“What the fook are y’ talkin’ about?” Michaels snarled in disbelief, taking a threatening step toward Jenkins as the man instinctively jumped back a similar distance. “We send you to carry out a simple fookin’ job and you go and bring back a bunch ‘o bloody children?”
“He wouldn’t come without ‘em!” Jenkins wailed softly, despair in his voice now. “What did you want me to do? I was running late as it was… there was no time to argue about it.”
Michaels’ fury peaked for a moment as he stood there silently, fists clenched tightly at his sides and staring off into the middle distance at nothing in particular. A moment later he seemed to be through it and out the other side, releasing a long, low sigh of frustration in recognition of milk spilt as much as anything else.
“All right then,” he began finally after another breath. “You weren’t briefed to expect any ‘extras’ – we weren’t expecting any either – and I can hardly blame y’ fer that. You followed orders and brought us the feller we were waitin’ on, so that’s that. Nothin’ to be done about it now, and that’s a fact.” He gestured briefly toward the taxi cab. “Let’s be having them then… bring ‘em out so we can see what all the bloody fuss is about!”
Shaken to the core and feeling like he’d come to within a hair’s breadth of death (which was exactly the case), Jenkins turned and moved slowly back toward the Austin as Kransky looked on in thoughtful silence, mostly managing to hide his concern over this new and quite unexpected complication.
“All right, you lot,” Jenkins called out as reached the taxi and pulled the rear door open. “Out you come… the coast’s clear.”
In the growing darkness of evening, it was impossible to make out any detail within the rear passenger area of the London cab. Slowly, one-by-one, three figures extricated themselves from the blackness within and stepped out onto the forecourt. Two were children as Jenkins had warned: a boy and girl who seemed barely into their teens as they stood close together, shivering in the cold in matching, navy-coloured pea souper jackets that looked at least three sizes too large.
The girl was slim and fair, with pale skin, freckles, and deep red hair that hung down in a plait behind her to the middle of her back. Her clear, blue eyes were filled with fear and she seemed no more than perhaps twelve years old. The boy beside her was perhaps a year older, slightly taller, and carried dark, almost European features that hinted at perhaps a Slavic background. He seemed less frightened, although his brown eyes were large with nervousness nevertheless.
Kransky, having spent a lot of time in New York City in his youth, also noted something about the boy that Michaels completely missed: although he couldn’t be certain, he suspected from the full, slightly hooked shape of the boy’s nose that he came from Jewish stock. Kransky had no dislike for Jews and cared little one way or the other, save for the fact that it added further complication to their predicament. Rumours were already circulating around Britain regarding the fate of many Jews being rounded up right across the country and shipped off to work camps in the Midlands, and the Gestapo and SS were incredibly adept at ‘sniffing out’ people of Jewish heritage. The boy’s presence meant they’d need to take extra care and ensure he was kept hidden as much as possible.
His pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind however as he took note of the third person to climb from the rear of the cab. Clearly a fully-grown adult, the last member of the unlikely trio stood at least a good half-head taller than either of the children beside him. A grey beard and moustache mantled the man’s weathered, knowledgeable face and matched the colour of his short-cut, thinning hair. Eyes that were a quite piercing blue stared out at the world and although he was little better than average height at best, his air of sureness and confidence somehow made him seem a little taller. He appeared to be in his late fifties, but something undefinable in the man’s eyes left Kransky unsettled, as if he were staring into a pair of bottomless chasms of ageless pale blue.
“I’m assuming you’re Samuel la Forge then,” Michaels began with a sour attempt at a smile, mostly managing to hide his displeasure from the children standing in front of him as he walked over. “I was expecting just the one – it seems you’ve brought us a menagerie to deal with.”
“I have to offer my apologies for that, Old Man,” Samuel Lowenstein began in perfect, Cambridge-accented English, happy to answer to the false name he’d operated under for the last two years. “Last minute change of plans and all that…”
“Any chance you might enlighten us as to why you’ve brought along some friends? I wasn’t told you’d have your young’uns with you.”
