Death or Glory III

by Michael Asher

  ‘I didn’t say this job would be easy. Now, get that thing refuelled and get back into the field. Don’t come back without the black box.’

  38

  Fiske missed the RAF Blenheim at Bir Souffra by minutes: he arrived in time to see the aircraft flitting away between bars of a smoke-grey and magenta sky, a fly-sized dot on the vast horizon of sunset. He drummed the steering wheel with his fists in fury at the incompetence of the RAF. He halted the jeep under the palm trees, jumped out, lay for a long moment stretched in the sand. Then he sat up, looked at his watch. It was six fifty in the evening. He’d been told that the aircraft would return to the RV at the same time every day until he arrived. That meant that he was stuck here for another twenty-four hours.

  He knew he’d taken longer than he should have done to reach the outpost: he hadn’t reckoned on the Allied units following Freyberg’s push. He’d come across no traffic on the old highroad, but once into the plain, it had been like Piccadilly Circus: Allied convoys in almost constant movement. He’d had to pick his way, laying up when necessary. He might have been able to brass his way out if challenged, but he hadn’t wanted to take the chance.

  He’d been flummoxed by the defection of Quinnell and Jizzard: he couldn’t understand what had got into them. What on earth had they hoped to gain by going back? They were probably dead by now: perhaps Quinnell believed that his return was an act of contrition that would bring him rewards in the afterlife. Fiske scoffed. All actions are transactions. It’s a big market out there, even the war. The most advanced industrial nations in the world, throwing tons of hardware at each other, day after day, feeding the vultures safe in their nests – the arms-manufacturers, the big companies. They’re the ones who profit from the suffering of men like me. Well, I’m not stupid. Not like the Thomas Caines of this world. I want nothing to do with it.

  Fiske had grown up in Portsmouth, the only child of a naval officer. In Civvie Street he’d worked in a hotel until they’d found him pocketing the petty-cash. Luckily, they’d never reported it to the police, so when he came to apply for a commission, he’d had no criminal record. He’d wanted to be an officer in the Pay Corps, but instead they’d given him the Ordnance Corps, where, as a store supervisor, he’d worked a lucrative black-market scheme. He’d done well on the demolitions course, though, and found himself in demand by the commandos. He’d joined them only to escape from the inevitable consequences of his pilfering: once in Egypt he’d managed to get back into the RAOC. They’d caught him embezzling unit funds, and this time he’d ended up in the detention centre. Until Sears-Beach had come up with this transaction – the one that had got him … here.

  He did a careful recce of the outpost. Its main feature was a tangled forest of date-palms and underbrush, six or seven hundred yards square. The trees had obviously once been tended, but not for years: they’d been left to grow wild, probably after the inhabitants moved out. That someone had lived here was evident: there were remains of mud walls, roofless huts melted by rain and sandstorms, squares of sparse soil that might previously have been cultivated. There was a wellshaft full of sand inside a fractured mud enclosure. Fiske saw sun-scoured bones, hide fragments, goat-turds like buckshot, but he was sure no one had used the place in a long time.

  The outpost lay in a shallow basin, stretching as far as some lizardback ridges, about half a mile away to the east. In the west he could see a wall of knucklebone hills. The sun had already gone down behind them, leaving a blush of chrome-yellow against a black silhouette of soft peaks: cigar-shaped rolls of darkness floated above the outline, across remnant patches of blue, ranged by strands of cirrus, like bleached rib-bones. Between the outpost and the hills, on the hard shoulder of the desert, he made out the white-painted boulders that marked temporary Landing Ground LG120 – a mile-long strip from which the stones had been cleared. That was the real reason he was here. Tomorrow, he’d lay out the purple recognition-panels: he wouldn’t miss the boat a second time.

  He walked back to the jeep, decided to camouflage her in the overgrown palm thickets. She’ll be damn’ hard to spot there, even from the air. He pulled his .303 from the brace, checked the black box, debated whether to leave it where it was or unload it. It wasn’t going anywhere, he thought, but he decided he’d feel better if he kept it where he could see it. He slung his weapon, placed a wary hand on the box: it didn’t do anything unexpected: he picked it up, carried it over to the enclosure round the disused well. It wasn’t much of an enclosure, really: more than half of the wall had collapsed, but it gave him some cover from view.

