by Vic Robbie
With that Pickering rose to his feet and moved like an avalanche to the bar and returned with two fresh beers.
His heart lifted at the mention of Alena’s name. ‘And?’ he pressed.
‘No luck on that score. Afraid I drew a blank.’
‘They just vanished. Someone must know where they’re hiding?’
‘You’ve asked me many times but, believe me, I’ve no idea where.’
What’s Pickering keeping from me?
‘Why are you enquiring about them?’
‘Same old me, always trying to help friends. You’re still desperate to get together with them, and now the war’s ended it’s safe to come out of hiding. No reason you shouldn’t be reunited and perhaps take things from there.’ Pickering grinned and winked.
As myriad thoughts and fears swirled in his head, he took another swig of his beer. He looked forward to seeing Alena again, and it was the reason he had not returned to America. He was determined that if she were still alive and reappeared, he would be there for her.
Pickering’s face hardened, and he hissed. ‘Don’t turn around. Someone has just come into the bar. Definitely one of ours.’
‘What should I do?’ he whispered, wanting to look.
‘Create a diversion. Do anything. Don’t give the impression you’re with me or know who he is.’
‘Right,’ he said, swinging around in the seat and clutching his pint of beer.
The man stood halfway into the pub, his eyes checking the occupants table by table.
He lurched to his feet and weaved towards the newcomer and in a loud voice, and to no one in particular, said: ‘Got to take this outside.’ He stumbled forward. ‘Gone to my head. Can’t see straight. Feel sick.’
The newcomer blocked his path, craning from side to side searching for Pickering.
He moved over to block his view and, when a few steps away, stuttered forward and spilt his drink down the man’s chest before toppling onto him. The agent tried to push him off, but in an attempt to regain his balance Ben dragged him to the ground. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he garbled, spitting out a mouthful of beer as he talked. He lay on top of the agent who struggled to get free, and he mopped the man’s jacket with his handkerchief. ‘Too much beer. Sorry.’
‘For God’s sake man, get away,’ the man snarled.
Offering a silent apology, he clambered up and, as they got to their feet, stumbled again and fell, clutching him for support. Together, they sprawled across a table and upended drinks over the customers.
‘You bloody idiot,’ the agent screamed.
‘Who are you calling an idiot, mate?’ A large man in working clothes aimed a meaty fist at the agent. It made contact with an explosion of flesh and blood.
Sidestepping the falling body, he glanced back to see Pickering had escaped.
5
Shetland
Magnus had delivered Alena and Freddie into the hands of his cousin, and he waited until they set off. It was a well-sheltered harbour overlooked by the ruins of Scalloway Castle, but it would be different once they got out into the North Atlantic. He watched the fishing boat until it faded out of sight and doubted he would see them again. In London, they would disappear into a world of smoke and mirrors. She would be given a new identity, and they would begin another life in hiding. He had warned her of the dangers of a journey through the treacherous waters surrounding the Shetlands, but she was adamant they had to go. He had even offered to gather men together to confront the Nazis if she decided not to risk it. She had smiled in gratitude. As the killers would be the first of many, she didn’t want anyone else involved.
He and Shona were trusted bit-part players in the intelligence world. Told they would be contributing to the country’s war effort, their role was to report on events on the island in an area of vital importance. And the small stipend came in useful. He volunteered for the Shetland Bus operation, involving small fishing boats facing attack from enemy planes to rescue escapees from the Nazi regime in Norway. But London blocked it, convincing him his intelligence gathering was more important. At first, their role as protectors of Alena and Freddie was a temporary assignment, but it grew into a permanent one. London demanded regular reports on their welfare, but neither they nor Magnus ever mentioned them by name. While he often wondered why they were on the run, he never asked, and she didn’t confide in him. At the behest of London, Alena got involved in the operation and several times sailed across the North Sea to contact resistance workers fighting against the occupiers, and his regard for her increased. Over time, they were like family. In the beginning, his wife felt threatened by the attractive Frenchwoman, who laughed at his jokes, and also of his relationship with Freddie, whom he took fishing, even carving a wooden model of a Spitfire for him. The father Freddie never knew. And the women almost became like sisters, their bond the stronger for their mutual love of the boy.
He pulled up his jacket collar, lit a cigarette and watched the wind picking up the smoke and scattering it far from him. Sometimes he wondered if it were possible to be that free, to let the caprices of nature take you wherever. If the two newcomers on the ferry were Nazis – and he didn’t doubt her judgement – they would be at the croft by now. At least Shona was out of danger in Aberdeen and not due back until tomorrow, and they would resolve everything by then. The local constabulary should never be involved. If they knew of his connection with London, the arrangement would be terminated. If it came to it, he could rely on help from a couple of guys.
His mind made up, he flicked away the remains of the cigarette. In the glove box, he found his Webley VI, which he hadn’t fired for years and then only for potshots at rabbits. He opened a waterproof box and loaded six rounds into the service revolver and laid it on the seat beside him. He would leave the car some way from the croft and approach from the hill. Once he moved close enough to determine if the Nazis were there, he would decide how to handle the situation. And he could go for help. Disposing of the Germans would be no problem. Once overpowered, they could smuggle them aboard a boat and drop them far out at sea. As he drove along the winding road from Scalloway through the bleak countryside, his impatience mounted. He wanted to get on with his life.
