The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Leaving Agathé with Sister Angelica standing in the doorway of the house, he walked towards the two cars parked in the cobbled yard. One, a black Mercedes, had a Staff flag on the bonnet. The other was the Opel Becker had driven.

  Anthony lifted the boot of the Opel and took out the jacket and cap of the driver’s uniform Becker had left there.

  ‘It was part of the plan,’ he said in answer to Sister Angelica’s enquiring look as he quickly stripped off his colonel’s jacket and replaced it with the driver’s tunic. And the astonishing thing is, he commented to himself, that this part of the plan, at least, came off.

  Which car should he take? The Opel had obviously seen better days. The Mercedes, a sleek black machine, looked easily the better of the two. If he was going to continue his career as a car thief, he might as well pinch the better car.

  He picked up Agathé and, with Sister Angelica’s help, draped the coat over his shoulders to hide her.

  ‘I want you to sit in the front of the car, but on the floor. I don’t want you to be seen,’ he explained.

  ‘Is it a game?’ asked Agathé.

  ‘Yes, it’s a game. But a serious game. Don’t say a word.’

  Holding the little girl close, he sat her down in the front footwell of the Mercedes. He draped his colonel’s jacket and the coat round her. She’d be warm at least, if not very comfortable.

  Scarcely believing his luck, Anthony walked round to the driver’s side, when there came an interruption.

  ‘Get out of my way, woman!’ snapped a voice from inside the house and Captain von Casberg strode into the yard.

  Behind him, Sister Angelica shrugged her shoulders with a ‘what can I do’ gesture.

  Anthony stood by the car with as wooden an expression as he could muster.

  ‘Here! You!’ barked von Casberg, snapping his fingers at Anthony. ‘Take me to headquarters.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ said Anthony, saluting. There really wasn’t anything else for it. He opened the back door. Von Casberg got in the car with very bad grace. Things, Anthony thought as he went to swing the starting handle, had obviously not gone well with the identity parade.

  He had absolutely no choice but to drive von Casberg to headquarters. Fortunately the Captain wasn’t a man to register unimportant details such as a driver’s face. That was a plus. The minus was that he had absolutely no idea where headquarters were.

  At the gate of the convent, he had a straightforward choice of left or right. A wayward memory of a song came to him. Keep right on to the end of the road …

  He turned right.

  The situation, to put it mildly, was interesting. He was trying to make as quick a getaway as he could and it was difficult to see how he could, granted there was a staff officer with a rocky temper in the back of the car.

  He reached out, adjusted the driving mirror at the side of the windscreen and looked into the back of the car. Von Casberg had leaned back on the seat, his eyes closed. He said he was tired, thought Anthony.

  A vague plan of parking the car and slipping away came briefly to mind and was immediately dismissed. The Captain was bound to notice the car stopping. No. He had to lose von Casberg and the quicker the better.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Rempart de Malines described a big circle around Louvain. It was flanked by large houses and was far too populated for Anthony’s liking.

  A turning about a mile along the Rempart de Malines looked as if it headed into the country. It was deserted. Anthony turned as smoothly as he could and drove along it.

  He had got no more than half a mile or so when the road gave up being anything that could be described as a road – this was the country, after all – and deteriorated into a track.

  The suspension of the Mercedes was excellent, but Anthony had only driven a few hundred yards before the gaping holes and unmissable ruts in the road tested the car’s ability to the fullest.

  It certainly got a response from von Casberg. He woke up with a start and looked around him. ‘Driver! Where are you taking me, you fool!’ he yelled. ‘This isn’t—’

  He broke off as Agathé, who must have been nearly shaken to bits, climbed out of the footwell and on to the front seat.

  ‘It’s very bumpy,’ she said plaintively.

  Anthony reached out, pushed her back into the footwell, turned the steering wheel hard, slammed down on the clutch and pulled up the handbrake. The engine screamed a protest as the car skidded round in a tyre-shredding turn and came to a shuddering halt.

  Anthony hurled himself out of the car and, pistol in hand, wrenched open the back door. Von Casberg was flung across the back seat.

  ‘Get out,’ he said curtly.

  Utterly bewildered, von Casberg stared up at him.

