by V. B. Tenery
C stood and shook his hand. “Let me know when you find out.”
It occurred to Aubrey as C had made the job offer that Bunny would be pleased. They’d talked a lot while he was at Moorhead Manor. She’d ask him about his plans after the war and he’d shared something that had been on his heart.
He never embraced his Jewish heritage until recently. Living as an Englishman, he had never faced discrimination. His treatment of late had been a rude awakening. Tales of Germany’s treatment of Jews, even if only a small portion were accurate, had stirred a righteous anger at the cruelty and oppression his people lived under.
If by some miracle England won this war, he wanted to dedicate himself to assisting Jews to return to Israel. Where they belonged.
“How would you feel about that?” he’d asked Bunny.
“It doesn’t really concern me, but I think it’s something you should do. It’s a noble cause.”
He’d chucked her under the chin. “How would you feel about joining me?”
Her gaze had searched his face. “Do you mean generally or personally?”
“Personally,” he replied.
“You aren’t looking for someone on the rebound, someone to soothe your wounded ego, are you?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. Penelope’s rejection stung my ego, of course, but I’d begun to have doubts about our relationship even before she chucked me over. I’d started to enjoy your company and the things we have in common. And I asked myself why that was so if I truly loved my fiancée.” He grinned. “And besides, you can cook.”
“Well,” Bunny beamed a smile that told him a lot about her. She was honest and she didn’t act coy. “In that case, how could I refuse? But, let’s give this a little more time. I want to make sure you’re sure.”
“I’m already sure, Bunny. But I’ll give you as much time as you need.”
A broad smile covered Aubrey’s face when he left C’s office. He looked around, and, seeing no one in sight, danced a little jig. Whistling “Danny Boy,” he made his way downstairs. He went in search of Grace, anxious to tell someone the good news.
CHAPTER 21
French Farmhouse
Near Calais, France
Grey awoke in the cellar’s semi-darkness twelve hours later, to the muted roar of truck engines on the road nearby. One of the pilots handed him a cup of weak, hot coffee. “What’s happening?”
The pilot nodded upward. “The Jerries are in a proper dither over the railroad and bridge being demolished. There have been many reprisals, despite Big D sending out warning for people to stay inside and off the streets.”
Raul sat on his cot looking as disheveled as Grey felt. “The only good news is that the Boche grabbed Nazi sympathizers in the roundup.”
Someone stomped on the hatch and the pilot hurried up the stairs to release the latch. Big D entered with two men bearing bread, butter, jam, and a fresh pot of coffee. He slapped Grey and Raul on the back. “Glad to see you men are back among the living.”
The Marquis leader pulled up a chair. “We have to keep a low profile for a while until the fervor dies down. Anyone caught on the roads or streets will be shot, papers or not. They’ve pulled people out of their homes in retaliation.”
His gazed found Grey in the faint glow of the lamp. “We’ve been in touch with a cell on the coast. The Brits are anxious to get you and Mack back to England.”
Mack sat up to attention. “I’m for that. Did they say how we were to manage that?”
Big D nodded. “In five days, a commando boat will be near the spot where you were dropped off. Our job is to get you to the coast.” A shadow of a smile crossed D’s rugged face. “It seems someone blew up the railroad and bridge so we’ll have to take you by boat across the river. Our people will meet you on the other side.”
“Any chance me and my mate can tag along?” the RAF pilot asked.
“I’m working on that. Grey and Mack have disguises and papers that might get them through the checkpoints. We’ll have to come up with papers and uniforms for you two. The biggest problem is transportation. Vichy French and a Boche captain would travel in style. The only appropriate automobile is a Mercedes that belongs to the doctor in the village. He’s Resistance but he’s reluctant to lend his car. It’s his only way to care for his patients. He’s a good man. I think he’ll come around, but he might insist on coming along.”