  He put the box down, leaned his rifle against the wall, went back to the jeep for rations, water and kit. He stood by the wagon for a moment, studying the tin boxes of Nobel 808 explosive in the back. He didn’t know why he hadn’t dumped it: maybe he’d thought it might come in useful if he was followed. Thinking about it again, it struck him that it could happen. It was obvious that the Totenkopf troops they’d encountered had had orders to retrieve the black box. Jizzard and Quinnell might have got back in time to release Caine and the others: it was possible that a mechanic of Caine’s skill could repair the jeeps. They might even be able to patch up the wireless, contact Allied units. A shudder of paranoia ran through him. If he’d made it on time there’d have been no problem, but now he was stuck for another day, someone – Jerries or his own side – might catch up with him. Tomorrow, early, I’ll set up the Vickers in a defensive position, just in case. I’ll bury fused charges of 808 in a perimeter. If anyone tries to take me, they’ll get a shock.

  Dark was falling rapidly. He ferried weapons, water and explosives to the well-circle, spread a poncho, pulled a couple of tins from his haversack. He read the printed labels with his torch: Chicken soup (self-heating) and Cocoa (self-heating). He’d been saving these for a special occasion: now was the time. He pulled the tab on the soup, heard a fizz, smelt a waxy odour that almost put him off. He opened the can, poured the soup into a mug and tasted it. It was cold.

  He ate it anyway, lit a cigarette, stared round in the darkness. There were rustlings in the trees: the sound of dry palm fronds chafing. It didn’t bother him to be alone. Jizzard and Quinnell, good riddance. On the other hand, it did worry him that Sears-Beach and the others might not keep their side of the bargain. They’d been ruthless in dumping Caine, after all. Why should they be expected to spare him, once the job was done? The only leverage he had was the black box. He considered burying it here, hijacking the aircraft back to Cairo, then demanding his reward before revealing its location. If he knew what was inside, it would help.

  He switched on his torch, pointed the beam at the black box. It was fascinating, he had to admit. It had required that strange black aircraft to carry it: special units on both sides had been sent to bring it back. Whatever it contained had to be something big. Why not have a peek inside? He had time on his hands and no witnesses: nobody would ever know, and … it suddenly occurred to him that he’d found his solution. He could take whatever was in the box, conceal it in his kit. Once back in Egypt, he would hide it somewhere: when Caversham found out the box was empty, he’d offer to reveal its whereabouts on payment of his due.

  First he had to open it, and that might not be easy. It had some weird properties: it appeared seamless, as if it had been made all in one piece. It might even be primed with a booby trap that could be disarmed only by someone who knew what they were doing. Of course, he’d been trained in neutralizing booby traps.

  Fiske stubbed out his cigarette, took out his clasp knife. He knelt by the box, began probing its surface carefully with his fingers. He spent a long time feeling every part of it. It had a curious matt feel, but the surface seemed perfectly uniform in all other respects. Finally, he touched the STENDEC letters stencilled on top. Or were they stencilled? Was there a slight protuberance there? Fiske brought up his knife, pressed the first letter lightly with the blade. A deepthroated vibration started: the surface began to shiver. The sound built up steadily
until it reached an unbearable high-pitched sibilant scream. Fiske bawled, dropped the knife, covered his ears. The box glowed fire-red, seethed, crackled: the top sprang open suddenly with a shriek, glass shattered, wetness sprayed his face, a high-voltage shock cracked his body like a whip, stood his hair on end, clamped his jaw, paralysed his muscles, knocked him flying into the dust.

  39

  Second-Lieutenant Celia Blaney was so well known for her beacon of fire-coloured hair that her Field Security comrades referred to her as Red. She was one of those girls from county families who abounded in Cairo, yet she was anything but stuck up. Modest, sensitive and astute, she’d been training as a lawyer when war broke out. She’d been on the danger list for a while with the gunshot wound Taylor had given her. Now, though, she was back in Stocker’s office at Medan Sharif, standing in front of the DSO’s desk with a foolscap page in her hand.