  Agathé crept onto the front passenger seat and, kneeling on it, looked at the two men with large, frightened, eyes.

  Anthony reached for von Casberg’s holster, unclipped it, took out the gun and threw it into the front of the car. ‘Don’t touch it, Agathé,’ he warned, not taking his eyes off von Casberg.

  Von Casberg’s eyes narrowed to gimlet points. ‘You are the spy,’ he said softly.

  Anthony shrugged. ‘If you say so. Get out. And keep your hands up.’

  He stepped back as von Casberg scrambled awkwardly out of the car.

  One thing Anthony was sure of, and that was although the man may be a posturing, arrogant bully, he wasn’t a coward. A coward would have whimpered, blustered and then crumpled. Von Casberg stood by the car, muscles tensed, his eyes never leaving the barrel of the automatic. He was a dangerous man.

  ‘You have come for the child?’

  ‘Obviously,’ replied Anthony levelly. ‘Tell me, von Casberg, exactly why is she so important?’

  Von Casberg stared at him, then started to laugh. He seemed genuinely amused, which was quite a feat in the circumstances. ‘You don’t know? I’d ask your bosses, errand boy, to explain things to you.’

  Anthony knew ‘errand boy’ shouldn’t have stung but it did. ‘Perhaps you don’t know either.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ agreed von Casberg. ‘Or perhaps I do. I might even tell you, if we could come to an agreement.’

  ‘Not a chance.’ Von Casberg couldn’t be trusted an inch.

  ‘I see. In that case, what are you going to do?’

  That was the question, thought Anthony ruefully. The sensible thing to do would be to shoot the man, but he wasn’t a killer. He could – he would – shoot if his life or other lives depended on it, but he simply couldn’t shoot a man in cold blood.

  The countryside around consisted of rolling fields and deep ditches, without any handy trees to tie the man to. In any case, that needed two hands and he’d have to put down the gun. Von Casberg would certainly fight back if his assailant was unarmed. If the Mercedes had any luggage space to speak of, he could’ve been stowed in the boot, but it didn’t. However, if von Casberg was stripped of his clothes, he was, to a large extent, stripped of his authority.

  A completely naked man, alone in the countryside, would have some explaining to do. Without his uniform or any identification, it would take some persuasion for von Casberg to be accepted for the sprig of nobility he undoubtedly was.

  It would certainly take him time to get back to headquarters. Lots of time. Without boots it would be difficult for a man to pick his way over the stony ground.

  Anthony might not be a killer but he had a good idea of who he was up against. If von Casberg wanted to try walking with a bullet in his foot, that depended entirely on how much resistance he put up.

  ‘Where are headquarters?’ demanded Anthony.

  Von Casberg looked surprised. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  Von Casberg shrugged. ‘Headquarters are …’ He looked round, as if to point out the direction, then hurled himself into the car, making a grab for Agathé.

  As Agathé screamed, Anthony, with supreme self-control, stopped himse
lf from firing. Agathé was in the way. He couldn’t get a clear shot.

  With a triumphant laugh, von Casberg held onto Agathé.

  ‘Drop the gun or I strangle the brat,’ he gasped, groping for his revolver that Anthony had tossed onto the front seat. His hand was round Agathé’s neck. There was no doubt he meant it. Agathé struggled furiously as the grip tightened. ‘Now!’

  Agathé’s mouth opened in a soundless cry as her struggles lessened.

  ‘Drop the gun!’ he snarled.

  For Agathé’s sake Anthony had no choice. Reluctantly he bent down and put his automatic on the ground. His fingers closed around a stone. It wasn’t much but it was all he could think of.

  Von Casberg flung the child away from him as he brought the gun up, pointing it at Anthony. His finger tightened on the trigger. ‘Hands up! I want to have you interrogated, Mr Spy. I want to know who you are and where you come from, but try anything and I will kill you.’

  Anthony’s shoulders drooped. ‘All right,’ he said dejectedly. ‘You win.’

  He raised his hands then flung the stone as hard as he could into von Casberg’s face. His aim was good. Von Casberg screamed as, his face covered in blood from his broken nose, he reeled back, stumbling into the car. The revolver exploded in his hand.

