by Bill Walker
She crossed the room and Kruger heard the hiss of gas. A moment later, the warm glow of gaslight revealed the interior of the flat. Though only one room, with a bathtub and a tired old stove in plain sight, Jane had given the dreary place a feminine grace with lacy curtains on the wall, a vase of flowers on the small dining table, and stuffed animals covering her bed. Most of the furniture was battered and seedy—Salvation Army rejects. On a table next to the sagging double bed lay a photograph of a smiling man in RAF uniform.
“Sorry about the mess,” Jane said, puttering about.
“Where does your husband sleep?”
Jane turned to him, her expression one of surprise. Her eyes flicked to the picture and back to Kruger.
She stared at him, saying nothing.
“Excuse me. I am intruding,” Kruger said, bowing and turning to go.
“Wait!”
She came to him, her eyes wide with desperation.
“I know what you must think, but please don’t go. I’m sorry I lied.” She walked over, picked up the picture and stared at it, a tear rolling down her cheek. “My husband was a pilot, shot down in nineteen-forty. We had so many plans... I was just this close to coming home and turning on the gas... and then you got in the cab. For a moment... I saw John again and these feelings overwhelmed me. I just wanted you so badly... couldn’t help it, really.”
Kruger stared at her. She turned away from him and walked to the small, grimy window. He pulled the shade and gazed out onto the street.
“You must think me horrid, throwing myself at you like that.”
Kruger smiled, letting the shade fall back. “Not at all. After all, I did come up here.”
She turned and studied him. After a moment, she began to disrobe. Kruger watched, mesmerized, while she tossed away her clothes item by item, her magnificent, Junoesque body slowly revealing itself.
“Stay with me,” she said, her eyes smoldering with desire.
In spite of her vulgar revelations, Kruger found himself entranced by her beauty. This woman might not be Helga, but she had much to offer. He smiled and began walking toward her.
“I like things a little rough.”
She stared into his eyes, her expression betraying a hint of fear.
“Anything,” she whispered.
Chapter Eighteen
London, England
14 May 1944
Kruger awoke to the singular sensation of Jane fellating him. The woman had surprised him, taking the belt with relish, begging for more. He watched her through slitted eyes and suppressed the wave of pleasure that coursed through him. There was definitely something to be said for desperate widows.
Reaching out to her, he caressed her silken, red locks, made fiery by the sunbeams streaming through the window. She looked up at him and smiled.
“We’re awake, are we?” she asked.
“You do make it difficult to sleep.”
She laughed and moved astride him. She moaned as she took him inside her and began to move. Kruger matched her thrusts and gazed again at her body, noting the welts crisscrossing her flesh. He’d left her face alone. After all, one did not desecrate a work of art, did one?
A moment later she came, arching her back and groaning loudly. Kruger followed suit a moment later. Spent and quenched, Jane collapsed beside him and laid her head on his chest. He could feel her pulse beating wildly in her temple. Could he trust her? Could he ask her the favor he needed and trust she would not betray him? Nothing was as powerful as the emotions of a desperate woman. But was it enough to overcome love of country?
“What would you like to do today?” she said, playing with his chest hairs. “I have the day off. Don’t go on duty until six.”
Kruger decided to chance it.
“How about we take a drive south to Dover?”
“Travel’s restricted that way.”
Kruger got out of bed and began dressing.
“Where are you going?”
“I do not wish to trouble you any longer,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “I’ll find my way about.”
He pretended not to look at her as he completed dressing. He could easily transport where he needed to go, but not without knowing a precise location. It would be suicidal to go popping up without knowing exactly where he was going. One miscalculation and he could appear among people, or worse—inside a solid object, and that wouldn’t do at all. For now, he needed to rely on this woman. He glanced at her and saw the war going on behind her eyes as she struggled with the notion of breaking wartime regulations or losing her new lover. As he suspected it would, love and lust won out.
“How about I pack us a lunch?” she offered.
