Be Not Afraid

by Christopher Nicole

  “Fortunately, Chief Inspector, that woman left me the use of my arms and I still have two guns, for which I have licences.”

  “Yes, sir.” Watt’s face had assumed its usual disapproving expression when Berkeley talked about protecting himself. “I was thinking of Anna. And Mrs Savos, of course.”

  “Their constant company and support are my chief assets.”

  Watt now looked dubious as well as disapproving. “Well, sir, you know I’m just at the end of a telephone.”

  “I do indeed,” Berkeley said.

  *

  Anna left three days later; they were anxious for her to be back before the start of the school holidays. Neither Johnnie nor Alicia knew anything of what was going on, and it was Berkeley’s intention that they should not. He telephoned his bank manager in Northampton arranging for Anna to call and receive sufficient Deutschmarks for her journey. On the same visit she bought her train and boat tickets: Northampton–Dover, Dover–Boulogne, Boulogne–Berlin. The Cohns had been requested both to meet her and to arrange her exit from Berlin, and although there had been no time for them to reply to Berkeley’s letter, he had no doubt that they would help in every way possible; he gave Anna their address, just in case they failed to meet the train. Cohn was also to arrange a meeting with Schuler, giving as reason that she had information regarding the death of Hans von Grippenheimer four years previously.

  The risks were high, but Berkeley knew that she was right: they could not just sit at the farm waiting to be hit, and if they could force Himmler into the open they might be able to end the threat. Besides, Anna clearly felt she needed to repay him for his five-year search and eventual rescue of her. He also understood that she had other reasons, not all of them admirable. Perhaps the most sinister was that she had tasted blood, and from here on could never be anything other than what she was – Berkeley Townsend’s daughter. He had a suspicion that her admiration for him and for what he had been called – the most dangerous man in Europe – had created an ambition to become the most dangerous woman. A twenty-year-old girl!

  “May I take your gun, Papa?” she asked.

  “No. Listen to me. You are going to Berlin to put the wind up Himmler. You will have your meeting with Herr Schuler; you will then immediately leave Berlin and come home.”

  “And if I am stopped, or arrested for any reason?”

  “There is no reason for you to be stopped, save by Himmler’s people, and if you are in and out of Germany as rapidly as you should be they will never have the chance. If you do happen to be stopped, you are young, you are pretty, you are innocent, and you have a British passport. Those assets should be sufficient to make sure you are all right.”

  “As you wish, Papa.”

  “I wish I was coming with you,” Martina said, giving her a hug.

  “I wish you were coming too. But it is more important that you stay here and look after Papa.”

  *

  Anna was exhilarated as she caught the train south. The launching of her career as Papa’s closest associate had been accidental; she had not gone to London with the intention of killing anyone. If she had carried a revolver that was because it had become second nature to do so. And indeed, today she felt almost naked without its reassuring weight in her handbag. But of course Papa was right; her youth and beauty and obvious innocence were far more useful weapons.

  And she was adventuring. This was necessary. She had to get Harry Druce right out of her system. He had never really been there, but she had wanted him to be. Now she was just grateful to him for having freed her mind from so many traumas and felt that she was at last truly a woman rather than a frightened girl.

  She lunched on the train; then it was necessary to take a taxi across London to Victoria and the boat train to Folkestone. She joined the queue outside King’s Cross, kicking her bag along the ground as the line slowly advanced, and suddenly realised she was being watched.

  She turned her head left and right, and then looked over her shoulder. There were several people, of both sexes, looking at her. She was used to this, as most people gave her a second look – certainly most men – and nobody appeared the least bit sinister. Yet the peculiar prickling at the nape of her neck persisted until she actually got into the taxi. Half an hour later she was on the train to Folkestone. Martina, no doubt instructed by Papa, had booked her a First-Class seat but for this leg she preferred to join the crowd in Third; she felt safer. Yet the prickling feeling was back as she boarded the ferry.

