Ashes Of America

by Fergus McNeill

  Gritting his teeth, Frank took a deep breath, straightening up to his full height. Kirkland was the least of his worries right now; someone was trying to kill him.

  ‘Do we understand each other?’ Carson was still talking, still unaware of what was really going on. Frank kicked the wall hard, rattling the shelves that surrounded the payphone, then screwed his eyes shut as he compressed all his frustration into an angry whisper.

  ‘I need that address.’

  There was an indignant snort at the other end of the line.

  ‘Seems you didn’t hear me–’

  But now it was Frank’s turn to raise his voice.

  ‘Shut your fat mouth,’ he snarled, stunning the sheriff into silence. ‘I need that address and you’re going to give it to me. And you better pray that I don’t tell Kirkland what I heard about your son and that poor girl from Tipton Ford.’

  He hadn’t wanted things to go like this, but now he had no choice.

  There was a long pause before Carson spoke again.

  ‘You’re a bastard, Frank,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’ve been told that before,’ Frank snapped. ‘Now get me the damn address!’

  ‘Just… just hang on.’

  There was a thud as the receiver was set down, and he heard muffled sounds for a moment, until the sheriff returned.

  ‘All right… it’s 210 East 40th Street, apartment 16. You got that?’

  ‘Apartment 16.’ With the phone tucked into the crook of his neck, Frank pressed his notepad against the wall and scribbled down the address. ‘Yeah, I got it.’

  ‘Then get this, too.’ A growl crept into Carson’s voice. ‘If I hear any stories are going round, stories about me or my boy… well, then you’d better start sleeping with your eyes wide open, son.’

  There was a sharp click as he slammed the phone down, and the line went dead.

  Frank stood for a moment, then slowly exhaled, breathing out his anger.

  Carson wasn’t a bad guy – everyone knew that – but the dumb bastard shouldn’t have got in his way. Not now, not over something like this.

  He replaced the receiver, then turned to find the storekeeper and the postal worker staring at him.

  ‘Have a good day,’ he muttered as he walked, unsmiling, to the door.

  Outside, the warmth of the sun touched his skin, and he stood for a time, squinting over at the road where the bus had stopped. Somewhere in the far distance, a train horn blew its mournful note.

  Frank paused for a moment, wondering if the sheriff might really make good on his threat, then scowled and started walking back towards his car.

  Screw Carson. Screw them all.

  Late that afternoon, he walked out from the Union Depot building, stepping across the bright rails and up onto the platform. Setting down his heavy green duffel bag, he casually glanced left and right, but nobody was looking at him, and there was no sign of the thin man.

  For now, at least.

  He sighed, reaching back to rub the stiffness that remained in his shoulder, then looked up as the people around him began to stir. Sunlight glinted on the red and yellow locomotive that had emerged from under the nearby viaduct, and he watched as the long train rumbled slowly into the station, bathing him in a swirling crescendo of warm air and noise.

  ‘Joplin, this is Joplin,’ one of the porters, a negro with a rich clear voice, was shouting along the platform. ‘Southern Belle, calling at Pittsburg and Kansas City.’

  Hefting his bag, Frank moved forward with the other passengers, stepping up to climb aboard. Once inside, he stowed his bag then took a seat by a window in the chair car.

  Why had Pete gone with Faye, followed her back to that room? Why did he trust her?

  But Frank knew why. We believe what we want to believe. We believe who we want to believe.

  There was a brief jolt, and the train began to move. Frowning, he turned to stare out through the glass as Joplin gradually slipped away.

  Faye was a few days ahead of him, but he was ahead of the cops, and he knew what he was doing. When he found her, he was going to make her talk.

  And he was going to make her pay.

  Spring, 1944

  Bern, Switzerland

  9

  The conductor made his way along the aisle, two lines of silver buttons gleaming on his black tunic, a tall peaked cap swaying with the movement of the train. As he drew level, Frank glanced up at him and raised a hand.

  ‘Wann kommen wir in Bern an?’ he asked. How long until we arrive in Bern?

