by Vic Robbie
‘Been shopping then?’ the taxi driver thought he was a wit, and Ben tuned out.
Was he in real trouble? Perhaps he sympathised with the wrong clique, or was rampant paranoia flowing through the corridors of power?
By helping Pickering, he could be putting himself at risk. But he had been helpful over the years, even if volunteering him too many times for missions that almost ended badly. He would stand by his friend in his hour of need and, if necessary, answer for his actions when the occasion arose. The intelligence services were unlikely to require his peculiar talents in the future, anyway. In some way, he would welcome that. Yet when things calmed down, he hankered after the adrenaline rush of a new assignment. He didn’t seek trouble, but it sure found him. His father always told him to stand up to bullies, saying: ‘Never run away from them or else they’ll chase you throughout life.’ So he did, even though it resulted in a few painful beatings. So far he had survived everything the intelligence services had thrown at him, but it would be only a matter of time before his luck ran out.
As he let himself into his apartment building in Kensington High Street, he stood aside as a man with his collar up and a hat pulled down hurried out. He didn’t recognise him and put it out of his mind. He was jittery and seeing shadows where there were none. The afternoon was drawing to a close, and the hall was in darkness. He climbed one flight of stairs and, when he reached his door, put the bags down as he fished in a pocket for his keys. The apartment suited him. Close enough to the action when he wanted company but secluded so that he could work on his writing undisturbed. He used his foot to push the door open and pulled the bags in, leaving them in the hall.
Once he crossed the threshold, he felt it. A presence. Something was wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A frisson as if entering someone else’s property. Somewhere he shouldn’t be. His thoughts returned to the stranger in the hallway.
The hint of scent lingered and he laughed out loud, realising he was jumping at shadows again, and rebuked himself for being irrational. After what Pickering said, he suspected spooks around every corner. The cleaning lady often brought in flowers, which she scattered about the place as an antidote to his masculinity.
But the feeling persisted. For a moment he thought Pickering had let himself in. Wouldn’t put it past him although his scent was more the Presbyterian Mixture from his Lovat pipe. More than likely, he would be in his sitting-room, a glass of his whisky in hand, waiting for his return with the new clothes. Instead of giving him the satisfaction of having surprised him, he turned left into the kitchen. He pulled out a mug, spooned in some coffee, filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring. Reaching up to a shelf, he took down a bottle of Ardbeg, pouring a generous measure of Scotch into the mug. He smiled as he thought of him waiting with impatience to surprise him. When the kettle boiled, he paused for a few seconds before adding the hot water, stirred it twice, breathed in its smokiness and tested it for strength. Perfect!
He opened the door to the sitting-room.
No was one there.
Surprised, he still sensed a presence in the apartment, but not Pickering. There wasn’t even an indentation in his favourite leather armchair. Still, the faint scent persisted. He thought he recognised it, but it was like an elusive memory that slipped in and out of his mind.
Gathering his senses, he held his breath and listened. Was anything missing? The whisky appeared untouched, so that ruled out Pickering. A book lay open on the coffee table. He reran the events of the morning and was sure he hadn’t been reading. He recognised the battered paperback and noticed the space left on the bookshelf. Ernest Hemingway’s masterpiece The Sun Also Rises, which he had read many times understanding it more with each reading. Whenever he picked up a Hemingway book, his thoughts drifted back to his time in Paris in a rite of passage, tracing the steps the author had trodden more than ten years before, eating and drinking in the same cafes and restaurants where he’d often written. Not this morning. It sparked the memory of a chance encounter that led to danger. Whoever had been in his apartment left this book out like a calling card.
For some reason, he put it to his nose, detecting the faint scent permeating the apartment. And he remembered the Caribbean island of Martinique and a Frenchwoman, whose eyes shone violet and her black hair caressed pale shoulders. He questioned whether drink had addled his senses. And, as memories and doubts crowded in, he took another swig of the fortified coffee.
A sound from the bedroom.
He moved into the hallway and picked up a heavy brass candelabra, hefting it in his hand. If it were one of the intelligence agents on Pickering’s tail, he would leave with a sore head.
No more noises. He relaxed, chiding himself for being so twitchy. Then he heard another sound and saw a shadow move under the bedroom door.
Holding the candelabra above his head, he braced. Should he open it? He waited, fearing what might be on the other side but anger gave him courage. Who the hell was there?
A calm voice. ‘Why don’t you come in, cheri?’
He pushed it open and dropped the candelabra in surprise. Natalie lay naked on the bed, her hair as black as a crow’s wing spread over the pillow. And in her right hand, she held a Walther PPK pistol aimed at him.
Ben snatched a dressing-gown and threw it over her. ‘Cover yourself, or you’ll catch a cold,’ he said.
Natalie’s eyes never left his face, and to his relief she gave a small, private smile before laying the pistol on the bedside table. Guns of any calibre made him nervous, and he loathed what they could do and avoided them as much as possible.
‘Cheri, it’s been so long,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’
Almost as a reflex action, he bent forward and gave her a peck on the cheek, and she smelled good. Then, as if repulsed, he jack-knifed.
‘What in hell are you doing here?’
