After Midnight

by Robert Ryan

I checked the Sten. It was a Mark II. There was a full magazine: thirty-two rounds. I flipped the single-shot bolt across. It might jam on full automatic fire. Even if it didn’t, I had no desire to empty the whole mag in a few seconds. ‘Is there a way to end this then?’ I yelled.

  ‘I can get you out of the country, Jack. A safe passage. What happened in Domodossola isn’t your business, it never was. You English only thought it should be. Walk away now, Jack. We are even. Furio and Ragno. They cancel each other out.’

  ‘Did Francesca know?’

  There was surprise in his voice. ‘About what?’

  ‘Any of it. Morris. The money.’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  I popped my head up and risked another scan of the approaches, but there was no sign of life. They were staying put for the moment. After all, they didn’t know what other surprises we might have up our sleeve. ‘Because I do.’

  ‘Morris? No, Francesca knew nothing about that. What do you mean about the money?’

  ‘You didn’t trade all the art for guns, Fausto. You kept some to set yourself up as Riccardo Conti, financier, industrialist and charity director. Am I right? Maybe you cut Nino out of it and he came back for his share. Maybe you didn’t like him talking to me. Perhaps you knew the SISDe were on to him. Whatever the reason, you killed him and put him in my plane.’

  ‘Nino doesn’t count. Furio and Ragno. One each.’ Lang? I thought. Morris? Bill Carr? There were too many dead to do any simple sums. ‘Did Francesca know?’ he continued. ‘She’s an Italian wife. She knows better than to ask about men’s business.’ I doubted that, somehow. ‘What do you say? You promise to leave Italy, I promise to let you go.’

  A squall blew rain into my face and I turned my back on it. Could I trust him? Had I ever been able to trust him? But was this man Fausto or Riccardo Conti? Truth was, they were both killers. The Red Stocking man on the lake—the one that puzzled Zopatti so much—did Conti kill him, too? I’d put money on it. I’d wager that the SOE man was someone else trying to stop the Republic of Domodossola, and had to be eliminated. ‘Give me some time to think,’ I said. ‘The girl is badly burned.’

  A silence, then he said: ‘Thirty minutes. Before we all freeze to death.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Jaaack.’ Again, the drawn-out vowel.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I don’t want to have to kill you.’

  Lindy wasn’t burned, but she was cold, standing in the doorway with the Sten held at waist height, ready to shoot anyone else who tried to enter. I made to give her my jacket to add to her own, but she shook her head.

  ‘You’ve only got a T-shirt on. You’ll catch your death.’ I laughed at that and leaned against her, sheltering her as best I could. I was thankful for the rain. It was masking the sickly smell of burned flesh. At what point had they pulled Ragno in? After he had helped me with the CrossCountry, probably. I didn’t think he’d been up to anything at that point. Whenever it happened, Ragno would always follow Fausto blindly. If his old boss told him I had to go, then I had to go. I doubted the spider boy had even asked why.

  ‘You want to tell me who he is?’ asked Lindy.

  ‘The dead man?’

  She shook her head quickly, as if trying to throw off the image of the incinerated body. ‘No. The man trying to kill us. Out there.’

  I gave her the short version.

  ‘But you saw a picture of him, Francesca’s husband—in the clippings. Why didn’t you recognise him?’

  ‘It was the same picture every time. Journalists are either lazy or up against a deadline. They need a photo, they use a library shot. Fausto planted phoney pictures, then became the reclusive, publicity-shy businessman. It looked enough like him to pass as a poor likeness if you actually met him …’ I felt her start to shiver again. ‘Look, I’ll go into the other courtyards, see if there is anything else that will keep us dry.’ Lightning flashed from over the ridge, and I counted till the next boom of thunder. The storm was coming our way.

