by D A Kent
Wait. That was him on the telephone now. He smiled at Otto.
‘Just watch me.’
‘Yes, hallo, Dr Mueller. No, please don’t apologise. I do understand. What a terrible shock it must have been. Yes, we have another operative in mind. Fought alongside the SS Handschar. 13thWaffen Mountain Division. Ha! Thought you would appreciate that. Now, this could be a little tricky. He will need to assemble a team. It may take a day or two but we need to get this absolutely right. Yes, an advance payment would be very helpful. You have the bank details. Thank you, Dr Mueller. Do enjoy the rest of your holiday.’
‘You utter bastard. Otto shook his head. ‘What are you going to do when Mueller realises his assets have evaded him? And that won’t take him long.’
‘Oh, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Alaikum smiled reassuringly. ‘Anything could happen between now and then.’
‘Anything indeed,’ laughed Otto. ‘For instance, we could lose one of our best clients. Is this sensible?’
‘Oh, there will be others.’ Alaikum took a long toot on one of the finest cigarettes Egypt had to offer. ‘And the cleaner we look to the right people, the better for future business.’
In Queen Anne’s Gate, George was in a thoughtful mood. He had just taken a very odd telephone call from Mueller, to the effect that the assets were at large ‘somewhere in the Middle East.’ Mueller had screamed at him, asking why he had not seen fit to divulge that they were deadly assassins. He had said something about somebody’s head being cut off and that now the game would have to be ‘upped.’ Considerably. And yes, before he asked, the plan still was that the male asset would be killed and the female asset (with papers) would be returned to London. It sounded for all the world as if his dear old friend had been imbibing too much schnapps although surely it was far too early in the morning.
George did not feel altogether reassured, but his only option was to trust Mueller’s judgment in this matter. He sat looking at his magazines. My God, the things people thought of nowadays. He resolved to pay a visit to the shops down Charing Cross Road to make some ‘preparations’ for Sylvia’s return. He began to feel quite excited; the adrenaline took away the nagging worry a little. That little whore would not be able to move once he had finished with her. Then again, she wouldn’t need to. On the way to his shopping trip, he would call in on Juncker and that ridiculous cat. He did not trust that slippery, grubby little man one iota.
‘Get out, you idiot. Before I kick you across the room’ he shouted at Edward, who was standing beside him with a sheaf of conveyancing paperwork for signing. His attention had been caught by a particularly graphic picture, which had given him even more ideas. Edward turned on his heel and walked out without a word, slamming the door behind him in disgust. He hoped fervently that he would not be reduced to having to read such literature once he was married off to Caroline. He had hoped for another chat with Louis, but his friend was deep in conversation on the telephone. Maybe a pint at the Two Chairmen would be in order later.
At Ha-Tamar Street, Sylvia was hard at work, notebook in hand. One of Sol’s team had already driven to Tel Aviv with the papers. The others were fanned out around the house. It was a relief to have the papers out of the way, although she was under no illusions as to the danger she herself could be in. Gunn had given her Voss’s money, just in case, and had taken his Stavisky gold (she still didn’t profess to understand this). Sol had mentioned further payments from SherutBitachon.
Nonetheless, Clements Investigations still had to be kept on the road. She had almost lost track of how long they had been away and had no idea when they would be back. She had arranged use of the telephone with Lev and Marguerite, and had just been talking to Joan. No, she still couldn’t say where they were. New instructions were coming in thick and fast, including another request from Vera, whose divorce case was now going through. She reckoned her ‘ex’ was lying through her teeth about his assets. She was prepared to pay well, if they could find out what his true position was.
Sometimes, when they were very busy, she and Gunn used the services of a New Zealander named, rather unoriginally, Kiwi. He worked freelance, and lived with his English girlfriend in London. He had served with Gunn in the Long Range Desert Force days. She had no idea what his real name was. Gunn had told her though that Ralph Bagnold, who had set up the Force, had had the idea of recruiting New Zealanders because he thought they were energetic, self-reliant, physically and mentally tough and able to live and fight in seclusion in the Libyan Desert. Kiwi certainly possessed all those attributes and more, and he didn’t charge the earth. He might as well make a start on some of these cases and Vera’s. Having chatted to him over the telephone, she took a sip of orange juice and began to prepare some budgets and costings. It felt good to be taking control again, after the madness of the past few days.
