Death Order

by Jan Needle

‘So you speak Swedish, also. Very good. Yes, I am half-half. Suzanne is German, but she is my friend. You are an unusual Englishman, to speak languages. MI6, I suppose?’

  The eyes were deep, fearless and unreadable. Carrington much preferred his new companion, taken though he had been with Suzanne’s tired, tired eyes. This one was like a dynamo.

  He said: ‘I’ve never heard of MI6. No, I am just a simple man of business. Hence the languages. I almost live in Europe. Have done so, I should say. I’m afraid it won’t be so easy, very soon. Would you like a drink?’

  A waiter was approaching, with champagne on a tray. Edward took two glasses, handing one to Hannele. They moved slowly towards the garden.

  ‘I have a choice,’ she said. ‘It is not easy. I have not made up my mind yet. To live in Sweden or in Germany. What do you think? When the war comes?’

  ‘Self-evident. Sweden is a beautiful country that will probably stay neutral. Germany is full of misery and danger, bestiality, violence. She will fight bravely for a while, then be bombed and strafed and ruined. There will be blood in the sewers, pestilence and death. She will probably be destroyed completely.’

  ‘Germany, then,’ said Hannele. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. Sweden is so very, very boring.’

  Later in the evening, standing beside a huge rhododendron that dominated one whole corner of the garden, Edward asked Hannele if she would sleep with him. She had short, bobbed hair, and she swept a lock from out of her eyes before she answered.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Tonight I must go with my friend. She is here on business, you understand? She is a courier from von Weizsäcker. You know? Ernst von Weizsäcker, State Secretary. He still thinks there can be peace, he is determined. Many people think Herr Hitler mad, you know. Suzanne has brought a message to her cousin, to tell him the date the war will start. August 25, or within three days after that.’

  ‘Good God. Are you sure?’

  ‘It is Hitler’s plan. By revealing it, von Weizsäcker hopes to shake the dunderheaded British out of their lethargy. To make you be decisive; to tell Hitler that you will march immediately, crush him. Suzanne worries over it, she would not approve that I have told you. She slept not at all throughout our journey. Do you think that it will work?’

  Edward almost said something indiscreet, about Chamberlain and his Cabinet of sheep. In his opinion, they would make peace on almost any terms, they were shot through with cowardice, they lived in a perpetual funk. But who knew, perhaps this extraordinary girl was in fact the spy, not he, was trying to provoke an opinion that the Germans might find useful, was probing him.

  ‘I’m a businessman,’ he said. ‘I really can’t imagine how they will respond. I notice, however, that your reasons for not sleeping with me are purely practical. That surprises me.’

  She cocked her head, cheekily, tilting backwards to look into his eyes.

  ‘As an Englishman? Or as a businessman? Or as a spy?’

  ‘Let’s say – as an Englishman.’

  ‘There is a war coming. I am twenty years old. Who knows, in six months I may be dead. Most of the Englishmen I know, no one would sleep with, they presumably sleep with each other. You do not look like that to me. I would like to have a try.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then? That’s a very pessimistic view. About the war.’

  ‘Is it? I have lived in Germany for a year now, all the time. I am at university in Dresden. You are slim, and rather beautiful. Ring me at the Embassy tomorrow, ask for Suzanne. If it is possible, we will sleep together. Ja?’

  She had smiled and dipped her head, and slipped away from him, amusement visible in every curve and angle of her body. Edward had wondered if he was drunk, or if she was just a dreadful tease, mocking the archetypal Englishman. He longed for the opportunity to destroy the myth.

  Back inside the house, he found himself confronted by the gin-filled man.

  ‘I saw your encounter earlier,’ he was saying. His face was slightly blotchy. ‘With Miss Simonis. Then the pretty little one, bright-looking filly, in the garden. Did they tell you anything? Interesting?’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Major … Morton, did you say? Should I know you?’

  ‘You might have noticed me around. Smart young man like yourself. I’m with the IIC. Industrial Intelligence Committee. Mean anything to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Not a thing.’

  ‘No harm done. I’m eyes and ears. Intelligence. The committee’s just the cover, I only work for one man. I think he’d be interested if you heard anything tonight. I think he’d be interested in you working on his behalf. I’ve checked you up, if you don’t mind me saying so. Done my homework.’