‘Pah! No way to greet an old girlfriend, cheri.’ She pouted and leant on one elbow, a pert breast evading the cover of the dressing-gown, and watched him. ‘Can’t a girl say hello?’
‘Don’t keep calling me cheri when you don’t mean it?’
‘How do you know?’ She smiled again, but he wasn’t fooled by any of it. It’s when they are not smiling you realise their true character and intentions.
‘How did you get in here?’
‘Old habits die hard. You never forget, like riding a bike.’
‘Okay, turning up unexpectedly is one thing. Why the gun? Or are you planning to kill me?’
‘Could have done that before. Remember? When I saw you, it reminded me how special you are.’
Her laugh sounded childlike, and he turned away in disbelief before coming back and sitting on the edge of the bed. If she reached for the pistol again, he would be able to stop her.
‘There’s no reason to fear me, cheri.’
‘Mmm.’
Understanding what he was thinking, she giggled. ‘Oh, then you were just hanging about in Manhattan.’
The memory of hanging on for his life, thirty-seven floors up, made him dizzy for a moment.
‘I’m not scared.’
‘The war may be over, but there are those who want me dead. I was simply taking precautions.’
He returned to the sitting-room and poured three fingers of Scotch and took a large gulp. Pickering in trouble was a problem, Natalie’s sudden appearance was another, but combined, they were as unpredictable as nitroglycerine. Most men desired a beautiful woman lying on their bed, but she was as dangerous as an agitated scorpion. And he wondered if he turned his back, would she shoot?
‘Don’t be angry, cheri.’ She had followed him and placed an arm on his shoulders, but he shrugged her off. Going to the table, she lifted the paperback. ‘Hoped it would remind you of pleasant times.’
‘Waving a gun revived other memories.’
‘The book was fun, a bit of mystery. A reminder of what we had together.’
He waved a hand and took an
other swig, and all the while kept watch. ‘What do you want?’ He knew it wasn’t his body. ‘These days, my only contact with the authorities is persona non grata.’
‘Ah, Pickering.’ She looked disappointed and then smiled as though recalling an old friend. ‘What’s he up to?’
‘Nothing as far as I know, but everyone’s jumpy these days. Now the Germans have been defeated, they need to find a new enemy.’
‘All the usual enemies, they’ve just changed shape.’ Natalie picked out a glass and filled it with Scotch before smelling and swallowing it. ‘Good stuff.’ She smacked her lips in appreciation.
‘How can I help?’
She stared long and hard, formulating what she was about to say, and put the glass down on the coffee table with a loud click. ‘You disappoint me, cheri. I thought you’d be eager to assist a damsel in distress.’
‘Be serious, Natalie.’
‘Believe me, I wanted to be with you again, cheri.’ She moved her head from side to side, so hair covered her eyes. ‘Every time I’m on a boat I remember you.’ She laughed. ‘But I really need help.’
Not wanting to get involved, he raised both hands.
‘Please, I have no one else.’
‘Okay, what can I do?’
With a pleading look that appeared genuine, she took his hand. ‘There’s one th–’
A knock interrupted her, and she looked around for somewhere to hide.
‘Go into the bedroom. I’ll get rid of them.’
His heart raced. Why did her presence always mean danger?
Another knock.
Unable to see anyone through the spy hole, he put an ear to the wood. A muffled voice, someone talking low, trying not to be overheard.
‘Who is it?’
The reply was indistinct, but he recognised the timbre of the voice and opened up. Pickering pushed past and looked back over a shoulder as if being pursued.
‘That’s a coincidence, had Natalie here. Almost like old times.’
He wheeled around. ‘Christ! Where?’
‘She’s long gone,’ he said, feeling guilty for lying. But if she revealed herself now, there might be complications.
‘I detected her scent. What did she want?’
‘I didn’t find out.’
‘Hope you didn’t make promises. She’s dangerous. Don’t forget, she tried to kill you.’
‘You took a risk coming here. MI6 are probably watching this place. What’s so urgent?’
‘I needed the gear you bought, old man.’
‘Come on, Pickering. There’s something else.’
Pickering’s expression darkened. ‘Alena’s in trouble.’
‘What? Why?’ Confused, he’d been waiting seven years to meet her again. ‘Where is she?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Apparently, she and Freddie were hiding on Shetland, but the Nazis found out.’
‘You always maintained you didn’t know where they were hidden.’
‘Didn’t, I swear. Two minders are dead in the croft. Local police claim the man shot the woman with his gun before turning it on himself.’
‘Convenient.’
‘Exactly. Our information is there are at least two former SS men involved.’
‘And Alena and Freddie?’
‘Not up to speed at the moment. My sources say they got away and left the island. But the trail’s gone cold.’
‘So they may be on the mainland with the Nazis not far behind.’
Ben had forgotten Natalie was in the bedroom.
‘She might try to contact you,’ Pickering said and glanced at the bottle of whisky, pointing a finger. ‘May I?’
The initial surge of elation soon evaporated. ‘And those thugs will be paying me a visit.’
‘The thing is they won’t give up until they have the boy.’
