by D A Kent
‘An old friend of Gunn’s may have some inside information on that,’ put in Riordan. ‘Goes by the name of Elise. Partner in a brothel in Berlin. Specialises in clients with, er, specific requirements.’ This raised a laugh.
‘You’re pushing it,’ thought Gunn. He explained the connection, and how she had helped them to hang Mueller. ‘Formidable lady. Not my type.’
‘Well,’ Riordan continued, ‘According to your ‘friend,’ Gunn, Wirth has recruited a young Munich lawyer. Goes by the name of Dieter Fischer; comes from the Sudetenland originally. Came to Bavaria on a scholarship funded by the Yanks and did the Bar exams there. They also ‘sprang’ a guy called Joachim Mecklenburg recently, through Madrid. Ring any bells?’
It did. Glances were exchanged. The pipeline was an issue. Wirth’s agenda was different from Mueller’s and Cumberland’s. He wasn’t just a believer, he was a fanatic. He was trying to engineer a resurgence; that was clear. They would have expected operations of this nature to have started winding down by now. The very opposite was happening. Better intelligence was needed. The Alaikum/Otto operation was a joke. They needed dealing with. The new listening station in Chartrettes might assist matters. Sylvia’s meeting with the quarter master two weeks hence was confirmed. Gunn told them that the way had already been paved with the mayor. Riordan raised a quizzical eyebrow; Gunn, a partner in a London investigation agency and with a house in France.
‘Well, you two,’ David turned to Sol and Gunn. ‘Shall we adjourn so I can brief you on our immediate problem in Damascus?’
Riordan’s parting shot, again sotto voce, was: ‘I might just look up that young lady of yours next time I’m in London, Gunn. Sounds quite a girl.’
‘She wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole,’ Gunn replied.
He followed Sol and David out to a waiting car. He had taken to David straightaway. Hard as nails, but clearly an intelligent man. He told Gunn on the journey how he had once had aspirations to become a concert pianist but in 1925, when he was ten and living near Capernaum, his Arab neighbours had killed his parents and broken his hands before destroying the ramshackle piano which had been his treasured possession. He had gone to live with relatives in London and had enlisted with the Green Howards in 1939. After demob, he had returned to Israel and joined the underground.
The three of them were in a barrel-vaulted stone office in Tiberias. The building was old, history virtually whispering from the stones. As they entered, Gunn had pressed his ears to the walls as if listening. He thought he could hear fragments of tales long since told and long since forgotten.
‘Gentlemen,’ David spread a map out on the wooden trestle table. Other than that, three chairs and a bureau, the vault was bare.
‘Syria took the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee in May. It holds it still, but the situation there is chaotic and fluid, so that may be your best route into Syria and then on to Damascus.’
‘How far is that?’ Gunn asked.
‘Around sixty miles,’ David mused. ‘Hilly country, rough, some half decent roads and the potential for trouble.’
‘The usual recipe,’ Sol smiled. ‘My favourite. Any ideas as to a route?’
‘All a bit ad hoc,’ David shrugged. ‘There are troops all over the area and let’s face it, the locals will not be friendly. The fewest troops seem to be on the line between Al Harah and north towards Kanaker, skirting the latter to the east and entering Damascus via Darayya. Again, rough country but that is in your favour.’
Stubbing out a cigarette, Gunn leaned forward. ‘How are we getting in?’
‘Boat.’
‘No chance of a low level drop, sort of thing we did in the LRDG?’ David shook his head. ‘Too much of a risk of broken bones. We couldn’t come and get you.’
‘Nice,’ Gunn nodded. ‘So, punting on the Cam?’
‘With a few added extras,’ David responded, drily.
‘There is another option.’ Sol leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘It is fairly suicidal but I could suggest it as long as it does not go beyond these walls.’
David folded his arms, keeping his hands carefully concealed. Some memories did not fade. ‘This should be amusing.’
‘Bugger amusing,’ Gunn chimed in. ‘Knowing this one, it will be wilder than a rhino on a ski slope.’
Sol spread his hands in a gesture of compliance.
