Spies on Bikes

by Dennis Forster

  ‘I don’t like football, Sarge.’

  ‘That’s not my fault, now, get lifting, that’s an order.’

  ‘I do believe I’ve found a coccinella septempunctata,’ said the Major. He studied the ladybird he held in the palm of a hand. ‘It has seven spots, look …’

  The soldier and the policeman exchanged glances. They had found a common enemy, an upper class twit.

  26

  Less than fifteen yards from the Monument’s bullet scarred door soldiers had built a redoubt made of sandbags. In it stood an army marksman and a civilian photographer.

  ‘What you shooting with?’ said the marksman.

  ‘Contax, thirty-five mil, adapted to take a two hundred lens.’

  ‘That like looking through binoculars?’

  ‘If the shooter shows himself I’ll be able to tell you if he needs a shave.’

  ‘German camera?’

  ‘Yes, rifle?’

  ‘Mauser, telescopic sights.’

  ‘German?’

  ‘Yes … funny old world, isn’t it? We like to use what Jerry makes but still can’t be friends with him.’

  ‘My wife’s like that. She likes my photographs but doesn’t like me being away from home to take them, which I have to, especially my artistic studies.’

  ‘Artistic studies?’

  ‘Nudes?’

  ‘Women? You dirty old bugger … any samples?’

  An army field telephone rang.

  ‘Sir,’ said the marksman.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said the photographer.

  ‘Fire engine’s on its way. There it is now.’

  ‘It’s not ringing its bell,’ said the photographer.

  ‘It’s not a fire,’ said the marksman.

  ‘What’s it here for then?’

  ‘Because it has a long ladder.’

  ‘Ladder’s not long enough to reach the top of the Monument … no ladder’s long enough to do that.’

  ‘Look through these.’ The marksman handed the photographer binoculars. ‘Can you see little slits every now and then up the side of the column?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Someone’s going to climb up a ladder and put a microphone through one of them, then the “listeners” in the tramcar …’

  ‘The Command Post?’

  ‘You catch on quick … will be able to hear what the nasty bugger who shot the copper is saying.’

  ‘I once used a fire engine in one of my artistic studies. A woman wearing a fireman’s helmet can be very erotic if you get the light right.’

  The field telephone rang.

  ‘Sir …’

  ‘Testing, testing, testing. Abel, Baker, Charlie … one, two, three … ‘

  27

  ‘I haven’t got eyes in my arse,’ said the soldier walking backwards down the aisle between the seats on the tramcar’s bottom deck, ‘so watch your backs.’

  He was unspooling cable. He’d done this all the way from the Monument, and was, by now, fed up. His back ached and he’d kill a cat for a cup of tea.

  ‘You’re just like a spider, Corky, spinning its web,’ said a corporal. ‘Bet you didn’t go up that fire engine’s ladder to put the microphone on the other end of that cable inside the Monument?’

  ‘I’m a signaller, corporal, not a steeplejack.’

  ‘If it comes to war, Corky, we’re going to lose, and you know why, Corky? Cos we’ve got coppers what won’t help unload a lorry and a signaller who won’t climb ladders. It’s called “demarcation”, and it’s got to stop. Give me the cable, donkey.’

  ‘You said I was a spider before.’

  ‘You are whatever I say you are, Corky.’

  ‘Anyone got a brew going?’

  ‘Shop doorway over there, the one selling bras … big urn on a paraffin stove. Army issue, ours, but the police are in charge of it. I’ve always said you can’t keep flies off a turd. You’ll have to ask nice.’

  ‘Thanks, Corp.’

  ‘You are going for tea, Corky, because we all want one.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Count.’

  ‘One, two, three …’

  ‘Do it in your head, Corky, not out loud like a five year old. When the boffins start listening to what’s going on inside that Monument we’ll need hush, now, piss off … milk and sugar for everyone.’

  28

  The tramcar’s top deck gave Sir Charles the perfect vantage point. He could see the door sunk into the plinth upon which the column rested. His ad hoc command centre had been a good choice. Beside him stood Mike.

  A member of the ‘Eavesdropping’ team informed them that quite soon they would be able to hear what was going on inside the Monument.

  ‘We not only want to hear him off-the-record,’ said Sir Charles, ‘we want to know who is in there with him and we want to talk to him … find out who he is, what he wants.’

  From their vantage point they watched an officer and a private soldier approach the Monument’s door. One was carrying a field telephone, the other its connecting cable. The officer prodded the telephone towards the door with his swagger stick. If the killer fired ‘blind’ he would not be a target. When the telephone slid on a pool of the dead policeman’s blood he stopped prodding.

  ‘It’s like offering a tiger a lump of raw meat,’ said Mike.

  ‘Now comes the tricky part,’ said Sir Charles.

  With an outstretched arm, his body out of the line of fire, the officer rapped on the door with his swagger stick. In the absence of people and traffic, the rapping sounded loud. Everyone waited. How would the murderer react? When no shots splintered the door, the officer delivered his message.

