by Vic Robbie
‘Who knows, South America maybe.’
The weight of the silence grew until interrupted by a heavy knock. Startled, they turned to each other.
‘Who can that be?’ Alena scrambled to sit upright.
Reckoning the cops had returned to ask more questions, he pulled open the door. No one was there. He looked both ways and was on the point of closing it when he glimpsed something move. He stepped out. From there, a part of the pool was visible, and another movement attracted his attention. As he walked towards it, he saw a cream linen trouser leg and a brown loafer. If he had been sensible, he would have gone inside for a weighty object or a knife for protection, but there was no time. As he turned the corner, he was met by the embarrassed expression of the last person he expected to see.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘That’s a great welcome for an old friend.’ Pickering sniffed and tugged on his beard. ‘A Scotch with plenty of ice would be in order.’
Ben studied him, struggling to find a rational reason for his presence. He looked out of place in a linen suit with a broad-brimmed Panama shoved back on his head. You could take a man out of England but not England out of the man. What did Pickering want? Nodding at Pickering, he encouraged him to explain.‘If you’re on the wanted list, how did you manage to get out of the country?’
Pickering made to rise, but Ben’s persistent stare dissuaded him. Instead, he put up his hands in surrender. ‘Bit complicated, old man. More to it than you might think.’
‘Try me.’
As if for inspiration, he looked around and fixed his gaze on an ugly palmetto rather than meet the inquiring stare. ‘My excommunication from SIS was not as it seemed.’
‘Go on.’ He had a feeling that he would not like what he was about to hear.
‘It was a device to bring me closer to you and especially Alena.’ Pickering gave an apologetic look as if seeking forgiveness.
‘Why?’
‘There’s a good reason.’ He hung his head.
‘I don’t understand, you’d better explain.’
‘Before I say anything,’ Pickering settled in his chair, ‘I have to say I’ve always been on your side. There are many things I disagree with, but I was following orders.’ Looking for an ounce of understanding, he stared at Ben.
‘Get on with it.’
‘Everything is going to plan. Bartley, that’s my boss these days,’ he looked as if it were beyond his understanding, ‘and the higher-ups knew there was a large Nazi network operating in England. Mostly people who refused to come to terms with losing the war. Not those idiots wandering around in black shirts, but the dangerous ones. The real Nazis. We wanted to crack down on them.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘We leaked information that Alena and Freddie were hiding in Shetland. We reckoned they’d come out of the woodwork and…’ He stumbled over his words. ‘And it would lead to their controllers.’
Fuck you, Pickering. ‘You used Alena and Freddie as decoys?’
‘Planned to take them off the island before the Nazis arrived. At first, we had it under control, but they moved quicker than expected, and we also underestimated Alena. She escaped. We made mistakes, big ones. Afraid Magnus and Shona bought it. Bad show, old man.’
‘So you engineered this?’
As if reluctant to continue, he studied his fingernails, but Ben’s anger demanded an explanation. ‘You might say that. When we realised Nazis were heading for Shetland, I had to feed you the story that SIS were after me. Back-up. If Alena escaped, she’d seek your help. Bartley insisted that if I were no longer working for the intelligence service, you’d be more likely to confide in me. Only intended as insurance in case things went wrong. Damage limitation, I suppose.’
‘And you agreed to that?’ He couldn’t hide his disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you protect them once they got off the island?’
‘Not that straightforward.’
‘Killers were chasing them.’
‘Exactly, we’d enticed the Nazis out of the woodwork and could move on them. If Freddie and Alena had no protection, they’d come after them. That’s why Bartley gave the impression he’d no idea who they were.’
‘Using a wounded animal as a lure to bring out the predators.’
Pickering coughed and coloured. ‘Not as bad as that.’
‘For God’s sake, they could’ve been killed.’
‘No, no. That wouldn’t have happened.’ Pickering raised a hand in defence. ‘We were watching to ensure no harm came to them. When you met her at the hotel in Soho, I was in the next room.’