“Oh, I’m not their father,” Lowenstein answered quickly, as if it were important to him to make the distinction, “however I am their guardian for the time being. The boy here, Eli, had his parents taken away by the Gestapo last year and Alice here lost hers during ‘The Siege’. They’ve been hiding out now for a while, staying with friends and family, but its getting too dangerous in London now for a Jew to hang about so I’ve taken it upon myself to get them at least as far as Ireland and safety.”
“Why you…? What makes you the ‘grand saviour’?” Michaels had foregone any pretence of hiding his anger now over the difficult change in circumstances. “You realise how much harder it’s gonna be to get three of you even as far as Scotland… let alone across the water to Ireland?”
“I understand completely,” Lowenstein nodded seriously, apologetic but unwavering in his determination. “I’d be just as annoyed were the shoe on the other foot, but here we are nonetheless. May I…?” He continued, gesturing to the inside pocket of the long trench coat he wore by lifting the lapel slightly. As Michaels merely grunted a response, he reached in carefully and withdrew a long, thin envelope. “This should clear things up a little,” he added, stepping forward and handing it to the Irishman.
Michaels tore the envelope open and unfolded the letter inside, taking a few moments to read the contents carefully as his eyes grew ever wider and his frustration continued to mount.
“This letter’s dated two weeks ago!” He snarled, feeling betrayed by his own headquarters. “Those bastards in Melbourne knew two bloody weeks ago that you’d have two kids travelling with you, and no one – no one – bothered to fookin’ pass that somewhat important piece of information on to us!”
“You’ll see who it’s been signed by,” Lowenstein noted softly, not for a moment suspecting Michaels wouldn’t recognise the name at the bottom of the page.
“Of course I can see who’s signed the fookin’ thing,” he snapped back testily, any hope of finding a palatable solution to their new situation quickly draining away. “There isn’t a volunteer in the whole bloody Republic who hasn’t heard of the legends and the rumours surrounding Max Thorne!”
“Thorne…?” At the sound of that name, Kransky’s attention was captured entirely, and he quickly snatched the letter from Michaels’ fingers before proceeding to read it himself. As he finished, he fixed Lowenstein with a steely gaze of his own before adding: “You know Max Thorne, do you?”
“No… never met the man… but as appears to be the case with many resistance members and Commonwealth agents I’ve come across over the last two years, I’ve certainly heard of him by reputation, muddied and unclear as that true reputation might well be.” Lowenstein had his own suspicions as to the true nature of Thorne’s origins, but he knew better than to voice them aloud to strangers.
“Judging by your reaction, Yank, it appears you have though,” Michaels observed sourly. No fool, he’d easily picked up on Kransky’s body language at the mention of that name.
“Worked with him for a while just before the September Eleven Invasion, close enough to recognise his signature when I see it. This document looks legit, and that changes everything.” He took a deep breath as Michaels stared up at the tall American, suddenly realising he was about to be completely outvoted. “If Max Thorne says it’s important for all three of these guys to get out of Engl
and, that’s good enough for me. If you want my advice; best workin’ with us on this one…”
Seán Michaels of the IRA stood silently for another long moment, his accusing stare taking in the eyes of Kransky and Lowenstein in turn as he released a long, slow sigh of defeat.
“Well, I guess there’s nothin’ else to be done about it then, and that’s a fact.” He shrugged in resignation and turned toward the Ford sedan behind them, extending his arm. “Come on then, all o’ ye… time’s a wastin’ and we’ve already used up more than our fair share of it. Get yerselves into the car there and we’ll be off – we’ve got a long night’s drive ahead of us before we rest and I’d much prefer to drown me sorrows in the peace and quiet of the open road, if that’s all the same to the rest o’ ye…”
As Kransky stepped across and gently introduced himself to each of the children in turn, at the same time guiding them slowly toward the Ford, Michaels turned back to Jenkins one last time. Reaching into the inside pocket of his trench coat, he drew out a leather billfold that seemed quite thick and also quite heavy, considering the way the man was holding it.