‘Since you insist, it occurs to me that if Gunn and I are dressed in British Army fatigues, dropped at the border at gunpoint as prisoners, with suitable documents, there is a fair chance the Syrians may take it easy on us and give us a ride into Damascus to any British diplomatic mission, and we jump ship at a moment of our choosing and then do what we have to do.’
‘Might be less risky than the boat option and fighting our way for sixty miles,’ Gunn observed.
‘Possibly,’ said David. ‘And I suppose it would be simple to arrange. But you’d have to find yourselves some equipment, and quickly. You’d have nothing but your British Army papers.’
And when we get to Damascus,’ Gunn went on. ‘Is there anything else we should know about Matthaus? Other than what’s in the file?’
‘Funny you should mention that,’ David commented. ‘There is some material I didn’t put in the file. Seems he was a deserter. Not common knowledge. Got out of Berlin a few weeks ahead of the Red Army and made his way to Damascus. But you shouldn’t under-estimate him. He’s a vicious thug. Now, this little jaunt of yours…’
Unaware that, only a matter of hours earlier, he had featured in Gunn’s briefing to the Israeli forces, Edward was drinking mint tea in the souk in Tangiers. He had a few hours to kill before heading back to the aerodrome. He liked the city, and the bright colours of the spices and fabrics in the markets. He had stipulated to Bonnard the type of job he wanted. That’s what he had got. The ‘cargo’ he had brought over earlier turned out to be two taciturn Germans. He had not enquired further.
Yesterday, he had spoken briefly to Louis. Mummy was becoming a nuisance. Louis was losing patience with her. Caroline’s parents were bringing breach of promise proceedings. Well, in that case, he thought, she could whistle for any money from him. Juncker had been warned off, but Louis reckoned he wouldn’t go down without a fight. He had left a God-awful mess behind him, he thought ruefully. Still, he was a long way from all of that now.
He threw a few coins on the table, placed his cap on his head and gave the brim a snap. Then, glancing at his watch and assessing, he took a stroll. He needed to clear his head and fill it anew. The hard, flat light of Tangiers framed by the wind off the sea and the sand to the south beneath a big sky would do just about right.
In Cairo, Otto had managed to speak at last to Matthaus. He never knew his compatriot had been a deserter. Had he done so, his opinion of him would have been quite different. As it was, he had built up quite a rapport in recent days.
‘Sounds rather odd,’ he said, frowning. ‘Reckons there’s somebody coming for him.’
‘Probably been at the schnapps again,’ said Alaikum, vaguely. ‘You said he liked a tipple. Anyway, he’s probably right. Had a few close shaves recently.’
‘He has. Sounded different this time though.’ Otto frowned.
‘Lunch in Heliopolis?’ suggested Alaikum.
‘Weren’t we going to go through that stuff from Scheherazade that came in earlier? There was a lot of it.’
‘Oh, that can wait’ Alaikum told him. ‘I’m ravenous. I want to have a look at our new house.’
In Damascus, as Otto had surmised, Matthaus sensed that danger was imminent. A life built on staying ahead of a bullet had given him a certain sense that tipped over now and then into paranoia, which had resulted in one or two unfortunate incidents in coffee houses, smoothed over with the exchange of cash. He had run out of alcohol altogether and was not in the best frame of mind. Still, he was ready for whoever it was.
Chapter 26
Gunn was studying the map quietly, while David and Sol spoke
in hushed tones at the other end of the room. He was thinking about the campaign against the Vichy French he had participated in, during ’41. He recalled an Arab proverb:
‘Choose your neighbour before the house and your companion before the road.’
Gunn had no qualms about either. He and Sol worked well together. As David and Sol moved back towards his end of the room, he shifted in his seat, looking up from the map.
‘You know, I’ve never been especially keen on mucking about on waterways. Fast cars, yes, Rivers, streams, seas, lakes, not really. Sol’s prisoner wheeze gets my vote.’
Sol looked at Gunn and then at David, grinning.
‘See, boss, I told you. Hand over the folding.’
David winced and fished in his trouser pocket, pulling out a roll of notes. He peeled off a couple and handed them to Sol.
‘That should get you started.’
‘When do we pick up the uniforms and fake documents?’ asked Gunn, his mind already racing ahead to the subterfuge stage.