  The conductor paused and checked his watch.

  ‘In etwa 15 Minuten,’ he replied.

  ‘Danke.’

  ‘Bitte sehr.’

  Frank turned away from him and went back to staring out of the window.

  It had been a grueling journey, traveling hundreds of miles south to Spain just so he could re-enter France on diplomatic papers and take the train up through unoccupied territory to the border crossing at Geneva. There had been a moment, as the soldiers pulled him out of the line at the frontier checkpoint, when he’d feared it had all been in vain. But he’d kept his nerve, talked his way through, and his efforts had finally been rewarded; he’d made it to Switzerland.

  The country he now looked out on was lush – rolling and green, with glimpses of blue lakes and silver rivers – a gentler landscape than the rocky Alpine passes he’d imagined. Here and there, the green was dotted with clusters of buildings – little white houses, with steeply pitched roofs and brightly painted shutters around small windows. Every now and then, he’d catch sight of mountains, hazy and blue in the far distance, their peaks capped with snow.

  Leaning his forehead against the cool glass, he stared down at the blurring ground, the shining steel rails, then slowly closed his eyes. He still wasn’t sure why they’d sent him here. It had all started at the transit camp in Normandy, with the questions about his mother…

  ‘Your mother’s a German… Ilse Dreschner, born in Hamburg; is that right?’

  Standing in the C.O.’s office, he’d held himself a little straighter, avoiding eye contact with the new man behind the desk.

  ‘Yes sir,’ he replied. ‘But my father’s an American. Like me.’

  Who the hell was this guy? He hadn’t been around the unit before. He wore the rank of major, but lacked that usual military manner which had become so annoyingly familiar since enlisting.

  ‘And you speak German fluently?’

  Frank stared at the wall behind the desk.

  ‘Ich weiß, wie man nach einem Bier fragt,’ he said, then added, ‘sir.’

  The major glanced up from his dossier, then leaned back in his chair. He appeared to be in his thirties, slim and thoughtful, with combed black hair and a neat mustache. When he finally smiled, it was as though he’d learned how to do so from a book.

  ‘At ease, Corporal Rye,’ he said. ‘Speaking other languages isn’t necessarily a bad thing. In fact, there are times when it’s really quite useful.’

  That was how it started, but there had been many other interviews: sudden requests to go and meet people who were never introduced by name, and to answer odd questions. And then, after a few weeks, it had all stopped as suddenly as it began. There was never any explanation, so he assumed that whatever it was, they’d decided they didn’t need him or want him any more.

  But then, ten days ago, his old C.O. had taken him to one side and told him to pack up and report to regional HQ. Word had come through from on-high; he was being transferred.

  …but why Bern? He opened his eyes again, looking through the trees and across the green landscape. Switzerland remained a neutral country, so he wore civilian clothes instead of uniform, and the papers in his jacket pocket listed him as a translation clerk, not a soldier. They wouldn’t have hooked him out of his unit and gone to all this trouble just to get another translator, he was sure of that. But they’d been careful to avoid telling him the real reason.

  The train was slowing
now, the steady rhythm of wheels on rails disrupted as the tracks divided and spread out beneath a canopy of power lines. On the left, the ground had risen up into a towering wall, topped with grass and trees. All around, beautiful old stone buildings looked down, crowded together like a fairytale town. People began to move, gathering up their bags as the station slid into view, and the train squealed slowly to a halt.

  When he stepped down onto the long curving platform, he paused for a moment, letting the other passengers flow around him, a babble of German and French conversations above the unfamiliar hum of the electric train. Then, gripping his suitcase tightly, he made his way along beneath the low canopies, past the posters advertising strange brands of chocolate and ladies’ soap, towards the exit.

  It felt strange stepping out from the station building into the open air, as if Bern hadn’t been quite real until this moment, but here it was, exactly as they’d described it in the briefings. In front of him was the Bahnhofplatz, an impressive open square surrounded by large buildings, with vaulted arches supporting elegant stone façades. Streetcars stood in line, waiting to follow the overhead power cables that looped around the square and out across the city, and everywhere there were buses and automobiles, and busy people hurrying back and forth. It felt different to anywhere he’d known back home – not necessarily bigger, but somehow more condensed. And far, far older.

