The Last Wolf (The Talisman Series)

by Stephen Ward

  Staring towards the horizon, both men watched as the sun's dying rays bounced off the silvery ocean making it look like pure mercury. It hadn't taken long to reach their hotel but it had taken quite a while to get a rather tipsy Filmore into the Granada's passenger seat.

  The double doors of the hotel stood illuminated against the Victorian façade, well-polished brass doorhandles gleaming as the men walked up the driveway from the car park. A strong smell of beeswax from the dated wooden panelling was very much in evidence as they approached the Reception desk in the well-lit foyer. By this point, Filmore was past caring and slumped onto a large sofa. He noticed that the adjacent one was occupied by two young boys snoozing drowsily on each others' shoulders. The gin had been a big mistake and he knew he was going to regret it in the morning.

  Winters stood at the desk behind an older, not unattractive lady who was speaking to the receptionist in an animated fashion. There was something very familiar about her voice. She appeared to be arguing with the woman behind the desk. Trying not to make it obvious that he was eavesdropping he listened in until he heard the receptionist say “I'm sorry, Mrs. Turnbull.”

  The unusual name was enough and as he caught a glimpse of her face, he realised that the lady was none other than Alison Turnbull, wife of his long-time friend, Admiral Laurence Turnbull. What a coincidence? The conversation became even more heated until Winters thought it wise to offer his assistance. Waiting for a natural pause, he used his best diplomatic voice, the kind he used at home with Jean, “Alison, why don't you leave this to me...”

  Chapter 30

  Days felt like weeks for Keller as he became increasingly engrossed in his work. For once Richter had kept his word and had been almost pleasant towards him regarding the arrangements for his wife. He, in turn, had redoubled his efforts on the boat. Subsequent correspondence had confirmed that Sabine had received the necessary papers allowing her to travel. She'd been booked on the only monthly train from Brest to Lorient and from there arrangements had been made for them to stay at a house confiscated from a very well-to-do family whose whereabouts were now unknown – not that Keller cared! The house was perfect and although he knew that the visit was for only two days it was so much better than nothing. He couldn't wait to hold his dear Petra, smell her perfume and lie in bed talking like they used to before the war and all this trouble came along. Settling down for the night in his room, he imagined them packing and making an early start the next morning.

  The record player which sat on a trunk in the corner had been left unused in recent weeks. Giving the handle a few winds Keller placed the stylus down and after a few crackles the room was filled with the sound of music. He checked both sides of his face for stubble and with a grunt of disapproval placed a kettle onto the stove. Normally, he'd shave in cold water but this time he thought it best to do it properly. His beard didn't grow that fast so he could just go over it again in the morning. The whistle of the rapidly boiling kettle grew louder as Keller mixed his shaving cream and began to apply it to his face. A plume of steam engulfed his face as he poured the water into the basin. Keller warmed the razor, the shine of the cut throat blade reflecting the light as he raised it to his face. The dingy mirror was tilted and crooked on its nail so with a finger he straightened it but in doing so used a little too much force. It fell as he took the first strip of lather from his face and landed face down making him jump. Retrieving the frame he saw that most of the glass was still in-situ but a large shard of mirror had broken off and was now lying in the sink. He could still see his reflection from beneath the water. A sudden red cloud broke the surface of the clear water making him realise that he had nicked his skin. Touching his face with a fingertip it came back covered with a smear of claret-coloured blood. Not to worry, he thought as he wasn't in the least bit superstitious. Keller cleaned the rest of the mirror and finished shaving using the remnants of it before dabbing his face with a towel.

  The stylus had reached the inner circle of the record and had begun to slow as Keller changed into his long johns and prepared for bed. He felt like a child at Christmas as he closed his eyes squeezing them tight, forcing himself to sleep.

  The sharp clang of bells woke him as the alarm on his clock woke him. 5:05, yet again. Jumping out of bed, he promised himself that everything would be completed before midday when the car arrived to pick him up to collect his loved ones from the station.