‘Won’t take long; our people are good at this.’ David said.
‘How about some fresh air and a stroll?’ suggested Sol.
In Bavaria, Wirth was escorting Dieter to his car.
‘So, my young friend,’ he observed. ‘You have some travelling to do. Are you quite clear about what you have to do?’
‘Oh yes,’ responded Dieter. He was trying not to think too deeply or too far ahead. He was looking forward to the weekend ahead with Ursula, which was shaping up to be the perfect mix of ‘social’ and ‘quiet’; the past few days had been intense. They were meeting some old law school friends for dinner that evening, and her parents had invited them for lunch on Saturday. The forecast looked good.
As Wirth waved his young friend off, Karl Adler appeared at his elbow.
‘Mind if I run something past you, Sir? Just been speaking to Otto in Cairo.’
‘What did he have to say? Nothing useful, I don’t suppose,’ replied Wirth, in avuncular fashion. Adler was a real asset to the team; a true believer; Wirth would almost go as far as to describe him as a disciple. He had been a doctoral student of his at Gottingen; a promising one. Wirth liked to think he was fulfilling his academic potential now.
‘Usual rubbish; rabbits on about nothing. He did ask in passing if we knew of anybody called Rainer Matthaus.’
Wirth paused. He knew Matthaus from boyhood. He had last seen him on a road south of Wurzburg in early 1945. Matthaus had been less than forthcoming. That had never been his style. Equally, he had been driving a Mercedes Benz rather than being driven. Wirth had supposed pressures of manpower and the general situation had allowed the normal niceties to slip. They had run into each other, on and off, for a decade up to that point, and more than once shared a beer and some stories. But on that cold spring morning, Matthaus had been lip-chewingly brief and spare and had dodged any questions as to his mission or destination. At the time, Wirth had applauded his colleague’s discipline. Afterwards, he had wondered about him, when sipping a brandy and leafing through memories.
What about him?’ he asked.
‘Only that he may be in some sort of trouble,’ said Adler. ‘He’s been in Damascus for a while, apparently, operating as a hitman. Lying low.’
Wirth’s curiosity was well and truly piqued. The Matthaus he had known had never been one for lying low.
‘You might just give these people a call,’ he suggested, giving Adler a list of names. ‘Old colleagues of mine. See if they know anything. And keep a close eye on the verbiage emanating from those two pansies in Cairo.’
As he made his way back into the castle, to see how the rest of his young acolytes were doing, he remembered that Matthaus had been born in Alexandria, to German parents, and had grown up speaking Arabic in the streets. Perhaps that explained why he had gravitated towards Damascus. Wirth had just finished his circuit, giving friendly advice here and there, when Adler came over to him, with the whole sorry tale of Matthaus’s departure from Germany, through Austria, Romania and Greece. In Greece, he had stolen a Fieseler Storch from the Luftwaffe and slipped over to Turkey. From there, it had been an easy run to Syria, to join old boyhood friends. Adler had pieced this together in half an hour.
‘He’s good,’ thought Wirth. ‘If everyone on my team was like this, we’d be up and running again in no time. My young friend Fischer from Munich is going to have to show his mettle – and soon.’
‘I have to wonder, Sir,’ mused Adler, ‘who else could be interested in an enemy of the Reich.’
‘Get back on the telephone to Alaikum,’ Wirth advised. ‘They know more than they are letting on.’
In Tiberias, Gunn was going through the fake documents with a practised eye, thinking over his cover story again. Sylv was always brilliant at this, but he had to admit, he was impressed by what had been put together for them here. He looked up at a pat on the shoulder from David.
‘So, Englishman, what do you think?
‘A stroll in the park before tea,’ Gunn replied lightly, seeing the veiled concern in David’s eyes. ‘That reminds me, I could do with a cuppa.’
‘You people are incorrigible,’ David laughed, the tension cracking like a spoon on a crème brûlée. ‘Nothing much bothers you, does it?’
‘Au contraire.’ Gunn shook his head. ‘We just don’t want to let our mates down.’
‘I see.’
‘As you’ll remember from your days with the Green Howards, that’s how the regimental system works’ Gunn amplified. ‘King and Country is all very well, but what matters is your mate to the left and to the right. You stand and get on with it.’