  ‘Agathé! Out of the way!’ yelled Anthony, lunging forward as the bullet whistled wildly over his head.

  His leap took him over the side of the car. He thudded his fist into von Casberg, catching him on the chin. Von Casberg fell back but brought up the gun.

  Anthony twisted von Casberg’s wrist as the gun fired once more.

  This time the bullet found a home.

  Von Casberg’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. His fingers scrabbled vainly at his chest, then, with a choking grunt, he fell back.

  Agathé burst into tears.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Anthony, catching her up in his arms. ‘Agathé, it’s all right.’

  He held her tightly, waiting for her sobs to subside. They had to get out of here and fast. Even though the fields seemed deserted, he couldn’t count on the shots not being heard.

  And then there was the matter of von Casberg’s body.

  He forced any urgency out of his voice as he carried her across the road and to the grassy verge that ran along the side of the ditch. ‘Agathé,’ he said as gently as he could, ‘I’m going to put you down. I want you to wait here, like a good girl, and then we’ll go for a drive. Yes?’

  ‘Is the nasty man dead?’ asked Agathé unexpectedly.

  ‘Er … Yes, he’s dead,’ said Anthony, taken aback.

  ‘My kitten went to sleep and wouldn’t wake up and Grandmamma said that was being dead and I could ask the Sacred Heart of Jesus to look after her because I was sad but Sister Marie-Eugénie said we mustn’t pray for kittens, only for people. Do I have to say prayers for the nasty man?’

  There are those who deserve our prayers and those who need them, thought Anthony wryly. Von Casberg was very much in the latter category. And who the dickens was Grandmamma? It struck him again how little he really knew of Milly.

  ‘I don’t want to say prayers for the nasty man,’ said Agathé, determinedly.

  Anthony put aside this theological conundrum. ‘No, sweetheart, you don’t have to say prayers for him. You could say some for us, though.’

  And that would, hopefully, keep her occupied while he got rid of the body. He put her down at the side of the road where she clasped her hands together. ‘I’m saying my prayers,’ she announced.

  ‘Good,’ called Anthony as he walked back to the car.

  Von Casberg’s body, with its staring eyes, broken nose and bullet-torn chest didn’t inspire any prayer in him, only a fervent desire to get rid of it as quickly as possible.

  He hauled the body out of the car and stripped off the uniform, stuffing it in a bundle beside the back seat. He pocketed von Casberg’s identity disk and identity papers, then paused. Von Casberg had a ring with a heraldic eagle emblazoned on it. That had to be important, surely.

  Feeling like a grave robber, Anthony tugged the ring off the dead finger. Then, bracing himself, he heaved the body up the steep grass verge and rolled it into the ditch.

  The ditch was deep, waterlogged, and thick with rushes. Bracing himself, Anthony trod the body down into the mud. If anyone knew it was there, they could find it, but it was concealed by the reeds and, with any luck, it would be a long time before it came to light.

  He wiped his boots down with von Casberg’s handkerchief, tossing the dirty cloth down beside the uniform in the back of the car. ‘Agathé,’ he called, ‘we’ve got to go now.’

  ‘Are we going back to Sister Marie-Eugénie?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘To Grandmamma’s?’

  ‘No, we can’t go there either. You’ve got to be a good girl and sit in the car in secret again.’

  The little girl climbed unenthusiastically back into the footwell and Anthony set off, turning at random at the next likely-looking crossroads. Rocky though the road was, it took him away both from Louvain and the ditch where the Captain lay concealed.

  Quarter of an hour later they arrived on the outskirts of a tiny hamlet. Anthony could see two German soldiers, lounging by a brazier by a hut at the side of the road. There was a pot of coffee warming on the brazier.

  Warning Agathé to be quiet, he drew the car to a halt and got out.

  The two soldiers, who had snapped to attention at the sight of the car, relaxed as they saw Anthony, apparently alone and in his driver’s uniform.

  ‘Are you lost, mate?’ called one of the soldiers, a burly, thickset man.

  ‘Too blinking right,’ said Anthony morosely. ‘Anyone’d get lost in this bleeding country.’