  After shaving again, he put on his best suit and was out of the door before it even had chance to open properly. Normally, his morning would drag but Keller had everything under control. Huber was supervising both the deliveries and the Works. All he had to do was answer queries from the yard crews. He kept his eyes down and concentrated on the notes before him.

  Suddenly an alarm sounded. The loud drone was backed up by the sound of anti-aircraft guns that littered the surrounding area. Usually Keller wouldn't care After all, he was in the best place because the allies didn't have a bomb that could penetrate Keremin. They had tried on many occasions but to no avail. The recent damage to the roof was still in evidence but as of yet, no materials or labour could be spared to fix it.

  Glancing at his pocket watch, Keller noticed it was already 11:30 am. He hoped the train had managed to reach one of the many tunnels before the raid started. Either way, he couldn't do anything about it. Keller tried to continue his work but the thuds and other noises from the city continued like an irregular heartbeat. After leaving his papers on Huber's desk as previously arranged, he made his way to the main exit and stood looking out at the city through the blast door that overlooked the bay. Puffs of black smoke high in the sky came shortly after the rapid fire of the guns. The drone and whistle of the aircraft and bombs had no regularity, just a whistle then silence followed by an explosion which seemed to be amplified by its close proximity to the water. Keller and others continued to watch for a while until the sounds gradually subsided and silence reigned. The city was covered in a grey haze with plumes of oily black smoke swirling from both industrial and residential areas. The time by his pocket watch was now half past one. Cars began to arrive in the compound again as the all clear sounded.

  Richter's car pulled in through the gates, its dark paint covered in white ash and dust. Excitement welled up and Keller ran across the tarmac but the car was empty. The driver exchanged a look with Keller and said, “The station has been hit.”

  Keller lost his cool and grasped the man, “The train. What about the train?”

  “It had arrived but I couldn't get close because of all the rubble,” the shocked driver gasped.

  Keller jumped into the car, “Drive!” he shouted.

  “I can't. What about my orders?”

  “To hell with your orders. I said drive.”

  The car sped off, the wheels screeching as it went. The raid had caused widespread damage with shells of still burning houses and rubble filled streets. Lines of white-covered shapes lined the pavement as they drove by, but Keller saw none of this. The further they drove into town, the more obvious the extent of the devastation became. The main routes became increasingly difficult to negotiate as dust and smoke from burning buildings filled the air. A house's gable end had collapsed completely, and now lay blocking their way to the station.

  Keller was out of the car before it stopped. Jumping and stumbling over rubble as he ran, anger now reigned. Never before had he seen such destruction because he was usually in his safe concrete-lined drafts room. The station was an inferno with soldiers pumping sea water ineffectually over the fires. He ran past them through the doors, smoke billowing from above and around him, his feet crunching as he stepped over the shards of splintered glass. A soldier blocked his way stopping him before he could reach the platform. “You can't go there. It's far too dangerous.”

  Spinning around so as to loosen the man's grip, Keller continued on. Now, face to face with the stricken black locomotive, toppled half over on one side, he raced up the platform. Burning bags, luggage and f
reight, mixed with piles of concrete smoked and smouldered. As he passed the buckled and twisted freight cars, the carriages came into view. Smoke was everywhere, in his eyes and lungs. Heaving he gasped for breath as he pushed on. The first passenger carriage was still on fire. Shielding his eyes and face, he could do no more but run on to the next. A massive girder from the roof had smashed this to splinters leaving only the bodies of soldiers, red and black faces in their charred uniforms still and silent in their seats.

  The last carriage was still ablaze and he quickly became aware of a sickening meaty smell emanating from it. Smoke engulfed the roof and was pouring through the shattered window. It was hopeless. On the ground dropped from the window above, a brown Teddy Bear lay, half burned and smouldering, its name tag charred. Only the name Petra was legible. Keller's knees buckled and his eyes gushed. He let out an inchoate yell as he lay on the platform holding the burned toy. Hate, anger, despair all united into a terrible cry of anguish. He muttered and cursed those people who had caused this. His wife and his dear little girl gone, gone forever. There was nothing he could do to change that.