“I can’t deny you’ve done everything we’ve asked you, Mister Jenkins,” Michaels began with a forced smile as he offered up the brown wallet, “and regardless of what you Englishmen might think, the IRA keeps its word when it comes to payin’ a debt… good or bad.” As Harry accepted the billfold gingerly, he opened the flap and gasped in wonder at contents that shone dully even in the limited lighting of dusk in the abandoned station forecourt.
Sixteen gold bars, one troy ounce each,” Michaels added by way of explanation. “Just over a pound in weight all up: we thought it’d be more use than Sterling or bloody Reichsmarks. That’d be worth well over a hundred quid by pre-war standards, and I’ll warrant it’ll fetch a fair bit more than that now. That should see you right for a while and leave you thinking fondly of us.” He clapped an almost friendly hand on the speechless Harry Jenkins’ shoulder before adding: ‘I’ll be takin’ meself and the others off now… we’ve a lot to get done and not much time to do it in.”
Without another word, Michaels turned on his heels and strode quickly back toward the Ford Model A in which Kransky, Lowenstein and the two teens already sat, waiting nervously. As the sedan rolled slowly out into Wandon road a few moments later and turned north, Harry remained rooted to the spot in open-mouthed disbelief, the wallet of pure gold still clutched tightly in his chubby hands.
Abwehr HQ, Bendlerblock Offices
76-78 Tirpitzufer, Berlin
September 18, 1942
Friday
Built during the years 1911 to 1914, the Bendlerblock had originally been intended as the HQ of the Imperial German Navy and had held the offices of the Reichswehr during the years of the Weimar Republic. Since Hitler’s rise to power it had become the site of the OKW – the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht – and as such was the supreme headquarters of all military forces in Nazi Germany. A large and impressive structure that rose above the surrounding streets as high seven stories in places, it stood facing onto the Bendlerstrasse at its intersection with the Tirpitzufer.
The Tirpitzufer itself was a sweeping, tree-lined boulevard running parallel to the Landwehr Canal along its northern bank between Klingelhöfer- and Schönebergerstrasse. Part of the southern section of the Bendlerblock, the headquarters of the Abwehr looked out over the canal from its position directly adjacent to the main offices of the OKW. The canal itself was over ten kilometres long, diverting from the upper Spree River near Osthafen at Horst-Wessel-Stadt, and re-joining it again further along near Charlottenburg. Travelling through the housing and industrial estates of Kreuzberg and then through the lush greenery of the Tiergarten, the canal mirrored the course of the Spree throughout the larger part of its journey west.
The Abwehr controlled all facets of covert operations and intelligence gathering for the Wehrmacht both within and outside the borders of Nazi Germany, and as such it was a section that worked closely with the OKW and its Commander-in-Chief, Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters. This had certainly been the case prior to the war, under the command of Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, and the closeness of ties between the two offices had continued to grow following his untimely death in September of 1940 during an allied air raid. Canaris’ replacement and former deputy, the newly-promoted Generaloberst Hans Oster, was already well accustomed to the company of the Reichsmarschall. A combat veteran himself – Oster had served as an artillery officer during the First World War – he’d quickly recognised the intelligence and integrity of the man he ultimately reported to and also saw in Reuters the spirit of a true combat officer: a man who recognised the worth of the men who served under him and commanded accordingly.
Oberst Carl Werner Ritter looked out through the glass partitions of his corner office and watched for a few moments as the bulk of his departmental staff went about their daily business. It’d been a long day and he was looking forward to being able to return home to his wife and family. Beyond the glass, three dozen desks were locked together in six neat rows, each supplied with its own phone and electric typewriter and loaded with columns of filing trays (most of which were stacked thickly with masses of paperwork).