***
German traffic on the roads quietened down three days later, and Grey in his Vichy-suit, and Mack in the German uniform gathered at the bottom of the cellar steps with the two RAF pilots. Big D had come up with two Nazi uniforms for the pilots that fit well enough to pass inspection. To a man, they checked their side arms and clips before returning them to the holsters. They’d leave the rifles behind. If stopped, the sniper-outfitted weapons would never get past the Nazi check points.
That morning, the Marquis leader brought a rotund little man with him who turned out to be the local doctor. He had indeed insisted on accompanying his automobile where it went.
The five men settled into the large vehicle, the two pilots in front, with Mack, Grey, and the doctor in the backseat. If they were stopped, Mack would have to do the talking. Neither of the pilots spoke German, and understood even less.
They made it to the other side of Calais without incident, thanks to a Swastika flag on the automobile added by one of the guerilla fighters. The car pulled to the roadside a mile before the bridge site. Grey and the other three men got out. They thanked the doctor profusely for his help, then Grey turned to shake hands with Big D.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Grey said. “Take care, my friend. We owe you and your men our lives.”
Big D held his hand for a long moment, his eyes misty. “You and your friend acquitted yourselves well.” He smiled a sly grin. “You probably have French ancestors. Follow the river. Our people will find you. We will pray for your safe return home.”
Grey and the men vanished into the trees and followed Big D’s instructions to meet the second Marquis team, who met them two kilometers downstream.
The Frenchmen rowed the group across the river in broad daylight, which made Grey very nervous, but there was no other option. If they waited for nightfall, they ran the risk of missing the connection with the commandos.
Once on the opposite side of the river, the Marquis dragged the boat ashore and hid it in the wood. Grey felt a little ridiculous traipsing through the wood in his finery, but nothing about this expedition was normal.
A late model BMW Cabriolet waited for them on the road, it also bore the Nazi flag. The driver dropped them at a pub in a small fishing village. “Someone will come for you when the boat arrives.”
Men standing at the bar gave them a cold reception, with Mack in his officer’s uniform garnering the darkest glares. Grey and the other three men took a table at the back of the bar. A Frenchman in a black beret, cigarette hanging from his lips, played sad French songs on a tinny piano.
Grey and his men nursed their drinks while they waited for word from the commandos. Two hours dragged by while outside the rustic establishment the sky grew dark and heavy rain pelted the bar’s large front window.
Mack poked Grey in the ribs with his elbow as three Germans in grey belted raincoats blew through the pub’s entrance. All conversation ceased and the newcomers gave the patron a dark glare. They shoved men aside, ordered drinks from the bartender, and took the heavy mugs to a nearby table.
Discussions resumed gradually, but were overwhelmed by laughter and boasting from the Axis soldiers. They banged their glasses on the table for refills, and a pretty young girl came from behind the bar with a large pitcher of beer. After she filled the mugs, one of the men pulled her into his lap, fondling her while she struggled to escape his grasp.
“I’ve got this,” Mack said, and pushed back his chair.
Grey gave Mack’s arm a light touch and whispered. “Be careful, my friend. We don’t want to call attention
to our presence here.”
Mack nodded and strode to the Germans table. “Kamerads, this fraulein is my verlobte. You will let her go immediately and apologize for your bad manners.”
The German was drunk, but not too intoxicated to note Mack’s size and rank. He glanced across at his companions, released the girl, and the three abruptly left the pub.
The girl gave a small curtsey. “Merci Monsieur.”
The Germans left, casting angry glares at Grey and his team. as they stomped out the door.
Minutes later a sailor entered and moved swiftly to Grey’s table. He leaned over and spoke in a low voice. “Commander Hamilton?”
Grey nodded.
“We’re ready, sir. We’re docked at the pier. You may recognize the E-boat. I believe it’s the one you chaps captured.” He turned to leave then stopped. “By the way, there are three Nazis hanging around outside like they’re waiting for someone.”
“Is there a back door?” Grey asked the girl in French.
