DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  “What about my duties at Queen Anne’s,” Mary inquired, suddenly aware the commitment she had just made would place a heavy burden on her principle responsibilities at the hospital.

  “A car will be sent to collect you at your flat each morning a zero six-thirty hours. Once your duties here are completed you will be returned to your regular duties at Queen Anne’s. Your superiors will be informed you are attending the health of a general officer in the British Army who is too ill to be moved. I have created a brief biography for you to memorize should your colleagues become overly inquisitive about the general.”

  Whitley was careful not to overwhelm the young lieutenant with the magnitude of her new assignment. He required her cooperation but he needed also to impress upon her the gravity of her responsibility.

  “You are subject to the Official Secrets Act. Under no circumstances are you to discuss the true nature of your assignment including its location or personnel however inconsequential that information may seem. These restrictions apply not only to your peers and other coworkers but also to officials of the British Government and Allied Forces both military and civilian. The penalty for any indiscretion or strict adherence to these rules would be severe. In point of fact Lieutenant, you are never to discuss what transpires here with anyone.”

  It was a lot Whitley had to admit to himself, but his choice of Lieutenant Wellington was not a perfunctory decision. He had carefully calculated every component of his strategy and Lieutenant Wellington was to have an important role, albeit one of which she was not yet fully cognizant. He was truly sorry for that. Mary Wellington was one of those rare individuals who were completely selfless. Whitely did not relish using her selflessness as a tool in dissembling his true objectives, but he would do whatever was necessary to unlock the mystery behind the airman’s note.

  “On a separate subject,” Whitely began in a decidedly more cheerful tone. What can you tell me of the prisoner’s medical condition?” The sudden change in the wing commander’s tone took Mary by surprise and it was a moment before she could organize her thoughts.

  “He is strong and in excellent condition, or at least he was before his injuries. His wounds appear to be mending well. I see no sign of infection. I was thinking of moving him to a wheel chair today. His morale seems quite good considering,” Mary trailed off here and Whitley smiled at her reassuringly.

  “His morale is quite good considering he is a prisoner of war subject to execution as a saboteur,” Whitley finished her thought.

  “Yes, considering all that,” she agreed.

  “Is there something you are not telling me lieutenant?” Whitely gently probed having detected some slight hesitation in the young nurse’s voice.

  “Nor sir,” Wellington answered emphatically, though she knew full well she was hiding something from the commander. In point of fact she had felt for sometime the American seemed odd somehow, as if he didn’t belong. It wasn’t anything she could identify definitively but more a sense he was strange, somehow different. She could not explain it but it troubled her. And the last thing she wanted the commander to know was her suspicions the American was not quite what he seemed. She could not countenance the thought her speculation might be used to further indict the American as a German agent.

  Whitley’s brow furrowed slightly suspecting the young lieutenant was holding back something, but he decided to let it go for now though he rarely dismissed the intuition of his subordinates. He had learned long ago our senses often detected important nuances our intellect missed. But for now he would rely on his own interrogation strategy.

  “I am certain it will all work itself out Lieutenant,” he assured her. “I would request one more thing of you Lieutenant. You seem to have made a connection with Mister Riley. This could be of immeasurable value if you were able to draw him out. Encourage him to speak freely about himself. Do not engage in questioning him about anything that would compromise his loyalty to his cause. Just talk to him about things you would discuss if he were someone you were just getting to know before the war. Would that be something you think you could do?”

  Mary was not entirely comfortable deceiving a patient however noble the cause. Eliciting information from someone in her care that might cause them harm was a step further than she was prepared to go. Whitley had anticipated her reluctance and had prepared for it.

  “Lieutenant, Whitley began sympathetically. “I respect your commitment to propriety, but this may well be the most important service you provide for your country during this entire ghastly war. What we do here not only contributes in no small measure to winning the war, in the end may well save the lives of thousands of our finest lads who otherwise might die. We now face an intractable and capricious enemy whose capacity for evil knows no bounds. I do not know what calumny our Mister Riley may have planned, but I am convinced he is not what he pretends. Whatever his intentions, whatever he knows, Britain will be better served when it is revealed to us.”

  Whitley kept his gaze firmly fixed on the young lieutenant. He had presented her with a Hobson’s choice and it was important she not only accept his proposal, but do so in the belief she would be serving a higher calling. Whitley knew that at some point Lieutenant Wellington might become conflicted between her responsibility to her patient and her obligation to her country. When that moment came she would need the moral authority to make the correct decision.

  Mary realized the Wing Commander had wrongly assumed her compliance with his request would force her to make compromises to her Hippocratic oath. But, as his request demanded no more of her than what was required in the normal course of her duties she saw no reason to decline.

  “Of course, Sir James,” she agreed.

  “Good! Then let us see if we can entice Mister Riley into a wheel chair and acclimatize him to his new surroundings.”

