The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  “There they are,” Grippenheimer shouted. “Shoot them down.”

  But even as he spoke there was a scream from one of his men as he was hit. Then they were bounding across the yard, still firing. They had almost reached the gate when Lockwood gave a grunt and went down. Berkeley dropped beside him. Savos continued running at the gate and threw it open before turning round to see what had happened.

  “Keep firing,” Berkeley shouted. But it appeared that Savos had run out of bullets, although, crouching by the gate, he was frantically reloading. While Lockwood . . . kneeling by his oldest friend, Berkeley realised he was dead. Waves of total outrage swept over him. He took Lockwood’s Browning from the lifeless hand, and began firing with both pistols, sending shot after shot crashing into the darkness at the foot of the fire escape. Men screamed, and bullets twanged off the metal. Then both pistols were empty. Berkeley stood up. Lockwood’s body, behind which he had been sheltering, had been hit several more times, but he was unhurt. He walked towards the ladder, gazed at four dead bodies, amongst them Grippenheimer.

  “Holy Christ!” Savos remarked at his shoulder. “You are a devil incarnate.”

  “Just an angry father,” Berkeley said. He went back to stand above Lockwood’s body. But there was nothing he could do about it, and from the noise inside the house the police would be here at any moment. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “My God!” Julia commented, as the car raced through empty streets; the enormous noise that was the centre of Berlin was fading. “What are we going to do?”

  She was seated in the back between Martina and Savos.

  “Disappear,” Berkeley said. He was driving, Anna beside him.

  “But we are criminals,” Julia said. “We . . . you . . . have killed people. All Germany will be after us.”

  “But they won’t know who they’re after,” Berkley pointed out, and stopped the car. “The car was hired in Lockwood’s name, and he is dead. Only one person still alive at that house or amongst the guests knows who I am, and that is you. We came out of the night, and we are going to disappear into the night. I suggest you return home as rapidly as possible, tell your husband how you were snatched by the criminals who killed Grippenheimer, but were released when they realised who you were. And Julia, if you ever tell the truth about this business, you’ll be top of my list.”

  Julia swallowed, and got out of the car into the rain. “I don’t know whether you’re a bastard or a hero.”

  “Confusing, isn’t it,” Berkeley agreed, and drove away.

  “There is someone else who knows who you are,” Savos said. “The woman Lipschuetz.”

  “She was hurrying back to Munich, to be with Hitler at the beer cellar. In which case,” Berkeley said, “she’s dead.”

  *

  They crossed the border without difficulty, the Polish Customs Officers paying little attention to the fact that Anna’s passport was four years old and due for renewal, abandoned the car outside Warsaw, walked into the city, and caught the Vienna express. Berkeley took two compartments, so he and Anna could be alone.

  “We’ll stop off overnight in Vienna,” he told her. “And buy you some clothes.”

  She hugged herself, as she had a habit of doing.

  “Have you ever been to Vienna?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I knew,” he said. “I killed two men in Vienna, because they knew of you.”

  She raised her head, her eyes stark.

  “I have been tracking you for five years,” he said. “Sometimes I have felt I have been so close I could almost touch you. But always you were whisked away again.”

  “Father . . .”

  “I know,” he said again.

  “Then . . . how can you bear to look at me? To touch me?”

  “You’re my daughter.”

  She was in his arms, holding him close. “It’s not just the sex,” she said. “I . . . I need things. They made me need things. I need things now. This was to keep me quiet, to make me obey them. It didn’t always work. I tried to get away, then they beat me. Oh, Father . . .” again she hugged him, while great shudders ran the length of her body. “And now Mr Lockwood . . .”

  “Yes,” Berkeley said. That was the hardest to bear. After so many years of devoted service.

  But Anna was back. He felt Harry would have settled for that.

  She became increasingly restless as the day wore on. Martina came in to sit with them. “These are withdrawal symptoms,” she said.

  Berkeley nodded. “I have nothing to give her.”

  “I have something.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Well,” she said, “a girl has to have some comfort in life. It is a habit I picked up in Belgrade.”

  “What habit?”

  “Cocaine.”

  “And you have been able to obtain that in England?”

  “It is not difficult to get, if you know where to go.”