  Chapter 31

  The light of dawn was just creeping above the horizon when action stations was called. The two tone alarm marked the start of the War Games.

  Moorhouse would have been annoyed if it had woken him but he hadn't slept. In a vain attempt to take his mind off Forrester he'd cleaned and readied Sick Bay three times over the course of the night. Voices came from the corridor beyond, then the door opened. The medical staff saluted and immediately went about their business. The floor suddenly took on a different feel, the slight vibration began as the engines were brought up to speed.

  “Signalling 'Ready Captain', all ships report ready, Sir,” The lookout put his binoculars down and rested them his chest.

  “Very good, seaman.” Wilkes looked up at Turnbull who was sitting behind a large glass screen sipping his coffee. The Admiral nodded and turned his attention back to the course plotted on the glass. Wilkes picked up the radio receiver and spoke clearly, “All ships stand ready. We'll give Berlin three hours head start then we begin pursuit. Berlin, open your sealed envelope containing your orders and please confirm when they've been understood.”

  The radio went quiet. Wilkes paced the bridge looking out of the glass at the other ships. A crackle from the radio as Berlin confirmed an understanding. Then silence.

  “Good Luck,” replied Wilkes replacing the receiver onto its hook. A blast of horns came from across the bay and the vessel slowly moved off, white foam churning astern.

  After a few minutes watching the waves building up, Wilkes walked slowly over to a panel set into the wall and pressed a button. A red light flickered on, “Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. From now on we are at War until I say otherwise. This may be a game but I still expect the highest standards of professionalism. Remain at your posts and stay alert. That is all.”

  Moorhouse shook his head in disbelief. He still couldn't quite accept that they were going on without Forrester. A crash broke his train of thought and he whirled round, “What the hell are you doing?” he snarled at a young man who was in the process of picking up some kidney dishes from the floor, “Now those will need re-sterilising!” The man hurried off out of sight. Taking a deep breath and running his hands over the back of his hair, Moorhouse realised he had been too harsh on the lad. He badly needed to get out of the place despite knowing that orders were to remain at post. Surely some fresh air wouldn't hurt, after all, they weren't under way yet. So he made his way up a level and was just about to go on deck when he heard his name being spoken quietly. Standing back against the bulkhead he listened. Two sailors stood guarding a door.

  “I don't care what you think. I think the doctor bumped him off. It's amazing how easy it would be to cover up something like that!”

  “Nah” said the other sailor, “Not the doctor. He seems to be OK. No way he'd do that, would he?”

  There was a silence quickly followed by laughter. Moorhouse couldn't understand. He thought he'd always been well-liked by everyone on board. Did people really believe that of him. True, it did look strange, him coming back alone with the story he'd given about the sub. What if Admiral Turnbull thought that too? He'd hidden his drink problem well, but he guessed some of the crew had to have noticed. Feeling his anger build up, he thought it best to go get that fresh air.

  The decks were deserted, the swell was noticeable but not too bad. Leaning against the rail he sighed. Breaking the rules, he produced his cigarettes and placed one in his mouth. With his lighter in his right hand, he realised that his shakes were slightly more pronounced today despite his being clean. Lighting the cigarette he replaced the lighter in his pocket and keeping his hand firmly in there and out of sight, he wallowed in his own dark thoughts. The grey smoke disappeared as soon as he'd exhaled. In the breeze he could feel the stress begin to wash away with every breath.

  “You should be at your post, Doctor,” came a friendly voice behind him.

  “I know, Chief, but so should you.”

  The pair grinned. “Throw one of those over and I won't tell anyone. How are you holding up, Doc?”

  Moorhouse sighed, “I'm fine. I just keep going over it all in my mind and just now I overheard crew members muttering weird conspiracy theories as I walked around.”