  Sir Charles and Mike were too far away to hear what was said but knew the courier’s brief. When he’d established that the person inside knew he was there and was prepared to listen the gist of his message was: The forces of law and order wish to parley. For that purpose an army field telephone is outside the door. It is for you to use. The choice is yours.

  ‘Now we wait,’ said Sir Charles.

  29

  Sir Charles knew the rules of the game; as a leader it was your job to look confident. A dithering fellow at the tiller, looking fretful and worried, was no good to anyone. It was for this reason he forced himself to stand still, to resist the temptation to run up and down the tramcar’s stairs for no other reason than to be on the move. Being on the move calmed a chap; trouble was it rather gave the game away that a chap was worried.

  ‘We’ll soon know if they are in there,’ said Mike.

  ‘That will be a step in the right direction,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Then we’ll know where we stand. Is that a newspaper seller I hear?’

  To hear better and to give himself a legitimate reason to be on the move, he took himself down the tramcar’s stairs and out onto its platform. If Jack and George were prisoners inside the Monument, what should he do? When should he inform Elizabeth and his daughter of the bad news? Apart from that newspaper seller shouting, ‘Chron-ic-al! Eve’ing Chron-ic-al!’ everything was so bloody quiet, no passing traffic, no pedestrians. The peace before the storm. Such a pity Hitler couldn’t be cordoned off the way the forces of law and order had cordoned off the Monument.

  ‘Interesting, Mike, don’t you think, how normal life insists on carrying on … a chap selling newspapers while we bite our nails, a policeman dead … did he have family?’

  ‘A wife, I believe. I heard some of his colleagues talking.’

  ‘Poor woman … yet life carries on. A fellow selling newspapers, not a care in the world, while it is more than likely that my grandson and Jack are in mortal danger.’

  ‘Reminds me of that farmer in France – didn’t matter what Fritz fired at him, nothing stopped him milking his cows. Do you want me to tell the newspap
er seller to shut up?’

  ‘No, he gives me hope. It is the run of the mill things in life that are worth fighting for.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Yes, sergeant, good news or bad?’

  ‘The good news, sir, is that the microphone inside the Monument is operational. The Major doing the listening, sir, says reception’s so good that if a spider wearing slippers went walkabout he’d hear it.’

  ‘The bad news?’

  ‘Three people inside, sir, definitely … a man, Irish accent and two young lads by the sound of them. If there’s anyone else in there the Major says they’re keeping awful quiet.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  ‘What now?’ said Mike.

  ‘We wait for the Irishman to take up our offer of the field telephone.’

  ‘IRA?’

  ‘It looks like it. We must get him to talk, Mike, we really must.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t take up our offer? What if he doesn’t want to talk?’

  ‘For the moment I am assuming that he will. A chap who does not wish to negotiate is capable of anything. We must get him to talk.’

  30

  ‘Your binoculars, Mike,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘Not a good idea,’ said Mike.

  ‘Give them to me.’

  What Sir Charles saw in close-up made him want to scream his regiment’s battle cry and fling himself at the enemy. He saw George crawling out of the Monument’s door, on a lead, like a dog.

  His captor was not going to make himself a target for a marksman. But he did want the field telephone which meant he wanted to talk, which meant he wanted to negotiate, which meant he wanted to live. Despite the fellow’s objectionable method of getting his hands on it, all in all, what was happening was a positive development. He must not be allowed to know that his wild shot through the door had killed a policeman. The thought of a noose round his neck might make him think he’d nothing to lose.

  Would he make use of the field telephone? If he did, what would he want? The Negotiator was one of the boffins from the Vicarage. Sir Charles had spoken to him and thought him up to the job. A lot rested on that man’s shoulders.

  Sir Charles had wanted to take on the role himself. Mike had reminded him of his emotional involvement. ‘Not a good idea.’ His advice had been accepted.

  George’s face looked bruised, swollen … his hair, shiny, blood from a head wound? And where was Jack? Why had George been chosen to come out and pick up the field telephone? Was Jack, heaven forbid, in a worse physical condition? He was the bigger of the two, he’d pose a greater physical threat to his captor, be much more difficult to control. Jack knew from bitter personal experience how low his fellow men could stoop. He would know his captor was quite capable of executing him and George. He’d seen executions. To him killing someone in cold blood was not an abstract concept.

  The note asking for help had been in Jack’s handwriting. Sir Charles pondered what he knew of the lad’s turbulent past. To survive rampaging Nazis lusting for Jewish blood, he’d broken the law of his ancestors and eaten pork. His sacrilege had enabled him to survive. He was a survivor; that was the point. When you fought back there was always a chance you might win.

  Unable to watch more, Sir Charles handed Mike the binoculars.

  ‘He’s picked up the phone,’ said Mike. ‘He’s taking it inside. He’s been pulled in. The poor wee lad is exhausted.’

  ‘You say he’s been dragged in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The fellow doing the pulling will regret this.’

  ‘He’s inside now. God be with the wee fella … door’s closing.’

