for.”

  “You led men in battle. You lost men. Five men? Ten? Imagine a thousand. Five thousand of your comrades dead, and you’d do nothing?”

  “Not on your word.”

  “Have I misled you? Did Earl have a room at the Rapids? Was Duckblind at the rendezvous? Is there a microphotograph in Tristram Shandy’s spine? Yes, yes, and yes. Imagine a group of loyal citizens in my homeland, Thomas. We are few, but well placed; we can do nothing officially. Still, we wish to prevent this surprise Japanese attack—without exposing the source of the warning.”

  “Swell bunch of Nazis.”

  Sondegger’s swollen lips moved into a smile. “We became aware of the attack plan only last month. Our attempt to stop it combines improvisation and desperation—based upon my chance acquaintance with your brother.” He twirled the pencil between his fingers. “That, and what few personal resources I myself possess.”

  “You met my brother where?”

  “You can prevent this murderous ambush. Only you can.”

  “Duckblind,” Tom said. “Give me a name. Give me a—”

  “Find the book, Thomas. Get the information to your people. If your government knows of the attack, it will be stopped. Do you understand? If you show them what is planned, it will not happen.”

  “Sure. I’ll give them a jingle.”

  “The proof, Thomas”—Sondegger’s eyes twinkled—“is well within your grasp.”

  “Unlike any information about Duckb—”

  Sondegger stabbed the shiny lead of his pencil hard into the seam of Tom’s palm.

  SONDEGGER HAD TWO primary motivations. His first was to deny the United States a pretext to enter the conflict, as the Republican Senate would not allow Roosevelt to join the war without one. The American people had no desire to sacrifice their boys for the British, the Jews, and the Communists. If they were not forced to fight, they would not.

  His second goal—which some in the SD believed was his sole purpose—was to determine if the Abwehr network had been compromised. It almost certainly had. All he required was a modicum of evidence, which would easily be secured, once he escaped this dreary theater.

  He missed performing. He missed intoning, missed the timbre of his voice reciting ancient lines: Maledicant illum sacrarum virginum chori, quae mundi vana causa honoris Christi respuenda contempserunt. May the holy choir of the holy virgins, who for the honor of Christ have despised the things of the world, damn him.

  Poor damned Thomas Wall, with his bluster and his sad eyes. Sondegger had grown fond of him. He burned so brightly. He howled when the pencil dug into his hand.

  Maledictus sit in capillis, maledictus sit in cerebro. May he be cursed in his hair, cursed in his brain, in his vertice, in his temples, in dentibus, in guttere, in his cheeks and jawbones, in pedibus et in unguibus.

  May he be cursed in his hands.

  An upwelling of dark blood coated Tom’s palm, and Highcastle vaulted forward, fast for a stout man, and struck Sondegger a glancing blow. Sondegger fell, grasped Highcastle around the waist, and was kneed in the chin. His head snapped back and he dropped to the floor.

  The door flung open. The warder rushed inside and grappled with Tom. Might as well grapple
a feral cat. Poor Thomas, a bit player forged by heat and the clang of metal upon metal into something intriguing.

  Thomas swung his right hand, and an arc of black blood hung in the air. Highcastle swept a meaty forearm across the back of Tom’s head, and the warder tackled him and clamped handcuffs on his wrists.

  Sondegger lay on the floor, clutching his stomach. He slid the metal nubbin he’d snapped from Highcastle’s spectacles into his nostril. Was Tom still the best route to the U.S. embassy? Yes, he was indispensable. Soon Sondegger would join him on the stage of London. He’d hover in the wings, offer what prompting was necessary.

  THE LIFT WAS DISABLED, so Chilton walked the four flights down from the suite in his London club—without the slightest loss of wind. He did not suffer fools and he did not suffer weakness, not in others, not in himself.

  “Is a raid still anticipated?” he asked the head porter upon reaching the front door.

  “There is some uncertainty in that regard, m’lord,” the porter said. “Gas masks and tin hats are available, if your lordship will be dining out.”

  “I will not be going far, nor for long.”