  She spent the hour-long voyage in the main saloon, again surrounded by people and bustling stewards.

  Arriving at Boulogne, customs formalities were brief, especially as she was passing through, and she boarded the waiting train with a sigh of relief. It was now late in the afternoon, but she had a sleeper. She stowed her bag, opened a novel she had brought with her but found herself unable to concentrate; instead she stared out of the window at the darkening countryside as the train headed south. It stopped in Paris, a city she only vaguely remembered, discharged some passengers and acquired others. Dinner was served as soon as they left the French capital. She had a glass of wine with her meal and smiled graciously at her fellow diners, none of whom she had ever seen before. But that was how it should be.

  It was ten o’clock when she regained her compartment, carefully locking the door. The steward had been in and made up her bed, using only the lower bunk. She undressed, cleaned her teeth, and was just getting into the bunk when there was a tap on the door.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “It is your steward, mademoiselle.”

  “Do you require something?” Anna asked.

  “Your passport, mademoiselle.”

  Ann rolled out of the bunk, pulled on her dressing gown, and opened the door. The steward was a personable young man. “Why do you wish my passport?”

  “Well mademoiselle, we do not cross the German border for another two hours. By that time I assume you will be asleep. But the Germans require to inspect the passports of everyone on the train. So I collect all the passports,” he indicated the pile of little books he already had on his tray, “give them to the Germans for stamping, and tomorrow morning I return them to their owners, who have not had to be woken up in the middle of the night.”

  “I see.” She gave him her passport.

  “Thank you mademoiselle. Sleep well.”

  Anna locked the door again, got back into bed and switched off the light. It was an extremely pleasant feeling, racing through the night. The noise was fairly loud, but rhythmic and almost hypnotic, broken only occasionally by the distant wail of the whistle.

  She was adventuring, she thought. Doing Papa’s business and thus, however remotely, Mama’s business, and even Grandmama’s business as well. And afterwards? Afterwards meant taking care of Papa and Howard until they became capable of taking care of themselves. She had to believe that was going to happen, in both instances. And men? She did not suppose she would miss them physically. She had had all the men any woman was entitled to expect . . . or suffer. And for support – there was always Martina, she supposed.

  She slept, and awoke when the train stopped and there was much shouting on the platform beyond her window. They must be in Germany, she thought. The noise died, and she went back to asleep, to waken again, suddenly, as her compartment door opened.

  The Prisoner

  There were two men in the doorway, for a second silhouetted against the light in the corridor before the door was closed. Anna sat up, pushing herself against the wall, trying desperately to think.

  “What do you want?” she snapped. “Who are you?”

  “We want you, little girl,” one of the men said in accented English, and switched on the overhead light.

  Anna blinked at them. They both wore top coats and slouch hats, they both had heavy moustaches and they both had big chins. She opened her mouth to call for help and one of the men grasped her throat, his other hand grabbing at her nightdress and the flesh
beneath.

  The whistle howled.

  “Five minutes,” the other man said, and Anna realised he was carrying a suitcase. This he now laid on the floor, opened, and took out several lengths of tape as well as a hooded cloak.

  She got free of the sheet and blanket and kicked savagely, but to very little avail; the man with the suitcase merely gathered her legs together and passed some tape round her ankles to secure them. Then he taped her mouth, and both men turned her over to tape her wrists together behind her back. While doing this they availed themselves of the opportunity to manhandle her, squeezing her breasts and belly and buttocks; at least the nightdress stopped them getting between her legs – thus far.

  “This is a lot of woman,” one said in German, perhaps unaware that she understood the language.

  “Maybe they will let you have her for a while, when they are finished with her,” the other said.

  Now utterly helpless, Anna was dragged to her feet and wrapped in the cloak, the hood was pulled over her head, and this too was taped, across her nose.