At the airforce base in Akrotiri, Sol and Gunn were having a beer before the next stage of their journey.
‘Blimey, Sol,’ Gunn dug his Israeli friend in the ribs on his blind side. ‘We should be honoured. The RAF boys have laid us on one of their new transport numbers. Handley Page Hastings. Not exactly the Ritz on wings but not bad either.’
‘Do you think it has parachute lines on board?’
‘I suppose so, why?’
‘You were trained, and I know a little. We could do a static line jump over Bavaria. Saves us driving back from the British zone and the crew of the plane can deny our existence.’
‘That rather appeals,’ Gunn scratched his chin. ‘How do we get out?’
‘Oh, that’s when we liberate a car. We could even take a train.’
Mueller put his head around the door of the dining room, where his wife was eating breakfast.
‘Good morning, liebchen,’ he said, obsequiously.
He suggested that they try their walk up to the top lake again. Perhaps they could stay at the cottage which the restaurant hired out, just around the lake? They had stayed there before; it was beautifully secluded. The silence was ominous and the clock ticked impassively. To his surprise (she wasn’t keen on walking these days), Elise agreed. Telling their young man (butler was far too grand for their mountain hideaway; more of a ‘factotum’ really) what their plans were, they set out happily along the path. Mueller was a vain man, and he thought he cut quite a dash, in his new lederhosen and hiking boots. The sun was set to shine all day and there was a slight but pleasant breeze. He had thought over what Alaikum had said. It sounded quite satisfactory. He had no reason to doubt his word.
Elise was indeed a little resentful of the walk, although she had to admit it was worth it, to get to the top. If the truth be told, she had struck quite an interest in Mueller’s ‘factotum’ (what a silly puffed-up man her husband had become). He was actually called Hans. What was wrong with that? Anyway, maybe he could assist her on their return.
Mueller had met Elise in Berlin, at a party in the early twenties, some years before he had taken up with Marte Vogel. Elise had been legendary in certain circles in the Party for her ability with a riding crop, her biting wit…and her bite. They had married quickly, and children had followed in regimented succession, every two years. She had of course known about Marta. Mueller had suffered for that. It was Elise who had made quite sure at the end that Marta had been dragged, bleeding, from her hospital bed to Gestapo Headquarters. Ordering Mueller to stay at home, she had gone round to that bitch’s apartment and had beaten the truth out of her landlady, as to which hospital she was at.
At the headquarters, the Gestapo had been more than delighted to assist Elise in the prosecution of an enemy of the Reich. Even some of their officers, however, had winced at her enthusiasm and indeed expertise at bringing pain out of Marta. For three days and nights, with only the merest respite, she had gone to work on Marta, who was weak anyway from the miscarriage. By the end, Elise had been stripped to the waist, and shining with spittle, water and blood. It didn’t matter. She always relished her work and especia
lly relished snuffing out Marta’s life. This ghastly Valkyrie was the last vision Marta had, as she drifted out of the world, beyond pain with a tear in the corner of her eye. And after all that, Marta still hadn’t said where the papers were. Mueller (ungrateful worm) had said something about it being perfectly obvious where they were anyway and now everyone knew their business. As if they hadn’t already, with him flaunting that woman on his arm.
Almost ten years later, few in the outside world would have credited that this large, rather silent lady with thick blonde plaits and that snarling, gory monster were one and the same. Except Mueller, and, truth be told, he was still terrified of her, although he revered her. Nonetheless, there were a few rumours circulating about her past. Mueller’s spies had mentioned it. Elise would have as much cause, possibly more, to be spirited away on Operation Crown Jewels as he did, when the time came. For now, they were savouring their day in the mountains, where, they both thought, there was just the faintest hint of autumn.
‘Gruss Gott,’ they chorused cheerfully, to some fellow hikers.
On board the Handley Page Hastings, Gunn was in his element. They could scarcely hear themselves talk over the noise of the engines. He was running through some procedures with the RAF boys.