Kruger smiled.
The cab swept along the two-lane road, the lone vehicle for miles. Kruger found the wide-open spaces and checkered fields of the various farms peaceful and reassuring. He patted the inside pocket of his tunic, feeling for the small Minox camera he’d brought with him. Somewhere out here lay Patton’s phantom armies, whole bases that were phony, designed to look busy from the air. Armed with pictures of them, he would have no trouble convincing Hitler to move his armies. All doubt would be swept away by a few simple photos showing empty tents and inflatable rubber tanks, plywood planes, and armored vehicles.
“This looks like a good spot,” she said, beginning to slow the cab. “How about here?”
“Let’s drive closer to the coast. I want to smell the sea.”
Jane smiled and nodded.
A few miles later, Kruger saw the beginnings of chain-link fencing. Every hundred yards or so a sign was posted, warning of dire consequences to the hapless trespasser. Kruger squinted, seeing tents and vehicles in the distance.
“Stop the car.”
“What?”
“Stop the car, now, damnit!”
Jane screeched to a halt and turned to him, anger flaring in her eyes. “I may enjoy taking your abuse in bed, but I won’t stand being yelled at.”
Kruger smiled and grasped her shoulder and jabbed her pressure point. She gasped in pain, her eyes going wide with fear.
“Do not ever use that tone with me again. Am I clear?”
She nodded, tears in her eyes. Smiling, he relaxed his grip on her shoulder and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“I will return in fifteen minutes. Get out of the cab and raise the hood.”
“Raise the what?”
Kruger looked momentarily startled, realizing his error. He recovered quickly, leaning closer. “Raise the bonnet,” he said. “Make it appear you have broken down. If anyone happens by, tell them you have everything under control. Is that clear?”
She nodded again and threw herself into his arms, crying in earnest now. “You won’t leave me, will you?”
Kruger suppressed the urge to slap her. God, she was such a spineless creature. “Never,” he said, letting the lie roll easily off his tongue.
Opening the door, he stepped from the cab and quickly looked in both directions. Satisfied that no one approached, he strode to the fence and climbed over, careful not to snag his uniform on the barbed wire at the top. Curiously, Kruger felt his stomach flutter with butterflies, something he’d rarely felt in his life, and usually before something momentous. Here lay the proof that an invasion at Calais was a myth.
Breaking into a trot, Kruger bounded across the expanse, pulling out the small camera when he reached the first formation of armored vehicles. He nearly laughed when he saw them up close. Made totally of rubber, they looked like a child’s toy, except they and hundreds like them looked totally convincing from the air.
Snapping off several shots, he moved on to the tents, opened one of the flaps and photographed its empty interior. Next came the rubber tanks and the wooden planes. He finished the last of the roll on the mess tent, where not a soul sat inside. And that was the greatest indictment of all, the sheer emptiness.
He stuck the Minox camera back in his pocket and walked back toward the fence. In the distance,
he could see Jane standing over the engine. She must suspect something, he thought. He would have to watch her and dispose of her if need be. For now, she could be useful in a number of ways.
“You! Halt!”
Kruger froze as he heard the bolt of a submachine gun slide into place. He turned slowly and caught sight of an American soldier, a sergeant, fast approaching. The sergeant halted a few yards and stared at him, taking in the uniform and the rank.
“What are you doing here, Lieutenant? This area’s restricted.”
Kruger reached for his papers and stopped as the soldier snapped up the machine gun, his expression suspicious.
“I am going for my papers, Sergeant.”
“Just do it real slow.”
“Good show, Sergeant.”
Kruger reached inside his tunic and pulled out his ID and handed it to the sergeant. Now he would know whether or not the forgers in State Security’s archives knew their business. Of special note was the word BIGOT stamped in red ink on the first page. It meant that the bearer had carte blanche to be where others could not.
The sergeant frowned, studied the documents, nodded and handed them back, snapping to attention.
