by D A Kent
He spoke at length about the discoveries he and Sylvia had made, emphasising the contribution she had made, and how it had led to the report and paperwork they had before him. They wanted to know all about Sylvia too. They were impressed with Mueller’s downfall, commenting that it was a fitting end. Operation Crown Jewels was well under way. Two assets, sentenced in absentia by the War Crimes Trials, were already in Argentina. Many more were waiting in Italy and in Cadiz. George was a major player, but there were others. Even so, he and Mueller had been controlling the logistics, so once Cumberland was out of the way too, that would be a major coup. To facilitate and speed up matters, Sol would arrange transport for Gunn and Sylvia back to England the next day. A large payment would be forthcoming once Cumberland was dispatched.
With his head spinning, Gunn emerged into the sunlight in the late afternoon. Sol was outside with a jeep and a driver.
‘Sightseeing now, my friend. Show you round a bit. And a bite to eat.’
In the small hours, the jeep pulled up at Ha-Tamar Street. Marguerite had ‘billeted’ Gunn and Sol with the lads in the cellar, on camp beds.
‘Won’t be a minute,’ Gunn said to Sol, with a smile. He was used to prowling around buildings like a cat. He didn’t wait for the inevitable catchphrase.
‘Budge up, Sylv.’ He climbed onto the narrow bed and took her into his arms. He buried his face in her hair. That perfume again. The cut on her face seemed to have healed. ‘I won’t stay long, sweetheart. I don’t want to disturb you. This bed is bloody uncomfortable and I don’t want to cause a major security incident. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow though. I’ve just, well, I’ve missed you.’
She tightened her arms around him and murmured something which he couldn’t quite catch. He had a smile on his face when he re-joined Sol in the cellar.
‘What are you going to tell her?’ Sol asked curiously.
‘Oh, probably best not to say anything until I hear formally from you guys. Until I’ve been through the agreement and all that. I agreed with that last guy I saw that it would be under contract through Clements. He said he’d get it all drafted. And we need to focus on Cumberland now. ‘
Next morning, Gunn and Sylvia were out in the courtyard early. She had been telling him all about Clements, the work she had managed to do and her sightseeing trip with the lads. The sunshine had lightened her hair and had turned her skin golden brown. Sol wandered through to join them, with Marguerite, Lev and Aaron.
‘Come on then, said Lev. ‘Tell us how that monster met his end. I hope it was painful.’
Gunn stretched out his legs and leaned back in his chair, one arm draped round Sylvia. He reached up behind him, plucked an orange from a tree and began to peel it.
‘Let’s just say that he died slowly, and not as a man should. And his wife helped finish him off, which says a good deal about him.’
He swallowed a segment and spat a pip into his empty cup. It rattled around in the dregs.
‘And Cumberland’s passing will make Mueller’s seem quite civilised.’
‘What assurance can you give us that you will be able to kill him?’ asked Lev. ‘We must congratulate you on getting rid of Mueller, but you must understand that we still won’t feel safe until Cumberland is dead.’
‘It’s a valid question’ observed Sol. ‘He is unlikely to go down without a fight.’
‘I think surprise will be key,’ said Sylvia. ‘I was thinking of doing something he really won’t expect, but which seems on the surface quite normal; maybe if I made an appointment with him to discuss Jones’s will?’
‘Absolutely not’ began Gunn. ‘I won’t…’
‘Since when did you become my boss?’ Sylvia thought, angrily. Shooting him a furious glance, she cut across him and carried on:
‘Around now, Cumberlands have a day when they close their offices altogether and go to Lords for the cricket with some clients. They don’t even have anyone on reception. George has always hated cricket and goes along under sufferance. He might jump at the chance of an excuse to get away.’
She realised Gunn was looking at the picture in her notebook, of their initials entwined in a heart. He gave her an amused smile. Turning the page firmly, she said, in her best professional manner:
‘Of course, Mr. Gunn and I still have to discuss the modus operandi in full. But rest assured that we will have this matter in hand immediately on our return to London. For everyone’s safety.’