‘I take it you’ve done this before,’ one of them ventured to ask.
‘More than once.’ Gunn grinned and buckled the harness. ‘Mostly over France and Italy. Got a little arse-tightening at times.’
‘Not much has changed.’ The RAF man returned the grin. ‘We will be over your drop zone around 7, so landing just as dusk closes in.’
Gunn shrugged and relayed the information to Sol, who smiled and mouthed:
‘So what?’
‘Makes a change from a midnight run,’ Gunn observed. ‘Never easy but got to be done.’
He paused, and looked the RAF man full in the eye. ‘Look, you haven’t seen us, and you know nothing. Understood? Rest assured, we are doing this for a damn good reason. The piper is calling and a real bastard will be footing the bill.’
‘Understood. Go and get him.’
The RAF man extended his hand. Gunn took it, and they knew where they stood.
‘We will.’
He was quite right, nothing had changed, thought Gunn, as the wind rushed past him and the ground came up to meet him. Soon he and Sol were extricating themselves from their parachutes and checking themselves over. Sol had landed slightly awkwardly on his ankle but was otherwise fine. They were in a field of cows. There was a bull in with them. It started sauntering nonchalantly towards them.
‘Right, let’s get out of this buggering field,’ said Gunn, stowing the parachutes neatly in a patch of nettles at the corner of the field ‘and find somewhere where we can look at the map. We’re lucky there’s a full moon. Are you all right on that ankle?’
‘Oh, I’ve had worse to contend with’ replied Sol.
Their drop zone, it transpired, had been accurate both in terms of time and place. Dusk was just falling and they were about half an hour’s walk from Bad Kaltenbrun. They seemed to be skirting along the edge of the grounds of some sort of small castle. There was nobody about, but as they walked down a gentle slope into the village, they immediately spotted a brightly-lit building. Everywhere else seemed to be in darkness.
‘Looks like the local bier keller,’ said Sol. ‘Fancy a pint?’
‘A couple, actually,’ Gunn responded. ‘And of course there’s nothing surprising about a couple of officers on leave, hiking and exploring.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Of course, they will loathe us, and their courtesy will be a study in poison, but they won’t realise how well you speak German.’
‘Just for once, I am glad that I do,’ sighed Sol.
The two men straightened their shoulders, adjusted their packs and walked into the Bier Keller as if they were nothing more than a couple of British officers on leave, on a hiking tour of Bavaria. There was a large group of men seated at a round table, each with a large beer stein in front of them, decorated in ornate patterns. A wrought iron sign above their table bore the legend ‘Stammtisch.’ A few other customers were grouped around the bar.
Conversation stopped and gazes followed them as they found a table out of the way, but with a clear eye line to the door and to the counter. They sat down, stowing their packs under their chairs. Gunn cleared his throat and spoke, a little too loudly:
‘I say old chap, what a charming place!’
Sol nodded his head in agreement, and laughed, as the atmosphere around them changed and the conversation began once more. Gunn ordered them a beer each from the young waitress, flirting a little and exchanging stilted pleasantries in English. Sol looked across at Gunn when she had gone back to the bar.
‘Bingo.’
They had, by pure coincidence, stumbled upon an informal meeting that took place each week.
‘I’ll listen to them and pretend to be listening to you. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mueller was amongst them; can’t spot him though. Just chat. Prost!’ said Sol, in an appalling accent, raising his stein. ‘Tell me about your family.’
It was quite odd, a little like talking to himself, Gunn thought. Looking round to make sure nobody was listening, and he could see nobody was, he spoke about his mother, who was French and had died when he was thirteen (which had led to him being sent to boarding school in England), how his father had been a policeman before the Great War, and an NCO during it. After he had met Gunn’s mother in Paris, just after the end of the war, they had lived in London and he was promoted to the rank of Inspector. Gunn was born in London. Then, his father had landed a job in security at the British Embassy in Paris.
‘So, that’s where I grew up, but Dad lives in Brighton now. He has a little hotel, just off the front’ finished Gunn. Sotto voce, he asked ‘Is Mueller here?’
