The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  “He told me that his aim was to re-create the Germany of Bismarck, and dominate Europe.”

  “Yes. But I’m sure you’ll agree that is a bit far-fetched. Pure demagoguery. Presumably he supposed he would impress you more by describing grandiose schemes. I meant, what would you say were his short term, and possibly more realistic aims?”

  “He wishes to be prime minister of Bavaria. And when he is, to secede from the German Federation.”

  “Would you estimate he can control enough votes to achieve this?”

  “No,” Berkeley said. “He doesn’t intend to rely on votes. When he reckons the time is right, and it is becoming more right every day with the collapse of the mark, he intends to seize power in a coup. That was his plan two years ago, anyway.”

  “Hm,” Shrimpton commented. “That is remarkable. That you should hold that opinion. Because our agents in Munich are of the opinion that there could well be a coup in the air. Very interesting. Thank you very much, Colonel. I have enjoyed this little chat. Now go off and sink into respectable obscurity. You’ve done your bit.”

  Just like that, Berkeley thought. After more than twenty years of working behind the scenes for the Government, and entirely discounting the several years he had spent as a soldier in the field, he had been turned out to grass – at the age of forty-five, when he was as fit and as deadly as at any time in his life, perhaps more so.

  All of those lives, all of those deaths, all of those gun battles . . . what had they really accomplished? He regretted none of the recent killings. The thought of any one of those slimy toads forcing a naked Anna to do their bidding could still make his skin crawl and his blood boil. But his efforts in the Balkans before the War had not prevented that war from happening. So Gorman’s machinations had brought him Caterina, but Caterina had been as much of a disaster as she had been a triumph. But Caterina had at least given him the children. One of whom he had now lost, in the most terrible circumstances. Yet the others remained, and as Shrimpton had said, they undoubtedly needed a father, to love them and nurture them and above all protect them into adulthood.

  He also needed to put his affairs in order. He had lived cheaply enough over the past two years, drawing money as he needed it from his London account, into which his salary had faithfully been paid, but there was still very little left in the account, with only a pension to add to his golden handshake.

  He telephoned before leaving London.

  “Berkeley?” his mother asked. “Oh, my God! Berkeley! Where are you?”

  “London.”

  “You mean you’re coming home?”

  Throughout the two and half years he had been away, they had received only brief letters and postcards. He had never been able to tell his parents what he really did for a living. They had no idea that their son was Great Britain’s master agent provocateur and assassin, had always assumed he was a kind of roaming military attaché. That could never be allowed to change.

  “I’m on the train in ten minutes,” he said.

  “Oh, Berkeley. We’ll be at the station.”

  They all were, John and Alicia, Lockwood and Marie and their children, sturdy lads now, and John junior and Little Alicia, crowding forward to shake his hands and be hugged and kissed.

  John junior was thirteen, a big, strong boy, with his mother’s classic features but his father’s body. Little Alicia was every bit as beautiful as Anna, although her hair was more dark brown than red. “It is so good to have you back, Daddy,” she said, crying in his arms. “So good.”

  Even at eleven, she had sufficient nous not to ask after her sister. They all knew that if Berkeley had been able to find her, he’d have brought her back with him.

  “Rough times?” Lockwood asked, as they clasped hands.

  Berkeley grinned. “Some.”

  “And that bastard Antonov?”

  “Is history. We’ll talk later.”

  The people he needed to talk to first were his parents, even as he sifted through the enormous pile of mail they had kept for him.

  “Nothing at all?” John Townsend asked.

  “Leads,” Berkeley said. “Always leads. That’s why I’ve been away so long. But they all led up blind alleys.”

  “These leads,” Alicia said. “What exactly were they?”

  Berkeley sighed. “Brothels, Mother.”

  “Oh, my God! You mean . . .”

  “Yes. The people who kidnapped her, their name was Antonov, as soon as they discovered I was on their trail, sold her to a pimp. A very big pimp, in Greece. I tracked her there, but she had been sold on again. So I tracked her to Hungary, and eventually to Vienna. But after that, nothing.”

  “Anna,” Alicia said. “A prostitute. Oh, my God!”

  “Yes,” Berkeley said. “I don’t know how many brothels there are in Europe, but I suspect there are well over a million. She could be in any one of them.”

  His father squeezed his hand. “You are taking it very well.”

  “Yes,” Berkeley said. “What else can I do? Roll on the floor and eat the carpet?” John and Alicia exchanged glances; they could tell their son was under extreme stress. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Berkeley said. “I have been retired from the Army.”

  “Retired?” John asked. “But . . . are you at retirement age?”

  “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion. I’m forty-five, and apparently not going anywhere.”

  “One would have thought they’d have given you brigadier rank.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose my being out of action, you might say, for the past couple of years impressed the War Office. I’m getting a pension, and a useful golden handshake, but I suppose there will have to be economies.”

  “Not necessarily,” Alicia said. “This came while you were away. Last year.”

  Berkeley unfolded the sheet of paper. “Eight thousand pounds? Good God! From . . . Belgrade?”