  The first walled area I tried was mostly covered in a thicket of weeds, and I rummaged through them in vain for any booty. I found what we needed in the final enclosure, long and beautiful and still tangled in its parachute lines, although the canopy had rotted and blown away. For the first time in an age I thanked God profusely. I unclipped the fasteners and prised off the lid. There was a long, soft tearing sound as the two halves parted. I prayed once more, this time that it wasn’t a container of replacement boots, bandages, helmets or chocolate bars. I waited until my eyes adjusted to the gloom within and I could make out the boxes. I felt a warm glow of relief. We were in business.

  I hurried back to Lindy.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘A present from your father.’

  Thirty-Five

  OF COURSE I COULDN’T be certain it was a supply cylinder from Bill Carr’s Liberator, but it was a nice thought. It was the right size, eight feet long, but I guessed that scores of them had been dropped in this part of the world in 1944 and 1945. I caught the expression on Lindy’s face, though, and realised she was convinced it was from her father’s plane. I squeezed her arm.

  ‘Better late than never, eh?’ she said. ‘Does this mean that he’s …’

  I shook my head. ‘Somewhere near? No. It just means he let the cylinders go. He could have crashed miles away.’

  The rain was coming down heavily now, plastering her hair to her face. I found a waxed cotton sheet inside the steel tube and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  I took out those supplies for which we had no immediate need, such as the dried food rations and cooking utensils, and put them to one side. I began a second pile of useful items, beginning with a first-aid kit and a pack of what were labelled ‘energy’ bars. Next out was a wooden crate. The planks broke easily, and the raindrops thrummed onto the thick waxed paper within. I tore through it with my fingers and felt steel. It was another Mark II Sten. Borrowing Lindy’s lighter, I read the marking on the top of the magazine housing. STEN MK II LONG BRANCH 1943. That made it Canadian. I did the same with the weapon she had taken from Ragno. There were the same markings. That suggested Fausto and Co had found another cylinder at some point and kept quiet about it. I remembered Ragno at Domodossola being very cagey about where he had acquired his brand new Sten. It made it very likely that my original thought had been right—that this particular cargo had come out of the belly of EH-148.

  There was a second Sten and a box of ammunition. I didn’t like these crude machine guns as weapons—I preferred my Colt, any sane man would—but in terms of sheer firepower and noise, they made us a small army. Then came a metal case marked 20 x GP Mk 5, which made us a large army. I lifted it out very gingerly. There was no telling what two decades might do to grenades. It was when I reached the bottom of the tube that I began to feel giddy. I chuckled to myself.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bloody marvellous, that’s what it is.’

  Not all supply cylinders would have had identical contents, and I was sure that the one where Ragno had found his Sten hadn’t contained the six-foot-long crate that occupied the depths of this one. I used the lighter once more to read the crude stampings. M9A1. My history of ordnance was rather basic and I muttered to myself.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Lindy.

  ‘I am wondering if this is magneto or battery operated.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If it’s battery, it’s more than likely useless after all this time. If it’s magneto, well, we’re in with a chance.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Give me a hand to lift it out and I’ll show you.’ I reached in and heaved up one end; she grabbed the other. ‘It was named after a musical instrument used by a comedian, I think.’

  The pair of us manhandled it down to the ground. This crate had been nailed good and tight, so I
fetched one of the old screwdrivers from the box of nuts and bolts and began to lever away at the plywood.

  We both jumped as a zig-zag of electricity seemed to hug the mountainside, snaking off into the far distance. The clap of thunder immediately boxed our ears. The storm was overhead. It might move along soon, with a bit of luck. I looked at my watch. Eighteen minutes left. Just over a quarter of an hour to learn a set of totally fresh skills. As I pulled the lid off the crating with a squeal of protest from the nails, I tried not to think of old dogs and new tricks. Particularly wet old dogs. I ripped the top from the box, flinging the planks over my shoulders.

  ‘What is it?’ repeated Lindy.

  ‘A bazooka.’

  I hauled the weapons over to the gateway of the fort and considered what Fausto would do now. It was the same old partisan out there, and he would be running through familiar scenarios. I tried to put myself in his position. We held the high ground, were armed—better than he knew—and he probably didn’t have enough men to rush us, not without inviting more casualties.

