Replies from himself were then sent by Bridgwater to the respective drops to be picked up by the agents. Having refused to sacrifice himself to carelessness, Bridgwater additionally used two and three drops, a necessary delay that could not have been helped, especially as the British MI5, few though they were, were trying to locate his set.
None of the transcripts had any mention of Osier and Karen Ashby. Indeed, none of those agents, including Bridgwater, knew anything of the matter or of Christina Ashby.
Again he took out the second message she had sent him via the embassy, this one dated last Monday at 1407 hours. Again he reread it, as he had many times:
URGENT OSIER CONTACT ME AT ROSE AND THORN EAST QUANTOXHEAD UNDER NAME MRS. CHRISTINA TALBOTTE. TOGETHER WE CAN MOVE KAREN. SHE IS STAYING WITH AN EWEN AND MONICA MACDONALD IN SAINT IVES, BUT ASHBY IS ALSO USING A HILARY BOWKER-BROWN WHO LIVES TO THE WEST OF THERE IN AN ISOLATED COTTAGE NEAR THE CLIFFS AND WHOSE RUINS OF AN OLD TIN MINE OFFER A PERFECT VANTAGE POINT.
She had been busy, but he couldn’t, in all conscience, use Bridgwater to speed up contact with her. Too much would be lost should anything go wrong. Granted, being impulsive, demanding and used to getting her own way, the general’s daughter might try to force the embassy to tell her Bridgwater’s location, but so far she hadn’t, and they had been given strict instructions some time ago not to release it or any other to anyone.
When Werner Beck came in, he read the message she had sent on Monday and knew Karen would have to be taken immediately. Short of himself flying to London and trying to join up with Christina, there seemed only Osier. ‘Have you told 07392 to contact her, Kapitän?’
‘Not yet, but I’m thinking on it.’
‘Then you’d best take a look at this.’
It was a copy of Abwehr Central’s dossier on Colonel Buntington Hacker. Burma-filled pages, there were press photographs too. In alarm, Burghardt looked to the wireless transmitter, then to the map of Northern Europe and the British Isles. Though there were no pins, flags or anything else to indicate where Abwehr AST-X’s agents were, he couldn’t help but think of the losses should Hacker succeed and he not use the only secure avenue that was open.
Satisfied that the Kapitän’s balls had been kicked sufficiently, Beck said, ‘You can’t leave Christina on her own, or even to her taking Karen herself, for she’ll be afraid of this Hacker. At least let her team up with Osier and give them the wireless backup they need.’
* An old French saying: God’s work, but the devil’s reward.
*Loafers, strollers, idlers
*The Women’s Auxiliary of the Nazi Party
*The West Wall, the Siegfried Line between Germany and France
5
At Charing Cross Station, Hilary watched as people came and went alongside Thursday’s train. It was all so normal, so of London’s rush hour: bowler hats, black suits, umbrellas and copies of the Times, the ordinary always, too, but some of the women far more colourful in light coats over day-dresses or suits, and with silk scarves for gaiety, their cloches or brimmed hats tilted or worn up and back. Monica and Ewen would be well on their way in the Bonnie Jean. Ewen had picked Karen and herself up in the van first thing this morning and had driven them to Saint Erth, where they had caught the Cornish Riviera Express on its return from Penzance to London.
But then the trouble had started. There had been two middle-aged men with their wives, all of them speaking Deutsch, she still recalling her absolute panic, for Karen’s ears had pricked up as meals, beds, rooms and service had been discussed with much laughter or complaint. From Saint Erth to Paddington Station in London had taken a little more than seven hours, but no sooner had they settled in than Karen had asked to go to the loo and hadn’t come back.
She had found the girl outside the Germans’ compartment, listening to them. Using English she had said, ‘Karen, I think you should come back.’
The child had turned swiftly away to face the others and had said loudly in Deutsch, ‘They can tell Opa where I am!’
‘Karen, leave it,’ she had said in English.