‘You’ll do’ said David.
In Munich, Dieter looked up appreciatively at Ursula, who had brought him a stack of letters to sign and a coffee. She was one of the best secretaries he had ever had. He had barely registered the drive home from Wirth’s castle; his head was spinning. The reunion with the law school crowd had been fun, in a smart restaurant. They were all beginning to flourish in their careers, in their different ways. Erwin Mueller had been there, and, wondering why he hadn’t made the connection before, Dieter had made a beeline for him.
He and Erwin had moved in different social circles. It was time for that to change. It seemed the Bad Kaltenbrun estate needed sorting out. A small part of it had been left to Friedrich in the thirties, in recognition of his late mother’s ‘services’ to the household. The lion’s share devolved upon Edward Cumberland in London. Friedrich’s share now belonged to Elise, who had vanished off the face of the earth. Erwin didn’t seem too bothered about it or hi mother; his life was in Munich now. The estate as a whole was being run by loyal retainers, but that situation would not continue indefinitely. His blasé attitude both perplexed and irritated Dieter.
Turning all this information over in his mind, Dieter signed the last letter with a flourish, and picked up the receiver to take another call from Adler at the castle. The pipeline was keeping him busy. At least, he thought, arrangements were running smoothly. Bonnard down in the south of France had taken on new staff, including a former Spitfire pilot. Dieter had been amused about that. He had heard good reports of the new pilot.
As the dawn eased itself up and across the Sea of Galilee, an Israeli army truck, with a white flag pinned to its radiator, drove slowly up to Syrian positions on the north shore. Around one hundred yards from the border, David applied the brakes and the truck came to a halt. He turned, looked over his shoulder and nodded, and troops pushed two men in British army fatigues out of the truck. At gunpoint, they invited them to march slowly towards Syria. They were dusty, bruised, one had lost an eye and they had clearly taken more than one beating. In a raised hand, one of them clutched a white rag. David muttered a prayer of good fortune, started the truck up and reversed it back towards the Israeli position.
Winifred Cumberland lay on Edward’s bed at Chepstow Villas, looking once again at the stars on the ceiling. Lothar had been livid about them, accusing h
er of turning their son into a fairy. She had, upon reflection, made a terrible mess of things; Lothar had treated Edward appallingly. She had done nothing; transfixed for all those years by her own deep unhappiness. Venting her spleen on Sylvia had felt good at the time but it had driven Tom away. If only the Great War hadn’t intervened, all those years ago, and ruined things between them.
Lothar was dead; that was a blessed relief. She could admit that now. But Edward was gone for good. Taking his teddy had been the ultimate gesture. She had been ‘blackballed’ at the Tennis Club. Caroline was refusing to marry anybody else – Eddy was the only one for her, she lamented, to anybody who cared to listen. She had told her parents that she was keeping the baby no matter what. They were now pressing for money. Caroline’s father had told Winifred that if she wasn’t forthcoming with the ‘readies,’ they were quite prepared to put the baby out for adoption. They might just do that anyway.
Winifred could not and would not allow her grandchild to be put up for adoption, although she did not much care what happened to Caroline. It might be her only chance to make amends. Louis had told her that she could expect little financially from the firm; George had been plundering it systematically, almost running it into the ground. He had been suitably vague. That dreadful little tailor, Juncker, had come up with nothing on Edward. A few letters had arrived from Germany which she did not profess to understand. Other letters were beginning to arrive, from closer to home; untutored and menacing.
Pensively, she threaded through her fingers a card Edward had dropped on the floor of his room, advertising the services of Yves Bonnard, commercial airlines. An hour later, she had packed a holdall, locked the house and set off for the boat train. Edward would damn well have to sort out Bad Kaltenbrun; she was certainly not going there. Lothar’s parents had taken a dislike to her immediately; their icy froideur had been most hurtful to a young bride. In a rare moment of kindness, Lothar had taken her hiking, so they could have some time on their own. It had been one of their nicest times together; Edward had been conceived somewhere up a mountain, on the way to a lake. Sipping her gin and tonic on the deck of the ferry, and feeling alive for the first time in years, she leafed through her Baedeker, planning her route.
