There were more sirens echoing in the distance now, and some people were starting to get out of their cars.
Frank checked the meter, then paid the fare and opened the door. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he could hear the wail of the sirens more clearly and started walking quickly towards them.
Another fire truck forced its way through, driving up the wrong side of the road as he approached the intersection, and he saw it turn by the church, heading down East 40th Street. He began to run, weaving between the drifting people, and following it down the slope. The glow was much bigger now, flickering as bright flames danced above the roofs of the nearby buildings, touching the billowing smoke with an angry orange cast.
As the apartment block came into view, he slowed to a standstill, staring at the crackling blaze over the heads of the onlookers. The whole place was alight, a silhouette of blackened walls around a raging inferno, windows belching fire into the night. He started to move again, picking his way over the hoses that lay across the street like wet snakes, skirting the crowd as the police shouted and tried to keep everyone back.
Staring between the people, he saw a group of firefighters advancing, tiny dark figures against the glare of the flames, as jets of water played over the front of the building. He could feel the heat on his face, taste the mist of water and ash, smell the burning wood. Suddenly, a cry went up from the crowd, and he turned to see the silhouette of a firefighter, staggering down the steps from the burning entrance porch, dragging a limp figure away from the blaze as other fire crew rushed forward to help.
All around, anxious faces shone in the flickering light. Frank approached an elderly man in a bathrobe who stood staring at the scene.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
The old guy didn’t seem to hear him at first, then turned with a haunted look in his eyes.
‘I… I don’t rightly know,’ he stammered. ‘The place just caught so fast. One minute it was just a little bit of smoke, then the whole damn building went up. Terrible thing.’
‘You saw it start?’
The old man shrugged.
‘I don’t know about start, but when I first saw it there was just some flames in the entrance hall.’
‘Did they get everyone out?’ Frank demanded.
‘They got some folks out, but maybe not everyone.’ The old man shook his head. ‘If the stairs were blocked early on, then I guess some folk on the upper floors might still be... oh dear Lord!’
He broke off as a sudden cracking sound came from the building, and everyone turned to see the end of the roof drop slightly, sagging downwards. Then, with a splintering groan, the whole roof caved in, blowing huge plumes of flame out of the top floor windows. There was a crash as the upper structure collapsed, sending clouds of sparks billowing up into the darkness, and screams as a wall of heat pushed the crowd backwards.
In the stumbling confusion, Frank could see a middle-aged woman in a housecoat being restrained by two police officers, shrieking that her husband was ‘still in there, you bastards’. Sitting on the curb, a bald man in a soot-blackened vest hugged his knees, rocking backwards and forwards as people rushed around him, coughing, choking, sobbing.
Frank held up a hand, shielding his face from the intensity of the blaze. As the crowd broke around him, he saw the firefighters beaten back by the heat, and one of them collapsing to lay still on the asphalt. Others rallied to him, pulling the prone figure away from the building, and a desperate voice cried out, ‘Is there a doctor here? Anyone with medical training?’
Frank stopped and looked around, expecting to see Stanley pushing his way to the front, but no one came. Frowning, he began to move grimly through the crowd, searching the illuminated faces. They must be here, somewhere…
But there was no sign of Faye or her brother.
An ambulance was nosing down the hill, bells ringing urgently, people parting to allow it through. Wearily, Frank stepped back to let it pass, then turned to stare into the ruin of the building, now totally engulfed in flames.
He didn’t know whether Faye was alive or dead. His only lead – his only connection to the thin man – might just have gone up in smoke.
Summer, 1944
Bern, Switzerland
19
Rafe stood by the window, gazing down into the street. He stroked absently at the light brown mustache he’d been cultivating, then turned back to face the others and sighed.
‘Honestly, I’m so bloody fed up of this wretched war,’ he said.
Frank set his pen down and looked up at his friend.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Rafe shook his head slightly, then leaned in to rest his shoulder against the window frame. ‘I rather thought we’d be making short work of the Germans by now, but since D-Day… well, the last month or so we seem to have got completely bogged down in France.’
