Agent of the Reich

by Seb Spence

  Suddenly, as they rounded a bend, they saw the Riley about a hundred yards ahead and positioned across the road so as to block it. Standing behind the car were Elliott and two other men, each pointing a gun towards them. The Hillman was parked some way further on beyond the three men, and Vivian Adair and Grace were standing beside it, watching the lorry approach.

  “There’s no room to turn here, Barton. I’m going to have to stop and reverse.”

  “No, Bronx! Ram them! Ram them!”

  The idea seemed to appeal to Moncur and he pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor. “Whatever you say, Barton, but mind: I’m not footing the bill for the damage.”

  As the lorry careered towards the Riley, Barton checked that the windows were shut and then reached down and back at the left side of his seat to open the valve on the hydrogen cylinder that lay behind him on the cab floor. His plan was that once they’d crashed into the roadblock, they’d jump out of the cab and he’d toss a match into it. The explosion might distract Elliott and the others long enough for Bronx and himself to get to the cover of the trees. The smoke from the fire might also attract help. Barton took the browning from his pocket and braced himself for the collision.

  #

  The shock of the impact momentarily stunned Elliott and his two accomplices, who had all assumed the lorry would stop or reverse. It had been an unexpected development, and they had had to jump aside from behind the Riley as the five-ton, six-wheeler Fordson bulldozed it back several feet.

  Elliott was the first to recover his senses. “Get them,” he shouted in a fury. DaSilva, still slightly dazed, went to run round the car’s rear end in order to reach the driver’s side of the lorry, but the back of the Riley was now overhanging the sloping verge and he had to jump across the ditch to get round the car. In doing so, he miscalculated the distance, lost his footing and slid down into the water. Simultaneously, Len made to go to the lorry’s passenger side, but as he swung round, he blundered into Elliott, knocking the gun out of his hand.

  Barton and Bronx were not faring much better. Although, by good fortune, they were not injured in the collision – apart from a few cuts and bruises – they were catapulted forward by it and were disoriented at first. The Browning automatic was jolted out of Barton’s hand by the force of the impact and disappeared somewhere under the seats. He realised there was no time to search for it. Worse still, the violence of the ramming had affected the mechanism of the passenger door, which was now jammed shut, so Barton found he was unable to get out.

  Bronx was unaware of this when he jumped down from the driver’s side. Landing awkwardly, he overbalanced and fell on to his hands and knees. He picked himself up quickly, but as he did so, he became aware that Barton was not in view on the other side of the Fordson. Looking back into the cab, he saw that Barton was struggling to get from the passenger side across to the driver’s side: he had somehow got caught on the gear lever.

  “Go, Bronx, Go!” Barton exhorted, but Moncur paid no attention and went back to help him out.

  #

  Grace and Vivian Adair stood apart from the fray, observing the proceedings from the far side of the clearing. “It’s like watching The Three Stooges meet Laurel and Hardy,” the latter remarked with disdain. After a pause, she turned to Grace: “I’ll have to go and help Elliott. Stay here with the car and stand lookout. Let us know if you see anything coming along from the other direction.”

  “But we’ve hardly seen a car all afternoon. There’ll be no-one here in the forest.”

  “Just do as I say,” she ordered and tossed the car keys to Grace. “And while you’re at it, pump up the tyre, it’s gone soft again.”

  Grace knew she was being sidetracked and had a feeling something unpleasant was about to happen. Reluctantly, she opened the boot and got out the foot pump, all the while looking back towards the scrimmage by the Riley.

  #

  Bronx eventually succeeded in freeing his friend, but as Barton jumped down from the cab they both realised it was too late. Elliott and his two henchmen were standing at the side of the lorry, covering them with their automatics.

  “Well, if it isn’t Pilot Officer Prune and his sidekick!” he sneered. “The game’s over, gentlemen.”

  Barton leant back casually against the side of the cab, just beyond the door, which was ajar. “Well, it looks as if you’ve caught us,” he smiled. “Do you mind if I have a smoke? My nerves are a bit ragged after that.” He put his right hand into the side pocket of his tunic and flicked open the book of matches that was there.

  “Not so fast, Barton. Keep your hand where it is. Hugo, check his pockets”

  DaSilva, soaked from the knees down, was now in a bad mood. He pulled Barton’s hand roughly from his pocket, snatched away the matches and then patted down his other pockets. “He’s unarmed,” he confirmed, passing the matchbook to Elliott. “He was just going for matches.”

  Elliott looked down at the cover of the matchbook: it had a portrait of a woman in 18th century costume and above this was the legend 'Silver Masque Club’.

  “A souvenir of happier times, eh Barton?” He tossed the matches carelessly to the ground. “And where are your cigarettes?”

