DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  We moved slowly at first, stopping frequently. I could hear the sound of traffic around us and feel the bumps and jolts of paved streets, later some rough cobblestone and eventually unpaved roads.

  We were moving faster now and the sounds of the city and traffic had dissipated. The airmen had not spoken since leaving the hospital. It seemed likely they were under orders as it was uncharacteristic for military men not to exchange quips.

  About forty-five minutes later the lorry slowed and came to a halt. The engine was shut down and a few seconds later the back doors to the lorry swung open letting daylight stream in, temporarily blinding me. In quick order the two airmen lifted the litter and wrestled it out of the back of the lorry, setting it onto a gravel driveway.

  While my eyes adjusted to the light I noted we were parked in front of a palatial stone and masonry mansion surrounded by well-manicured gardens and vast open grounds. The air was crisp and the sky a dull, milky white that in New York would have signaled a winter storm was building.

  Before I could survey my new accommodations in greater detail I was transported up a long row of stone steps and through large, doublewide, white doors. In keeping with the impressive appearance of the exterior the interior was equally grand. I was carried into a large foyer paneled in black mahogany with large, Elizabethan paintings hanging on the walls. In the center of the foyer stood a round table on which sat a tall vase filled with willows and twigs laden with cranberries. To my right a spiraling marble staircase bounded by an ornately carved banister gave passage to the upper floors.

  The floor was white marble, well worn in places but still impressive. The airmen carried my litter to the left into a wide, carpeted hallway on either side of which were doors much as you would find in expensive hotels like the Savoy. About halfway down the corridor we entered one of the rooms that reminded me of a small hotel room absent a television.

  The airmen set the litter on the floor before lifting me onto a bed that had been positioned directly opposite the door. The airman carrying the bottle of saline solution that was still attached to my arm hung it on an IV stand next to the bed.

  Having deposited me in my new quarters the three men departed without a word, leaving me to speculate on the purpose of this unexpected change in venue. I noticed immediately the room had no window or for that matter a bathroom. At the foot of the bed was a pair of white and blue-stripped pajamas. I had been wearing a hospital gown and I was pleased to see I had graduated to pajamas.

  In addition to the bed the room contained a desk and chair along the far wall and a tall utility stand near the bed. A pitcher of water, two glasses and a white porcelain bedpan sat on top of the utility stand. I did not feel the urge to relieve myself and the bedpan wasn’t an encouragement.

  On the wall to my right was an old style steam register you might have seen in homes prior to the Second World War. I’d only seen them in old movies but I knew what they where. On the far wall hung a portrait of red-coated huntsmen mounted on chestnut and beige horses. Chasing around the horses feet were a dozen white and black spotted hounds. Very English, I thought.

  I was wondering what would come next when I heard someone outside the door to my room. As the door swung open I was surprised to see Lieutenant Wellington standing there, a small black bag clutched in her arms. Behind her a British soldier wearing a side arm held the door open for her to enter.

  “You’re looking much better,” she said, smiling as she approached me. I was happy to see the lieutenant again which apparently shown in my expression for her smile grew bigger. She had changed out of her nursing uniform into a green British officer’s uniform.

  “I trust you had an uneventful journey?” I had made a decision not to press the lieutenant for information as it appeared my previous questions had made her uncomfortable.

  “It was good to see the sun again,” I answered truthfully. “That RAF officer told me you had been transferred here because of me. Is that true?” She frowned at this and shook her head.

  “I still have my duties at Queen Anne’s Mister Riley. And the RAF officer to whom you refer is Wing Commander Sir James Whitley. He is in charge of this facility. Now if you will permit me I must see to your injuries.”

  As delicately as possible she removed the white tape securing the IV needle in my vein and withdrew it, taping a small wad of cotton in its place.

  “I don’t think you will be needing this any more as long as we keep you hydrated,” she explained. “Can you drink this,” she inquired after pouring a small glass of water from a pitcher perched on the table beside my bed. I took the glass she handed me and drank half of it. My throat was still sore and swallowing was painful.

  “Are you in pain?” she inquired, watching me for any signs duplicity.

  “Not as yet lieutenant,” knowing protocol warranted referencing her rank. “Morphine makes me nauseous,” I added. “Can you give me fantenyl or some other phenylpiperdine?” I had gained my knowledge of pain medication recovering from a thigh wound I received in Afghanistan. I could tolerate these drugs more easily than morphine, but I noted the lieutenant was staring at me, a puzzled expression clouding her face.

  “Morphine is all we have Mister Riley,” she answered with finality. “We must only be cautious it doesn’t repress your respiratory function.”

  “Well then, let’s just see how it goes,” I said, puzzled by her reluctance to substitute alternative pain medication. There was a moment of silence between us as she checked my wounds for signs of infection.

  When she had finished she smiled and said, “You are progressing nicely Mister Riley. If you feel up to it I can have the guard bring by a wheel chair later?”

  “Good,” was all I could think to say. The scent of her filled my lungs and would linger after she was gone.

