DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  “Thank you for coming at this late hour. If you would be so kind as to follow me I believe we have a great deal to discuss.” With that the Chandler turned and strode down the hallway to a door at the end of the corridor. Whitley followed closely behind, the tip of his cane making small, hollow echoes each time it connected with the tiled floor.

  When they reached a door at the far end of the hall Chandler opened it and signaled the wing commander to pass through.

  As Whitley entered the room he noted it was overly large and sparsely decorated. In the center of the room three men in dark suits were seated at a long, low wooden table stacked with files, documents and papers. They immediately stopped their discussion as Whitley and Chandler entered the room and stood to greet the Wing Commander.

  “Gentlemen, Wing Commander Whitley,” he said by way of introduction. “Martin Wallace, Peter Schiller and Mark Brentwood,” he introduced the three men to Whitley. As Whitley shook each of their hands he had doubts he’d been given their real names, but it mattered little to him. Chandler, who seemed to be in charge cleared his throat and brought them to order.

  “The hour is late and we shouldn’t detain the Wing Commander longer than necessary.” As Sir James was taking his seat at the table the man who called himself Martin Wallace spoke up.

  “The Inter-Service Research Bureau have reviewed the transcripts from the file on the German airman and found they contained some interesting allusions to a line of scientific inquiry currently under study by the Allies. It was believed until now this particular field of study has not have been well developed. The German airman’s assertions suggest otherwise. If this is proven to be true it would have grave implications for the entire war effort.”

  Whitley thought it unlikely the SIS would resort to hyperbole or exaggeration in their assessment of a potential threat. It suggested their concern was real and probably well founded.

  “Are all the transcripts included Wing Commander?” Wallace inquired almost as an afterthought. Whitely knew this was the crux of the matter but saw little sense in dissembling.

  “No,” he answered immediately. The four men exchanged glances more in confirmation of their suspicions than condemnation of Whitley’s omission. Chandler took the lead in addressing the omitted transcripts.

  “We understand your caution Wing Commander, but would you feel comfortable characterizing the German airman’s statements that were not included in the file sent over to the SIS?”

  “The airman,” Whitley began, “Claimed to be an American citizen. He insisted he had taken a commercial flight from Washington aboard an American aircraft that landed at the Heathrow Aerodrome. He said he was registered at the Savoy and was here to observe an experiment in,” Whitley paused here struggling to recall the exact words the airman had used.

  “Thermonuclear fusion?” Wallace offered helpfully.

  “Yes,” Whitely confirmed. “The airman insisted he was here to attend a test conducted at a facility in Wilton Park. He claims something went wrong and the building where the experiment was conducted was destroyed.”

  “That’s it?” the man who called himself Schiller asked. Whitley shrugged.

  “It’s all we have learned at present,” he confirmed.

  “Would you have any objections providing us the missing transcripts?” Chandler asked in his most diplomatic tone. Whitley knew he had little choice and he had little reason to object in any case.

  “Of course,” he agreed.

  “One other thing wing commander,” Chandler continued. “We understand the prisoner will be transferred to Trent Park tomorrow morning?” Chandler inquired, referring to the facility that handled high-ranking German officers.

  “That has not been decided,” Whitley responded curtly.

  “Then may I suggest it would be in all of our interests if the prisoner were transferred to a more secure facility where he can be properly debriefed without the usual distractions,” Chandler offered in a string of euphemisms Whitley could not ignore.

  “I would think the CSDIC’s facility at Wilton Park would be an ideal location for MI19 to interview the prisoner. I see no reason the Directorate should not continue to exercise its authority in this matter. And you would of course keep us informed should the prisoner reveal any further information regarding his knowledge of experiments in thermonuclear fusion?”

  And there it was, lying out there for Whitley to grasp like a lifeboat. The SIS was willing, for the moment at least to allow him to retain control as long as he agreed to cooperate. They would be only too happy to take credit for any success he had in unlocking the airman’s secrets while he would assume the risks of failure. In return he would be allowed to remain in control, closely monitored of course.

  Chandler wanted there to be no misunderstanding of MI6’s interest in the forthcoming prisoner’s interrogation. It meant that the airman’s allusions to fusion experiments had hit a nerve somewhere in Whitehall.

  Whitley had little option but to agree. The SIS could easily have taken over and the CSDIC could have been left out entirely. That they had not done so already suggested they believed their objectives were better served by allowing MI6 to take the lead.

  Whitley departed with the knowledge that he had a limited mandate to conduct his interrogation as he saw fit so long as he produced results. MI6 wanted to know more about what the Germans were doing with thermonuclear fusion while he wanted to learn how much the Germans knew about Normandy. Given he could achieve both those goals simultaneously it was likely he would be allowed to continue debriefing the airman unhindered.

  Chapter 25

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Wilton Park, United Kingdom

  The bomb damage suffered by Queen Anne’s earlier in the week had done little to disrupt the hospital’s routine. Outside in the yard work crews were busy filling the crater left by the bomb that nearly destroyed the entire west wing while workers and hospital staff had long since finished mopping up the last of the soot and dust that had rained down from the hospital’s walls and ceiling. Bedding was changed, patients were washed and checked for injuries and the normal routine of the hospital gradually regained its momentum.