‘And what about Mueller’s wife,’ asked Marguerite. ‘How come she helped finish him off? Isn’t she a danger now?’
‘She won’t say a word,’ said Sol.
‘Can you be sure?’ Marguerite’s fingers kneaded the hem of her skirt in her anxiety. Sol leaned across and placed a hand on hers. He smiled.
‘Mueller’s wife has every interest in keeping quiet. She also saw at first hand what we are capable of. One word out of place and she will pay the piper.’
Sylvia and Gunn were having a quiet word under the orange trees.
‘Sylv, I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to…It’s just, well, these guys are animals. We need to mull it over carefully.’
‘We’ll talk about it later. I’ve been a busy girl while you were away; writing ideas down.’
‘So I see,’ he commented, with a smile. ‘I liked the picture with the heart.’
She chased him back into the courtyard, to join the others.
In the city of a thousand minarets, Alaikum and Otto were winding down for lunch, which was going to occupy much of the afternoon. They had commissioned a new house in Heliopolis and were meeting the architect, to go through the plans. Alaikum reflected on how far he had come. Here he was, a boy from the bazaar, about to move into the place of his dreams. He and Otto already had their names down for the Heliopolis Club. They were going up in the world, fast.
‘New client,’ said Alaikum, putting the telephone down. ‘Solicitor from London but I reckon he’s one of your lot. Said Mueller had recommended us.’
‘Interesting,’ said Otto. ‘Wonder what he wants.’
‘Put him on the mailing list.’ Alaikum was staring thoughtfully out of the window. ‘Try him on the generic stuff first. Usual old flannel. He won’t know the difference, anyway.’
George had had a busy morning at Queen Anne’s Gate. Having thrown Edward out of the room, with a satisfying boot up the backside, he had started his morning with a most peculiar telephone call to Bad Kaltenbrun. They had no idea of Dr Mueller’s whereabouts or when he was likely to return.
‘Am I talking to a complete idiot?’ he had screamed down the telephone, to one of Mueller’s staff. Listening in on the conference room telephone, a pile of files in front of him, Louis winced at the tone and the language. Eventually, George had got through to Hans, in the mountains, and berated him soundly. Hans’s family had worked for George’s parents for generations. Hams remembered George’s parents with affection, particularly his mother, as well-bred courteous people. George was just a shit. He did confirm, though, that Mueller was still at the top lake, on his own. He did not mention, because George did not ask him, that he had seen a strangely elated Elise off in a taxi two days ago. She had not, in any case, said where she was going.
What the hell was Mueller playing at, wondered George? Probably up at the lake with some little tart; Elise was rather a battle axe these days. Oblivious, clearly, to the fact that some people had work to do, and that they had ‘assets’ waiting to move to Cadiz and points west, who would not be able to remain in situ for much longer. He was going to have to take up the reins for a while, as if he didn’t have enough to do already. He made a few more calls to his contact in Rome and gave the man some false reassurance. He wasn’t sure it was very plausible, but it would buy time.
Then he frowned. Until he had those papers back, had made sure Gunn was dead and had dispensed with Sylvia, the whole operation could be blown sky high. Hadn’t Mueller mentioned something about the Middle East? Didn’t he ha
ve a contact out there, that effeminate creature from the Abwehr? He rang Hans back, in a more conciliatory tone, and got the number for Alaikum. A very odd man, he reflected, after their conversation. Still, there wasn’t much else he could do on that front at this stage, and it might prove useful. To take his mind off things, he got out his magazines, along with the riding crop and handcuffs he had bought on his recent shopping trip.
Cumberland could lose himself for some time in his fantasies. In some ways, he shared his predilections with Mueller. In others, they were very different. At Wellington, a matron had taken him under her wing. She was Austrian. He still remembered her fondly. She had taken mothering to a whole different world, where rules seemed to be a matter of negotiation, not fixed in the firmament. He had often wondered what had happened to her; apparently, she had left England in the thirties, at the time of the Anschluss, and was last heard of running a field brothel on the Eastern front. No woman had ever quite measured up to her. George now regarded most women as creatures that required domination, of the most severe nature.
