String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  ‘Thanks. Have you got anything for me to give him if he comes?’

  ‘Tell him we’ve trained three thousand so-called ghost-killers. These are highly trained hand-to-hand combat experts armed with silent automatic rifles and daggers. They are about to infiltrate German coastal defences from behind. They will strike when Patton’s troops, together with the British 12th Army, invade Calais. Got that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I don’t like this, Miro. He knows he’s in danger. Why else would he go to ground and abandon his home and his shop? What we don’t know is how much he knows. Either way you’re in great danger.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Miro said. ‘I could be your innocent dupe.’

  Suddenly he was appealing to the boy. ‘Is there any reason why he should suspect you? Go back over every visit.’

  ‘I was suntanned and fit. Perhaps too fit for a month of music lessons. I can’t think of anything else.’

  ‘What were the last words he said to you before he took off?’

  ‘He wanted to know the number of troop carriers lying off the south-east coast. He asked me to try to find out the date of the invasion. He was his normal, blustering, threatening self. I should give it a go. I have the answers he wants to hear.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s time to call it quits?’ Simon faced the dilemma every agent-runner fears. He was sending someone he loved into mortal danger. ‘No one can force you to do this, Miro. You’re not in the army yet. He’ll come for you in his boat and he’ll invite you on board. How could you refuse to go? Then he’ll probably try to kill you . . . that’s if he’s in the know. If he’s not, he might consider it safer to kill you anyway.’

  The forceful way Simon said this, and the fear in his voice, sent Miro into panic mode. For a moment he just wanted to run, but he forced himself to consider the odds. They were not in favour of letting him save his life. If the enemy knew about the scam, then he must inform the PWE. To run now would destroy all that he had done, for it would lead to the certain death of his parents and the loss of hundreds of soldiers.

  ‘Nothing has changed for me . . . I’m going. End of story,’ Miro said.

  ‘Remember this: if you die, your parents die, too, so try to keep alive.’

  Miro laughed. ‘I surely will.’

  ‘Get out at the first sign of trouble. Don’t wait to be sure. Don’t try to kill him. He’s a trained fighter and he’s stronger than you. We’ll take care that he never sends off his messages just as soon as you set off the rockets.’

  The sky was overcast and there was no moon. It was a coal black, sullen night, disturbingly so, for a storm was threatening. Miro had to flick his torch on in order to padlock his bike to the railings. He walked along the quay, inspecting the boats that were moored alongside. Paddy’s boat was not there and Miro felt ashamed of his relief. He exhaled silently.

  ‘That bike of yours will probably be stolen,’ he heard from right behind him.

  He stood very still. If he tells me to put the bike on a boat then it’s tickets for me, he told himself. Clearly the bastard has another boat. Strangely Miro’s fears had entirely evaporated. ‘Put it on the deck. It won’t come to any harm there.’

  How had he got so close, so soundlessly. ‘Which is your boat?’

  ‘Right here, boyo. We’re going for a trip. You’ve done a good job, Miro. It’s time you met a pal of mine. He’s got a couple of pictures for you. Your reward. We can’t meet in Claremont . . . it’s not safe.’ As he spoke, Paddy was looking away. Then he shot him a glance as hard as flint.

  The bastard’s lying, Miro decided. He went along with the plan only because he couldn’t get out of it without revealing who and what he really was. Besides, Simon needed the information.

  ‘I have a few plans for you, Miro,’ Paddy said, as he went into the cabin. ‘Cast off, then.’

  Miro threw the rope on to the wharf. The boat shuddered into a deep throbbing from the powerful engines and swung out towards the harbour entrance, aiming for dead centre between the red and green lights. Miro loved boats and the sea. The gentle rise and fall over the waves lulled him into a sense of false security, but he remained alert, clutching the gunwale. About five miles out to sea it became much colder and Miro zipped up his anorak and shivered inside it. ‘Let’s talk,’ Paddy called poking his head out of the wheelhouse. ‘Come in here, Miro. It’s cold out there.’