Sol looked thoughtful.
‘Actually, no, but I think I have found out where he is. On holiday in the mountains with his wife; not far away. There’s more but I will save that for later.’ In a louder voice, he suggested:
‘Ready for another beer, old boy? Shall we have a look at the map in a minute and plan our day tomorrow?’
The waitress, all heavy thighs and milk braids, and in her early twenties, returned with their beer and some bread and sausage, a complimentary snack for hikers. She looked over Gunn’s shoulder, moving in as close as she was decently able. Sol suppressed a smirk. The waitress pointed at the map and suggested they should walk around Meerjungfrausee, a lake surrounded by only a very few houses, used mostly by business people from Munich and beyond.
Gunn exchanged glances with Sol and then smiled his thanks to the waitress and introduced himself. She smiled shyly and shook his hand and said her name was Ute and that she was working for her father for the summer. She left, rather reluctantly, to take other orders and Gunn and Sol returned to the map. The latter observed:
‘I think she wants you to tug her braids’
‘All in the line of duty, old chap,’ Gunn responded. ‘Anyway, this lake, what do you reckon?’
‘Meerjungfrausee, Mermaid Lake..,’ began Sol.
‘Oh, not more sodding mermaids,’ said Gunn.
In low tones, Sol said that he had overheard the Stammtisch table commenting that Mueller and his wife were staying up in the mountains for ten days and that they had decamped from there to Meerjungfrausee for a few days.
‘Nothing seems to go unnoticed here. Probably including us. What is it with you and mermaids, anyway?’
‘Never mind,’ said Gunn, absently. He had been trying to keep his mind firmly on the task in hand. Now he had visions of Sylvia, without a stitch of clothing, on that beach in Naples. ‘Reckon we could hike it in a morning?’
‘If we make an early start, yes, I think so.’
‘This place looks as if it’s closing. Excuse me for a moment. I’ll try and get us a billet for the night.’
Gunn disappeared for a ‘privat
e word’ with Ute, at the back of the kitchen. He came back, with a key, looking triumphant.
‘A room above the stables. Might smell a bit but we’ll be making an early start.’
It didn’t smell especially pleasant but it was reasonably comfortable. There were two single beds; it was hardly ever used apparently.
‘I’m meant to meet her behind the shed at midnight,’ said Gunn, getting into bed.
‘Are you going?’ asked Sol.
‘No. A bit too broad in the beam for my taste. I like them with legs that go all the way up. If you catch my drift.’
‘I know exactly who you are thinking about. You old devil, Gunn.’
‘Yes, I know I am.’
‘You will disappoint her.’ Sol picked up his pack and put it under his pillow. Gunn raised an eyebrow.
‘I like a bit more ballast under the pillow,’ Sol explained.
‘Like them broad in the beam too?’ Gunn returned.
‘Not as much as you do.’
‘Seriously,’ Gunn remarked. ‘If I tupped that one, we’d have Daddy raising a posse wielding pitchforks and torches before you know it. I have my moments, but this is not one of them.’ Gunn stretched luxuriously. ‘Anyway, I’m getting some shuteye. Could be a tidy step tomorrow.’
Chapter 16
Next morning, Gunn was awoken from a deep sleep shortly before dawn by a cock crowing. It sounded as if it was right underneath him. More of them started up. Having spent most of his life in the city, he didn’t always appreciate animals very much. His days helping out in the racing stables seemed light years away.
‘Bugger it,’ he said. ‘Come on Sol, let’s get on our way.’
Soon, they were striding along a path that would lead them up into the mountains to the lake. It wasn’t quite light. Nobody was about yet. The dawn chorus was in full swing. From the map, the route looked direct, in a different direction from the path they had taken from the cow field where they landed. It could presently be described as a ‘gentle incline,’ although there was a tough part coming up, Gunn calculated, in an hour or so. He hoped Sol’s ankle would hold out; he had no idea of the man’s level of fitness. A short rest might be in order, in a while, to go through their plan. Sylvia was always a stickler for that. They had some Israeli ‘iron rations’ in their packs to tuck into later.