  Who would be left out there? Fausto himself. Rosario. Pavel? Maybe. They weren’t good odds. I’d got lucky with Ragno. I just had to hope my luck held. The rain eased, and I caught the sound of a rockfall some way distant. I strained my ears, not sure if I had imagined it.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  Lindy nodded. ‘Sounded like stones falling.’

  I peered up into the thinning rain, scanning the cliff face, but could see nothing. ‘Idiot,’ I said to myself.

  She lowered her voice, as if we might be overheard. ‘What is it?’

  We listened intently again to the sounds of the night and the storm. I thought I picked up more movement, but Lindy disagreed. ‘And I’ve got younger ears than you,’ she reminded me.

  ‘Maybe. But I didn’t imagine the first one.’

  ‘Could be a goat.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I stifled a laugh. ‘Of course not.’

  I took the bazooka, checked it didn’t have one up the spout, and hoisted it onto my shoulder. I held my breath as I pulled the long lever that functioned as a trigger and heard the crackle of an electrical spark in my ear. Magneto, you little beauty, I thought. Maybe we aren’t going to die tonight after all.

  I summoned Lindy to my side and sheltered us beneath the archway of the gate while I ran through what I thought their strategy would be if we were outflanked from above. I then outlined our response.

  ‘Sounds reasonable,’ she said in a tone that suggested it was anything but. I caught her shaking her head in disbelief. I’d been through stuff like this before, so I could believe it was happening. She must have thought she’d be waking up soon, telling Furio over breakfast all about the daft dream she’d had.

  ‘Reasonable? That’s the one thing none of this is. You shouldn’t be out here, for a start.’

  ‘Hey, as I remember I switched the fan on and helped heave the shit into it. Lang didn’t have to bully me, you know. He just told me … Well, it doesn’t matter now, I guess.’

  ‘You can tell me all about Archibald Lang later,’ I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask me if there was going to be a later. I opened the soggy cardboard box that held a dozen energy bars, ripped the greaseproof paper off one and bit into it. It was some kind of compressed fruit and cereal, horribly chewy, but as far as I could tell, still edible. I handed Lindy one.

  ‘Christ,’ she said as her teeth struggled into the bar. ‘You might as well have left the wrapper on.’

  ‘I’ll do the chicken chasseur in a while,’ I said. ‘Right now, it’s all we’ve got.’

  A gust of wind moaned through the dilapidated doors and swirled around us. It sounded like the cry of a human being. ‘Are you scared?’ she asked quietly, as she took another mouthful of the rations.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I’m terrified, Jack.’

  I reached out and touched her face and could think of nothing to say but, ‘So am I.’

  She shook her head in disbelief. ‘The brave TT rider? Mosquito pilot? Tally-ho and all that? I thought you were never scared, you guys.’

  I pulled her close. ‘We’re always scared,’ I admitted. ‘Just a little. It’s what keeps us alive.’ I even half-believed it myself.

  Thirty-Six

  THE VOICE I HAD come to hate drifted from the trees, again stretching my name so it sounded like an insult. ‘Jaaaaack!’

  I closed my eyes. So he wasn’t trying to outflank us personally, someone else was up in those cliffs. Fausto was still in the woods, aiming to keep our attention over there while the others sneaked behind us. At least, that was my best guess.

  ‘Time’s up, Jack. Come on out.’

  ‘You know what to do?’ I asked. Lindy nodded. ‘Sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ I said with all the conviction I could muster.

  If a twenty-year-old magneto works; if they don’t get you first; if your one good arm is still up to the job.

  I’d forgotten what a miserable bastard that little voice could be sometimes.

  ‘Go under the steps, close to the wall,’ I breathed. ‘Once I fire, then you begin. Just keep going until I tell you to stop. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s risky. You’ll be out in the open.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Arm OK?’

  She seemed to grow two inches, irritation in her voice, the vulnerability gone. ‘Stop fussing. Don’t worry about me, fly boy,’ she said brusquely. ‘You just do your part.’ She used the oilskin to create a makeshift sack and loaded it with her grenades before taking up her position.