When near the croft, he pulled off the road and progressed down a track and parked alongside a ruined bothy. From there, it was a quarter of a mile to the house, and when he got closer, he would determine his course of action. Once, he had worked as a gamekeeper on a large estate on the mainland, and he was confident of creeping up on even the most jittery of animals without spooking them. If the Germans had arrived, they would be inside the house. From his pocket, he took out binoculars and trained them on the croft. There was no sign of life. Now the weather had changed again, and cloud swept in, and a light drizzle obscured his vision.
Movement. Someone was inside the croft. Crawling closer, he spotted a man sitting on a chair. Another moved past him and appeared to be talking. And he sensed there was a third although Alena said only two had come off the ferry. A couple he might handle, but three swung the odds too much in their favour. He wriggled nearer, cursing as the rain, now heavier, blinded him and mud smeared his face.
He felt a ripple of fear across his scalp, and a creeping pain immobilised him. Shona had told him she would return tomorrow. She must have blundered in on them or opened the door to strangers. He banged his head in the mud and cursed. This complicated matters. Now he had to get her to safety. There was no time to seek help because in the interim they might torture or kill her. He must act now, and the revolver in his pocket gave him strength. He was still a good shot and, if he surprised them, he could do it.
His breathing rasped as he moved closer and he trained the binoculars on the window. Her face pinched with fear, she took quick, anxious glances through the glass, worried he would walk into danger. On the far side of the building, a ground-floor window was always off the latch. He would get in there and surprise the intruders.
As expected, it was open, and
he wriggled through and into a small anteroom that housed their bicycles, an ironing board, and some fishing gear. He would go through the adjoining door and confront them. When they saw the gun in his hand, the element of surprise would give him an advantage. He controlled his breathing and put an ear to the door and listened to the low drone of their voices in the parlour. Turning the knob, he kicked it open.
Hands in his pockets, a German blocked his way and didn’t appear surprised by his entrance. ‘Ah, so,’ he said. ‘You are here at last.’
He flashed a look at the German’s partner and then at Shona, her face still strained with fear. ‘Put your hands up, or ah’ll use this.’
The Nazi SS sergeant masked a smile. ‘Put down the gun.’
‘Do as ah say or ah’ll shoot.’
‘That would be unfortunate.’ The intruder faced him square on. ‘Persist, and you won’t celebrate the birth of your first child.’
‘What?’ Off guard, he stared at her, and she returned an apologetic smile as the German hit him between the eyes, causing him to stagger and drop his revolver.
‘Sit down,’ the sergeant ordered. His colleague, covering him with a Luger, made way for him.
‘Are you all right, Shona?’ he asked through the blood coursing down from a wound on his forehead.
She started to cry. ‘Ah was goin’ to tell you when you got home.’
At last, he was going to be a father. They had wanted this for years, and there had been many heart-breaking disappointments.
‘I need you to tell me everything you know.’ The sergeant’s steady stare brought him back to reality.
‘You wouldn’t hurt her?’ he asked, with a horrified look as the German’s eyes bored into him.
‘Perhaps not her, but the baby, yes.’
‘You bastard. You lost the war. Why don’t you crawl back into your holes?’
‘The woman you have harboured in this pigsty is dangerous.’ He directed an aside at his colleague, raising a coarse laugh. ‘Please do not waste any more of my time. We want the boy.’
Freddie being the target rather than Alena confused him, and it showed. ‘Ah know nothin’ about that.’ He took out a handkerchief to mop away the blood.
The sergeant regarded him almost with pity. ‘You are not intelligent enough to understand what this is all about. But you do know where they are.’
‘Nae idea.’ He bit his tongue so as not to incriminate himself. ‘Went to the boatyard and ah expected her to be here when ah returned.’
‘If that is the case,’ the sergeant circled the small room looking at ornaments, opening a book here and there, ‘perhaps we should wait for their return.’
‘Wouldn’t be wise. Alena has a lot of friends here. You won’t get away alive.’
The sergeant stopped by the window and felt the thin cloth of the curtains between his forefinger and thumb. He tapped the glass and, still staring out at the bleak landscape, took out a silver case and put a cigarette in his mouth. He turned slowly, lighting it. ‘You are lying. Somehow she found out we were here. She has already escaped, and you helped her. If you had believed everything was normal, you would not have tried to surprise us. You knew we would be here.’ And, with a heave of his shoulders, asked: Where are they?’
‘Don’t tell those Nazi bastards nothin’,’ Shona shouted at him.
He shook his head stubbornly. ‘Don’t know anythin’ about that.’
‘Very well. Helmut, punch the woman in the stomach.’
‘No,’ she screamed and protected her belly with her arms.
‘No, no.’ Magnus stood up. ‘Ah’ll tell you. Leave her alone for Christ’s sake.’
‘But you said you did not know. You are wasting my time. Helmut–’
‘Please, ah’ll tell you everythin’.’
‘Go on.’
The corporal was holding her by the shoulders.