She nodded and waved for them to follow her.
As they slipped outside, the girl stood on tiptoes and kissed Mack’s cheek.
The American straightened and grinned at Grey. “Let’s go take out some German trash.”
Mack pulled up his collar and stepped into the rain. Grey pulled his silenced pistol and followed him.
The foul weather had driven people inside, and the unpaved street in front of the bar was empty except for the three gray-coated figures that lurked at the entrance.
Grey motioned the two pilots to stay where they were. Bursting into the street could get them shot which he hoped to avoid. They’d made it this far without anyone getting killed or wounded. He wanted to keep it that way.
He and Mack split up, Mack took the left side, Grey the right. Grey hugged the exterior wall and kept moving, trusting the rain and shadows to conceal his movements.
Two of the Germans huddled close together smoking, and grumbling impatiently. He hovered behind them, waiting for the moment they moved one inch closed. When it happened, he smashed their heads together with a bone-crushing smack. They fell silently into the mud.
From the shadows, the French bartender appeared. With surprising speed for someone his age, he pulled a knife and killed the men who had insulted his daughter.
Grey didn’t see what happened, but Mack appeared with the other man slung over his shoulder.
The bodies were tossed into the back of the commando’s car. Leaving them outside the pub would bring reprisals against the villagers. They would slip the bodies overboard once they were at sea.
The four men boarded the E-boat without incident and headed out into the Channel.
Mack heaved an exaggerated sigh. “That was almost too easy.”
Grey shook his head, recalling the last time Mack made that statement.
The captain gave Mack a sideways glance. “You’re not home yet, Yank. This is a German boat and we still have to cross the Channel without our boys blowing us to smatterings’. We have a code stenciled on top of the ship to identify us as British, but I’m not sure our chaps can see it in the dark.”
Grey stood on the bridge along with Mack and the two pilots as the vessel docked safely in London. Despite the captain’s dire warning, the ship eased into port. Two Spitfires had made low fly-overs, but apparently the markings assured them the ship was British.
A cold north wind blew across the gangway and Grey filled his lungs with a breath of moist, fog-filled air. Nothing ever smelled better. He was home.
“Are you headed back to Bletchley Park?” he asked Mack.
The big American shook his head. “I have to report to my office here, then let Donovan know I’m back. Do you need a ride?”
“I can take the train, but I could use a lift to Kings Cross.”
“Not on your life, my friend. That will take hours. Come with me while I report in, then I’ll strong-arm a car from someone and drive you. We’ve been through too much together for me to leave you stranded in London.”
While Mack took care of his business, Grey tried to call the Mansion to find out where Grace was. No surprise. The long-distance telephone lines were out of order.
He tried Scotland Yard and got through. “May I speak to Inspector Milford, please?”
There was a slight pause. “The Inspector is no longer at the Yard,” the operator replied.
Shocked, Grey asked. “Are you sure? Do you know where he might be?”
“Sorry, sir. I have no knowledge of the Inspector’s whereabouts.”
Grey disconnected and shook his head. A lot had changed while he’d been away, and not for the better.
CHAPTER 22
Bletchley Park Mansion
Buckinghamshire, England
Grace sat before the mirror, putting the final touches on her makeup. She was having dinner with Nigel Lewis. Again.
Whenever Nigel came to the mansion, which was often, he asked her to dine with him. She had a hard time finding excuses to say no. Usually, she convinced him to share a meal in the canteen, but tonight he wanted to take her to a proper restaurant in Buckinghamshire.
Soon after returning from Cairo she’d realized Nigel had a crush on her. She’d tried to discourage him, but he stuck to her like a tick on a dog. He was a master at overcoming objections.
When Aubrey was around she asked him to join them but he wasn’t always available, like this evening. Still in training at MI6, he was frequently in the field at various facilities around the countryside. He’d apologized and said he wouldn’t return to the Mansion until later that evening.