Molly glanced up from her desk.
‘The Russians are moving a lot quicker,’ she noted.
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Rafe seemed to brighten. ‘Have your shady Eastern sources been whispering again, eh?’
‘It’s not exactly a secret,’ said Molly, sitting back in her chair. ‘The Germans are collapsing in the east, and Russia’s hitting them hard. The way Stalin’s going now, well…’
She hesitated, then frowned and looked away.
Watching her, Frank leaned forward.
‘Well what?’ he pressed her.
Molly stared at her desk for a moment, then said, ‘When something gets that sort of… momentum… well, you just wonder how it’s ever going to stop.’
Her tone was guarded now, but as she caught Frank’s eye she managed a faint smile.
‘Well, I’ve no sympathy for the Germans,’ Rafe said. He raised his walking stick and rested it over his shoulder. ‘I just thought we’d be giving a better account of ourselves, that’s all.’
‘Hey!’ Frank protested, remembering his old infantry unit. ‘I think we’re doing pretty good.’
He could see from their faces that the others had caught something in his tone, and he shrugged self-consciously before adding, ‘Anyway, it doesn’t really matter which army gets rid of the Nazis, does it?’
Molly lowered her eyes.
‘I suppose it depends what they do once they’ve liberated you,’ she said.
‘Ah, you’ve been spending too much time with your Red friends, comrade Molly,’ Rafe grinned. ‘You’re starting to sound as miserable as they do.’
Molly gave him a withering look.
‘Very funny,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’ Rafe turned back to the window, smiling to himself as he peered outside. ‘I’m just feeling a bit… restless. Can’t be helped.’
Frank glanced over at him and nodded.
‘I guess you do lose track of time in place like this,’ he said.
‘Ha!’ Molly arched an eyebrow. ‘You’ve only been here a few months!’
‘I know,’ Frank replied, feigning modesty. ‘And just look how well the war has gone in that time.’
‘He’s quite right.’ Rafe glanced over at Molly. ‘The Allied front line has done so much better without him.’
She smiled, a real smile this time, and the mood of the room lifted.
‘Just watch that mouth.’ Frank chuckled, shaking his fist at his friend. ‘Loose lips may sink ships, but you’re gonna have loose teeth.’
Rafe laughed, then turned to the window again, squinting down into the street.
‘Hey!’ he hissed, his voice suddenly serious. ‘She’s back!’
Turning, he limped quickly over to his desk.
Molly pushed her chair back and got to her feet. She gave Frank a meaningful look, then walked briskly across the room and disappeared through into the small kitchen area at the far end of the office.
Frank lowered his eyes and waited.
A moment later, the stairwell door swung open, and Jean came in.
; ‘Afternoon, boys,’ she said, making her way over to her desk and sitting down.
‘Afternoon,’ Frank replied.
He watched her as she unlocked her desk drawer and pulled it open.
‘You’ve been gone a while,’ Rafe said, peering over at her.
‘Well, it was a beautiful day,’ she said vaguely. Setting her purse in her lap, she withdrew something small, placed it in the drawer and slid it shut. ‘Is Swift in his office?’
‘He is,’ Rafe replied, gravely. ‘But he asked us to tell you something, immediately you came back.’
Jean looked up, alert.
‘What?’ she demanded.
Frank stood up and jabbed an accusing finger at her.
‘Happy birthday!’ He grinned.
Jean blinked at him in surprise, then her face broke into a broad smile.
‘Oh… but how did you...?’
‘You’ve no secrets from us, old girl,’ Rafe laughed, getting awkwardly to his feet. ‘Many happy returns!’
‘Oh… thank you!’ Jean beamed at them, then narrowed her eyes at Rafe. ‘But not so much of the old, if you don’t mind. I’m only twenty-six!’
Molly appeared from the kitchen. She was carrying a small round cake covered in chocolate, which she set down carefully on the desk.