“Begging the lieutenant’s pardon, sir, but I was not told anyone would be here.”
“That is quite okay, Sergeant. I was ordered to make a surprise inspection. I suppose for you it was just that.”
The sergeant grinned and offered a salute. “You got that right, sir.”
Kruger returned the salute and the smile. “Carry on, Sergeant...”
“Mills, sir. Terence Mills.”
“Very good, Mills. And you might want to start a fire in one of the cook stoves. We wouldn’t want Jerry to get the wrong impression, would we?”
“No, sir,” Mills said, smiling again, no doubt relieved he would not go on report.
Kruger turned and walked back toward the fence, his blood boiling. That his papers had passed muster meant nothing; that he’d been spotted could ruin everything. What would happen should someone else show up and the happy sergeant report the “surprise” inspection?
When he reached the fence, Kruger looked back and saw the soldier had disappeared into the mass of tents. He quickly climbed over and bounded up to the car.
“Drive,” he said, slamming the door.
Jane looked at him, her expression unreadable, threw the car into gear, and sped off. Sensing that he no longer desired to have a picnic, probably never had, she turned the car around a little way up the road and drove back toward London. Ever since they’d pulled over, Jane knew that Arthur, if that was his name, was a spy. She’d suspected as much when he’d asked to drive out here. But the clincher came when he’d jabbed his thumb into her shoulder and hissed at her in that voice. He hadn’t noticed that his accent had changed, ever so slightly.
When he’d gone into the base, she’d debated whether to drive off and leave him, but decided against it. And when the soldier had challenged him, she’d sat there, her heart in her throat, hoping that it would all end there in that field. But somehow, he’d convinced the man.
Now they drove back in silence. She could tell he seethed over something and avoided even small talk. What could she do? Hell, she’d been ready to throw all caution to the wind and fall in love again, had even let the man flog her with a belt, something that satisfied a deep craving inside her and something her dear, departed Freddy had hated. Christ. She was a bloody fool.
As the skyline of London appeared, Jane made a decision. She would keep up the pretense, act as if nothing had changed—continue to play the desperate widow until she could gather enough evidence to hang the bastard.
Kruger strolled through the evening crush of Victoria Station, oblivious to everyone but the man he waited for. His eyes, ever moving, roved over the sea of travelers alighting on every man in RAF blue. Presently, he spotted the man, struggling with his bag, as he stepped off the train compartment. Smiling, Kruger stepped forward.
“Flight Lieutenant Liddington?”
The man looked up and smiled quizzically. He stood about Kruger’s height and had the look of an underfed schoolboy.
“I’m Captain Smythe,” Kruger said, “SHAEF sent me to collect you.”
“Jolly good,” he said, smiling even wider. He had one of those detestable Oxonian accents that automatically made everyone who spoke it sound supercilious and arrogant. “I was wondering if HQ would send someone. Smythe, is it?”
“Quite. Here, let me take your bag,” Kruger said, reaching out.
“Nonsense, old boy. I’ll be fine. Wouldn’t be cricket, anyway.”
He hefted his bag over his shoulder and began striding toward the exit. Afraid his quarry would get away, Kruger caught up with him.
“You mind if we detour to the Gents?”
“Not at all,” Liddington said. “Need to go myself.”
As he’d hoped, the men’s lavatory stood momentarily deserted. Liddington headed toward one of the urinals. Kruger crept up behind him, flexing his fingers, preparing himself.
“Oh, Arthur,” Kruger said.
Liddington turned, about to reply, when Kruger’s fist smashed into his throat, crushing his larynx. He gasped, his eyes bulging out. He clutched at his throat, began turning red, then blue. This was taking too long. Lashing out again with the flat of his palm, Kruger struck upwards and jabbed his hand into Liddington’s nose. The man stiffened and dropped like a stone, dead from a thin shard of bone piercing his brain.