  Miro tottered towards him. ‘I feel terrible . . . sort of dizzy and I’m about to throw up. I can’t help myself.’

  ‘Then stay on deck.’ Paddy pulled a sou’wester over his jersey and joined him.

  ‘Got anything for me?’

  ‘Not much.’ He repeated what Simon had told him and gave him the information he had asked for when they last met. Clutching his stomach he crouched on the deck and leaned over the rail as if he would vomit.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How come you get so much top material?’ Paddy asked.

  ‘You know how. Listening in to Helen and Simon.’

  ‘He knows a hell of a lot for a diving teacher.’

  Miro shrugged. ‘I feel terrible. How should I know where he gets it from?’

  Paddy moved towards him in silent strides. He was holding an automatic and it was pointing at a spot between his eyes. So this is it, Miro thought as he turned ice cold. Time had slowed, but his thoughts were speeding up. He seemed to see everything remarkably clearly. He was still alive. There was a reason why. Paddy didn’t bring him here merely to kill him. He wanted to know something. He could sense the hatred coming out of him in waves. He sympathized. He felt the same way about Paddy, he longed to see him dead, but if he tried out his newly-learned combat skills he might find that Paddy had learned the same routine. He stayed where he was and kept his mouth shut.

  In a menacing tone, Paddy said, ‘I hate to think what punishment the guards will think up for your parents when I tell them what a load of codswallop you’ve been giving me.’

  ‘I listened to Simon and I told you what he said. Night after night. D’you think I would prejudice my parents’ survival?’

  ‘There’s still a chance for your parents. Tell me truthfully now how much of the information you gave me came from Captain Johnson and how much from your own observation?’

  Was that it? Miro wondered. ‘I don’t understand. Why do you think Johnson’s conversations to Helen were all bullshit? Why should he bullshit her? He never knew that I was listening in. I’ll swear to that.’

  ‘OK. Now work out which bits he told you and which bits you overheard.’

  ‘But why? It’s impossible. I’ve been working for you for over a year and a half.’

  Paddy lashed out with his foot and caught Miro on his cheek. His head snapped back against the rail. He leaned over the bulwark and pretended to retch. Should he try to slither out now? No, the boat had powerful engines. What he needed was a good, hard leap from the deck to get far enough away from the pull of the engine. He was searching round for every store of energy his body possessed. Groaning, he pushed himself to a sitting position.

  ‘Everything I saw in Kent came from me. I told you what I saw. It’s everywhere. Anyone who lives there can see it all. Why don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Not you, boyo, but him.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ve done a good job, haven’t I?’ Lolling back, he waited for Paddy to be off-guard.

  ‘While you were supposedly honing your skills on the clarinet, I was in Dublin seeing my old mates again. They had a scrapbook of mug shots with names and records of their past achievements. Your pal, the scuba diving instructor, spent six months in Argentina before arriving in England. He wasn’t a scuba diving trainer then, he was a disbarred lawyer scrounging for any odd job available, but that was just his cover, like the diving lark. The bastard is a military spy and because of him five agents were identified. The CIA moved in and bugged their radios. It was a disaster. Eventually they all
died in various so-called accidents.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Miro said. ‘I’d never do anything to endanger my parents.’

  ‘You little turd. If I’m going to die, you will, too.’ Paddy’s left hand took hold of a chain from the deck. He swung it round as he slowly stalked towards him, keeping the gun pointed at his forehead. His foot collided with Miro’s bike, which had slipped towards them with the boat’s momentum. He swore. Losing his temper, Paddy turned to kick the bike overboard.

  Miro had a split-second to act, he reckoned. He dived from the deck, head first into the sea, and kicked his way down, out of reach of the bullets that were probably peppering the surface, clamping his mouth shut to stop himself from gasping at the icy water. It was so dark. He could not tell if he were sinking or rising. He had lost all sense of direction. He swam as hard as he could, but was he moving away from the boat or towards it? Then he saw a circle of light on the surface of the water about ten metres behind him and he swam in the opposite direction until he felt that his lungs would burst. He surfaced, trying not to splash. The searchlight was moving round the boat which was only thirty metres away. Taking several deep breaths, he dived again.