The Hausfrau had stopped talking; the Bürgermeister had lowered their newspapers. ‘What is it, mein Kind?’ one of the women had asked in Deutsch. ‘Are you lost? Gunther,’ she had said to her husband, ‘the child is German.’
‘Ach, I can see that, Hilde,’ he had said, and then, ‘Komm her, mein Kind. Don’t be afraid.’
‘She’s not German,’ Hilary recalled saying. ‘She’s just curious. Karen, I won’t have it!’
At Paddington Station, the German tourists had left the train but Karen had stood on the platform looking desperately after them, and unfortunately one of the women had turned and must have said to the others, ‘It is that child again, that pretty little blonde-haired girl who tried to speak to us in Deutsch.’
They had all paused for a look and then the crowd had swallowed them up, but just how extensive was the German network in Britain? Any one of that four could easily have telephoned the German embassy, who would, of course, have already been notified to be on the alert for Karen and would let this sleeper of theirs know exactly where they were now heading.
The train to Hollingbourne in Kent would take another two and a half hours. With luck they would be home by 10.00 pm, but only if someone was at the house to come and get them.
At last the train began to move. Hunching her shoulders, Karen settled down to sulk, but suddenly the train stopped, the child giving a plaintive cry of ‘Opa … ?’
Bolting for the train, a very Mayfairish man was searching for someone, now this compartment, now that, the guard calling out, ‘Sir … I say, sir, down here.’
Coat open and flying, the man clambered aboard, the train beginning to move again, but they positively don’t hold trains for just anyone, thought Hilary. Had he been sent by MI6 to watch over them, or would he try to take Karen?
When the man sat opposite her, she felt he had only one interest and that the sleeper was on to them. Never mind that David Ashby might agree to let his wife have Karen back, never mind any of his good intentions or even her own. That school of his was just too far away.
From beyond the ruins of the Benedictine abbey, from up higher in the hills, Christina found a good view of the playing field. Using the binoculars she had bought, she could see, even from such a distance, that Ash, who was calling the play and blowing that whistle of his, just loved being out there, and that the boys all loved having him there. He seemed able to set his troubles aside, and when the soccer ball hurled towards him, he nimbly leapt out of the way. But hadn’t he always been like that, hadn’t Karen loved him for it, herself as well, but not now, never now.
Though she had sent a message to Bremen last Monday, Burghardt had yet to get an answer to her, and each day, each hour lost only made things worse, since Hacker was bound to find Karen and then, what then?
Burghardt was a fool, too old, too set in his ways and unaware of how things were here in Britain. She shouldn’t have to wait, should have been able to go directly to the nearest wireless operator and be in contact when needed.
There had been a rather charming cottage by a stream and some overgrown willow beds. She had passed it on the road. There hadn’t been an estate agent’s signboard, but the cottage had appeared empty, its garden and small orchard untended. On the pretense of being interested, she could make a few inquiries. Should Osier fail to take Karen, the cottage would bring her within easy distance of the school and Ash would surely come to believe that her intentions were honourable if she bought it.
Glancing at her watch, she knew that Miss Staples of the Rose and Thorn would note again her absence at dinner and continue to question her staying at the inn, yet she didn’t want to leave just yet. Ash clearly loved the school, and it was beautiful in its own unobtrusive way.
Reaching the ruins of the abbey, Christina lit a cigarette and, sitting
atop a low stone wall, let the closing of the day come to her. This whole business of the murder and Colonel Hacker had unsettled her. Being on her own, she had had to think what was best, but should she continue staying at that inn? Would it really matter where she stayed if this Hacker suddenly took a notion to find and use her to get at Ash?
When a skylark suddenly flew up from a nearby clump of bracken, she quickly stubbed out her cigarette and got down from the wall, only to see a woman standing on the path about 200 metres away. For perhaps ten seconds neither of them did anything other than look at each other from across that distance.
Then the woman came haltingly forwards, Christina quickly putting the binoculars away but wondering why this sudden visitor.
Ash’s wife was ravishing, thought Ruth, but why was she here, of all places, and why now?