  She smiled again and turned to leave but hesitated, as if contemplating some nettlesome question she feared asking, but then thought better of it.

  Knocking lightly on the door to alert the soldier on guard outside she waited for it to open. As soon as the door opened I heard the sound of a woman’s voice echoing faintly in the background. It was a song and for a moment I thought I recognized it.

  “Who is that?” I asked. The lieutenant stood in the doorway listening as the lyrical notes drifted softly down the hallway.

  “Vera Lynn,” she answered, looking back at me over her shoulder, brown locks of her hair dancing on her shoulders. And then she was gone, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Vera Lynn, I thought. I couldn’t place the name nor could I distinguish the lyrics but the song seemed vaguely familiar. Like so many things that had happened it was just another oddity I’d have to contemplate.

  Chapter 28

  THE AMERICAN TURNCOAT

  Whitley paused, tapping his fingers on the cover of the report on the captured German airman. It had been six days since the downing of the Heinkel and capture of the American and time was beginning to work against him. Taking the file from his desk and locking it in the bottom drawer he donned his thick woolen overcoat and headed for his daily walk in the surrounding parkland, Willie following obediently at his side.

  These daily sojourns through the woods had always been undertaken as a matter of health but today he needed time to think. His first meeting with the German airman had confirmed several of his suppositions. The airman was definitely an American. Not only did his accent defy having been learned anywhere outside the United States, but his demeanor was brash, self-assured and eminently confident. Whitley could detect not a modicum of fear in him. In fact he demonstrated an extraordinary lack of concern for a man facing potential execution as an espionage agent for the German government. More than simple courage the airman’s attitude was innate brashness that could only come from someone born into a culture imbued with irrepressible self-confidence. No, the airman was definitely raised in America and judging from his accent he had either grown up or spent his formative years somewhere in the Northeast, perha
ps New York or Connecticut.

  Having already done some preliminary checking however, Whitley had established the airman had fabricated nearly every detail of his presence on British soil. The Savoy had no record of a guest named Michael Riley nor for that matter any American guest answering his description. Neither were there records of a Michael Riley or anyone matching his description aboard any recent military flights.

  British Overseas Airways Corporation flew commercial routes from Lisbon and North America but these had been restricted to diplomats and military personnel since 1940 and always terminated at Whitchurch airfield near Bristol. Even still, Whitley had confirmed the British Overseas Airway Corporation had no record of a passenger named Michael Riley or anyone answering Riley’s description.

  Heath Row, where the airman had insisted he had arrived was an ancient agricultural village. The land around it, including Fairey’s Great West Aerodrome had been requisitioned by the British Government to build an RAF base for long-range troop-carrying aircraft bound for the Far East, but construction had not yet begun. The existing aerodrome was a grass airstrip far too small to accommodate aircraft as large as the Douglas DC3 and the rest was still under construction.

  A telex to New York and Dublin requesting a background check would take some time even if Michael Riley proved to be his real name. As far as the prisoner’s fingerprints were concerned they were of no immediate value to Whitley as it would take weeks for the American FBI and their own MI6 to run a match.

  What was turning out to be the most sensitive issue was the airman’s contention he was the victim of an experimental mishap. Whitley had even gone so far as to confirm there were no facilities matching Riley’s description in Wilton Park. In point of fact there were no buildings what so ever in Wilton Park other than the one they now occupied.

  It was time to admit he had exhausted every avenue of investigation and, just as he expected found nothing to support the airman’s claims. And yet Whitley was unable to shake one nettling incongruity. If the airman’s story about a botched experiment was pure fantasy then why was the SIS in a panic?

  That meeting he had been pulled into the other night was anything but routine. For the Secret Intelligence Service to become involved in the interrogation of an enlisted German POW the directive would have had to come directly from the Prime Minister’s office. So exactly what in the airman’s file had set off the alarms?

  Whitley put a hand to his forehead and massaged his temples. He had read the file so often as to commit it to memory. The SIS had taken a keen interest in the airman’s statements about an experiment he insisted took place in Wilton Park. Summoning him to London at midnight for a clandestine meeting had been pure theater, their way of demonstrating who was in control. But they had made their point he conceded.

  It was little use to speculate on their motives until he knew more. For the moment the SIS was apparently satisfied to leave the airman’s interrogation in his hands. But Whitley knew he must quickly get to the bottom of this mystery and do so with absolute certainty he would learn everything the airman knew. One thing still troubled him greatly. Why hadn’t the airman been better prepared with a credible cover story? Surely an agent with knowledge of the most closely held secrets of the British Empire would have crafted a persona that at least would have withstood superficial scrutiny. And why, if he had already discovered some of Britain’s greatest secrets would he risk death or capture aboard a German raider? Surely there were better, safer means of transport to Germany. And this posed the nettlesome question of the airman’s port of embarkation.

  Nothing about this man was making sense. Never the less Whitley knew he must plan his course of action meticulously if he were to learn the extent and source of the airman’s knowledge of Normandy and Southwick House.