  The next time he surfaced he saw Paddy silhouetted against the spotlight. He was leaning over the bows. His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud over the wind and the waves. Perhaps he was imagining the sounds. Miro kept moving away from the boat, taking mouthfuls of water when a wave flapped into his face. The searchlight continued circling slowly around in every direction as Paddy searched for him.

  Ten minutes later, Paddy gave up. With a powerful surge, the boat leaped forward, leaving evanescent gleams of phosphorescence in its wake. The sound faded away. Now all he could hear was the roar of waves which seemed to come from all directions. There was no sign of land, not a blink of light anywhere. Praying that Simon was looking out for him, Miro fumbled for a distress rocket, held it up while he trod water. Moments later it was shooting into the sky. He suspected that seeing the flare, Paddy might return to kill him, but he was passing out with cold and no longer able to think straight.

  Thirty-Five

  Miro was almost unconscious with hypothermia by the time he heard the powerful engines of a motor torpedo boat planing towards him. How would they see him in the dark, choppy water? He had to set off the second rocket fast, but his fingers would not obey his brain. They wobbled and shook . . . Oh God! The boat was almost on him. Then the flare rocketed into the sky, although he was never sure how he had managed to set it off. The thunder of the MTB’s engines became a purr, a searchlight scanned the surface of the sea, it was moving closer, but he hadn’t the strength to wave.

  Simon saw him first. ‘There he is! Careful. Get him in,’ he yelled. Miro was hauled up over the side by two strong marines.

  Despite his studied calm, Simon looked frightened. ‘Everything’s all right. You’re safe. Easy does it. Are you wounded . . . or injured?’

  ‘Bloody cold, that’s all,’ Miro said, his smile still unavailable through frozen lips.

  ‘I need to ask you this, so pull yourself together and think. Does Brannigan suspect that the info he received is a load of bull?’

  ‘He doesn’t know . . . just suspects . . . he’s hoping for the best.’ He took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together. Easy does it, he told himself. ‘He’s found out . . . in Eire . . . that you’re an agent, but . . . the stuff I got from you, wasn’t meant for me.’ He paused to get his breath back and rub his lips, which were frozen. ‘It was what you told Helen.’

  ‘Here!’ Simon took a flask of brandy from his pocket and held it to his lips.

  Miro gulped it down and choked. Once he’d got his breath back, the fiery warmth was definitely helpful. ‘He believes my eyewitness accounts. He’s not sure enough of his doubts about the rest to pass them on to his superiors . . . and he’s deeply afraid that they might kill him if he does. I’m sure of his fear . . . I could smell it.’

  Simon relaxed visibly. ‘Get down in the cabin. Get your gear off . . . fast . . . everything. There’s a pile of clothes on the table. You’ll be a GI for while. Be sure to put on the parka,’ he told him. ‘You’ll soon warm up.’

  Miro hung on to Simon as he tried to move into the cabin. To put a foot down as the boat swung up was hazardous. Simon poured a mug of coffee from a Thermos, spilling some on the floor, and splashed a little brandy into it. ‘Here . . . drink this first. Don’t swill it this time.’

  Simon went back outside. Miro found it difficult to change his clothes. The boat was surging forward at maximum speed, huge waves rolled implacably towards them, smashing into the bows with sickening force. One moment the boat was poised on a mountain of water and a moment later they were plunging down into a deep green trough, landing with a smack that seemed it would smash the boat. Miro hung on with one hand and dressed with the other. Somehow he managed to do it, then he collapsed on a bunk and lay in a strange half-asleep, half-awake state, hanging on tightly.