‘Oh my Lord!’ Jean gasped, bringing her hands up to her face. ‘It looks… it’s amazing! Oh Molly, however did you manage this? I mean, with the rationing…’
‘It’s probably better that you don’t ask,’ Molly said, pulling a face, then smiling. ‘Happy birthday, Jean. From all of us.’
They gathered round to sing Happy Birthday. There were no candles, but Frank leaned over and carefully inserted a long, lit matchstick into the centre of the cake. When they finished singing, Jean dutifully blew it out, then beamed up at them all.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply. ‘Now, has anybody got a knife? This cake looks too good not to eat.’
Frank went through to the kitchen and came back with a knife. As he returned, Jean was talking to Molly.
‘…but celebrating my birthday seemed such a trivial thing, you know, with the war and everything.’
Molly put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Life’s going on,’ she said firmly. ‘And that makes celebrating more important than ever.’
Frank walked over and offered Jean the knife.
‘Come on, birthday girl.’ He grinned. ‘Let’s cut that cake.’
They sat down and Jean passed around slices for each of them.
A few minutes later, the door at the end of the corridor opened.
‘Is Jean back yet?’ Swift called out, emerging from his room. He seemed to be in an impatient mood as he came stalking through to the office, though that was more and more often the case these days, Frank thought. As he drew nearer to them he slowed, seeing the cake.
‘Special occasion?’ he asked.
‘It’s Jean’s birthday,’ Rafe said.
Swift hesitated, then turned to Jean.
‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘Sorry, I should have remembered.’
‘No, it’s all right.’ Jean shook her head, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Would you like a piece of cake?’
‘Er… sure.’ Swift nodded politely. ‘It looks very impressive.’
‘Oh, it is,’ Rafe assured him. ‘Molly made it.’
‘Really?’ Swift glanced over at Molly, who lowered her eyes. ‘Well, good for you.’
Jean cut a slice of cake and offered it to him on a folded piece of paper.
‘I’m afraid there aren’t any proper plates,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ Swift accepted the cake graciously but made no attempt to eat it. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but… there’s a couple of things I need to go over with you.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Jean’s face became serious. As Swift turned back towards his office, she bent down to lock her desk drawer, then got to her feet.
Catching Molly’s eye, she hesitated, then leaned over to give her a brief hug.
‘Thanks,’ she said softly, before turning to look at the others. ‘Thank you all.’
Then, with a quick smile, she hurried down the corridor after Swift.
Frank watched her go, then looked round to find Rafe shaking his head unhappily.
‘Well, that was rotten timing,’ he muttered, idly twisting his walking stick in his hand.
Molly got up and calmly smoothed her skirt down.
‘It’s a pity he didn’t feel able to join us,’ she said, turning away. ‘But I don’t think he trusts us quite as much as he trusts her.’
Frank frowned at this, but then he remembered Swift’s comments, back when he’d first arrived: Some of these people are Brits, not Americans… you can trust them, up to a point.
Rafe nodded moodily.
‘Well, trust or no trust, there’s plainly something big going on. Heaps of radio traffic, Dulles chasing about all over Switzerland, and poor old Swift with a face like a wet weekend.’ He shrugged his shoulders, then leaned over, helping himself to another piece of cake. ‘I just wish it would hurry up and happen, whatever it is.’
They celebrated Jean’s birthday that evening at a Bierkeller over in Länggasse. It was a rustic sort of place, set deep below the old cobbled streets and accessed via a steep wooden stair, but even with the shortages it still had a reputation for good food and excellent beer. There were long oak tables with rough wooden benches, and candlelight flickered merrily around the low arched ceilings, stained dark with years of smoke. As night fell over the city outside, the four friends leaned in close to hear each other over the sounds of clinking glass and laughter that echoed off the ancient stone walls.
‘Which one?’ Jean was asking. ‘There are so many Sherlock Holmes pictures.’
‘The Hound Of The Baskervilles?’ Molly suggested.