How she wished Grey was here. She hadn’t any news since Bill Donovan returned to Washington. The longer Grey remained in France the more dangerous it became.
She missed Stormy and his big blue eyes watching while she dressed. But he was better off with Alfie. The two orphans would be good for each other.
She put away the makeup and expelled a deep breath. Time to meet Nigel in the lobby.
Loch Fyne Seafood
Buckinghamshire, England
The late April weather was milder, and at least for the moment there was no rain. Nigel hired a car for the evening and soon they pulled into the eatery’s parking lot. “I’ve heard great comments on the seafood here,” he said. “Of course, you can’t get decent beef anywhere in England these days, but one can’t complain.”
The dining room sparkled with white table linens and crystal glassware. A center piece of red roses added a lovely fragrance to the air. She could almost believe the war had passed.
Her trout almandine was superb and she finished every last bite. “Thanks for inviting me to dinner, Nigel. That’s the best meal I’ve had in eons.”
He beamed at her. “You are most welcome. It has been my pleasure.”
They ordered coffee with their dessert of vanilla custard and clotted cream. While they waited, she noticed he rubbed a wooden coin between his thumb and forefinger.
“May I see that?” Grace asked.
He dutifully handed it over.
She examined the wooden object carefully.
It was Jacky’s talisman, hand-carved by her grandfather. There wasn’t another like it anywhere. “Where did you get this?”
He shrugged. “I don’t rightly remember. I think I picked it up somewhere. Why do you ask?”
“It very unusual, isn’t it?” Her hand shook as she returned the coin to him and he slipped it into his pocket.
Grace’s thoughts ran back to the day Grey and Aubrey met with Edwin Fossbury. Grey had shared the results of the meeting with her as he’d promised. It had been Nigel who introduced the two lovers. That meant Nigel had known Jacky personally. He hadn’t found the coin. He’d taken it from Jacky’s apartment. Her friend would never give the cherished object away. It was too dear to her.
Her mind raced. Was it possible Gunter Becke wasn’t responsible for Jacky’s death? He hadn’t actually confessed, and he’d died before Aubrey could question the
man further.
She looked up to find Nigel watching her, his face creased in a thoughtful frown.
And she knew.
Nigel Lewis had killed Jacky.
Knowledge and proof were two different things. She had to remain calm until she could talk to Aubrey. She spooned two bites of the custard into her mouth and laid the silverware beside her plate.
“You don’t like the dessert, My Dear?”
She kept her voice casual. “It was delicious, but I’m afraid I ate too much trout.” The urge to shove her chair back and run was overwhelming, but she forced herself to remain calm. He would be suspicious if she asked him to take her home early.
After she finished the last sip of coffee, she excused herself to the ladies room. She breathed a gasp of relief when she spotted a telephone on the wall in the empty lounge. She lifted the receiver and dialed the Bletchley Park switchboard. “This is Grace Hamilton. Please see if you can locate Aubrey Milford. It’s urgent.”
Minutes ticked by, and prickles of fear danced up her spine. What if he wasn’t there? Perhaps she could slip out the back door and get a taxi. If it turned out she was wrong, Nigel would think she was mad. But she wasn’t wrong. Come on, Aubrey, answer, please, please answer.
“Hullo, Grace?” It was Aubrey. “Hey, I have great news . . .”
“Tell me later. Right now I need you to pick me up at the Loch Fyne Restaurant—”
An iron hand clamped over her mouth, and the man pulled her hard against his body.
“You should have been an actress, Grace. You almost had me convinced you didn’t recognize Jacky’s coin.”
Struggling against Nigel’s steel grip around her waist, she dug her heels into the carpet, but he was stronger than his slight build suggested. He dragged her out the back door towards his rental car.
He pushed her against the trunk while he fished the keys from his pocket, the metal cold against her hands. Before the lid popped open a sharp pain struck the base of her skull, and gray shadows sucked her under.