A smile would be best, thought Christina, and an extended hand. ‘I’m Mrs. Talbotte, from London and on holiday,’ she said. ‘The inn where I’ve been staying will begin to wonder where I am.’
Her eyes were beautiful, thought Ruth, her hair not only perfect but exquisite. ‘You can’t hide that accent, “Mrs. Talbotte.” You’re David Ashby’s wife, Christina.’
And now you know the false name I’ve been using, thought Christina, the worried brown eyes and sense of bitterness all suggesting that the woman must view her as a competitor. Had she been in love with Ash? Was she still in love with him? ‘Do you come here often?’
‘Alone? Is that why you’ve just looked beyond me? Well, is it?’
‘Not at all. Our skylark has just returned. If we wait, the wren may honour us with its presence. And you are?’ she asked.
‘Does David know you’re here?’
‘Please be so kind as to give me your name.’
‘Mrs. Ruth Pearce, the … the headmaster’s wife.’
And not happy about it either. ‘Ash still thinks I’m in London but …’ She would give a shrug, thought Christina, and then tell her what she would definitely not want to hear. ‘But I had to see the school so as to make up my mind on my own.’
Ruth turned away to hide her discomfort, but couldn’t help but blurt, ‘Then you’ve come to take care of your daughter.’
But how—was this what the Pearce woman was wondering? ‘We’ve spoken of a reconciliation, yes, but I am still not quite sure my husband meant it.’
‘He had a lover—did you know that?’
The Pearce woman was not just bitter about it but fiercely angry, thought Christina. ‘A lover … ? Please, I … I didn’t know.’
It would be best to tell her, thought Ruth, and to watch how the news went down.
‘A murder … ?’ managed Christina, her voice barely audible.
‘A barmaid,’ said Ruth.
‘Poor David. He … he must have missed me terribly. Is Karen at the school?’
‘She’s being kept hidden somewhere else. David won’t tell me where, but … but she has been moved again, today. That’s … that’s all I know.’
Verdammt, he had done it again! ‘But … but I have to see her. Karen means everything to me.’
The tears came readily enough, thought Ruth, the woman turning away, then letting her see them as she said, ‘Mrs. Pearce, you must have some idea where? Please. I’ve … I’ve come such a long way and I know Karen is very upset and must be missing me terribly. We were always very close. Every day, every evening, we would play cards, or I would read to her or she to me. There are her piano lessons, too. Karen is very talented. Herr Meissner, her piano professor, is convinced.’
Ash’s wife had meant every word. ‘Look, I won’t tell him you were here, but if I can, I’ll find out where Karen is and … and let you know.’
‘How?’
Oh dear, thought Ruth. With such a short, sharp response, those lovely eyes of hers had swiftly narrowed, but she would have to continue. ‘Saint Mary Margaret’s … It’s our church and on the road to the school and not far from it. Tomorrow at … at four-ish. No, there’s a wedding.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Let’s say the same time as now, at eight. Ash and the rest of them will be in the staff common for an emergency meeting. The school’s in arrears and … and my husband has found he can no longer hide the truth from them.’
A day, thought Christina. Could she wait that long, and where the hell had Ash sent Karen?
Shoreham, Borough Green, then West Malling and Maidstone, thought Hilary. There would be a few minutes’ layover at this last, then it would be on to Bearsted and Hollingbourne Station.
She didn’t know what to do, for the man who had joined them still sat opposite her. Karen and she could get off the train early—that might help—but she had the feeling he would be watching for just such a thing.
They could pretend to be going to the loo, could leave their coats and bags, but that wouldn’t fool him either, and she couldn’t leave her suitcase anyway. The wretched thing weighed a ton—her manuscript and reference books. One of the straps had broken.
As the distance from London had increased, the train had gradually emptied. Now there were only the three of them in the compartment, Karen having fallen asleep. Neither of them had said a word to the man. In all that time, he had sat there, spreading his fleshy thighs as more room had become available, reading his blasted newspaper and studying the racing form or doing the crossword—being utterly bored by it all, or so it had seemed, but not leaving either. Had he the bladder of an elephant?