‘No, The Voice Of Terror,’ Rafe said. ‘It’s a bit far-fetched but you’ll enjoy it, I know you will.’
Frank took another swig of beer and set his glass down with a happy sigh.
‘I like the guy who plays Doctor Watson.’ Yawning, he began to lean back, but caught himself just before he fell off the bench. ‘Damn! I need to stop doing that!’
‘Careful, old boy!’ Rafe rested a hand on his back to steady him. ‘Nigel Bruce; that’s the actor you’re thinking of. He’s glorious, isn’t he?’
‘I prefer Basil Rathbone,’ said Molly. She smiled to herself for a moment, then looked across the table with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for Sherlock Holmes.’
Rafe shook his head.
‘Never liked the look of him, myself,’ he told her.
‘Sherlock Holmes?’
‘No, Basil Rathbone,’ Rafe said gravely. ‘I haven’t trusted him since he was that rotter the Sheriff of Nottingham, in Robin Hood.’
Molly stared at him for a moment, then chuckled.
‘You can hardly hold that against him!’ she said, shaking her head.
‘No, really.’ Rafe leaned across the table and beckoned her closer. ‘Who would you rather have a romantic assignation with: Basil Rathbone or Errol Flynn? Come on, you’d choose dashing Robin Hood over poor old Sherlock-of-Nottingham any day of the week.’
Molly shook her head again, then pushed her end of the bench back from the table.
‘If I were to have a romantic assignation with anyone,’ she said, standing up and gazing down with mock severity, ‘you’d be the last to know, Ranulph Cavanagh.’
Jean and Frank burst out laughing. Rafe clutched a hand to his chest and tried to look hurt, but couldn’t stop himself grinning.
Molly winked at him, then whispered something to Jean and excused herself.
Frank glanced up as Jean yawned and got slowly to her feet.
‘All right then, boys.’ She stood up and stretched, her hands brushing the low ceiling. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening. I really appreciate it.’
‘I say…’ Rafe gazed up at her i
n surprise. ‘You’re not running out on us are you?’
‘I’ve been on the go all day,’ she said, leaning on the table with both hands and giving him a weary smile. ‘I’m practically asleep on my feet.’
‘It is getting kind of late,’ Frank said, nodding. ‘You want me to walk you home?’
Jean looked at him and shook her head.
‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but Molly’s taking me back. We’ll be just fine.’
‘Well, okay then.’ Frank started to lean back again then stopped himself. ‘Happy birthday, Jean.’
‘Compliments of the season!’ Rafe raised his glass.
Jean beamed and performed a small curtsey.
‘Thanks, you two,’ she said.
Molly appeared at her side.
‘Night, boys. See you tomorrow, bright and early?’
‘Early, perhaps,’ Rafe muttered.
‘Goodnight.’ Frank smiled. He watched as Molly steered Jean across the room and saw the two women disappear up the stairs.
‘Can't abide people leaving the party early,’ Rafe said, with a sigh. He squinted at his watch for a moment, then gave up. ‘What time is it, anyway?’
Frank glanced down at his wrist.
‘It's late,’ he said. ‘I reckon we’ll be walking home in the blackout.’
Rafe appeared to consider this for a moment.
‘Oh well, if that's the case, we might as well have another drink.’
Frank got stiffly to his feet and walked over to the bar, noting that the place was finally starting to quieten down a bit. The clientele was mixed - some middle-aged men, and a few young couples - but everyone seemed to be having a good time. He returned to the table with two large beers and managed to set them down without spilling very much.
‘Thanks awfully,’ Rafe said. He immediately reached for his glass and took a long drink.
‘No problem,’ Frank replied, smiling.
The two men drank in sleepy silence for a moment, until Rafe drew himself up and pointed a finger across the table.
‘You know, you’re a bloody good chap,’ he said, then added, ‘for an American, I mean.’
Frank stared at him for a moment, then gave his friend a broad grin.
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