Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando

by Michael Asher

  ‘What?’

  She nodded sadly. ‘It turned out that the killer was a spy for the Abwehr – a Jerry brought up in Cairo. His real name is Johann Eisner, codename Stürmer. By chance, he picked up the spoof Runefish material Julian fed into the informer network. Apparently he tailed me and recognized me as Betty Nolan, cabaret dancer. He'd seen me that time I walked in on him and Mary Goddard, and he remembered my face. He even located my old flat on the Gezira, killed a Field Security NCO and a Sudanese doorman there, and kidnapped Julian. He tried to torture information out of him, then murdered him, too. Luckily for us, Field Security picked him up before he could do any real damage. It was a stroke of bad luck that might have sunk the whole operation.’

  Caine attempted a smile. ‘We should be grateful it didn't, then.’

  ‘Yes, but there's something else. In the process of trying to track down my real identity, he raped and murdered two other women. One was my friend Rachel Levi, a cabaret girl at Madame Badia's. The other was another female G(R) operator, Susan Arquette, whom I didn't know, but who was occupying my flat as my double.’ The oceanborn eyes were distant now. ‘I can't help feeling, in a way, that I was partly responsible for their deaths…’

  Caine thought of the twenty good men he'd just left behind on Runefish – many of them hadn't even received a proper burial. ‘I know how that feels,’ he said. ‘If Field Security have picked up this Eisner, though, he'll get the firing squad for certain…’

  ‘No, he won't,’ she said, lips pursed. ‘That's the problem. A couple of days back, he escaped. They told me that he was being transferred from the Central Detention and Interrogation Camp to another location when his vehicle was ambushed by a band of about twenty Egyptians – bandits or gun-runner types. His MP escort were all killed or wounded, and he got away. He's on the loose out there.’

  Caine absorbed this and nodded grimly. ‘I expect they'll get him back soon enough.’

  ‘I'm not so sure. He's obviously got access to a lot of help in Cairo. They say he speaks five languages fluently, and can easily pass as a native.’

  Caine shook his head. ‘A man like that – a nutter – he's bound to give himself away sooner or later.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Nolan said, forcing a bravado smirk, ‘because he seems to have a personal grudge against me. Apparently, the last thing he said to his interrogator was, I'll see that Nolan bitch in hell if it's the last thing I do.’

  For an instant Caine was shocked. ‘He's probably long gone by now,’ he said. ‘I wouldn't waste your time worrying about him. Did you say he was Abwehr?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘One of our friend Rohde's men, no doubt. Birds of a feather and all that.’

  This reminded Nolan of something else. ‘You know that pot-shot you took at Rohde just before we were pulled out? Did you get him?’

  Caine sighed. He'd already spent some time mulling over this question. ‘I don't know,’ he answered. ‘Maybe I did, but I didn't follow through: I was distracted when the Bofors opened up. I never heard those LRDG trucks coming, did you?’

  ‘No. The wind was in our faces, and we were totally focused on the enemy. They must have come up really fast.’

  Caine nodded. ‘Anyway, if I didn't get him, there's a good chance the Blenheims did. If not, he's still on the Axis orbat. I doubt he's in good odour with Rommel, though. He let you get away.’

  Nolan shivered involuntarily. Caine knew she was remembering her ordeal at Biska. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if you – if the C-in-C, that is – was right in his assessment, the Axis are soon to go belly-up. Rommel will get his backside kicked at Alamein, and the Huns will be finished in North Africa. There are even rumours about a second front opening – Anglo-American forces landing in Morocco or Algeria or somewhere. It's soon going to be curtains, so I don't think you need to worry about sadists like Eisner or Rohde. As you told me back on the ridge, we did it: we succeeded. The Runefish mission might never be made public, but we know what we did – what you did. You paid them back for murdering your fiancé a thousand times over, a million times. That's why the Nazis will never win. Every atrocity hardens people against them: every Peter Fairfax murdered creates a Maddy Rose, ready to give her or his life to get even.’