The telephone rang loudly, disturbing his thoughts. He scowled. It was that fat old mare, Joan. What the hell did she want? Then he smiled. She was ringing on behalf of Miss Fordred, to make an appointment for tomorrow. She had some papers that she wanted to deliver in person? Yes, 2pm would be fine. Edward and Louis would be at the cricket but he was certainly available. Thank God for that, he thought. He had hated cricket with a vengeance, ever since Wellington.
He wondered whether this was some sort of trick. His instinct was that it was not. Of course, better to be safe than sorry. As Mueller was clearly totally inept, he was going to have to factor in Gunn’s demise, and fast. He thought for a moment and then picked up the telephone again. He knew just the person.
Stanley Garner let the receiver drop into the cradle, where it rocked itself to stillness. He lit another cigarette and looked out of the window onto Wapping waterfront. He grinned at the prospect of some real money, some real action, the first in a long time since the Blitz, although the Olympics had provided some easy meat, foreign mugs to be ripped off and kicked to the kerb.
He turned to his sidekick, a long-time draughtsman named Alex Hughes, generally called Trip because of his two left feet. He was clumsier than a drunken bovine in Whiteleys china department, but he was a skilled operator.
‘Trip, put the word out, we should gather the boys at the Prospect tonight. Bit of a board meeting.’
‘Nice one, skip.’
Chapter 18
‘Well, we’re on the way.’ Gunn smiled at Sylvia. They were in the back of the jeep, on their way to the airport.
Their route back to England was to be one Cumberland would never have credited. Haifa to Cyprus, Cyprus to Northolt with the RAF. A telephone call to Joan had revealed that the Cumberland Client Cricket Day was indeed tomorrow. They had got her to make the appointment for 2pm. George had accepted with alacrity.
‘In like Flynn?’ said Sol from the front.
‘Pretty much,’ they replied.
Saying goodbye to Marguerite, Lev and Aaron had been emotional. Marguerite had taken them on one side just before they left, to sign some documentation on Chartrettes. ‘Come back and see us with the family,’ she had said. ‘And…thank you.’ She had broken down in tears at this point.
There were hugs and kisses for Sylvia, promises to write, and handshakes for Gunn from the security team.
‘Took quite a shine to you, didn’t they?’ he commented.
He handed Sol the keys to the Packard.
‘Could be useful, old boy,’ he said.
‘See you in a few weeks,’ Sol responded, with a smile.
Sylvia gave him a quizzical look but decided not to ask Gunn about it; he could be a secretive so and so sometimes. She followed him into the hangar. He turned to her, now that they were alone.
‘Now, you are all right about this, aren’t you, sweetheart? If you’re not, just tell me and I’ll go to the appointment with Kiwi.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘That’s my girl.’ He gave her a hug. ‘Oh, and by the way, Sylv. You’re not going back to that sodding mausoleum in Tufnell Park. You’re coming home with me. No arguments.’
Sylvia shot him one of her direct glances. Normally, she would have objected vociferously to being told what to do. Actually, she liked Gunn’s idea, but she wasn’t going to let on, or not straightaway.
Gunn paused. ‘I’ve overstepped the mark again. I keep doing that. It’s just you had that goon following you before we left, remember? And I don’t trust Cumberland. But seriously, Mrs O always has a room going – if you want, of course.’
Sylvia had been to Gunn’s place once, after a raucous evening in the pub with Kiwi, his girlfriend and the Free French crowd. They had played records on the gramophone and started dancing, and been summarily thrown out onto the pavement by an outraged Mrs O.
‘Well, it can’t be any worse than Tufnell Park,’ she said, happily. ‘It might even be warmer!’
‘I’ll smuggle you in tonight then. I reckon it could be quite late by the time we get back.’
Much later, after lunch with their architect and a siesta, Otto and Alaikum let themselves into their office.
‘What a day,’ said Otto happily. ‘Oh, whatever’s all this?’
The ticker tape machine had been working overtime.
‘It’s from Scheherezade. In Haifa or wherever she bases herself now. Says the English couple have left Ha-Tamar Street in a jeep.’