  The two big men, master and servant, used to sharing the dangers of the battlefield, companions for as long as they could remember, looked at each other. Words were superfluous. They both loved Jack and George with all their hearts and souls, though they would have been reluctant to admit this to anyone other than their wives. They were not given to showing their feelings. Anyone who did not know them might think them callous. They were men with the ability to stay calm under pressure. They’d been together in many a tight spot, never giving in, their ability to innovate and Lady Luck the reason they were both still alive. Without speaking they took the stairs down to the beating heart of the command centre.

  Desks had been improvised by placing planks of wood across the tops of seats. On them boffins from the Vicarage had placed field telephones and other specialised pieces of equipment. The Negotiator, an army major, who would be responsible for talking to whoever was inside the Monument, had his arms folded, his head sunk into his chest. Like everyone else he was waiting for the Irishman to ring. Next to him sat the Eavesdropper, also a major. His headphones were plugged into a receiver joined by cable to the microphone inside the Monument. Other field telephones were connected to various observers, police headquarters and the marksman and photographer in the redoubt. The connecting cables spilled over seats, disappeared through windows and cluttered the car’s central aisle. The Negotiator and Eavesdropper shook their heads to let Sir Charles know they had nothing to report.

  31

  Sir Charles knew a lot about sieges both in theory and in practice. In times of yore they’d gone on for months, even years. But for how long would this siege last? One day? Two days? Or would it be measured in hours? One thing was certain there would be nothing medieval about it. The Chief Constable was keen to use force. ‘My lads are itching to get their hands on the bastard who shot Brown,’ he’d explained. ‘You see, Sir Charles, when one of our own gets hurt we do something about it.’

  ‘Cup of tea, sir?’ said Sergeant Small.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Is the plan to ring him, sir?’

  ‘I’d prefer him to take the initiative. On the other hand we can’t wait for ever.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘We’ve got to get the boys out safe. If they weren’t in there I’d give your Chief Constable carte blanche.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, sir, he’s liable to blow up the Monument and then our canny Newcastle wouldn’t have its very own Nelson’s Column.’

  ‘Sledge hammer man, is he?’

  ‘If you showed him a walnut he’d think steamroller.’

  ‘That bad, not a negotiator?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

  ‘In a roundabout way, sir, yes.’

  ‘I will watch my back … in the meantime we negotiate or at least try to. I wish the blighter would ring.’

  ‘He’s nothing to lose, sir, has he?’

  ‘That is why I am so worried about the boys.’

  ‘If we take him alive he’ll swing for murdering Archie … either way, he’s a dead man.’

  ‘By all accounts he did shoot blind. He wasn’t aiming to kill anyone … scare them perhaps, but not kill.’

  ‘Manslaughter?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘The Force wouldn’t like that. The Big White Chief already hates lawyers.’

  ‘If he doesn’t swing for murdering your colleague … which, by the way we are keeping him in the dark about … we don’t want him to think his position is utterly hopeless, the State may well take his life for his involvement in the murder of one of His Majesty’s Secret Agents … not to mention the bombing of the Assembly Rooms.’

  ‘Is that what you are, sir, a secret agent?’

  ‘I’m just an old man brought out of retirement to help make our dear England a safer place in which to live. My wife tells me I wouldn’t hurt a spider.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to cross you, sir, begging your pardon.’

  ‘I will take that as a compliment … you make the tea?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s very good.’

  32


  ‘Sir!’ exclaimed the Eavesdropper. ‘I’ve heard a click. It sounds to me that he might be going to give us a call.’

  All eyes went to the Negotiator’s telephone. It rang.

  ‘It’s him, sir,’ said the Negotiator, ‘he wants to talk.’

  ‘At last,’ said Mike, ‘the fox has broken its cover.’

  In planning for this eventuality Sir Charles had explained to his team, ‘We don’t want him to think we are so anxious that we are at his beck and call. He must not be allowed to forget that he’s in a tight spot. Unless he’s a psychopath, God forbid, and devoid of all feeling, his nerves will already be stretched to breaking point. We take every opportunity to squeeze him but not so hard that the pips squeak. We don’t want to nudge him towards doing something silly. Judging his state of mind will be crucial if we are to get George and Jack out alive. Without hostages he’s a busted flush. He must not be allowed to forget that.’

  The Negotiator looked at the ringing phone. He counted the rings … one … two. The plan was to answer it on the fifth ring.

  ‘He’s shouting, sir,’ said the Eavesdropper. ‘He’s shouting, “Holy Mary, Mother of God.” He’s very agitated.’

  The Negotiator picked up the phone. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, I was making a cup of tea … he’s rung off, sir.’

  ‘Did he speak?’

  ‘Shouted at me in a foreign language, sir.’

  ‘Gaelic?’

  ‘Whatever the language, sir, it sounded like Anglo-Saxon to me, sir, if you take my drift, sir. Our Irishman is on a short fuse.’

  ‘We’d better calm him down.’

  ‘Shall I ring him, sir?’

  ‘What’s happening inside?’

  While he strained to make sense of all he was hearing through the headphones clamped to his ears, the Eavesdropper handed Sir Charles a clipboard. ‘Boy … Jack? Jack are you hurt? Heavy breathing … shouting. Someone being punched?’