  Her eyes smiled at him. ‘That's why you were right to stop our side committing atrocities. It creates resentment, starts a chain of revenge.’

  Caine poured them both more wine and raised his glass. ‘Here's to the lads who didn't make it, who gave their lives for freedom.’

  She clinked his glass with hers. ‘The ladies, too.’

  ‘Yes, the ladies, too. Absent friends…’

  Nolan was about to take a swig of wine when she noticed something that bothered her. At an adjacent table, slightly to her right, sat a tall, craggy-looking young major, puffing on a pipe. She hadn't noticed him before. He had a slightly amused expression and wary brown eyes, and he was staring at them both intently. What worried her most was the fact that his lapels bore the same ‘flaming sword’ insignia that Caine was wearing. She shot a warning glance at Caine, then gave the smallest of nods towards the major. ‘Do you know that man?’ she whispered.

  Caine studied him discreetly. ‘No,’ he said softly, ‘but I see what you mean. He's wearing SAS insignia. He must know I'm an impostor.’

  He crossed his arms self-consciously over his lapel badges. He considered leaving, but decided that he wasn't going to be chased out. They'd planned this evening for a long time. They deserved it. He wasn't going to run away and spoil it now.

  Nolan saw that he was resigned to staying, and let out a sigh. She forced a grin and lifted her glass again. ‘Absent friends,’ she said.

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when there was an explosion of rage. Nolan jerked, spilling her wine, thinking that the noise must have come from the SAS major. Instead, a weasel-faced officer had appeared in front of their table – an officious-looking man in immaculate battle-dress and boots like polished glass. He had poisoned-berry eyes, very prominent front teeth and almost no chin. He was wearing a major's crowns, a black and scarlet ‘MP’ band on his right arm and carrying a scarlet-crowned field-cap smartly tucked under his left. Caine's heart sank. It was his former second-in-command, Captain – now evidently Major – Robin Sears-Beach: he was shaking with indignation. ‘You've really crossed the line this time, Caine,’ he roared, emitting tiny spats of saliva that landed on the table linen. ‘I'm with the Central Provost Office now, and I'm going to throw the book at you. You managed to wriggle your way out of a court-martial last time – the CO's blue-eyed boy. I told you I'd be watching you. Well, there's no Middle East Commando any more, and there's no Colonel St Aubin here to let you off the hook…’

  Caine stood up quickly, noticing that many of the guests at nearby tables had stopped eating and were glaring at him. The waiters were casting apprehensive glances in his direction. It wouldn't be the first time an enlisted man had been caught in Shepheard's with false insignia: they would enjoy the spectacle of seeing him dragged out by MPs. Sears-Beach was eyeing Nolan's cleavage, almost drooling. ‘Who's this tart?’ he demanded.

  Caine's heart pumped: he saw red. ‘Tart?’ he gasped, clenching his fists. ‘I warned you once before about what I'd do if you ever…’ He squared his massive shoulders and took a step towards Sears-Beach, who flinched and veered backwards. Caine glowered. He might have dropped the Redcap there and then, if Nolan hadn't cut in. ‘Don't, Tom… he's not worth it.’

  Caine made himself take deep breaths, forced his fists unclenched. Sears-Beach watched him, a hint of triumph on his face. ‘Impersonating an officer is a very serious offence…’

  ‘But not one that this man is guilty of, Major,’ a slightly high-pitched, cultured voice cut in. ‘You see, Lieutenant Caine here is an officer. As a matter of fact, he's under my command.’

  Sears-Beach wheeled round in astonishment, saw that it was the craggy, pipe-smoking young major from the next table who had spoken. The ma
n had risen to his feet, and Caine realized that he was very tall – a good six foot three. He wasn't much older than Caine himself – twenty-five or six perhaps – and there was a wild, unkempt look about him: his hair was well over regulation length, he had a day's stubble on his long chin, and his khaki drill bush jacket looked as though he'd slept in it. His manner was benignly eccentric, and there was a good-natured expression in his soft brown eyes. His pipe, empty now, was stuck in his mouth upside down.