  He glanced up at the clock by the front of the station, then peered across the square, reading the signs on the buildings until he found the one he was looking for: the Schweizerhof, a grand old six-story hotel, with a row of automobiles parked out front. Swinging his suitcase, he waited for a streetcar to go clanking by, then started walking across the slippery-smooth cobbles.

  Inside, the hotel was even more impressive than its exterior had suggested. Passing through a revolving glass door, he found himself in a muted world of polished wooden floors and tall ceilings with glittering chandeliers. All the bustle of the square was left outside – in here, everything and everyone was quiet and composed. Remembering his instructions, he made his way through to the lounge bar, where he ordered a coffee, set his case beside a comfortable chair, and sat down feeling conspicuous.

  There were several people seated around the room, and he watched as the waiter drifted from one table to the next, wondering which of them might be here to meet him. The smartly-dressed couple in the corner were too engrossed in each other, and the elderly man snoring softly in an armchair seemed unlikely, but the middle-aged man with the newspaper… he might be the one. Frank sipped his coffee, watching without being obvious about it, when he became aware of a tapping sound, getting steadily louder. Looking round, he saw a young man in a tweed jacket hobbling towards him. With tousled blond hair, and one leg very obviously lame, he was leaning heavily on a walking stick that tapped noisily on the floor.

  ‘Mr Rye?’ he called, hurrying over as fast as he was able, and extending his free left hand. ‘So glad to meet you.’

  Frank stood up, noting the man’s British accent as he reached out to shake awkwardly with his own left.

  ‘Good to meet you too, Mister...?’

  ‘Sorry.’ The young man laughed. ‘It’s actually Ranulph Cavanagh, but that’s a bit of a mouthful, so everyone just calls me Rafe, which I much prefer.’

  ‘Good to meet you Rafe. I’m Frank.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Rafe smiled. He sat down with some difficulty, relief apparent on his face when he finally sank into his chair and let the walking stick drop to the floor.

  ‘That’s better,’ he sighed, relaxing. ‘Now, we’ve got you a room, over on Bantigerstrasse. I’ll take you across and get you settled in, but I think we might just have a drink first, seeing as we’re both here.’

  He grinned and raised a hand to summon the waiter over.

  ‘Scotch?’ he asked. ‘It’s not too bad in here, and anything’s better than the ghastly schnapps.’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ Frank shrugged.

  ‘Zwei Whiskys, bitte,’ Rafe told the waiter, who nodded and moved away. ‘So, did you have a good trip?’

  ‘It was okay, I guess.’

  ‘First time in Europe?’

  ‘Well, we spent some time in Germany when I was a kid.’ He saw Rafe’s interest and added, ‘My mom’s family are from there. It’s my first time in Switzerland, though.’

  The waiter returned with a tray, carefully setting two glasses on the low table, before bowing and turning away.

  Rafe thanked him, then reached over to take his whiskey.

  ‘Switzerland’s not so very different to parts of Germany.’ He stared at his drink, then frowned. ‘Apart from all the wretched Nazis, of course.’

  Frank gave a grim nod, then raised his own glass.

  ‘To the Swiss,’ he said.

  ‘To the Swiss.’ Rafe smiled.

  They sat in silence for a moment. Frank took a sip of his whiskey, then set the glass down.

  ‘So tell me,’ he began, eager to understand more about his new posting but not wanting to display ignorance, ‘what is it that you do here?’

  ‘Apart from meet people from the station?’ Rafe glanced down at his bad leg and his smile seemed to dim a little. ‘I do what I can to make myself useful but… well, cripples aren’t really best suited to active service.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Frank said, sitting back into his chair. ‘Were you injured in the Africa campaign? Or was it France?’

  ‘What?’ Rafe seemed puzzled for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Oh, no. This was just a silly motorcycle accident in England.’