‘Took her somewhere you’ll never find her.’
‘Where?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Helmut, the woman.’
He attempted to force his way between them. ‘Harm her, and you’ll get nothin’ out of me.’
‘Talk.’ The sergeant held out a hand to halt his colleague.
‘Let her go and ah’ll tell you all ah know.’ His head dropped with the shame of his betrayal.
‘Very well.’ The Nazi grimaced and waved a hand at her, indicating she was free to go.
His colleague blocked the door and looked at his superior as though doubting his decision.
‘Ah’m nae goin’ without ma husband.’
‘Go,’ Magnus shouted. ‘Think of the baby.’
The sergeant motioned his partner away, and she shuffled over and hesitated on the threshold. When Magnus nodded for her to leave, she stepped out into the rain with a backwards glance and a sob, and he watched until she was out of sight.
‘Where are the woman and boy?’
‘Drove them to Scalloway to catch a trawler.’
The Nazis exchanged glances. ‘To where?’
‘Orkney.’
The German looked puzzled.
‘Another island.’
‘But why?’
‘She thought she’d be safe there until you’d gone.’
‘Ah, I see.’ The Nazi smiled at Helmut. ‘So if we want to catch up with her we should head for Orkney?’
Magnus nodded.
The German gave a sharp laugh. ‘Perhaps we should take you with us as our local guide.’ He came over and stuck his face close to his. ‘I would like to think it was that simple, but I do not believe you are being entirely truthful. Let me tell you what I think is happening. They are aboard a boat, but it is sailing to Aberdeen where she will catch a train to London and go to her friends at British Intelligence.’ He nodded to himself as if working out what would happen then. ‘Helmut, we will have to contact our people on the mainland.’
‘The ferry from Lerwick leaves at 7.30 tonight,’ the corporal replied. ‘We would be there tomorrow morning and could catch up with them on the train.’
The sergeant gave a triumphant smile. ‘Very well.’ And he turned on Magnus, his eyes as cold as the icy rain. ‘I am afraid you have lied to me.’ He shrugged like a teacher disappointed with a wayward pupil. ‘I could perhaps have spared you, but you leave me no choice.’
He nodded to the corporal. ‘Get the woman.’
6
London
Time was running out. He could be dead within months. As Angel Martinez struggled onto a taxi with two heavy suitcases, he thought of his wife having her hair styled in the hotel’s salon. She knew nothing. And he wanted to keep it that way. Every day what remained of his strength was ebbing away, and he was losing weight so that his collar hung loosely around his neck. He was sure she had not noticed, but there would come a time when he would not be able to deny it.
The specialist at the Hospital Municipal de Oncología in Buenos Aires had told him without compassion: ‘It’s inoperable.’ To the question he had heard many times, the doctor answered: ‘A matter of months, three at the most.’
He had prepared for the sentence, but still it took him off guard. He hadn’t known what to do other than retreat to the Parque Centenario nearby. And for an hour he sat on a low stone wall under the shade of a tipa tree, taking in the sights and sounds he would miss. Gradually, a rage built within him. Why now when there was work to complete? He had followed the rules and believed himself a good man. That should count for something? Yet those criminals, the architects of endless human misery, could continue enjoying their ‘retirement’ outwith the reach of the law.
Determined to live out his final days and while mobile and able to control the pain, he planned one last trip to London. His wife loved the city although her knowledge of it until now had been limited to newsreels and magazine pictures. There was also another reason for the visit. A year before, having worn the two silver pips as an inspector with pride, the Policía Federal Argentina retired him. E
mbittered by an enforced premature end to his career, he suspected his superiors regarded him an embarrassment. His repeated attacks on the country’s policy to offer Nazi war criminals refuge brought unwanted attention to the police department. At every turn, they thwarted his investigations. Reports were lost in the system, and vital evidence disappeared. And they disciplined him when interviewed by the Press. So he had to retire, but he didn’t give up. Through his network of contacts and informants, he created dossiers on the Nazis known to be operating in Argentina.
At the end of the war, he had attended a conference in London on international policing and met Pickering, whom he discovered worked for British Intelligence. He liked the old Harrovian whom he regarded the quintessential Englishman. Dressed in a tweed suit and brown brogues, he was always sucking on his pipe with a mischievous glint in his eyes. When he returned home, he kept MI6 informed about the political situation and the country’s support for fascism. British Intelligence were concerned that those high-ranking Germans could use their money and influence to infiltrate their followers into most aspects of life, including business, politics, media and even the armed forces in the world’s major countries. And, with his help, they compiled extensive dossiers on their activities.
The evil Dr Josef Mengele, arrogantly living in Argentina under his own name, was of particular interest. And there were reports that Adolf Eichmann, the architect of the Final Solution, was on route to South America, travelling under the name of Ricardo Klement. There were others, important and ruthless, lurking in the shadows.
To his frustration, they kept just out of reach. And the State protecting them made his work harder. He would die with his mission uncompleted. He mused that Adolf Hitler could be living in a leafy suburb of Buenos Aires around the corner from his home. His dark hair brushed back, his moustache shaven, seeing out the days painting watercolours and listening to recordings of old rally speeches on the gramophone.