  I moved further back into the darkness of the entrance until I hit the remains of the CrossCountry, and I thought for a moment what my father would say if he could see me now. I imagined him shaking his head, rolling up his sleeves, and getting stuck in to help. I wished he was here.

  ‘Jaack!’

  ‘Fausto!’ I yelled back, my voice ringing off the old stone that surrounded me.

  While I waited for a reply, I slid a shaped charge into the bazooka, locked it into place and hoisted the tube onto my shoulder once more, pulling it in as snugly as possible. I had no idea how much recoil one of these things had, nor much idea how you ranged them. A bit of on-the-job training was imminent.

  ‘What do you say?’ Fausto called out. ‘Last chance?’

  I whispered to Lindy: ‘Your young ears get a direction on his voice?’

  ‘Best I can,’ she hissed back from her hiding place.

  ‘More or less straight ahead of you, I think. Can you manage the distance?’

  She tutted. ‘I told you. I could always bowl my cousins out. Regular Ray Lindwall, me.’

  Now probably wasn’t the best time to tell her I knew nothing about cricket. I just hoped this Lindwall was good, fast and accurate, because that was what I needed.

  I elevated the snout of the bazooka, felt the cold metal against my face, aiming up at the dark slab of granite that loomed over us. The bad weather was rolling away across the plains now, and there was the faintest glimmering of stars, enough for me to make out the jagged line where cliff met sky. However, that was hundreds of feet above me. Too high for them to climb, I suspected. No, they would be moving lower down, along one of the terraces that nature had carved into the cliff face. I would have to wait for them to show themselves.

  I raised my voice. ‘It’s like this, Fausto. You’ll have to come and get me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Fausto loudly. ‘You give us no choice then.’

  Two muzzle flashes flared simultaneously from above, to my right. The fort filled with the ringing of high velocity rounds hitting the stonework of the parapet, right where they expected me to be crouched. I heard Lindy swear as the fusillade began to move down towards her position beneath the stairs. It was time to find out
what twenty years had done to the bazooka.

  I swung its flared snout to point at the starbursts of light from the gun barrels, squeezed the trigger, and heard the magneto whirr, imagining the electrical spark travelling down the wires to the shaped charge. Nothing happened.

  I pulled the metal level again, twice, harder each time, willing the spark to make contact. There was a hiss as the igniter charge caught and then a terrible roaring in my right ear and I felt a surprisingly small kick against my shoulder. A trail of sparks streaked upwards at a 60-degree angle, then the missile buried itself in the cliff face with a massive thump.

  I was already thinking it must be a dud when the night was cut by an orange flash and the detonation came at me like a fist, carrying stones and rocks and dust, the punch throwing me back against the motorbike.

  As I untangled myself from the bazooka, Lindy staggered forward into the courtyard and, ignoring the debris raining down around her, threw the first of our grenades in a high arc, over the wall and down towards where we thought Fausto must be. The explosion was a dull, feeble sound compared to the bazooka round, but I knew the effect they could have when you were on the receiving end. She threw four more, then gathered up the oilskin sheet containing the rest and took the steps three at a time up to the parapet.

  Sections of the damaged cliff were still falling, debris smacking into the ruined roof of the keep. It was a far larger explosion than I had anticipated. Had I got really lucky and killed or maimed them? Perhaps they were just stunned. I would find out soon enough. I swapped the bazooka for a Sten, and went to join Lindy.

  She was kneeling behind the low wall, pulling pin after pin and tossing her grenades down towards the treeline. She was a one-woman barrage, the thump of explosions and the whine of hot metal almost one continuous sound. I watched and waited while she heaved a dozen more before I grabbed her wrist. ‘Enough,’ I said, as the last one fell well short of the trees. She was getting tired. ‘Well done.’

  She shook her arm to unlock the tensed muscles, smiled at me, then indicated the cliff. ‘That was quite a show. You got them?’