‘Will it never end?’ Slumping in his seat, he took another mouthful and the Scotch burned all the way through his intestines.
‘Little hope of that, old man.’
He drained the glass and flung it at the wall, and it smashed into myriad stars of crystal.
With a smile, Natalie listened by the open bedroom door.
12
Argentina
The inefficient were always the weakest links in any strategy. No matter how clever the scheme, the individual who failed through ineptness or cowardice could break it. He believed mistakes could be corrected, but the stress required him to settle his stomach by taking a surreptitious swig of magnesium carbonate. His career had been built on attention to detail. What had happened here was unprofessional.
Müller raised the pencil in his left hand against the light and checked the point with one eye closed. With a sigh, he concentrated on it until the lead was perfect. Klein had failed the organisation by falling for the oldest trick in the book. The woman had fooled Klein so her partner could follow him to the compound. In a different era, he would have had him executed, but men of his particular talents were harder to find these days. Instead, he ordered his immediate return to England with the warning that if he failed to deliver the boy, he would be answerable for his actions. And he made sure he understood what that meant. His negligence would have endangered the whole operation had the intruder been able to get a message to his superiors.
He flicked on the intercom and gave his secretary a curt order before picking up another pencil and working on it.
Within minutes, Mengele and Steinling entered the room without knocking. ‘You have something of interest to show me, Heinrich,’ the doctor said.
‘Be patient. It will surprise even a man of such diverse tastes as yours.’
To the doctor, it sounded like a rebuke, but he kept silent and studied Müller, wondering what he had in store for him. Before he fled to Argentina, he had never met Gestapo Müller, so called to identify him from several other generals of the same name. But his ruthless reputation preceded him. The fact he was a consummate politician played a major part in his elevation to the Head of the Gestapo and his survival in the position. After serving in the last year of the First World War as an 18-year-old pilot, Müller had been a policeman in Munich before joining the Gestapo fourteen years later. Ironically, he had been an opponent of the Nazi party, but he had an unswerving belief in duty and unquestioning loyalty to whoever ran the German state. The extermination of the Jews in Europe was his responsibility, and Adolf Eichmann reported to him. His influence increased at the end of 1941 under Hitler’s Nach und Nebel decree, which invested the Gestapo with powers that placed them above the law. Night and Fog struck terror in Germany and all occupied countries. They could arrest anyone, usually in the middle of the night, and the victims disappeared without a trace, their families never knowing if they were alive.
A knock on the office door interrupted their conversation and two guards dragged in the prisoner.
Müller was interested to see that he was no worse for wear after interrogation. He nodded to Mengele. ‘Gut, gut.’
He switched his attention to the man. ‘We have not harmed you physically, and that is down to the expertise of my colleague.’ He gestured in Mengele’s direction.
Emotionless, the man glanced at the doctor and then at him.
‘You have been part of a useful experiment, the results of which we will put to good use.’ He waved a hand at the guards, who pushed him into a chair facing them.
After the darkness of his cell, he blinked at the light and grunted as he feared what was about to happen.
‘You have been invaluable,’ Müller said, and his small mean mouth twitched in a kind of smile. ‘You told us all we need to know.’ Pausing as if to calculate the value of what they had learned, he added: ‘So our business is finished.’
The intruder screwed up his eyes in bewilderment, sure he had revealed nothing of importance. The guard dogs had cornered him in the grounds of the estancia. He remembered being forced into a cell and the doctor
, whom he realised was Mengele, entering and, as they restrained him, sticking a needle in his arm. Everything up until now was a blank.
‘You are confused,’ he said, ‘wondering why we did not torture you? Nowadays, we do not need those heavy-handed methods, which often yielded unsatisfactory results. Prisoners would say anything to stop the pain, and some died under interrogation. Unreliable and a waste of time. Herr Doctor, here,’ he offered a mock bow to his colleague, ‘has made that redundant. Is that not so, doctor?’
Mengele shifted in his chair and leant forward, a smile giving way to a look of concentration. ‘No doubt you have heard of sodium pentothal? Some call it the truth serum. It was useful but very unstable and could be lethal most times. At Auschwitz, I developed another much more refined drug. It did not kill but instead opened the door to the brain no matter how much the subject wanted to keep it closed. I used that on you. I have conducted experiments on hundreds of prisoners. But many ended up having their brains wiped clean so that they became drooling idiots unable to carry out any task, even the simplest. I refined the drug so that now there are no side effects although prolonged use could still cause permanent brain damage. You were my lab rat if you like. You performed well.’
Mengele sat back, grateful for the chance to discuss his work, and Müller poured another drink.
‘I didn’t give you any information.’
Müller laughed, and Mengele joined in. ‘You did. For example, you told us how you set up that bitch to act as a decoy.’ He glared at him. ‘Klein was so busy ogling her he overlooked your presence. Natural, I suppose. An attractive woman can have that effect, even on a dedicated soldier. More important, we know everything about your work for French Intelligence. Also where you live, your wife’s name.’ He snapped his fingers trying to remember it, ‘Suzette, and your two children, two boys. I could go on. But it is enough that you answered every question in full. And you smiled as you did. Is that not the case, Herr Doctor?’