  Caine glanced at Nolan, trying to hide his bewilderment, but Sears-Beach was no longer paying attention to him. Instead, he was eyeing the officer's inverted pipe, the long hair, the unshaven face, the rumpled uniform. His eyes strayed from the major's crowns to the apparent youthfulness of his face. ‘And who might you be?’ he enquired, with only a soupcon more respect than he had reserved for Caine.

  The tall major removed his pipe. ‘Oh, how very rude of me,’ he said in a mild, Oxbridge collegiate manner, ‘I should have introduced myself. My name is David Stirling. I am the commanding officer of “L” Detachment, the Special Air Service Brigade.’

  ‘ “L” Detachment?’ Sears-Beach chortled incredulously. ‘You must be joking. There no such thing as the Special Air Service Brigade…’

  Stirling's smile was deliberately patronizing. ‘Indeed there is, Major. We are the main special-service troops in the theatre now, and we have absorbed many personnel from the disbanded Middle East Commando.’

  Sears-Beach scowled, but looked just a smidgen unsure of himself.

  ‘You may not be aware of this,’ Stirling continued, ‘but Lieutenant Caine here has just proved himself the most capable desert operator in the business.’ He was staring at Caine directly, his eyes twinkling. ‘If I may be so bold,’ he said, ‘I should say that he thoroughly deserves the decoration he's just been recommended for.’

  ‘Decoration?’ Sears-Beach's mouth gaped.

  Caine and Nolan were watching Stirling with a surprise that was at least equal to Sears-Beach's. Stirling fixed his eyes on the Redcap officer again. ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘unless I am mistaken, this lady, too, has been cited for a decoration for the highest gallantry.’

  ‘Lady?’ Sears-Beach scoffed. ‘What lady?’

  Stirling's face lost its good humour abruptly, and even Sears-Beach noticed the hint of menace in the now hooded brown eyes. Stirling tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘What would you call a woman who risked her life by going alone into the lion's den, endured capture and torture by the Hun, and personally took part in combat? Wouldn't you call her a lady?’

  Sears-Beach caught the burning glare in Stirling's eyes, but ignored it. ‘I'd call her an offender,’ he said, sticking out his chin. ‘Women are disbarred from combat: it's against King's Regulations.’

  A flicker of exasperation crossed Stirling's face. ‘Come, my dear Major. Surely, as a gentleman, you ought to apologize for casting aspersions on this lady's character.’

  The tone remained silken. Sears-Beach was aware of the sting in it, but continued to bluster. ‘Don't “dear Major” me,’ he bristled, his mouth working indignantly. ‘I'm assistant chief Provost Officer in this town and you have no right to tell me what to do. I mean, this is all utter hogwash. I was Middle East Commando myself: if this mob of yours is supposed to be recruiting ex-commandos, how come they never offered me a place?’

  A thin smile played over Stirling's features. ‘The answer to that is simple. You see, in the SAS, we have no time for the mediocre. We only accept the very best.’

  He let the words sink in, caught Sears-Beach's eye with an expression that was insouciant and totally fearless. ‘Lieutenant Caine is one of those excellent people,’ he said. ‘You, most unfortunately, are not.’

  As Sears-Beach groped in soundless indignation, Stirling fumbled in his pocket for a calling-card. He pressed it into Caine's palm, his eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Come round and see me at my flat first thing tomorrow, will you, old chap?’ he said casually. ‘I think we have something of interest to discuss.’

  He bowed deeply to Nolan. ‘A very great honour, miss,’ he said. He placed a dishevelled cap on his head, smiled admiringly at Caine, gave Sears-Beach an almost insolent nod, and with the eyes of the whole restaurant upon him, turned and swung off, elastic-legged, towards the door.