  The porter was a good man, of the old school, deferential without being obsequious. The old school was best: One was obedient to one’s God, loyal to one’s class, the master of one’s family, and pleased with 4 percent for one’s money.

  He stepped into the early evening and headed toward Waterloo Place, a handsome block of insurance companies and banks. They would remain, long after the troubles of the day were a memory. As to the rest, he was confident of his God, concerned for his class and his family. Harriet was the image of Lady Chilton—though with Chilton’s eyes, and an alien temperament. Earl, however, was no blood relation. His brother, Tom, was more distant still. Tom was merely leverage. Earl could not be approached directly, as one struck at weakness, not strength.

  At Leicester Square, Chilton paused to inspect the statue of Shakespeare. Once, the square had been called “the pouting place of princes”; now it was merely another drab wartime garden, a place to linger while Rugg and Renard determined if he’d been followed. They materialized, as if condensed from the darkening gloom, at the corner of Gerrard Street. They fell into step with him and walked quite openly down Wardour Street, pausing at an unlighted display of film posters.

  “Now here’s Fantasia, sir,” Renard said, pointing. “With the wizard, the apprentice. It’s . . . it’s—the word’s on the edge of my teeth. . . .”

  “Apropos,” Rugg said. The big man’s eyes were narrow and porcine, absent any gleam of intelligence. Chilton would have to watch Rugg carefully.

  “Apropos!” Renard said. “Knows his words, Rugg does. Now, tell his lordship your favorite picture—Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, with Freddie March.”

  “You have something to report?” Chilton asked.

  “That we do, sir. Late last night—or early this morning—we were at the Waterfall, your other errand set aside for later still. Our Mr. Wall, it seems, was enjoying the nightlife too well.” Renard grinned toothily. “He was booted from the Waterfall.”

  “Scruff of his bleedin’ collar,” Rugg said.

  “He was forcibly ejected from the Waterfall?” Chilton asked. He was primarily concerned with the “other errand,” but he’d not wheedle for the information. He’d demand it in good time.

  “Blokes who did the booting were Yard,” Renard said. “Special Branch, or something in that line. Not ejecting him, either. They were inviting him elsewhere.”

  “Inviting him.” Another meeting with Davies-Frank? “Where?”

  “Haven’t a hunch. They grabbed him and were gone.”

  “Very well. Return to your observation of the nightclub. Have you sufficient funds?” He arranged the financial details. “Do not mislay Wall again. A message at the Lion will find you?”

  Renard said it would. “But sir? We fixed that other errand, too.”

  Excellent. “You managed Mr. Melville’s flat?”

  “The lock on his door was easy as kiss my hand.” Renard’s sharp face quivered around his protruding teeth.

  “You found something?”

  Rugg thrust a meaty fist forward, offering a crumbled wad of paper. Chilton smoothed the paper between his hands, but he couldn’t read the writing in the evening light. “Stenography?”

  “Tiny letters is all.”

  “You found nothing else?”

  “Just that one scrap. It’s what you might call . . . What’s the word? Cryptic. ‘Herr Sonder contra Abwehr,’ it says. Rugg reckons this German bloke, Sonder, he’s working against Jerry—”

  “Fookin’ bleeder.”

  “Bleedin’ bleeder,” Renard agreed complacently. “This Herr Sonder has something for Earl, a parcel, Rugg says. Study on it yourself. With Earl gone, Tom Wall’s the chap. S’pose that’s no surprise to you.”

  IT WAS FOUR FLIGHTS up to his suite. Chilton wasn’t breathing heavily, but his heart pounded in his chest. He locked the door, lay the paper on the escritoire, pulled the chain on the hooded lamp, and bowed over the wrinkled sheet.

  Rugg and Renard hadn’t done badly deciphering Melville’s confusion of personal notes. Chilton did better. He spoke the words aloud as he deciphered the dead man’s scrawl: “Defector, Herr Sonder, sequestered at farm . . .” He turned the paper to catch the light. “Intelligence? In Herr Sonder’s possession. Wary of British, of RDF. Wrong element might suppress intel.”

  Chilton rubbed the back of his neck. His hand was shaking—not from exhaustion, but excitement. One loose thread would enable him to unravel the Churchillian tapestry of lies and deceit. The scrawl continued: “Intel released to an agent of the U.S. Identify. E Wall unavailable. . . .