  He scratched his head. How strange, he thought, that I, an international assassin, should know so little of what goes on in other people’s lives.

  “Won’t she be exchanging one habit for another?”

  “She can be cured when we get to England. But if we do not give her something now, she will be having hysterics and attracting attention.”

  He knew she was right, and agreed.

  Anna became calm again after her fix. Berkeley sat beside her. “You do realise that you are going to have to see a doctor, and probably go into a clinic, when we get home.”

  She nodded. “I want that, Papa. I do.” She brooded for a few minutes. “Papa . . . Johnnie and Little Alicia . . .”

  “Will just be pleased to have you back.”

  “But . . . do they know . . .”

  “Yes, they do. But they are not concerned with that. They only want to have you back.”

  He could tell she wanted to talk about it, but didn’t know how to begin. He would have to be very patient. She would bring it all out in her own time.

  “And your stepmother will be overjoyed,” he told her.

  She shivered. “Does she . . .?”

  “No, but we are going to have to tell her. We are going to make no secret of it, within the family. And then you are going to start your life all over again.”

  She actually smiled. “Marriage to an English gentleman,” she said. “Is there one who would look at me?”

  “I can think of several million,” Berkley promised her.

  *

  The Viennese newspapers were full of the bomb explosion in Munich. Details were still unavailable, but it did appear as though the loss of life had been heavy, and certainly everyone on or near the platform was dead. Berkeley supposed it was the oddest thing that had ever happened to him, wondered if he should tell Shrimpton the truth, or just take the credit – and the cash.

  In Vienna, he separated from Alexandros and Martina; they had agreed it would be best for them to return to England by different routes.

  “I can’t thank you enough for your help,” he told them. “I doubt it would have been possible without you.”

  “It was our pleasure,” Savos said. “And the next time . . . we will be ready.”

  “There isn’t going to be a next time,” Berkeley assured him. “But we’ll keep in touch.”

  Martina gave him a hug and a kiss, and a packet of cocaine. “Please keep in touch,” she whispered.

  Then it was home. Berkeley wired from Paris, just to say that he had found Anna after all, and Lucy came down to Dover to meet the ferry.

  “Anna,” she said. “Oh, Anna!”

  Anna hesitated, glanced at her father, then allowed herself to be embraced.

  “The others don’t know yet,” Lucy said. “Oh, we are going to have such a celebration. And I am going to be your special friend.”

  There was only six years between them.

  “There’s a lot to be done,” Berkeley said.

  “I know,” Luc
y said. “But it will be done.”

  Anna’s eyes filled with tears.

  They would take the train to Northampton that afternoon, but first Berkeley went to the War Office to report to Shrimpton.

  “You are the most amazing fellow,” Shrimpton remarked. “Your orders were to get rid of Hitler, not blow up half of Munich.”

  “It seemed the only way to do it.”

  “Well . . . I suppose no one can be blamed for trying. I think you need to keep a very low profile for the immediate future. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Don’t bother,” Berkeley said. “Just complete my payment and let me get on with my life.”

  Shrimpton raised his eyebrows. “Your payment?”

  “The deal was five down, and five on completion, remember?”

  “I do remember. But as the mission has not been completed . . .”

  Berkeley frowned at him. “What do you mean? The beer cellar was blown up, with all the Nazi leaders in it.”

  Shrimpton shook his head. “Not all. Or any. It seems that Herr Hitler was late in getting to the hall. The bomb went off a few minutes before he and his immediate cronies arrived.”

  Berkeley gazed at him, then could not help bursting into laughter. What had Carin Goering said? That Hitler would land on his feet even if he fell out of an airplane.

  “I’m glad you find it amusing,” Shrimpton said. “But there it is. There can be no completion payment. On the other hand, we’re not asking for the down payment back. So I shouldn’t think you’re out of pocket.”

  Poor Frederika, Berkeley thought. She had not even had the pleasure of dying with her beloved Fuehrer.

  He stood up. “So what are you planning to do now?”

  Shrimpton smiled at him. “We . . . you . . . will just have to try again, Berkeley. When the time is right.”

  If you enjoyed The Quest, please share your thoughts by leaving a review on Amazon and Goodreads.

  For more discounted reads and a free eBook when you join, sign up to our newsletter.

  And why not follow us on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram for more great book news.