  Edward stared. As he raised his glass, Major Morton raised his also, as if to make a toast.

  ‘You know the man I’m talking of, don’t you? Friend of Bracken, Boothby, scourge of Halifax and the dreaded Hun.’

  He touched his glass to Edward’s, inclining his head.

  ‘Happy days,’ he said. ‘To Winston Churchill. Our Man of Destiny.’

  Six

  After she had gone to bed with him, Hannele Malling began to call Edward Carrington ‘Carruthers’. When he had rung the German Embassy, after a thoroughly unsatisfactory morning, neither Suzanne Simonis nor Hannele had recognized the name, although both had known immediately who it was. Hannele was calm and collected when she took the telephone. She spoke in Swedish.

  ‘So. Edward Carrington. Some gentleman you turned out to be! You did not give a name.’

  Edward, tired of the rules, encouraged by something in her voice, replied: ‘If I were a gentleman, I should not be telephoning. Do we have a date?’

  ‘I leave for Germany on the evening train, I’m afraid. It all depends on what you have in mind, and how long it would take. I have little experience in these matters. Nor, incidentally, a premises. I’m afraid you could not come here.’

  A noise of stifled laughter charmed him. Two finishing-school hussies! They were outrageous!

  ‘Of course not, Fröken Malling. I have a flat. Could you walk out from the Embassy? In twenty minutes, say? Turn left from the entrance and wait on the first corner. I won’t leave you standing.’

  ‘How will I know you? Will you wear a red carnation! It was very dark!’

  The phone went down in laughter, and Edward replaced his receiver with a pleasantly hollow stomach. It was ten minutes brisk walk to the Embassy, and he was waiting on the corner as Hannele approached. She was wearing a thin silk dress, sheer stockings, a small fur jacket. He found her entirely ravishing.

  They took a taxi to the flat, which was in a quiet, imposing block overlooking Bedford Square. Edward rented it from a woman who lived abroad, a woman he had never met, and it suited him perfectly. It was far too big for one, but it was regularly cleaned by the leaseholders of the building, who maintained all services and looked out for security. The lifts, however, were unmanned, a feature he had also found convenient.

  Not that Hannele would have minded being seen. The boldness of her eyes when she had greeted him had spoken of no social fear. It was Carrington who was at the disadvantage, and the realisation came to him as yet another pleasant shock. As he opened the front door to his rooms, his shirt collar was slightly damp.

  There were no preliminaries. Hannele glanced around the large, light, high-ceilinged rooms approvingly, then chose a room with a double bed. It was not the one that Edward used, but that was no concern of hers. She plonked herself firmly down on it, flicked off her shoes, and hitched her dress up delicately, first across one thigh, then the other, as she unpopped her stockings, rolled them swiftly down, and plucked them from her feet.

  ‘Silk,’ she said. ‘And there’s a war about to start. Forgive me for not inviting you to remove them with your teeth!’

  Her face was blazing with amusement, she was making fun of him. Edward did not mind at all. The soft whiteness of her inner thigh was blinding him.

  ‘Well? You either undress yourself, or you help me. Don�
��t just stand there like a dummy. I don’t like that.’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t experienced in these matters. You have strong preferences.’

  ‘I said I was not experienced with Englishmen. I’m wary of you, as a breed. We hear terrible things of your schooling system in my country, and I’ve met a lot of you. If it was dark, I would make you turn the light out!’

  While she spoke, Hannele undressed herself. Edward undid his tie, but for the life of him he could not take his eyes off her. She stood to slip the dress down over her hips, and pouted at him in her petticoat. Her underwear was white, all of it, and she was surprisingly pale herself when she stood naked in his view. Her vaginal hair was a tiny bush, high on her pubic bone, sparse at the sides, pointing downwards like an untidy arrow. Her nipples were a surprising red, as if they had been rouged, which they had not. Across, they measured probably an inch, and the nipple in the centre was also small.

  ‘Now you. You bother me, standing like that. Don’t move.’