  There was a knock at the door.

  “I’m not to be bothered,” Chilton called without raising his head from the paper.

  He read the rest silently, then stared unseeing at the paper. Thomas Wall was to be contacted in his brother’s stead. This Sonder had information that would undermine the Abwehr, destroy the network. There was some gibberish about drawing a line in the zero of 309. . . . Chilton lifted the brass paper knife and turned it over in his hands. A German agent named Sonder had defected with information, a parcel, which could be used against the Germans. He distrusted the British, so sought contact with the Americans? Melville had passed the parcel to Tom Wall? Who was Melville? Why Tom? Whatever the reason, Tom had information that would injure the Abwehr.

  “At long last,” Chilton said.

  At long last he could act. He must locate Tom, secure the parcel. Was it remotely possible that any of this was true? It was hardly likely, except for two things: Davies-Frank’s mysterious visit, and Melville’s mysterious death.

  Chilton would secure the parcel and destroy it. There was no other course.

  THE CEILING WAS TWO INCHES above Tom’s head. His hair caught on the rough planks as he paced. Five steps, and turn. There was a bed and a bucket and seven stairs leading up to a locked wooden door, his cell having been converted from a coal cellar. Five steps, and turn. The floor was packed earth. His hand throbbed, but the bleeding had stopped. He’d refused medical attention. Lines of light glowed above him, cracks in the planking of the kitchen floor.

  He lay on the bed. Shut his eyes and couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t trust what he thought. Fear drove him. . . .

  There was a shaft of light from the door. A man entered with a bundle of clothes. They’d taken Tom’s to search. He dressed and bandaged his hand. Upstairs, Highcastle spoke with him. Highcastle’s skin was tight, his eyes brittle. He wanted Duckblind—more detail than blond, twenty, and green-eyed. He wanted Sondegger. He had to protect the Twenty, protect Davies-Frank’s legacy. He wanted to jail Tom.

  There was a silence.

  Tom said, “You came to me.”

  An hour later, Ginger, the red
-haired guard, was driving Tom to London. The sun was bright. The car stopped outside a first-aid station. It drove away, and Tom was standing on the sidewalk in the cold wind. He stuck a butt in his mouth and flicked a match with his thumbnail. It didn’t ignite.

  He needed Harriet.

  It was early evening. Tom was swaying on his feet, standing outside the fire door at the Waterfall, three frigid stories up. There were no cigarettes left in his pack. His hand ached. He worked the lock and stepped inside to the warmth of the peach trap. He sat on the bed. He wouldn’t sleep: It didn’t matter. There were dark clouds at the edges of his vision.

  He lost time. His eyes hurt more closed than opened. He stared at the swirls of nap on the carpet. The door handle moved and Tom straightened. A hallucination? No. It moved again.

  He hefted a brass lamp in his good hand and switched off the overhead light. Had the handle really moved? How long ago? A heartbeat? An hour?

  He waited.

  THE STAGE UPON which Sondegger performed was not bound by twenty-seven iron links terminating in a locked cuff. He was surrounded by props, not trapped by shackles. He expelled the length of metal from his nostril.

  He sang Ein deutsches Requiem to cover any noise. Working blind, his hands clasped behind his back, he molded the metal into functional form. Selig sind, die das Leid tragen. Blessed are they who mourn. The lock smoothed open and the chain fell away.

  He was free.

  He killed the warder. He killed the transcriptionist and stripped him. There was a wardrobe change. He could not find matches or a lighter, so he set fire to a scrap of paper with a lightbulb filament. He blew, and the flame quickened and caught. Downstairs, he stood in the farmhouse kitchen and waited, his face smudged with ash. A wisp of smoke made itself seen and a man’s voice called, “Fire,” but the warders maintained the perimeter, were not diverted.

  A shot sounded within the house—the fire touching one of the bullets Sondegger had removed from the dead warder’s gun. There were two more shots, almost simultaneous.

  He was humming. Denn alles Fleisch es ist wie Gras. All flesh is as grass.