  Stocker looked worried: he was so engrossed in reading a dispatch that he didn’t seem to have noticed her presence. She cleared her throat delicately.

  Stocker glanced up, took in the jungle of red curls, the pert nose, the rose-and-white features, the steady cobalt-coloured eyes. She looked a little paler, he thought, a little slimmer: the battledress suit that had previously clung to her shape admirably now appeared slightly too big.

  Stocker smiled distractedly. ‘What is it, Celia?’

  ‘Dead letter drop from Brunetto. I thought you might want to read it, sir.’

  Stocker sighed, nodded. It was two weeks since he’d sent Brunetto to liaise with Nolan, and in that time he’d heard nothing. He’d started to think that she’d been compromised.

  He removed his glasses, started cleaning them with a rag. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ he said. ‘Give me a synopsis.’

  Blaney sat elegantly in one of the overstuffed armchairs, took a breath. ‘Brunetto’s living with Nolan as part of the Taylor group. She’s been out with them on a couple of stunts – a lorry-hijack, a warehouse robbery – she believes she’s been accepted – says her Camilla Pallozzi cover’s intact …’

  ‘Good. Anything else?’ The DSO seemed impatient.

  ‘She and Nolan have documented several deserter sabotage operations over the last fortnight. A firebomb attack on an M/T depot in Heliopolis, an explosion at a railway station …’

  ‘We can look at those later. Anything about Calvin?’

  Blaney ran her eyes down the page. ‘Yes, sir. She says that they’ve also discovered more cases of girls being shipped to Calvin’s base. The address is a heavily guarded secret, but she’s certain that girls were taken to Alexandria.’

  ‘That narrows it down then,’ Stocker sniffed. ‘I think we knew that already.’

  ‘There’s something else, sir. Calvin has set up a wireless network among the deserters. Nolan made a lucky contact with an operator – an ex-Royal Navy chap. He told her that the network home-base is Alex. The chap insisted he knew Calvin’s personal callsign – Cheshire Cat.’

  ‘Cheshire Cat?’ Stocker chuckled. ‘That’s a good one. The cat that disappears, leaving behind only its smile.’

  ‘She seems quite sure,’ Blaney insisted.

  ‘All right, check with “Y” Service. Find out if they’re aware of the Cheshire Cat callsign, and if so, where the transmitter is located.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘If you can get a message to Brunetto, tell her that what we really need is to put Nolan inside Calvin’s base. I don’t care how she does it, but we must find out where he is.’

  Blaney stood up. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  Stocker frowned, glanced at the dispatch on his desk.

  ‘Perhaps you should have a look at this. It’s top secret, but I know I can trust you.’

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘Message from the DMI – one of the oddest I’ve ever had.’ He paused. ‘You remember Colonel Stirling?’

  ‘The SAS commander? Yes: he was captured back in January.’

  Stocker brought out his pipe, chewed the stem, laid it on his desk. ‘I’ve always thought there was something fishy about his capture. In fact, the whole operation was peculiar. He was supposed to go to Tunisia to meet an officer from Combined Operations. Instead of taking a plane, though, which would have been the obvious way to do it, he drove right across the desert, and passed through Axis lines.’

  Blaney looked interested. ‘What reason did he give for that, sir?’

  Stocker picked up his pipe. ‘He said that he was leading a sabotage mission against a stretch of railway in Tunisia. The question is, why would one require a lieutenant-colonel for that? Anyway, read this, see what you make of it. He handed the dispatch to her.

  Blaney took the document, read:

  Dispatch

  From: DMI

  To: Maj. Stocker

  Int. Corps

  Field Security HQ

  Cairo

  Maj. Stocker

  Capture of Lt.-Col. A. D. Stirling 24/1/43

  Intelligence from a highly reliable but confidential source suggests there have been secret communications between one of our special operations divisions, MO4, and Abteilung I, Abwehrdienst, Berlin. We do not know the exact nature of these communications as the Abwehr code remains unread, but our source believes they concern the capture of Lt-Col, A. D. Stirling in Tunisia on 24 January 1943. In particular, our source suggests that Stirling’s mission was not, as stated, the sabotage of a railway line in Tunisia. Our source believes that Lt-Col. Stirling was given an RV point in Tunisia, which was then deliberately revealed to the enemy, resulting in his capture. Confidential reports from escaped members of Lt-Col. Stirling’s patrol tend to confirm that sabotage of the railway line was not the primary objective of their mission, and strongly suggest, though do not absolutely confirm, the idea that their RV might have been known previously to the enemy. If it is the case that the commander of the SAS regiment was deliberately compromised by a division of our intelligence, this is obviously highly serious.