  Perhaps he slept. He wasn’t sure, but he woke to a massive explosion. The port holes turned red. Miro thought they had been blown up. He crawled out on to the deck, expecting to find himself back in the sea, but dead ahead was Paddy’s boat blazing and upended. Momentarily it hung poised, then slid, hissing and steaming, into the sea. Huge bubbles of air churned the surface and then there was nothing but the waves. It was as if the boat had never existed.

  ‘A good ending to a bad day,’ Simon said.

  ‘Where’s Paddy?’ Miro asked.

  Simon shrugged. ‘Like a good captain, he went down with his boat.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that. He thought I had, too. He can easily swim under the spotlights. I did.’

  ‘Listen, Miro, the boat exploded. We torpedoed it. He must have been carrying a good deal of extra petrol stashed in the hold because it all caught at once. Add to that, we’re five miles from the nearest land.’

  ‘And he would never know which way to go, not on a night like this. That was my problem. Listen Simon. Your cover is gone. Paddy went to Eire for a month and while there he was given proof that you are in Military Intelligence. They have your picture in a file of Allied agents. I assume that’s why he went into hiding. He must have realized you would track him down. He told me you were responsible for the deaths of five Nazi sympathizers in Buenos Aires.’

  ‘You’ve done a good job, Miro. We’ll publicize your death and send you somewhere safe. How would you like to go to the States?’

  ‘No. How can I? How would that help my parents?’

  Simon swore under his breath. ‘I’d like to see you safely away from here. Paddy wasn’t alone, Miro. Whoever his controllers were, they’ll come looking for you, either to recruit you, or to kill you. You’re not out of danger yet.’

  ‘I’ll see it through,’ Miro said.

  Simon looked upset. ‘Well then . . . for now it’s over. Let’s go home.’

  A day later, Miro read of Paddy’s death in the local rag.

  May 2, 1944.

  Poole Coastguards announce that they have given up the search for the skipper of the Pride of Shannon fishing boat, which sailed out of Claremont Harbour on the evening of May 1, and capsized five miles offshore. Wreckage was spotted several miles off the coast the following morning. A salvage officer, Ian Wren, who examined the wreckage, stated that a mine was reported in the area three days ago, but a local minesweeper had been unable to locate it.

  The vessel was owned by Sean Brannigan, a locksmith of Claremont, near Christchurch. He was believed to have been sailing alone. Members of the Lifeboat Association confirmed that it is unlikely anyone could survive for more than a few hours given the temperature of the sea and wind velocity. A neighbour, Mrs Lucy Brown, stated that Brannigan always fished alone. He was a generous man who supplied his neighbours with fish from time to time.

  It was a stressful May as the world held its breath. British harbours were congested. The Allied air forces were opening the way f
or the attack by waging massive bombing campaigns in Germany and France. In France, members of the French resistance cut railroad tracks, sabotaged locomotives and targeted supply trains. Allied aircraft bombed roads, bridges and rail junctions to prevent the Germans from moving reinforcements towards the invasion beaches. To confuse enemy intelligence, the attacks occurred along the entire length of the Channel coast.

  For Miro, tension lurked – the nerve-racking tension of waiting. He held it at bay with hard work as his stressful days sped by. A soldier in waiting, Miro checked out strangers, hostile glances, people loitering with nothing to do, suspicious remarks from unknown faces, the grocer’s delivery boy, a new milkman, a younger than usual ARP man checking the blackout, a woman canvassing carpet cleaning. In wartime? Pull the other leg, he thought, but he never set eyes on any of them again.

  He tried not to invite suspicion from the family, particularly Helen, by combining all his roles: a schoolboy swotting for university entry exams, a part-time cook, Helen’s son, John’s stable hand, an athlete in training, Simon’s spy. In the privacy of his bedroom, he did hours of press-ups, he jogged along the beach and cliffs for miles, caught up on his German and French and gave clarinet tuition for pocket money. He told himself he was preparing for his eighteenth birthday in June, when at last he would be old enough to join Simon’s group. The truth was, he was waiting for Paddy’s controller to contact him . . . or kill him. Surely they had to know by now that the masses of information Paddy had obtained was suspect.