Feeling used and betrayed by a so-called friend, he rose to his feet. Fists balled, he wanted to hit him but restrained himself. The story was going to become darker.
Nervous, Pickering realised what he was thinking. ‘The Nazis wouldn’t let a minor setback deter them. They’d renew their efforts, and we wanted to get as many of them as possible.’
‘I’ve heard of dirty tricks…’ The scenario was developing like negatives in a darkroom. ‘After all that we went through?’
‘Wasn’t happy about it, old man. Got to believe me.’ The blue veins in Pickering’s bulbous, red nose pulsated and sweat streamed down his face. ‘Had no choice. Went along with it. Had to keep in the mix, so I knew what they were up to.’ And as a token of peace, he added: ‘That’s why I’m here, old man, as a friend.’
‘I doubt that.’ He glanced around the poolside rather than at Pickering because he wanted to kill him. ‘So much for your protection, the boy’s been abducted by the Nazis. Your charade has failed, and Alena has lost her son.’
‘Not quite.’ Pickering settled in his chair. ‘There’s hope yet.’
A sense of loathing was overwhelming him, and he didn’t want to listen to more lies. ‘What are you talking about?’ He wrinkled his nose, smelling the stench of deceit.
‘As I said, it’s about eliminating the Nazi networks. Should have been straightforward. Something we had under control. Then the French got involved. They seem to exert some power over Bartley. No idea what, but I’ll find out one day. Snowballed into something much bigger. Entente cordiale and all that tosh, I suppose.’ He hesitated, studying Ben’s face, unsure whether to continue.
‘Get to the point.’
‘French Intelligence has a special unit tracking down Nazi criminals.’ He was talking faster now. ‘It’s led by a hard-headed woman who’ll stop at nothing.’
Pickering was wasting time when he should be doing something to rescue Freddie.
‘Anyway, the bigwigs,’ Pickering raised an arm above his head to show it was from the top, ‘agreed to give them all possible assistance. In fact, they handed over the whole operation lock, stock and barrel. Whatever the frogs wanted, they got.’ He reached for his pipe and started to light up before changing his mind.
‘I don’t think I want to hear this.’ He moved forward, and Pickering shrank, talking even faster to prevent him taking another step.
‘They have some hot intelligence concerning top Nazis in South America. Wanted to make our operation a whole lot bigger. If they, with our help, could stop them, the world would be a safer place. Don’t need to tell you these people are ruthless and dedicated to their cause to build a Fourth Reich. Fuckin’ lunatics! You know they want Freddie. The Frenchies’ information is that at least two of Hitler’s most fanatical followers are based somewhere near Buenos Aires.’
Why would the Nazis want to bring attention to themselves? ‘Surely, they can’t take on the world again.’
‘Their strategy is much different now. A long-term campaign.’ He put up a hand. ‘I’ve seen some of the evidence from my contact in South America, but they got to him in London. This is a new kind of war. No armies, no acts of aggression. At least not at the moment. Their people will infiltrate big business, education, the legal system, the medical world, the military, and politics and more. A classic tactic. Manoeuvre their people into top positions. And if someone blocks their path or opposes
them, they’ll be removed in an accident or a contrived suicide. Worked well for Hitler. They won’t achieve their goals in our lifetime but possibly in Freddie’s. Then the Nazi ideology will grow in strength in all organisations of influence. We have to end this now, but they are expert in covering their tracks and, of course, we’ll receive no help from the authorities in those countries. The French have locals on the ground there, but just when they believe they’re making advances their operatives disappear. They have the knowledge and the manpower. And we have the key to unlock it.’
Realising what they were planning, he shuddered. ‘And the key is Freddie. The kidnappers will take him to Buenos Aires, and that will lead you to the Nazi hierarchy.’
‘Exactly,’ Pickering said, relieved that he understood.
‘And you agreed to this?’
Embarrassed, he blustered. ‘Well, the England part of it, yes. But the French side of the operation was out of my hands. Not my call. I’d no choice. Bartley calls the shots, and he’s got his sights on a knighthood, the pompous oaf.’