  The soldiers laughed. ‘No one’d come here on purpose.’

  Anthony shared the laugh and took out the packet of Ecksteins he had bought in the station bar that morning – was it really only that morning? – and breaking a cigarette in half, lit it. ‘Want a fag?’ he asked, tossing them a cigarette.

  ‘Cheers, pal,’ said the burly soldier, breaking the cigarette in half as Anthony had done and passing the other half to his companion. ‘Have a coffee,’ he said pouring out some steaming liquid into a battered tin mug. Anthony didn’t want it, but he knew better than to seem in a rush.

  The cup was passed round between the three men. It wasn’t exactly coffee but it was hot.

  ‘So where are you trying to get to then?’ asked the thin soldier.

  ‘Anywhere with a wireless set will do. I’ve got to ask for orders, see?’

  ‘Does it have to be Staff?’ asked the burly man, looking at the car. ‘Because the nearest Staff is over by Louvain.’

  ‘No, just the nearest place with a wireless.’

  The other soldier scratched his chin. ‘I reckon that’d be Elewyt. Straight down this road and turn left at the crossroads. I hope you don’t mind waiting though, pal. Major Kabel is a real swine. He won’t go out of his way to help the likes of us, oh no.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ said Anthony, throwing the miniscule stub of his cigarette into the brazier. ‘I’d better be off. I’ll catch it if I don’t contact my unit soon.’

  Elewyt, thought Anthony as he strolled back to the car. Elewyt and Major Kabel. He drove until he was out of sight, then pulled over.

  Agathé scrambled out of the footwell. ‘Please let me sit on the seat,’ she begged. ‘It smells all petrolly.’

  He didn’t want the poor kid passing out because of petrol fumes and it must be really uncomfortable down there. ‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But if I say get down, you have to get down at once, yes?’

  Anthony took a map from the map case beside the driver’s door as Agathé settled herself on the seat beside him. He recalled the information Talbot had given him. With a grunt of satisfaction he pinpointed the spot on the map. Field number thirteen was about twenty mile
s beyond Elewyt. That would do very nicely.

  At Elewyt, Anthony took the bull by the horns. Dressed in his colonel’s uniform, he strode into the village hall that housed the army post.

  Last August the Belgium Army had nearly reached the village but now the tide of war had moved on, leaving the little village in a sullen peace.

  ‘Major Kabel?’ he snapped at the corporal at the door. ‘I wish to see Major Kabel at once.’

  Swallowing, the corporal escorted him inside the hall, where, after a short interval, Major Kabel, a second-rate appointee if Anthony had ever seen one, hurried towards him.

  ‘Colonel?’ he began, then stopped, his eyes widening as he took in the medical insignia on Anthony’s uniform.

  Anthony smiled thinly. ‘Do not be deceived, Major. As I am sure you are aware, things are not always what they seem.’

  The Mercedes, with its Staff flag, was parked outside the door. Anthony could only hope that Agathé wouldn’t choose this moment to poke her head out of the car.

  ‘Take a glance outside.’

  The Major did and gulped. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I wish to send a wireless message. The wording must be precise, you understand? I will supervise the transmission myself. It is to our Embassy in New York.’

  ‘Yes, sir …’ The Major seemed in an agony of indecision.

  ‘Is there a problem, Major?’

  Major Kabel writhed. ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but we have received a report of an English spy masquerading in the uniform of a Dr Lieutenant Colonel. Can I see your papers, sir?’ His voice trailed off as he met Anthony’s icy stare.

  Von Casberg would never show his papers to a mere major. Anthony glared at him then, peeled off his gloves, revealing von Casberg’s ring. ‘Is this good enough for you, Major, or do you need further reassurance?’

  At the sight of the ring, Major Kabel paled. Von Casberg must’ve had people react like this all the time. Anthony was careful not to show any emotion except impatience as the Major virtually grovelled.

  ‘Very good, sir. Let me take you to the wireless transmitter. I do apologize, sir.’

  Minutes later, Anthony had the satisfaction of seeing his message encrypted and on its way to New York. What the German Embassy in New York would make of it, he could only guess, but Room 40, the Admiralty code breakers in Whitehall, would certainly intercept and read the German code.