  She came towards him softly, like a cat, and stood on tiptoe to ease off his tie. Her eyes were on a level with his nose, and they were brown and full of life. Edward had never been treated like this before, and he felt dazed, swoonlike. He was probably wrong, he acknowledged, but he felt like a woman must feel, when an attentive man undressed her. Hannele’s fingers, as they ran down his shirt buttons, were like electric probes, even through his cotton vest. She had unbuttoned him to his waist, and pulled his shirt and vest out of his trousers, before she spoke.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘You must help with the boring bits. Take your jacket off, at least!’

  He was surprised to discover it still on. He shrugged his shoulders and it fell down his arms. Hannele pushed it to the floor. As she leaned forward her breasts hung, brushed his vest. Convulsively, Edward jerked the garments over his head and discarded them. He put his arms around her and pressed her naked breasts to him. His chest was hairy, especially towards the stomach, and she sighed. She moved her body slightly, brushing her nipples with the hair.

  ‘More like an ape,’ she said. ‘Than an Englishman.’

  Edward moved forward, moved her back towards the bed, but Hannele sidestepped, turning him around instead.

  ‘No. Me.’

  Edward, in the modern style, wore no braces. Hannele unbuckled his belt, then reached her slender fingers into the tight, well-tailored fly to the waist-hook. He thought he would have to help, but she was strong and sure. The sensations that he had were extraordinary. His penis was pressing hard against the inside of the fly, bent, desperate to escape and straighten. Hannele, sensing this, whipped down the buttons very quickly and, before pulling down his trousers, put her fingers into the flap of his white cotton underdrawers and freed it. As she touched his skin a noise escaped from Edward, an exact match for what he felt. It was incoherent, inchoate, indescribably excited.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch. Not for a moment.’

  Hannele pulled back, and both of them looked downwards. His penis was standing through the cotton slit, throbbing. If it was touched again it would explode, they knew. They watched it, silently, until the crisis passed its peak. Then Hannele eased his trousers down his legs to his ankles. She lifted the underdrawers carefully, sliding his penis through the slit without touching it, sliding the drawers down to meet the trousers.

  ‘You still have shoes and socks on, silly man.’ Her voice was thick and husky. She sat him on the bed, and knelt to untie his laces, slip off the shoes. Then she unbuttoned his suspenders and pulled his socks off. Her hair was too short to fall far across her face, so Edward could see her expression, tender and deliberate. Her small shoulders were frail, her back bent over him, her little breasts made fuller by their angle. Edward closed his eyes.

  ‘Back.’ He opened them to find her pressing him, by the shoulders. ‘Shift onto the bed. There.’ And she squirmed quickly on beside him, turning so that her breasts touched him. Her hand ran up inside his thigh and touched. He closed his eyes again.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘You’re making love to me.’

  ‘Of course. That’s why we’re here. Now keep your eyes closed. I am really ready.’

  He did, and Hannele’s weight left the bed for a moment. He did not peek, but was strangely reassured when he felt her knees press the mattress down again. Then a sensation on the end of his penis, and fingers down its sides. Hannele said ‘Ah’ softly, as she unrolled the contraceptive to his root among the hair.

  ‘In me now,’ she said. ‘Oh Carruthers, I want it in me now.’

  He opened his eyes and rolled – still almost blindly – onto the girl. His blind penis found its home immediately and he slipped gently inwards, slowly, trying desperately not to come. Hannele’s mouth was open and her arms were flung outwards, bent, her palms half-closed. Almost instantly, Edward began to come, in slow, tearing waves. He came for ages, so it seemed. They breathed in unison as he moved. They felt as one.

  ‘You didn’t … reach orgasm,’ said Edward. They were fully on the mattress now, a tangle of hair and arms and legs. He was delighted, delighted and regretful, both at once.

  ‘Oh Carruthers. I did not expect to. That was what I wanted. Next time is for me, perhaps. That was what I wanted.’

  He moved sideways, to bring her fully into view. She lay contented, sprawled, one heel on the bed-edge, one knee up.

  ‘Carrington,’ he said. ‘Not Carruthers. But Edward’s my name, Hannele.’