  She was being kidnapped! For the second time in her life. The first time she had gone willingly because she had believed she was being taken to the mother she had supposed dead. She had been only eleven years old, desperately innocent. Now she was a grown woman, in a way these men could not possibly suspect. She was Berkeley Townsend’s daughter. Certainly they would know that, or their employers would. But they could not possibly know how much of his daughter she was. All she had to do was be patient, until they gave her the opportunity.

  The train slowed. One of the men slung Anna over his shoulder as if she were a bolt of cloth. She was carried helpless into the deserted corridor, past the doors of the other sleeping compartments, to the external door; the other man followed, carrying both suitcases, his and hers. As they reached the door, the train came to a halt. The door opened, the two men stepped on to the platform, the door banged shut behind them, and the train moved off again, into the night.

  *

  Harry Druce sat at his desk and doodled on his blotting pad. He had just completed a meeting. His next client was not for another hour. He looked at the clock. A quarter to ten. He wondered if he could go out.

  To do what? There were so many things that needed doing. He certainly should visit his parents to inform them that his engagement was broken. But he didn’t want to do that. This was partly because it would seem like climbdown on his part, another mistake. There had been so many.

  But it was also because . . . was his engagement over? Could it not be resurrected? That would mean another climbdown, but this one would be worth it. And anyway, he was at least an accessory after the fact. She would surely change once she was a mother. Besides, her life for the immediate future would be bound up in caring for that old devil of a father. He needed to marry her, and get her pregnant, long before Berkeley Townsend showed the slightest sign of recovery.

  His door opened. “All well, Harry?”

  “Ah . . .” But Geoffrey Walton was a very observant man. “Just a lovers’ tiff, sir,” Druce said.

  “They do happen. May I ask how the meeting with your parents went?”

  Druce hesitated; he had no idea whether or not his father had been in touch with the senior partner. “I don’t think they altogether approve,” he said. “But they will, eventually. I wonder, sir, if I might nip out for an hour.”

  “I don’t see why not. I’ll wish you luck.”

  *

  Truly had he entered a world of lies and concealments, Druce thought, as he drove out to the farm. It was only as he swung down the drive that he realised she might refuse to see him. But they had not actually parted on bad terms, merely in mutual regret.

  He braked before the steps, and Hannibal whinnied from the stables. He stepped down, and the front door opened. But it was Martina rather than Anna.

  Druce raised his hat. “Forgive this intrusion, Martina. Is Anna around?”

  “Why do you wish to know?”

  She was definitely hostile.

  “I would like to see her.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. I have come to apologise. To make it up.”

  Martina considered. Then she said, “You’d better come in.”

  Frowning, Druce climbed the steps and followed her into the drawing room. As he did so he heard sounds behind him, and turned to see Harry and Mary Lockwood cycling down the drive. He had actually passed them on the road without registering who they were. He went into the drawing room where Berkeley was sitting up in bed, reading.

  “He wants to see Anna,” Martina explained.

  Druce began to feel uneasy. “She’s not ill, is she?”

  “No, she’s not ill,” Berkeley said. “What did you wish to see her about?”

  Druce sighed. “I have come to make it up, sir. I have realised that I love her over and above any ordinary consideration of morals or ethics. Or law.”

  “I see,” Berkeley said. “Well, I will be honest and tell you that I am very happy to have you on board. And I am sure Anna will be also.”

  “Then can I see her?”

  “Not right this minute. She isn’t here.”

  “May I ask where she is?”

  “We are expecting her back the day after tomorrow. She is doing something for the family,” Martina explained.

  “For the . . . Where is she? I am entitled to know.”

  Berkeley looked at his watch. “They are a couple of hours ahead of us. Let’s see; she arrived in Berlin early this morning, she had a meeting during the day, and she was catching a train to Warsaw as soon as the meeting was completed. I would say she is probably in Warsaw by now.”

  “Berlin? Warsaw? My God! What have you sent her to do?”

  “Simmer down. She has gone to Berlin to have a meeting with someone, following which she will return here.”