  ‘Oh, I just figured…’

  ‘It all happened before the war, I’m afraid. So I’m the wrong sort of cripple.’ He managed a rueful smile, then lowered his voice. ‘But I do occasionally tell people I caught a bit of shrapnel in Libya, fighting Rommel. Everyone loves a wounded soldier.’

  ‘Especially the girls.’ Frank winked, raising his glass.

  Rafe gave a slight shrug.

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of chaps worse off than me,’ he said, brightening. ‘I say, did you know that your President Roosevelt is a cripple?’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’ Frank stared at him, thinking back to the newsreels he’d seen. ‘I know he might be a bit lame but…’

  ‘I’m quite serious,’ Rafe went on. ‘Think about it; when did you last see him actually walking? The old man says he can't even stand up anymore, not without special steel leg braces.’

  He didn’t sound as if he was joking. Frank took another sip of whiskey, then looked over at him thoughtfully.

  ‘The old man?’ he said.

  Rafe appeared to hesitate.

  ‘Mr Dulles,’ he explained, after a moment. ‘You’ll meet him before long, I’m sure. He’s met your president several times. Met Adolf Hitler, too, though he doesn’t talk about that so much.’

  ‘And this Dulles guy,’ Frank pressed him, ‘is he the boss?’

  ‘I’m sure he can explain things much better than I can.’ Rafe managed a polite little smile. ‘But let’s not worry about work now; plenty of time for that tomorrow. For now, the important thing is that you’re here.’

  He finished his whiskey and set his glass down on the table.

  ‘Drink up, and I’ll take you over to Bantigerstrasse. You can freshen up and unpack. Later we’ll pop out and find something to eat, maybe meet some of the others.’

  Leaning over, he stretched down and fumbled for his walking stick, teasing it with his fingertips until it was in reach.

  Frank watched him, wishing he’d thought to help, then knocked back the last of his whiskey. He waited until Rafe was getting to his feet, then rose slowly, ready to support the other man if necessary.

  ‘Is this Bantigerstrasse place very far?’ he asked.

  ‘Not too far,’ Rafe replied, steadying himself with his walking stick. He glanced at Frank, then nodded gravely. ‘I know… it seems a bit rich having someone like me doing legwork, but there is a war on, you know.’


  His face broke into a broad grin and both men laughed.

  ‘Welcome to Bern, Frank.’

  10

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Frank rubbed his eyes then squinted at his watch. 6:45am. He stood up carefully; his tiny attic room had a low ceiling but as he turned towards the window and peered out beneath the overhang of the roof he was rewarded with a glorious view across the surrounding houses to the sunlit treetops that marked the woods at the end of the street and the forested hills beyond. Suddenly, the war seemed very far away. He gazed out for a moment longer, then turned to the small wooden chair where his clothes lay folded and began to get dressed.

  Rationing was in force, so breakfast was basic: a slab of coarse brown bread with some kind of pale cheese. The elderly landlady sat in the corner of the downstairs parlor and gave the impression that she would watch him eat, so he excused himself politely and took his food with him.

  Stepping out into the morning sunlight, he turned his face to the sky and drew a deep breath. There was a crisp freshness to everything, as though the air had come to him from some icy Alpine pass. Smiling, he took a bite of the bread and set off down the road. Lined with large stone houses, Bantigerstrasse was a small street in a quiet part of town. Here and there he saw little gardens, but many of the lawns and flowerbeds had been dug up and were now being used as vegetable plots. At the end of the road he cut between two houses, trying to remember the route that Rafe had showed him yesterday. A narrow dirt path meandered down through steeply sloping woods, where he caught tantalizing glimpses of the old town across the river, and descended through another neighborhood until he reached Dufourstrasse. Number 24 was at the far end, a three-story townhouse finished in stone.

  There were steps leading up to the front door, which was open. Inside, he found himself in a silent hallway with white walls and a tiled floor. Straightening his jacket, he made his way up to the second floor where a single, closed door was set into the wall. He knocked and waited.