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. ‘I could kill you for this, you bastard.’ He spat out the words like bullets.
‘But you won’t because you need me.’ Pickering smirked, making him angrier. ‘I’m here to take you to Argentina. They’ve taken Freddie over the border to Mexico. That’s why we had to…’ Pickering’s voice trailed off, realising he had said too much.
‘Had to what?’
‘Not important, old man?’
He balled his fists again and moved towards him. ‘Tell me.’
‘We had to… slow you down.’
‘What?’
‘Couldn’t let you catch them. Otherwise, it would have killed the whole operation.’
‘So, instead, you almost killed us. Your people ran into us at the junction.’
‘Nothing to do with me. Didn’t want that to happen.’
‘I thought I could trust you, but I was always suspicious of Natalie.’ His voice was heavy with bitterness. ‘So she’s working for you?’
Pickering was nonplussed. ‘No, why should she be?’
He knew Pickering would never admit it because that would be the final betrayal. ‘At least Freddie should be safe for the moment, but what happens when he arrives there?’
‘There’s an elaborate surveillance operation in place in BA, and they’ll track the bastards who’ve got him. I insisted you and Alena should be there although they weren’t happy. Afraid you’d be in the way. But it’s the least I could do in the circumstances.’
‘Really?’
‘True, I put my foot down.’
‘So Alena, like Freddie, is just another pawn in your sick game.’
A slight movement to the side of the patio attracted his attention. From around the corner, Alena appeared having wondered about Ben’s absence and worried when she heard voices. For several minutes she had listened in the shadows and found it hard to contain her anger.
‘Bastard!’ Her voice was as sharp as a buzz-saw, and she rubbed her eyes as if waking from a deep sleep.
Ben stood up. ‘Get up, man,’ he ordered a confused Pickering who stumbled to his feet. And, as he prepared to launch a punch, Alena brushed between them. Pulling back her arm, she slapped him with all her strength on his nose, causing blood to stain the cream linen suit.
32
Argentina
The journey was long and tiring. Freddie drifted in and out of sleep never knowing where they were or what would happen next. There were planes, he had lost count how many, and cars and the men did not speak to him. But Natalie was always close by, and that pacified him, and he took comfort from her closeness.
‘Everything will be okay,’ she reassured him repeatedly, and he wanted to believe her. All he could think of was his mother, and he knew she would worry. It was like a festering wound. Natalie insisted the people who had taken him were friends, but real friends would not do that. She attempted to soothe his fears by repeating it was ‘for maman’s sake’, and if he did as he was told the sooner they would be together.
It was dark when they arrived at the compound with his nose pressed hard against the window. He found it difficult to understand what was happening. Soldiers with rifles stopped them at a gate and checked their papers. Floodlights illuminated tall fences, and dogs barked. A large house blazed with lights, yet he saw only Natalie and the men in the car. Taken to a bedroom, he was relieved she had the next room. She left the adjoining door ajar so he could call her if need be. Over a light supper, she explained that tomorrow he would meet people who were looking forward to seeing him. Afterwards, the luxury of the first bed in several days helped him drift off into a deep sleep full of vivid dreams.
Natalie awakened him next morning when she pulled back the curtains and flooded the room with sharp sunlight, making him squint. Outside, grass, burned brown in places, stretched to wire fences about fifty yards away.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
She turned with a warm smile that she rarely used, but he loved when she did. ‘First, you must take a bath then we’ll have breakfast on the terrace.’ She waved a hand in the direction of the window. ‘When you’re ready, you need to change into those clothes.’ Laid out on the bottom of the bed were a shirt and shorts, not his.
During the meal, a plump little woman served them. She fussed around and brought a plate of food and waited with her head cocked to one side until he had taken a mouthful. Once satisfied, she scuttled away to prepare another dish. He heard cars and trucks but saw nothing. After eating he was eager to explore, but a man in a white jacket and black tie came and spoke to Natalie. The more he talked, the graver her face became, but she said nothing, just listened and nodded. When he departed, she sighed and, as if gathering an inner strength, lifted her shoulders and straightened.