  “It seems the solicitors you employed managed to sell the Slovitza house.”

  Good old Savos, Berkeley thought. And then realised that there was a letter from Savos in the pile in front of him. He remembered the handwriting.

  “Do you mind if I read this, now?” he asked.

  “Of course not. I just thought you might like to know that we put the money into a deposit account. It’s earning good interest.”

  “Thank you.” Berkeley slit the envelope.

  The handwriting was in Serbo-Croat, but he read the language quite easily.

  Dear friend, I am happy to say that, thanks to your recommendation, I have been allowed to come and live in England. I have a house in a place called Hastings, which is situated on the south coast of your delightful island, and here I am living with my wife Martina; perhaps you remember her. My permission to live here was attended by certain conditions, any breach of which will, I am told, mean my immediate deportation. This does not bother me. I did not come to England to commit any crime, but merely to enjoy the freedom that is provided here, to walk on the beach . . . would you believe that I have never walked on a beach before? And to enjoy the company of my lovely wife.

  But I also wish you to know that I am eternally grateful to you for making this happen, Berkeley, my oldest and dearest friend. From this moment on, I am your most devoted servant. Ask of me what you wish, and I shall deliver it. Your great and true friend of many years, Alexandros Savos.

  Berkeley folded the paper; he had now known Savos for fifteen years, and this was the first time he had discovered his Christian name.

  “Not bad news?” Alicia asked.

  “Quite the contrary. Rather good news. From an old friend.” He supposed, in the context of recent events, Savos was entitled to be so regarded, as he so obviously wished. “Well,” he said. “So I’ve come into a windfall, and my old friend is well settled . . . is there any other good news?”

  “Ah,” John said. “There was this woman.”

  “Eh?” Berkeley sat up, immediately suspicious. “What woman?”


  “A German lady,” Alicia said. “Rather pleasant. Well-groomed, you know. And she spoke perfect English.”

  “Let me guess: her name was Frederika Lipschuetz.”

  “That is absolutely right. Do you know her?”

  “Quite well, you might say. Are you saying she came here?”

  “Yes. She came in February.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious; she wanted to see you. Just how well do you know her?”

  “She was my driver when I took that German trip a couple of years ago. What I meant was, did she tell you why she wanted to see me?”

  “No,” Alicia said. “She did say it was important.”

  “She is the sort of woman for whom getting out of bed in the morning is an important event. What did you tell her?”

  “That we had no idea where you were. Somewhere in Central Europe, on Government business. She said you should contact her as soon as you returned.”

  “Yes,” Berkeley remarked. “I think we’ll let that one lie.”

  He had no desire to get mixed up in further Nazi schemes, especially if they were about to launch a coup.

  *

  He brought Lockwood completely up to date.

  “Shit!” Lockwood commented. “Seems to me you all but got yourself killed, more than once. I should’ve been there.”

  “I was better on my own,” Berkeley said. “Two men are easier to trace than just one.”

  “And you reckon no one has any idea it was you?”

  “I think a lot of people may have ideas it was me,” Berkeley said. “But they can’t prove anything.”

  “What about Pathenikos?”

  Berkeley shrugged. “I paid him his money, and then gave him a bonus just in case he wished to leave the country.”

  “And did he?”

  “I have no idea. Only a few weeks after I left Athens Greece and Turkey went to war. I imagine either he got caught up in that, or the death of Yannif got down-graded in the eyes of the police.”

  “That war is now over,” Lockwood pointed out.

  “They’re still sorting out the mess.”

  “I still think he’s a danger.”

  “Not as long as I don’t go back to Greece, and I have no intention of doing that.”

  “And Anna?”

  “I wish I knew, Harry. I wish I knew. I have this gut feeling that she’s alive.”

  “She’d be fifteen now. Having been pushed in and out of someone’s bed for the past three years. Your Anna is dead, Berkeley, however much her body may still be breathing.” He flushed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No offence taken, because you’re undoubtedly right. But fifteen is still young enough for her to recover, no matter how many mental scars she may have accumulated.”

  “So the search goes on?”

  “In so far as it can be done. I don’t have the money to visit every brothel in Europe, without any guarantee that she is actually in one of them. I’m carrying on the advertising campaign, and praying. There’s not a lot else I can do.”

  “This advertising campaign . . .”

  “Her photograph in selected newspapers, with the offer of a reward for information. And an address. Not this one. I’m using an accommodation address in London.”

  “And not your own name, either.”

  “No. No names at all, save that she may answer to either Anna or Margo.”

  “Well . . . you do realise that she may no longer look like the girl in the photograph? If they’ve cut her hair . . .”

  “I know, Harry. I know. But it’s all I can do. And I have my other children to think of.”

  *

  “I’m very much afraid that we must accept that Anna is dead,” he told them.

  Alicia’s mouth puckered as tears escaped her eyes. Johnnie merely looked angrily resolute.

  Berkeley hugged them both. “I known how terrible this is, even to contemplate,” he said. “But it’s best that we accept it and get on with our lives. Anything else would be self-defeating.”