‘Wonder where the man went on his own the other day,’ mused Alaikum. ‘She never said. Oh well. You could mention it in tomorrow’s briefing if you can be bothered.’
Garner sat out on one of the verandas at the Prospect of Whitby, half a brandy at his elbow. He sipped, he never supped deep. He was watching the boats moving up and down the Thames while he waited for Trip and the others. There was Coop, a gunman whose real love was the knife; Irish, a prize fighter and horse doper; Bill Gladwin, a driver, fast and safe, one who could be relied on to get a team out of the tightest of holes; Mendelson, who had trained as a tailor but preferred breaking the law. He was handy with pliers, mostly on teeth and knuckles. He had, however, popped a policeman’s eyeball in the winter of 1941. They filed in, one after the other, and were soon ordering pints.
Garner was a natural leader. He had been, ever since he left school at twelve, ducking and weaving for local villains. That’s where he had learnt the ropes. He kept it nice and clean, kept his own counsel and had risen up the ranks, with the war giving him a boost. He was doing all right. Cumberland had put him on commission a couple of times already.
This new one looked good, he reflected. Sounded easy enough; just the one bloke. Late twenties, ex-military, and he had a description, which he read out to the assembled gang. Had to be out of the way by lunchtime.
‘What I reckon,’ he said ‘is we go over to his gaffe now, this Clements Inn, turn it over, leave a calling card as it were, and lure him out here. Onto our territory.’
Gunn and Sylvia arrived at his digs at midnight. It had started to rain, and there was a chill in the air. The house was in pitch darkness and locked up. Sylvia climbed onto his shoulders and up the drainpipe onto the porch. He passed the bags up to her and then climbed up himself.
‘Home, sweet home,’ he said.
The room was sparsely furnished. A double bed, a sofa and a sagging wardrobe; not much in the way of possessions, Sylvia reflected. More or less the same as she had in Tufnell Park, although Gunn also had an open fire place. He reached under the bed and brought out a bucket with some coal in it.
‘We’re not supposed to have fires but I’m bloody well going to light one. Are you hungry?’
‘Starving.’
‘Won’t be a minute then. If you need the loo, it’s just down the corridor. Just make sure nobody sees you.’
He came back with two mugs of tea and some buttered toast. Goodness knows who the bread belong
ed to, or the milk. No doubt there would be hell to pay in the morning, but he was past caring. They sat by the fire, warming themselves, both deep in thought.
‘I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight,’ offered Sylvia. She tucked his army greatcoat round her and tried to sleep.
‘Gunn? Are you still awake?’ she whispered, after half an hour.
‘Yes. Wish I sodding well wasn’t.’
‘Fire’s lovely though,’ she remarked. ‘I just stoked it up a bit.’
They both agreed there was something really luxurious about having a fire in the bedroom. It reminded them of childhood illnesses; something not normally allowed.
‘I’ think we should have a fire in the bedroom at Chartrettes,’ she ventured, daringly.
‘Gunn, can I ask you something? Did you mean what you said the other day to Marguerite?’
‘I did, Sylv. Every single word. Did you mean what you said the other night when I got back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ha. Got you. You weren’t really asleep, were you? Miss Fordred.’
She ignored that. ‘Can I ask you something else?’
‘Go on then.’
‘In your sleep, you mention this girl’s name sometimes. Josephine. Who is she?’
Gunn sighed.
‘Her name is Josephine Amelie Gunn. And she is…was my daughter. And there’s something else. Her mother’s real name was Madeleine Billet. I knew her first as Sandrine.’
Sylvia moved across and sat on the edge of his bed.
‘Billet was the name of the cognac house where my mother went. I remember that now. My God. What happened?’
‘It was when I was in the SOE,’ Gunn continued. ‘Madeleine – Sandrine and I – were in the same unit, you know, going round causing mayhem. We fell for each other. Not the idea, really.’
‘What was she like?’ Sylvia breathed. ‘I mean, I don’t remember her at all.’
‘A lot like you. Those cheekbones. Same colouring. Her hair was a little darker. Not quite as tall. Bit fuller up top. Bottom might have been slightly bigger.’