  Having accepted his appeal to her patriotism she felt compelled to agree just as he anticipated she would. Satisfied, Whitley released her back to her duties.

  Taking her leave of the Wing Commander’s office Lieutenant Wellington made her way down the corridor toward the marble staircase leading down to the main floor. Suddenly a door to one of the rooms off the hallway in front of her burst open and a soldier, his arms filled with papers narrowly missed colliding with her.

  “Beg pardon mum,” he muttered, stumbling backward nearly spilling his paperwork.

  With the door open Mary could see into a large room filled with uniformed soldiers seated at long tables in front of what appeared to be a telephone switchboard on which were a series of numbered sockets.

  The men seated in front of the panel wore headphones attached to plugs that they moved from one socket to another. Others worked in front of small tables on top of which were what appeared to be phonograph players on which large recording discs slowly spun. Just inside the doorway a guard wearing a sidearm quickly grabbed the door and pulled it closed, cutting her off from any further view of the room. The man she had nearly knocked to the floor recovered his composure, nodded to her and proceeded past her down the hallway.

  Realizing she had stumbled upon something she was not intended to see she continued quickly on her way, down the spiraling marble stairs and out through the foyer to the staff car waiting for her outside.

  Chapter 26

  WILTON PARK PRISON

  Satisfied he had set the stage for debriefing the wounded German airman Commander Whitley attended the record room ensconced in the east wing on the mansion’s third floor. On the mansion’s second floor were housed fifteen Italian Generals and two Admirals captured by General Montgomery at Tunis in May of 1943.

  Though guarded and locked in their quarters’ overnight their accommodations were nothing short of luxurious by the standards of the day. Each was provided with a room he shared with one other prisoner, rations of whiskey, meat and fruit unavailable to the British public since 1939, and a modicum of freedom to wander the mansion’s grounds unhindered by the presence of guards.r />
  In exchange for this unconventional treatment their conversations were secretly recorded. Off limits to the Italians and guarded night and day the record room was fitted with record-cutting equipment on which prisoners’ conversations were recorded for later transcription. Microphones had been installed in the light fixtures of each of the prisoner’s rooms and at other strategic locations throughout the mansion to capture any conversation that might transpire. Ingenious methods were employed to encourage prisoners to converse among themselves.

  The record room was a bustle of activity. Against the far wall stood a telephone style switchboard in front of which sat several operators, stenographers, linguists, and technicians. Listening through headphones the operators placed plugs into numbered sockets linked to microphones hidden in the light fixtures of each of the rooms or in common areas throughout the mansion.

  The operators, fluent in Italian constantly switched among rooms, monitoring the conversations of POW’s, alert for anything of interest. As soon as a conversation touched on a subject the operator thought important he pushed a switch that started a turntable. A recording head would then lower onto a revolving disc and a recording of the conversation would be made for later translation and review. Operators kept logs where prisoners’ names, dates and times were noted.

  It was Whitley’s intention Riley should never learn of his Italian companions presence. The Italians were a gregarious and boisterous lot, delighted their war with the Allies had come to an end however ingloriously. It was better if the American believed he were the sole focus of Whitley’s attention.

  Riley’s sequestration on the ground floor would provide physical separation from the Italians who were ensconced exclusively on the second floor. The White House staff would insure the two never accidently crossed paths. It was a bit dicey but Whitley only needed it to succeed for a few days, a week at the outside. It was as much time as Whitley suspected he would be allowed to hold the American before the SIS demanded he be relinquished into their custody.

  Chapter 27

  THE TRANSFER

  I awoke to the bustle of hospital staff charging about the floor in seeming disarray. I had seen this type of collective hyper activity before in Afghanistan in the days following a mortar attack. People were running on adrenalin and a heightened sense of duty.

  A British soldier seated on a wooden chair near the door holding a rifle propped between his knees seemed oblivious to the activity around him. It had been a few days since Lieutenant Buckley had made his brash accusations and I was beginning to wonder when the next shoe would drop.

  I was feeling marginally better now. I’d even been allowed a few hours in a wheel chair. An ancient contraption with a wicker seat and large, wooden wheels. The soldier standing guard would unlock my ankle chain and relock it around the footrest of the wheelchair. When I had completed my sojourn the process would be reversed.

  The crude state of the hospital’s facilities was puzzling. Ever since regaining consciousness I had the oddest feeling something was terribly yet inexplicably out of sequence, as if my head injury had somehow damaged my perceptions.

  I was also beginning to worry the Agency didn’t know where I was or if they were even aware I was being held as a suspect in the destruction of the Global Energy Research facility. I remembered it’s the little things that keep you grounded. I concentrated on making sense from what I could observe.

  Though the ceiling lights were on the blacked out windows made it impossible to distinguish day from night. I wondered what time it was.