  The week’s events had left Mary near exhaustion, not only physically but emotionally as well. The incessant bombing had taken its toll on all Londoners. They were separated from their children who had been trundled off to the countryside for safety, rations had been reduced to nearly subsistence levels, fuel was in short supply leaving their homes cold and dark, and basic services including running water and sewage disposal were intermittent.

  Mary was proud her countrymen had kept their spirits high despite horrendous conditions. Now that the war was progressing favorably Londoners had every reason to be buoyed their sacrifices were bearing fruit. As she was near the end of her shift Mary was making one final round to check on each of her patients.

  Coming upon the German she noted he remained in stable condition. He observed her carefully as she checked his vitals. She was aware he would soon be moved to a prisoner of war camp and they were unlikely to meet again. His status as an American citizen would provide him little protection now that it had been established he was working for the Germans. He would be fortunate if he escaped execution.

  The thought he might be shot caused her grave consternation. Her concern over his fate caused her to blush.

  “Have I done something wrong?” I asked the dark haired nurse who had so been so attentive to my injuries. She had been quite friendly each time she had cause to attend me and I felt as though we might become friends. But today she seemed distant and aloof as if she were making a concerted effort to distance herself. I noted her face turned a soft pink and I knew I had touched on something uncomfortable for her.

  “You have done nothing to offend me Mister Riley I assure you. I am merely busy with my duties. As you are recovering from your wounds quite nicely I have no need to attend you as before.”

  “That wasn’t what I w
as referring to,” I said firmly. “I only meant to thank you for saving my life. The doctor’s tell me I’d be dead if you hadn’t helped me when you did.”

  “I was only doing my duty,” she professed, sticking a thermometer in my mouth. The thermometer was overly large which made choking almost inevitable.

  Off to my right I could see a British soldier, propped up in a chair against the far wall still stood guard, an Enfield rifle laid across his knees. He watched with great interest as the lieutenant took my temperature and checked my bandages. I thought it strange he’d be given such an antique weapon with which to discharge his duties.

  Brusquely completing her tasks she departed without another word, leaving me to ponder what I might have done to foment such a change in her attitude.

  For her part Wellington felt badly about having to treat the injured American with such coldness. But his status as a suspected German agent had taken him far from just another German prisoner of war. She was conflicted in her feelings for him and angry with herself for allowing him to become important to her. The sooner he was off her ward the sooner she could return to the normal routine of the hospital. For the time being she would keep her emotions strictly in check.

  Finishing her scheduled hours Mary was looking forward to a hot meal and a few hours sleep in her own flat. In the cloakroom she donned her coat and scarf and was headed to the street where she would walk the seven blocks to the tram when a uniformed RAF airman interceded.

  “You are Lieutenant Wellington?” he asked, saluting smartly as he spoke.

  “Yes,” she answered, startled by airman’s strict compliance to military protocol.

  “I apologize mum, but you must accompany me now.” Mary was taken off guard and for a moment stood speechless. Regaining her composure she asked, “But why, and where?”

  “The why mum, was not entrusted to me. But the where I can say is the White House at Wilton Park. Wing Commander Whitley has requested your attendance. As we are expected at eleven hundred hours there is little time to linger mum. Is there anything else you need to collect before we go?”

  Mary was at a loss to understand why she was being summoned. She was a nurse and beyond treating wounded soldiers had no role in military matters. Further, she had no idea who Wing Commander Whitley was or what he could possibly want from her.

  “Mum?” the airman urged her. “We must be on our way. I have a car waiting just outside for you.” A car Mary thought. How long had it been since she had ridden in a car? Petrol was tightly rationed and only the military and those civilians vital to the war effort could get petrol coupons.

  “Yes, yes of course,” she answered. The airman nodded and led her out to the street where a Royal Air Force staff car waited, exhaust from its engine billowing up in great clouds of white, frothy smoke.

  The drive to Beaconsfield took more than an hour as the previous nights bombing had damaged some of the main roads leading out of London to the north. The back seat of the Oldsmobile was plush, the padding thick and the seat covering soft. The driver kept the heat up and the long drive coupled with the gentle rocking motion of the automobile lulled her into an almost dreamlike state.

  They arrived in front of a large white mansion deep within a large preserve. When the door to the rear of the car suddenly opened she was momentarily startled. When she did not immediately exit the automobile the airman holding the door looked in on her.

  “Is everything alright mum?” he asked, a look of concern etched on his face.

  “Yes, of course,” she answered, quickly recovering her composure and exiting the vehicle.

  “Take the main stairs on your right to the third floor and then the hallway on your immediate right. The guards will direct you if you get lost. Commander Whitley’s name is on the third door on your right. Sergeant Wilcox, the commander’s batman will take it from there. Good luck mum.” With that the airman returned to the car that sped slowly away as she climbed the stone steps leading up to the front door of a three story white-plaster Palladian mansion. In the foyer stood two soldiers who politely but firmly arrested her passage, verifying her name was on the list of authorized guests before directing her to the third floor.