  Alicia sniffed. “But she won’t be buried, or anything.”

  “Well, no. But I intend to put up a plaque in the village church, to her memory. Now tell me about school. Is it all right?”

  “Oh, it’s nice,” the girl said. “Everyone is so kind. The only thing is, I’m never allowed to be alone. I can’t go for walks unless someone is with me, I can’t go riding without an escort . . . it’s very frustrating. You’d think I was royalty or something.”

  “You are to me, to all of us. And to Miss Plumb, I hope. How about you?”

  “It’s all right,” Johnnie said. “They don’t know about Anna. That’s a relief.”

  “I’m sure. Well, I tell you what: we’ll all go riding tomorrow, and I’ll be your escort.”

  *

  Johnnie got him alone that afternoon.

  “You don’t really believe that Anna is dead, do you, Dad?”

  Berkeley frowned at him. “What makes you say that?”

  “Just . . . intuition, maybe.”

  “You’re a smart lad. No, Johnnie, I can’t believe she is dead. But there’s damn all I can do about it. The trail has gone absolutely cold. And as I said this morning, it’s best for you both, and especially Ally, to accept that Anna will not be coming back, and get on with your own lives.”

  Johnnie considered this. Then he asked, “Did you ever find out who did it? Kidnapped her?”

  “Yes, I did,” Berkeley said.

  “Did you have them arrested?”

  “No,” Berkeley said.

  “But . . .” Johnnie looked amazed.

  While Berkeley considered the matter. But this was his only son, and he was so desperate to share his dreadful secrets with someone other than Lockwood.

  “If I tell you something, Johnnie, will you swear never to repeat what I say to any living soul. And that includes Ally.”

  “Of course, Father.” Now the boy was excited.

  “I didn’t have them arrested,” Berkeley said, “because I killed them both.”

  “You . . .” Johnnie’s mouth made an O. But there was no criticism, only admiration in his eyes. “By yourself?”

  “Yes. I do these things by myself. Do you know what I do? Or have done up to now?”

  “Grandpa says you’re a military attaché.”

  “I was, when it suited me. Or I should say, when it suited the Government. A military attaché is in many ways a spy, or at least an observer, of enemy and potential enemy situations, their armies, their politics, and so on. That is what I have done throughout my career since I was wounded in the Sudan. However, I have also, from time to time, been required, or found it necessary to kill people.”

  Another O. “How many?”

  “I have never actually counted. But to some people I am regarded as the most dangerous man in Europe.”

  “Oh, Father!” Johnnie threw both arms round him and hugged him.

  “Pretty grim, eh?”

  “I am so proud of you. So proud to be your son.”

  “It’s a point of view,” Berkeley said, as relief flooded his mind. “Remember your promise.”

  “I will. Father, can I join you, become part of your team? Lockwood is part of it, isn’t he?”

  “He was. But both he and I have been retired.”

  “Retired?” Johnnie was shocked.

  “I think we’re moving into a more civilised age,” Berkeley said. “So people like me are redundant, and can even be considered a nuisance.”

  “Oh, Father.” He was utterly disconsolate. But then he brightened. “I can still join the Army, can’t I?”

  “If you do well at school, and still feel like that in a couple of years time, we’ll get you into Sandhurst. After that, well . . . you’ll be on your own.”

  “Yes,” Johnnie said, without apprehension. “But Father, when you go after Anna again, may I come with you?”

  “That�
�s a very big when,” Berkeley said. “We’ll talk about it when the time comes.”

  The children had another week’s holiday before returning to school, and Berkeley spent every waking moment in their company. They deserved so much, and he had so little to give.

  But when they had departed, he departed himself, for a brief visit to the south coast.

  “General Townsend!” On their few previous, brief encounters, Berkeley had never taken too much notice of Martina, other than to observe that she was a very pretty girl. Now she was quite ravishing, her figure filled out so that she was extremely buxom, her dark hair lustrous, her somewhat clipped features glowing. “How good to see you.” She held his hands to draw him into the little hall, and kissed him on both cheeks. “Alexandros wrote you, you know, to thank you for helping us.”

  Berkeley nodded. “I only got the letter when I returned to England a week ago.”

  She led him into the small lounge. The bungalow faced away from the road and overlooked the beach and the sea.

  “It is so lovely here, so peaceful.” She looked at him. “After Belgrade.”

  “I imagine it is. Is that Alexandros?” He pointed at the man walking on the beach, every inch an English gentleman, from the slouch hat through the Oxford bags to the cane and the retriever leaping about his feet.

  Martina opened the door, which led on to a small balcony, from which steps went down to the sand.

  “Alexandros!” she called. “Hurry! General Townsend is here.”

  Savos waved and came up to the house.

  “Berkeley, my old friend,” he said. “I had thought you wished not to know me.”

  Berkeley clasped his hand. “I’ve been explaining to Martina . . . your wife, that I’ve only just returned to England. So I only just got your letter.”

  “I understand. I hope you understand how grateful we are.”