  With a sharp exhale, the Chief looked at Moorhouse, “The people who matter don't think anything adverse. It's a small ship. Rumours will travel but we all know they are just that, rumours. You'll have some hard times ahead, Doc, but the people who know you best will help you through it and watch your back. Forrester is a good man, a good officer, he'll turn up.”

  Moorhouse felt better, the Chief was right. As long as those people who mattered didn't assign any blame to him, everything would be fine. Slapping his friend on the shoulder and leaving quietly without a word, he made his way back to his post.

  Chapter 32

  With the help of Doctor Helton, Weib had begun to settle in and now had quarters and fresh clothes. Getting used to working in a laboratory again, however, had been a different thing altogether. It seemed that none of the specialists had any contact at all with the military and Doctor Helton had so far resisted telling him why he was here. On three occasions he had avoided answering him, and for now Weib had decided it was best to just go along with everything until he knew what precisely they wanted from him.

  So far, he had helped Helton with some experiments on animals which had yielded positive results. Today he had a meeting which he hoped would shed some light on his mission here. He made his way down the stairs and through dimly lit corridors to the lift which took him to the lower levels.

  He noticed a beam of light shining through a crack between the boarded-up windows. Since arriving he hadn't seen daylight, so taking the chance he peeked through the gap. The once manicured and well-tended grounds of the Manoir were now overgrown but still retained a vestige of their original beauty. Suddenly a metallic slam forced him to look in the opposite direction. A large truck with lowered tailgate was parked on the other side of the grounds. Four soldiers stood with their guns trained towards the open back. Weib stared as a group of people began to exit the lorry, men, women and children, all dressed in ill-fitting, ripped, filthy clothes. Shouts became audible as they were led and paraded in a line some hundred yards away. Just then a small boy ran from the line making his way across the tall grass almost towards Weib. Rifle shots resounded as the boy was shot repeatedly in the back. The bullets' impact forced the little body into the air and from his small, dirty shocked face he seemed to making eye contact with Weib. As the body fell to the ground, Weib recoiled in horror but pressing his eye against the crack saw two soldiers dragging the body away, one limp arm flopping to the ground, an arm band adorning the sleeve. Shrill anguished screams from a female were silenced by a rifle butt to her head.

  Suddenly a hand on Weib's shoulder made him turn and look up. Helton stood before him.
“Are you OK, Herr Weib?”

  Stuttering, he replied, “Yes, I'm fine.”

  Curiously, the doctor said, “Come quickly. You'll be late.”

  Weib continued as Helton silently guided him beyond the elevator, then asked “I thought I had a meeting today,”

  “You do,” replied the doctor.

  Despite feelings of trepidation, Weib followed regardless. Ahead were a set of doors flanked on each side by guards. Helton knocked and waited for a response. An officer opened the door. “I have brought Weib, as requested,” he said.

  “Yes, thank you. That will be all,” the officer replied as he gestured for Weib to enter. The door closed with a decisive click. It took a moment for Weib to become accustomed to the room beyond, as bright sunlight streamed in through a large bay window. Behind a desk sat Richter. “Good morning, Herr Weib. I trust you have been treated well. Please sit down. Cigarette?” asked the officer as he held out a small silver case. The concentric wheel design engraved on the side looked both familiar and very similar to the design on the floor he'd seen a few days earlier.

  Trying hard to conceal the shock he felt after witnessing the boy's shooting, Weib began to take a drag of his cigarette.

  Richter looked right at him, “What you witnessed a moment ago worried you?”

  “Yes, to be honest,” How did he know what he had seen thought Weib to himself.

  “Death is a part of war.”

  “He was just a child,” began Weib angrily.

  “He was of no importance,” replied Richter. “None of them are. They are merely creatures to be used for the greater good of the Reich. We are at a very critical juncture in the war, Weib. We're ready to tip the scales. Keller's submarine is a wonder weapon, yes, but we cannot expect victory from that alone. I understand you have some experience in torpedoes. Is that correct?”