  ‘No. Carruthers. Surely you have read the book? In Germany, in my set, everyone is reading it. We are looking for the key to your character. And for hints about the way you spy. You don’t know what I’m talking of?’

  ‘Not an idea. I’m not a very bookish chap, you know. Vive la commerce!’

  ‘And vive la différence. Carruthers is the spy in Riddle of the Sands. He becomes involved in a wicked German plot to invade England across the North Sea, from the Frisian Islands. He is not very much like you.’

  ‘Not?’

  ‘Not.’ She scratched the inside of her thigh. She moved closer in, and put her cheek on his shoulder. ‘But then, I am not like Clara. She was a prim and proper little Fräulein, although her father was the villain, and Carruthers loved her, but dared not speak to her without a chaperone. Were people ever really like that? I’m sure they weren’t. But that is how we see you British, still. Poor Carruthers. He probably went to his death without once seeing Clara in this state!’

  ‘If she had behaved like you, he would have run a mile. We’re certainly not used to it.’

  ‘Oh thank you. Now I am a tart?’

  ‘No! No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just … in our society. No, really, I was criticizing us, not you.’

  ‘Your morals are too tight and ours too loose? Well, never mind, Carruthers. I expect you will not see me again, eh? And although you are very beautiful, there are always other men. You are a spy, aren’t you?’

  He eased his shoulder, as an excuse to break her gaze. He had met Desmond Morton that morning and, briefly, Sir Robert Vansittart, the chief diplomatic adviser to the Cabinet. Morton, in the cold gleam of sober day, had tended to make light of Edward’s ‘chatter with the fillies’, and appeared to have nothing concrete to offer although exhorting him to ‘keep his eyes and ears open’, and harping on his private means. Van was the man to cultivate, said Morton – he had a finger in every secret service pie – and Van indeed had offered him a certain irascible encouragement. But so far Edward, very definitely, was not a spy. It seemed terribly important to him that Hannele should not find out.

  ‘Why do you find me beautiful?’ he said. ‘You are beautiful. I’m a man.’

  ‘Hah! Carruthers! You have such a lovely slim build. Your body is long, and your legs are shorter, like a monkey’s. Your belly is very furry and quite sweet. You have lots of hair; here, and here, and here. Your penis is quite excellent.’

  She had it in her hand, and it began to stir. She let it grow t
o about half, then left it and took his testicles in her cupped hand.

  ‘And you are a spy. I like that. You are not like Carruthers, you are not one of these truly awful Englishmen. You do not even disapprove, very much, of the way I came to bed with you. I bet I know your rationale. I bet you’re thinking what odd times we’re living through, how behaviour can be different for a while, how I’m a little brash, and very ill-advised, but possibly forgivable.’

  Edward stayed silent. She had been very accurate. On the other hand, she had not taken into account the effect her presence had on him. Brief encounters he had had before, not just with Swedish/German girls. But Hannele Malling, body and brain, had filled his spirit.

  ‘Are you a spy?’ he said. ‘You are, in a certain way. You’ve brought messages that the German High Command would shoot you for. If I’m a spy, can we work together? Could you get messages to me from Germany? Have you come to work for us?’

  Her hand was unmoving on his balls. His penis had gone small.

  Hannele breathed evenly, slowly.

  ‘No. I am not a spy. For me to spy would be a betrayal of my friends. We brought messages to save the peace, not to be traitoresses. That is why we have all been doing it, von Weizsäcker, Theo Kordt in London, his brother Erich in Berlin, Canaris, Carl Burckhardt, Dahlerus, Wenner-Gren. You do not think the war is worth averting, do you? But you will be on the winning side.’

  Edward said, rather piously: ‘There is no winning side in war.’

  For a moment, something like contempt glowed in her eyes.

  ‘If only you believed that. You English. You know nothing of war, it has never touched you. You are an island, you have not known the wolves. Europe is a cockpit, a chessboard stained with blood. I am Swedish. Have you heard of the Thirty Years War? You are an island. Suffering, for you, is just a story, an old man’s tale.’

  Sunlight was streaming through the high window. Amid the rumble of the traffic, birds were singing in the trees of Bedford Square. Two people lying naked on a double bed. Edward did not want that spell to end. For a long while he said nothing.