‘Okay, let’s go and say hello. They are friends of maman, and they want to meet you.’ She winked at him and took his head in both hands, kissing him on the forehead.
‘Let’s see now,’ she said, checking his attire of a tan, long-sleeved shirt, black shorts, white knee-length socks, and brown shoes. She tried to put a rolled black neckerchief with a woggle around his neck but gave up when she was unable to get it right. It reminded him of his mother doing the same on his first day at school in Shetland.
‘The clothes fit you perfectly, but, ah.’ She pushed back an errant lock of his brown hair that had fallen onto his forehead. ‘It’s in your eyes; we can’t have that.’ Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a comb and ran it through his hair. ‘Ah,’ she accepted with a tut when the lock fell back. ‘That’ll have to do.’
She showed him into a large, gloomy room made all the more so by the dark wood panelling and the heavy mahogany furniture. He sensed she was nervous, standing aside to usher him in with a gentle push when he hesitated. Two men waited. At first, they did not speak but watched him, making him uncomfortable. Grown-ups were sometimes like that as if unused to speaking to children, but this was different. They were observing and appraising him. He scanned the space. Sunshine seemed unable to penetrate here. It was like a library. Piles of paper and folders and books lay on a big desk, and he thought they must be untidy. At school on Shetland, his teacher told him a tidy desk meant a tidy mind although he wasn’t sure what that meant. Across from the desk, firewood was set in a fireplace but was unlit. And he wondered why they needed a fire in such a hot place. Not like the croft where fire was necessary for survival. Furled red and black flags stood on either side of the fireplace, and in the centre above the mantelpiece a man in uniform stared out from a painting. Familiar but frightening. Unsmiling, with lips shut tight and cold lifeless eyes. The pose was supposed to be imperious, he guessed. An Iron Cross pinned to the left breast of a mustard coloured safari jacket. A red armband with a black swastika on a white background wrapped around his left arm. The man’s dark hair flopped on his forehead, and a small black moustache rese
mbled a smudge. His right hand held a wooden chair with his left placed incongruously on his hip. The pose of a showgirl. He sniggered but stopped when they glowered at him. He moved away from the painting, yet the subject’s stare seemed to follow.
They hadn’t spoken, instead smiling at him and each other in a conspiratorial way. Did they expect him to speak? The one sat behind the desk cleared his throat. And he paid attention for the first time.
‘Hello,’ he said, feeling nervous.
The one he reckoned to be the more senior rolled a cigarette between his fingers and stared at him. He had piercing eyes and a turned-down, thin-lipped mouth. The other stood just behind and seemed nervous although he was more normal with a full head of dark-brown hair and a luxuriant moustache. Both wore lightweight suits, and each had an identical metal badge on the left lapel of their jackets.
Still, they said nothing, and he wondered what they expected of him. A song or dance, maybe. Instead, he wandered around the room, anything other than meet their gaze.
‘Hello, Freddie,’ the senior man broke the silence at last. ‘Willkommen to your new home.’
Unsure, he glanced at Natalie who tried to reassure him with a smile. How could this be home without maman? Emboldened, he approached the desk. They almost shrank and stared, both glancing at each other affirming something they had obviously discussed. And he thought they looked smug like card players with a winning hand.
Unable to think of anything else to say, he asked: ‘Are you Germans?’
‘Sprechen sie Deutsch, Freddie?’ the man behind the desk said, his voice weaker than his stature suggested.
‘We beat the Jerries in the war, don’t you know.’ He had learned the odd German word from Alena and remembered the language from their imprisonment at the castle. It brought back unpleasant memories.
One of the Germans laughed, and it was as sharp as the crack of a whip.
‘And I can speak French, too. My maman is French, don’t you know.’
The man grimaced, and he realised it was an attempt at a smile. ‘My name is Heinrich Müller, and I am proud to be German.’ He pointed to his colleague. ‘And this is Dr Josef Mengele, my friend.’ Mengele smirked.