The blue serge suit was immaculate, the waistcoat a little tight, the jet-black hair thin and carefully trimmed, with brilliantine wavelets on the right. About forty-five, she thought, and still not needing glasses, the eyes of that Nordic blue, the gaze, when he gave it, always bland, the nose big, fleshy and prominent. A man, then, who was at once intense, yet could look at herself and Karen as if all but asleep.
In the dismal half-light of the compartment, his almost childlike fingers had the sheen of dried paste. A nervous condition? she wondered. He had said so little, she had not been able to catch the accent, but he was definitely of Mayfair. The shoes, the socks, suit, coat and umbrella, all said that he was.
‘Getting off soon, are you?’ he suddenly asked, unsmiling.
Flustered, she stammered foolishly, ‘Why … why, how did you … ?’
‘Train’s late. Unless I’m very lucky, I shall miss my boat!’
The night ferry to Calais, to Dunkerque or Oostende? ‘You’re going to Dover then?’ she managed, but he hadn’t any luggage, hadn’t even a briefcase.
For some reason he thought her question funny, and when he chuckled, the fleshy thighs tightened as if he was pressing his feet to the floor and getting ready to spring at her.
‘Tell me somewhere else this wretched set of wheels is heading,’ he said. ‘Dover’s on this line, is it not?’
His look was piercing. ‘Yes … yes, it is. Sorry.’
‘She’s German, isn’t she?’
He indicated Karen, Hilary saying, ‘Look, I don’t see what business it is of …’
Abruptly she turned away to gaze emptily into the night, to a lonely farmhouse whose lights seemed lost among fields and hedgerows.
‘I only asked,’ he said blandly. ‘It’s of no consequence anyway, but she seemed somewhat unhappy and out of place.’
‘Yes … Yes, she’s German.’
Karen awoke, and Hilary saw her reflection in the window, saw his, too, the three of them, Karen giving a huge yawn and stretching, he setting his paper aside, not smiling now, not anything but looking at Karen as though he would …
‘What time is it, Hilary?’ asked Karen in Deutsch.
He would have her own name now, would know all about them anyways. ‘Nearly time. Please don’t be impatient.’
‘Shoreham, ladies and gentlemen. Shoreham,’ came the voice of the guard.
One stop down a
nd five to go, thought Hilary, but where was Karen’s father now?
The school was all but in darkness, the moon giving ribbon to the slowly drifting clouds. Ashby stood out on the Common, looking up at the sky but thinking of Karen and Hilary who should now be in Kent if all had gone well, but had it? Unfortunately the uneasiness he felt simply wouldn’t go away. All day it had been troubling him.
His steps sounding on the gravel of the drive, he went round to the car park. There were four telephones in the school, but all on the same line and each with a button that would light up when in use and he didn’t want to use any of them. With twenty-seven masters plus other staff to run through, the task of identifying the sleeper was impossible, and he might not even be with the school. And as for the boys, why, even Jackie Peterson’s father looked anything but what one would expect of someone working for the Nazis.
When he tried the MG, the engine wouldn’t turn over. The rotor was gone. Lowering the bonnet’s side screen, he eased the catch closed and did up the leather belt.
Ruth answered his knock in her dressing gown. ‘Tony’s out for another walk,’ she said.
‘Where to?’ he asked.
‘How should I know?’
‘Skip it then,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back later if I don’t find him.’
Wanting to tell him she had met his wife, Ruth let him walk away, but something must have happened, and she wondered if it had had anything to do with his daughter. Going through to the study, she found the list of telephone calls and ran a finger down over last month’s until coming to Anthony’s entry for the Dorchester Hotel. It was marked: Ash re Ruth and Colonel Hacker. How cold of him.
There were calls that Anthony had made to Taunton and more recently to London. Ash had been back at the school by then but had any of them had to do with him and that daughter of his? Anthony could have been trying to reach some of the parents, for the school was short a good deal. Now more than two thousand pounds. One London number had been called five times.
The Sleeper Page 13