His own office was relatively small and was barely large enough to hold his desk and that of his secretary, along with several small, upholstered office chairs and a quartet of filing cabinets atop which a personal teletype machine chattered away softly. The device was connected to a private line that was completely separate to those of the four ‘communal’ units sitting on a long table directly outside his door. Directly adjacent to him was the substantially-larger office belonging to Konteradmiral Lukas Bäcker, Ritter’s immediate superior and the CO of Abteilung I-AP– the Asia-Pacific Section of the Abwehr’s Counter-Intelligence Department.
His secretary, Hanna Lange walked in as he sat there daydreaming. Tall and quite elegant with straw-blonde hair and pale blue eyes, at just twenty-one years of age she could’ve passed as a poster-girl for the purity of the Aryan race. Happily-married as Ritter was, he had to admit she was an attractive young woman with a fine figure that was quite obvious beneath the long skirt and plain, white blouse she wore most days. A less scrupulous superior might well have been tempted to seduce her: rumours already circulating suggested that Bäcker, his CO, had been sleeping with his secretary for almost a year.
Considering the fact that she was card-carrying member of the BDM – the Bund Deutscher Mädel (League of German Girls) – there was also a possibility that innocent young Hanna might well have willingly participated in the offer of an affair, as unmarried pregnancy was officially sanctioned and touted as nothing to be ashamed of in Nazi Germany. Goebbels himself had already established Lebensborn clinics all over the country to care for unwed mothers who’d fallen pregnant to fathers of pure, Aryan stock, and the whole thing was treated as something to be lauded, as each young mother was apparently ‘doing her bit’ for the Fatherland by raising children who could one day become strong soldiers for the Reich, or another fine German mother ready to raise a family of her own.
Although he was smart enough to keep his opinions to himself, Ritter generally considered the whole concept ludicrous and bordering almost on the sinister. In any case, he had a beautiful wife and wonderful family of his own and he had no interest in ruining any of that for the sake of some pointless, casual ‘fling’. That being said, he was a man all the same and he didn’t mind admiring Hanna’s unquestionable beauty as she stepped through the open door to his office, a thin manila folder in her hands.
“Our Tokyo abwehrstelle has received an intercepted transmission between the Imperial General Headquarters and the Army Railways and Shipping Section, mein herr: Gunter thinks it’s something you might want to see,” she advised with a smile, outwardly as professional and to the point as she always was... which was exactly how Ritter preferred it.
“Coding level?” He asked, immediately interested.
“OKW classific
ation JM-167, mein herr: one of their higher merchant shipping codes.” Each of the numbers meant something, and while the actual code type mattered little with regard to it being deciphered – the Abwehr had broken all Japanese military codes years before –it was nevertheless of interest in terms of the possible intention behind the message.
“Excellent, Hanna; let me see…” He held out his hand as she passed the folder across the desk, instantly coming to attention momentarily before turning to leave once more, well aware her duty was done. Ritter for once eschewed the opportunity to take in the fine view of her retreating figure and instead dropped the folder to the desk and threw it open.
From: Imperial General Headquarters
To: Inada Masazumi
Commanding Officer, 3rd Shipping Transport Command, Moen
*Confirmation received HSK Kormoran disembarked Kiel enroute Tokyo*
*Confirmation received Oranienburg material in transit*
*Haguro rendezvous at Diego-Suárez, ETA October 9*
*Advise Sakamoto – ‘Ronin’ to initiate immediately*
*Departure for Honolulu no later than September 17*
*All required paperwork to arrive no later than September 16*
Message ends
There lay just one short, outwardly simple communiqué that nevertheless carried so much unspoken information. The ship mentioned in the message was a German one to begin with – that much was obvious from its name alone, and the ‘HSK’ classification identified it as an auxiliary cruiser: a commerce raider. There was also the mention of a German town – Oranienburg – which was a place he’d been given strict instructions to monitor for any reference of in German or Japanese transmissions. There was also clear mention of some type of operation known by the title of ‘Ronin’ – one the Asia-Pacific section had never encountered before – along with an instruction for the departure for Honolulu of someone named Sakamoto.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 11