  Since counter-intelligence falls under the auspices of Field Security, you are instructed to launch a discreet investigation into the work of MO4.

  Col. P. M. Brookman

  Office of the DMI

  Blaney finished reading: she stared at Stocker wide-eyed. ‘Shopped by our own people? Surely not, Major?’

  Stocker took the document back. ‘I don’t know. Strange things happen in war.’ He snorted a breath. ‘MO4’s commanded by a half-colonel – Caversham, I think it is. After you’ve completed the Nolan task, I want you to check up on him and his principal staff officers. Then perhaps you’d better pay a discreet visit to MO4’s base. See and not be seen, you know what I mean?’

  Blaney nodded enthusiastically. ‘Where is it, sir?’

  Stocker gave a toothy smile. ‘In Sinai. St Anthony’s monastery. Apparently they share it with the monks.’

  40

  The jeep ran out of fuel as they came down the escarpment. Caine was amazed that she had taken them this far: Fiske had gone off with most of the spare petrol. He reckoned they had an hour before first light. There was nothing for it but to stuff everything they needed into haversacks and continue on foot. It wasn’t much: ponchos and sleeping bags, torches, binos, compass, a canteen of water each, some ship’s biscuits, a handful of rounds apiece. Cope had his SMLE and his Colt: Caine was still carrying the M1.

  ‘Let’s get off the track, get a brew on,’ Caine said.

  They left the jeep standing in the road, tabbed off slowly into the darkness until they came to a wadi leading off to the right: they followed it for a hundred yards or so, found some stunted camelthorn, broke off the brittle branches for firewood. Copeland used a handful of dry grass to light the fire: he poured water from his canteen into a mess tin, laid it on an Arab-style hearth of three stones. Caine sat with the carbine nestled in his arms, staring into the flames, rocking to and fro: the fire seemed to be alive, a third entity that had sprung into being between them. He stroked the carbine
, remembered that it belonged to Trubman: they’d left him and Wallace to the Hun.

  ‘We should have waited,’ he said. ‘If we’d hung on till the moment the aircraft came in, we could have got them out.’

  Copeland added tea-leaves to the water, stirred it with a twig.

  ‘You got a gasper, mate? I could do with a smoke.’

  Caine shook his head. ‘We dumped them, Harry. We deserted our best mates.’

  Cope sighed: he found sugar in his haversack, shook it into the tea. He sat back on his haunches, cracked his knuckles, stroked his arm: it felt as if it had been pierced with redhot knitting needles. ‘It was the right decision, Tom,’ he said at last. ‘Even if we’d got them out, which I don’t reckon we could have done, they needed emergency treatment. They’d never have lasted the drive, and even if they had, we’d have had to leave them here.’

  Caine looked up. ‘You reckon they’re dead, then?’

  ‘Krauts are pretty good at tending enemy wounded. Jury’s out on this Totenkopf lot, of course.’

  Caine continued rocking, glowering into the fire. You have to pay for everything. I finally found out Nolan’s alive, and I’ve paid for it by leaving my mates in the lurch. I sold out Wallace and Trubman for the chance of seeing Nolan again. What about Quinnell and Jizzard? They deserted, and paid for it by sacrificing themselves. I’m responsible for their deaths. I’m responsible for Grimshaw and Cutler, too. You have to pay for everything. That’s the price of being in command.

  ‘I’m going to miss the big dollop,’ he said.

  ‘Remember that time he found two cheetah cubs in a cave in Jebel Akhdar?’

  Caine smiled fondly. ‘’Course I do. Over the moon, he was. You’d have thought his birthday’d come early.’

  ‘He brought them to the leaguer in his haversack, with their heads poking out. They made squealing noises all the way and the other lads complained it wasn’t tactical. Fred said it meant they liked him.’