Suddenly, Kruger heard the sound of the door’s rusty hinges creaking open. Quickly, he grabbed Liddington’s bag, then reached for Liddington’s hand and closed his eyes in concentration. The transport only took seconds this time. Opening his eyes, he found they were in a copse of trees near the base at Dover. There was a small depression in among some bushes, and he set about covering the body with dead leaves and small branches. With luck, Liddington would not be found for at least a week. By then, it would be far too late. Satisfied the body could not be seen by the casual eye, Kruger grabbed Liddington’s bag and closed his eyes again. In a moment he was back inside one of the stalls. The lights flickered rapidly, giving the place a bizarre stroboscopic look.
Kruger stepped out of the stall and saw an old man washing his hands at one of the sinks.
“Bloody lights. You’d think the bloody boffins in Whitehall could at least keep ’em working when they’re supposed to be on.”
Kruger smiled noncommittally and washed the dirt from his hands. This only made the old man more querulous.
“It’s all bloody Churchill’s fault, you know. He’s the one who got us in this mess. We could’ve joined with Germany and had it good.”
Kruger dried his hands and turned to the old man. “Who knows. Maybe someone will put a bomb in one of his cigars.”
The old man roared.
“That would serve the old blighter! Hah, hah, a bomb in his cigar!”
Kruger smiled dryly and walked out of the lavatory clutching Liddington’s bag. Now came the true test: reporting to SHAEF in Grosvenor Square as Liddington. The one detail no one could research was whether anyone knew the man from a prior assignment. Kruger prayed no one did. He grabbed a cab in front of the station, growing nervous as they approached the square. It would all stand or fall in the next few moments. He paid the driver, giving him a generous tip.
“Thank you, Guv’nor. Good luck.”
The cab sped off, leaving Kruger standing in front of the six-story Georgian brick building. In spite of the fact it was May, he could see his breath in the cool night air. A fog had crept in, giving the immediate area the look out of an old movie. Shaking off the cold, Kruger walked up to the innocuous-looking white door, taking note of the sandbags that ringed the building, piled waist high. No doubt there was an Ack-Ack battery on the roof.
“Halt. Who goes there?”
An armed sentry stepped out of the gloom, his face rigid and unemotional.
“Flight Lieutenant Arthur
Liddington, reporting as ordered.”
“Your papers, sir?”
Kruger pulled out his ID and Liddington’s orders and handed them to the sentry. The man turned on an electric torch and examined them. Kruger felt a bead of sweat run down his back and his heart pounded in his chest, making his knees shaky. The sentry looked at the photo on the ID and then stared at Kruger, shining his light into his eyes. Kruger resisted the urge to squint. Blast it, man, get on with it, he thought, ready to scream.
The light clicked off.
“Right. The officer of the day is Major Crutchins. He’s inside. Go left off the foyer, third door on your left. He’ll have your new orders and a place for you to billet for the night.”
The sentry saluted and disappeared back into the shadows. Relieved, Kruger picked up his bags and pushed through the door.
Inside, he followed the sentry’s instructions and soon found himself in front of a large mahogany door. He knocked and a gruff voice ordered him inside. The office looked like every other office in a military establishment: heavy, wooden, utilitarian furniture and wall-to-wall file cabinets. The room itself, once the house’s library, still held leather-bound volumes on the shelves. Kruger dropped his bag and snapped his arm in a perfect salute, palm facing out.
“Flight Lieutenant Arthur Liddington reporting as ordered, sir!”
The older man scowled, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re late, Lieutenant.”
“The trains, sir. They were running a trifle behind.”
The man grunted and looked down at his desk. “Tell me, Lieutenant, how is your father? Haven’t seen the old scrapper since the last regimental reunion.”
Kruger showed nothing outwardly, but his heart skipped a beat and a cold sweat broke out all over his body. Somehow this old windbag knew Liddington’s father. Then he realized he had nothing to fear. If the old man had known him, he would be under arrest by now.