  “You have sent her to the man Himmler?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But it is to do with him.”

  “Yes, it is. Indirectly.” Berkeley turned his head. “What is that noise? Another visitor?”

  “That is a motor bike,” Druce said.

  “I had better go see what it is.” Martina left the room.

  “I still feel it was incredibly dangerous of Anna to go to Germany by herself,” Druce said.

  “Well, you weren’t here to go with her, were you?”

  “It is a telegram,” Martina announced, returning. “Addressed to you, Berkeley.”

  Berkeley slit the envelope and frowned as he read. “Damned odd,” he remarked. He gave the sheet of paper to Martina.

  “Oh, Lord,” she said.

  “May I see?” Druce asked.

  Berkeley nodded, and Martina gave the lawyer the paper.

  PLEASE ADVISE CHANGE OF PLANS STOP HAVE MET PARIS TRAIN AND LATER BUT ANNA NOT ARRIVED STOP HAVE POSTPONED MEETING WITH SCHULER STOP HAS SOMETHING HAPPENED QUESTION COHN

  Druce raised his head. “What does this mean?”

  “I wish to God I knew. Anna left here yesterday morning. She was catching the afternoon ferry from Folkestone. In Boulogne she was catching the overnight train to Berlin, to arrive this morning. As I told you, she was to have a meeting with Schuler and then leave immediately for Poland.”

  “Who is Schuler?”

  “The Berlin chief of police.”

  “Only she never got there.” The words fell from Druce’s lips like drops of vitriol.

  Berkeley looked at Martina. “Can she have missed her train? Missed the boat, perhaps?”

  “Yes,” Martina said. “That is what must have happened.”

  “That is not what happened,” Druce said. “Someone didn’t want her to have that appointment with Schuler.”

  “Who? No one knew she was going, save Martina and myself.”

  “And presumably Schuler.”

  “Cohn wasn’t to make the appointment until yesterday afternoon. By then Anna was already on her way,
and no one knew how or when she was travelling.”

  “This man Cohn certainly did.”

  “Cohn would never betray us. I saved his life, and that of his wife.”

  “And he helped us escape from Grippenheimer’s,” Martina put in.

  “Four years ago,” Druce pointed out.

  “I cannot believe Cohn would let us down,” Berkeley said. “In any event, if he did, he would hardly wire us to tell us what he had done. But, my God, if she’s been kidnapped again . . .”

  He looked at Martina.

  “We must find her,” Martina said. “But how can I leave you?”

  “I will find her,” Druce said.

  “You?” Berkeley and Martina spoke together.

  “She is my fiancée,” Druce said.

  “But you know nothing of this game,” Berkeley said. “If Anna has been kidnapped . . .” Eight years ago he had not hesitated, had charged into the Balkans with guns blazing, and even then it had taken him five years to reclaim his daughter. Now he could only lie on his back, could only leave his bed with Martina’s assistance.

  Martina!

  She could read his expression. “How can I leave you and Howard?” she asked.

  “Would you go, all else being equal?”

  Martina smiled; sometimes she could look very like a tigress watching her next meal approaching. “Of course I will go.”

  “Right. Mary will look after me and Howard. She is about due to leave school in any event. And Johnnie and Alicia will be home in a fortnight. You will be back before they return to school.”

  “And suppose these Nazis come after you while I am away?”

  “Just give me my Browning. I’m safer here than anywhere else in the world, don’t you see? There is only one way they can get at me, through that door. Anyway,” . . . he grinned, “I am relying on you to keep them busy until you return.”

  “With respect, sir,” Druce said, “are you suggesting that Martina and I should go to Germany together?”

  “Martina is going, certainly,” Berkeley said. “If you wish to accompany her . . .”

  “I regard it as my duty to find out what has happened to Anna,” Druce said. “And to bring her home, if that is possible. But it would be more seemly if I went alone.”