  As the airman had promised the commander’s batman was waiting in the commander’s outer office and guided her to a chair where she sat restlessly, anxious to learn the reason for her summons.

  She had not long to wait as moments later a tall, somewhat disheveled man dressed in an RAF pilots uniform and leaning heavily on a wooden cane stepped out of his office to greet her. She immediately rose to her feet to salute but the commander, switching his cane to his left hand held out his right to grasp hers.

  “Lieutenant Wellington,” he greeted her warmly. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I am told Queen Anne’s suffered some damage in last nights raid. I trust no one was seriously injured? Please join me in my office Lieutenant,” he insisted, gesturing toward a small table that sat across from his desk. On the tabletop was a tray with a dish of biscuits, a large pot of steeping tea and two white, porcelain cups with saucers.

  “Tea?” Whitley offered once they were seated, already filling the two cups in front of him.

  “Yes, thank you,” Mary agreed gratefully. The hot tea was a welcome cure for the early morning chill.

  “Now then,” he began once she was settled with her tea and one of the biscuits neatly tucked onto her saucer. “I’m certain you are curious as to the reason I have rather boorishly snatched you from your duties and summoned you here to Beaconsfield?” Mary sipped the hot liquid slowly from her teacup. She suspected the commander was being especially polite in an effort to assuage her fears.

  “I will of course do everything I can to be of assistance, but I think there has been some mistake. I cannot imagine how I could be of service to the Crown in any capacity other than the one in which I now serve.”

  Whitely smiled, finding the lieutenant’s directness refreshing if a bit naive.

  “You underestimate both your value to His Majesty’s Government and my ability to evaluate character,” he said soothingly. “In truth I have need of your assistance Lieutenant Wellington. You are familiar are you not with the German airman taken into custody several days ago and temporarily held at Queen Anne’s while he recuperates from his injuries?”

  “Yes, of course I am,” she answered. “He has been in my care since his surgery.” Much to her consternation the mere reference to the airman immediately started her heart racing. Despite her best efforts to expel him from her mind she found her thoughts returning to him throughout the day. She could feel her face growing warm at the mere reference to him.

  The pronounced pinkness in the lieutenant’s cheeks did not go unnoticed by the commander. He thought it curious but potentially useful that the young officer had already formed some attachment for the prisoner. For the moment he would file this bit of speculation away.

  “Then you may have observed he has been questioned on two occasions, the results of which lead me to believe he has knowledge crucial to the prosecution of this war. It is vitally important we learn everything we can about him and especially about what he knows. Time is of the essence Lieutenant. I do not overstate the case when I say the very lives of our men and women in uniform, as well perhaps as the outcome of this war may be influenced by what we learn from him.” Whitley paused, carefully taking in the Lieutenant’s reaction. He had played his hand heavily and hoped he had not oversold the importance of her cooperation.

  Mary stared across the table at her host, dismayed to learn the American may be working for the Germans. She struggled with her own perceptions of him and found it increasing difficult to reconcile these with the fact that Riley might be a German agent. The magnitude of that thought overwhelmed her senses. For an instant she blanched, her breath caught high in her lungs. Quickly she did her best to disguise any outward appearance she might have feelings for the American. It was unclear to her precisely what the commander expec
ted.

  ‘I still do not see,” she began but Whitely quickly waved her into silence.

  “I would like the airman to continue in your care lieutenant. I will be moving him to Wilton Park soon and I want you to attend to him here, at the White House.”

  Mary was startled by the commander’s request. She had considered several reasons for her summons on the drive over but none of them included continuing her care for the American.

  “I don’t know quite what to say sir,” was all she could think to say.

  “Say yes then,” Whitley encouraged her. “The truth is lieutenant your country needs you and I am not disposed to entertain your refusal.” Mary studied her host and knew immediately she had little choice but to agree.

  Her pulse quickened though she attempted to keep her emotions in check. Despite her misgivings about the reasons for her assignment she was secretly pleased, perhaps even excited her contact with the American would continue.

  “Then sir,” she began, cautious not to appear overly anxious, “I accept.”

  Whitley smiled and eased back in his chair, relieved he had not needed to further pressure his guest into accepting an assignment she never had the option of refusing. Never the less he noted the lieutenant’s demeanor strange, almost as if she were at once reluctant and exuberant. If, as he was beginning to suspect the lieutenant had developed feelings for the airman so much the better.

  “There are however, a few rules I would like to impress upon you,” Whitley began, his features taking on a darker, more serious tone. “There are a number of high ranking Italian POWs on the second floor of this building. They are guarded but generally left to their own devices within the compound so long as they behave themselves. Mister Riley is not to mingle with them. His schedule will be such that it is unlikely he will ever discover he shares this facility with other POWs. You will address yourself exclusively to the medical needs of the prisoner and nor more, reporting all details of your conversations with him directly to me at the end of each shift. You must refrain from divulging any information to the prisoner however innocent. He is allowed no newspapers or magazines or access to the wireless. A list of other prohibited items will be provided you. Should he become insistent for anything prohibited to him you are to immediately notify the guard who will be posted nearby at all times.”