  Having reached the end of the corridor Whitley began negotiating the wide marble steps leading down to the foyer, the tip of his ebony walking stick making a staccato click against the stone at each step.

  Crossing the foyer to the building’s main entrance Whitley passed through the giant columns supporting the building’s portico. Beyond the columns a stone staircase the width of the building’s entrance led down to a gravel driveway. Directly west the White House faced a broad parkland beyond which thickly forested slopes ran on for several hundred acres.

  The weather outside was cold and overcast, the air scented with an ominous threat of rain. Whitley drew up the collar of his coat against the cold. Despite the pain in his leg and his increasing dependence upon support from his ebony cane he needed to walk and to think. Willie, familiar with his mater’s moods strutted proudly at his side, easily keeping pace with his mater’s studded gate.

  Keeping to his usual routine Whitley chose a path through the grounds that would take him on a three-kilometer circuitous route through the woods and back again to the White House. Here and there patches of white snow blotted the frozen path in front of him. Dark brown tree branches stripped of their leaves and encased in ice lined either side of trail ahead. First things first Whitely cautioned himself.

  He had already admonished every staff member individually about interacting with the prisoner. No one who spoke with the airman was to provide even the most innocuous bit of information under pain of immediate loss of rank, pay, privileges and ultimately imprisonment. All newspapers, news broadcasts and relevant information on the progress of the war was strictly forbidden to him. Whitley had also seen to it the prisoner would be isolated from more than a dozen high ranking Italian officers currently incarcerated at the mansion.

  Unlike the Italian prisoners at Wilton Park or the German prisoners at Trent Park he would control every facet of Riley’s daily routine from here forward. Normally he would begin by undermining the prisoner’s pride, loyalty or trust in his superiors. He would over time manipulate the prisoner’s environment, disrupting his patterns of time, space and perception, shaping these as necessary to influence his behavior. This unfortunately took considerable time – time that Whitley did not have. So he had devised a plan to accelerate the desired outcome. It was a risky strategy, but Whitley had little choice.

  With the backing of the Prime Minister the SIS could claim the prisoner at any moment should they feel the information he possessed could be readily gained by more aggressive means. Not that he was opposed to taking extraordinary measures when the fate of his country was at stake.

  The Prisoner of War Interrogation Service under SIS auspices operated an interrogation center in Kensington Park where captured SS and Gestapo prisoners of war were routinely subject to harsh interrogation. But in the matter of the downed airman the Directorate and the SIS had different objectives. The Secret Intelligence Service’s only interest was in the airman’s references to an experimental technology. Should he loose control of the prisoner he might never learn the implications of the note the German carried.

  Chapter 29

  TELL ME NO LIES

  Lieutenant Wellington had only been gone a few minutes before she returned pushing a wheel chair in front of her. It was similar to the one I had used at Queen Anne’s. A classic, big wheels, wooden armrests, wicker backing and a footpad. No carbon fiber or plastic anywhere to be seen.

  It seemed appropriate for palatial residence in which I now found myself.

  “For me?” I asked skeptically.

  “I think you’re well enough to take a tour of your new quarters, Wellington commented cheerfully. Sir James would like to see you in the study, she added.

  “Sir James?” I inquired.

  “Sir James Whitley, the commanding officer of this facility. You met him the other day when you were first brought here.”

  I hadn’t realize he was a lord. Setting the chair beside my bed Wellington locked the wheels and proceeded to assist me into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. With a modest effort and a little assistance I managed to slide onto the seat.

  “Good,” Wellington commended me. “Now let’s put this blanket o
n you,” she said as she took the spare blanket from the foot of my bed and draped it over my legs. “We don’t want to risk you catching cold.”

  The guard outside my room acknowledged Lieutenant Wellington with a nod but said nothing. As I was wheeled down the hallway I focused on memorizing as much detail of my new surroundings as possible.

  The mansion was old, perhaps built in the seventeen hundreds. All oak and white plaster with great attention to craftsmanship. Halfway down the hallway in the opposite direction from which I had been brought we made a right turn into a large study lined with bookshelves that rose to the ceiling. The shelves were filled with books that appeared leather bound, thick and old. A sliding ladder rested against the row of shelves on the far wall. The floor was polished wood planks reminiscent of an old sailing ship’s decking. In the center of the room was an oval table made of solid oak, its legs carved to represent lion’s feet.

  Like everything else I’d seen that morning the table was old and worn, but filled with character and a warm richness that came from centuries of care and repetitive use. Along the far wall opposite the doorway was a small fireplace in which a gas fire burned invitingly. Two large chairs sat on either side facing slightly inward towards the fire. Mary guided my chair to a spot between the two chairs and locked down the wheels.

  “How are you doing?” She asked.

  “Fine,” I answered, happy to be moving about after so much time lying on my back. The warmth of the fire felt good against the dampness of the room.

  Looking around my first impression was the room had been bugged. Its something the CIA would have done. There would be several cameras placed strategically around the room, leaving no blind spots. The technology was so miniaturized it would be nearly impossible to detect any of the equipment even if you were searching for it.