  While I was contemplating the gravity of my situation and the time of day the green door at the near end of the corridor burst open. A man who appeared to be in his mid to late thirties, clean-shaven with premature salt and pepper hair entered the room. I would have estimated him at six feet give or take and inch but as he leaned heavily on a walking stick he appeared much shorter.

  He wore a woolen grey blue jacket adorned with brass buttons, two large breast pockets and two larger side pockets, and a wide grey blue belt secured just above his waist with a brass buckle. At the base of each sleeve were a series of braided dark bands signifying its owner was an officer of senior rank though I had no knowledge of RAF insignia. On his left breast was a patch of white wings under which were several rows of campaign ribbons I did not recognize. Tucked tightly under his right arm was a blue cap. Some remote and ill-defined memory suggested the man leading this small detail wore the uniform of an RAF pilot.

  With his eyes fixed upon me he walked purposefully toward my bedside leaning heavily on the ebony cane he gripped in his right hand. His limp was pronounced and his movements appeared painful causing the muscles in his face to harden into a rigid mask. In his left hand he carried an officers cap emblazoned with the gold leaf reserved for senior military officers.

  Given the events of the past few days I was inured to the unusual, but for the first time I had the distinct impression I was being carefully studied. Lieutenant Buckley was predisposed to skepticism, irritating but an ineffective interviewing technique. This had all the earmarks of something that would transpire quite differently.

  “Michael Riley,” he asserted in the strong, clear voice of someone used to command. “You will accompany us if you please sir.” It wasn’t presented as a question but rather more a statement of fact though I did not see the “us” to whom he was referring.

  At that moment four enlisted men in similar blue uniforms and wearing side arms entered the room through the same green door, coming to halt just inside the room. One of the airmen in the rear carried two long, wooden poles wrapped in rough, brown cloth. It was at once strange and yet disturbingly familiar.

  Paying no heed to the airmen who had entered the room behind him, the man in the RAF uniform continued hobbling in my direction. As he drew near to my bedside I noted a long weal of scar tissue running the length of his jaw on the left side of his face, the neatly trimmed mustache and graying hair closely trimmed on either side as with military custom.

  “With respect Sir,” I answered as I had little choice but to comply. “Even if my injuries permitted, the ankle chain prohibits my compliance.” I was signaling with my right hand the end of the bed where I remained chained. The limping man, assisted by his cane took several steps towards the foot of my bed and lifted the covers over my right ankle with the tip of his cane.

  “I see,” he commented drolly. “Sergeant Cunningham,” he called to one of the men standing a few paces away.

  “Sir!” the sergeant replied rapidly closing the distance between them as he spoke.

  “See that our prisoner is relieved of these restraints will you please sergeant,” he ordered, indicating the chain that bound me to the bed.

  “Right you are sir!” the sergeant snapped smartly coming to attention and making an abrupt about face before heading in the direction of the soldier who now observed us from his post near the door. It did not escape my notice I had been referred to as a prisoner.

  “Once we have you set right the lads here will transport you to more suitable quarters Mister Riley,” he continued nodding to the remaining men at his disposal. “I’d very much like to discuss with you the circumstances that find you in your current situation. But that can wait,” he indicated with a dismissive wave of his hand in response to what he could only assume was an objection I was about to voice.

  “We must see you are restored to good heath first. To that end Lieutenant Wellington will accompany us to see to your recovery.” And then in response to what must have been my bewildered expression he leaned closer and in a low voice as if he were conveying a confidence added, “Lieutenant Wellington is the young woman who has been providing you with such excellent medical care. She has graciously consented to continue in that capacity until you are well on the mend. Not to worry, we’ll have things sorted in good time. We look forward to seeing you shortly Mister Riley.”

  With that he turned and made his way to the door leaving the three re
maining RAF enlisted men to carry out his orders. It occurred to me the officer in the RAF uniform had not introduced himself and I had neglected to ask his name.

  When the sergeant approached he held the key for my shackles which he immediately unlocked, freeing my ankle from its long incarceration.

  While the sergeant was busy unlocking my chains the airman carrying the long bundle moved beside my bed and snapped open the bundle into its more familiar form as a litter.

  With ordered precision the four airmen used the bottom sheet to lift me onto a litter, as carefully as such an endeavor would allow. I was not ungrateful for their care but the transfer hurt and I could feel my wounds begin to bleed again. One of the airmen removed the intravenous bottle from its stand and held it up as two airmen took either end of the litter, lifted me and carried me through the green door.

  On the other side of the door was a long, dimly lit hallway at the end of which was a large freight elevator. I appeared to have been on the second floor because the elevator took us three floors down a garage area where the airmen loaded my stretcher into a large green lorry on which was painted a red cross on a white circular background.

  Two of the airmen took up positions on low wooden benches on either side of me. The back of the lorry was without windows and completely dark. I heard the engine start and felt movement as we rolled forward, bumping over something before turning to our left. Even as my eyes adjusted to the dark there was little to see.