  “I was hoping that you’d provide one.”

  “Idiot! Hugo, get the rope that’s in the Riley’s boot and tie their hands. And make sure you tie them tight – we don’t want them getting away.”

  #

  As she pumped up the Hillman’s front tyre, Grace Harrison observed the scene at the opposite end of the clearing. Len was holding his automatic out in front of him, covering Barton and Bronx while Hugo DaSilva tied their hands behind their backs. Elliott – gun in hand – and Vivian Adair were standing by, overseeing the procedure. It looked as if things might be coming to a head, in which case, she realised, she needed a plan – and she also needed a weapon.

  She stopped seeing to the tyre and stowed the foot-pump away in the boot of the Hillman. As she did so, she looked among its contents for something she could use and spotted a small tool roll. She opened it up, hoping to find a utility knife, but there was none. The nearest thing to a weapon it held was a small, thin-bladed electrical screwdriver. It was not much, but it would have to do. She pulled it from the roll and slid it into a pocket of her dress. Looking towards the far end of the clearing, she saw that no one, apart from Barton, was paying any attention to her, so she quietly closed the boot and, moving apace, slipped into the forest. She intended to skirt round the edge of the clearing, using the trees for cover, and get as close as she could to where Barton and Bronx were. What she did then would depend on how the situation developed.

  #

  Once the two RAF men were securely bound, Elliott instructed Len and DaSilva to take them into the middle of the clearing and watch over them while he assessed the damage to the vehicles. Noting that the keys were still in the ignition of the Fordson, he climbed in, started it up and reversed a few feet. After switching off the engine, he got out, shut the cab door and went round to the front to see what harm had been done. The bumper and radiator grille of the lorry were badly dented, but apart from that, it seemed pretty unscathed. The Riley, on the other hand, had not come off so well: the front wheel on the passenger side was buckled and the surrounding fender had been flattened. The engine compartment had also been staved in.

  Vivian Adair came over and looked at it. “What a mess – it’s a write off.”

  “Yes, Vivian, thank you for stating the obvious,” he responded tetchily. “Still,” he continued, trying to play down the reversal, “it doesn’t matter – we’ll just take their lorry.”

  “You can’t be serious. You’ll stand out a mile in that thing. Let’s just pack everyone into the Hillman.”

  “There isn’t going to be room for all five of us and our gear – the transmitters and bags and everything. What’s more, we’d be putting all our eggs in one basket. Taking the lorry is a smart move. The police won’t be looking for us in an RAF vehicl
e.”

  “Won’t they be suspicious if you’re not in uniform?”

  “If they stop us, we’ll tell them we’re civilian workers taking it for repair. They’ll see the damage at the front and that will corroborate our story.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, “but I want my case back now. If you get picked up, I will have to complete the mission alone.”

  “I told you, Vivian, I’ll return the case to you when we get to the farmhouse – not before. But first, you have to perform a service for me.”

  “What service?” she said suspiciously.

  “You’ve always disapproved of my methods, haven’t you Vivian? You’ve never appreciated the lengths I’ve had to go to to protect the cell. Well now I think it’s time you got your hands dirty. Come with me.” With that, he turned and walked over to where Len and Hugo were holding the two RAF men.

  “Well, Biggles and Algy,” he said with a pretence of joviality, “you’ve inconvenienced us somewhat, but I’m happy to say it won’t upset our plans. We’re going to take your lorry – fair exchange and all that, eh?”

  “I wouldn’t do it if I were you, old boy,” Barton responded drily, “it’s government property. You’ll get into trouble.”

  “I’m willing to risk it.” Elliott paused, his gaze fixed on Barton, who returned it steadily. Then, with a menacing smile he went on: “This is where we part company, gentlemen. I regret we will now have to terminate our association. My colleague, Miss Adair here, will do the honours,” he said looking at her and passing her his Walther. “You need the practice, Vivian. Oh, and I’d use this if I were you.” He took a silencer from his pocket and tossed it to her: “We don’t want to attract any attention, do we?”

  She glared at him with a look that was part fury and part hatred, but Elliott paid no attention to it. “Adieu, gentlemen,” he quipped to the two captives, and then, in a business-like tone, addressed Len and Hugo: “Let’s transfer the gear from the Riley over to the lorry. Once we’ve done that, we’ll push the car out of the way and then we can set off.” As he turned to go, he leaned toward Vivian Adair and whispered: “Don’t forget, I’ll be watching in the mirror. If you want your case back, these two had better hit the ground before we’re out of sight.”

  #

  As Elliott and his two henchmen walked over to the Riley, Vivian Adair stepped in front of Barton and Moncur and levelled the Walther at them: “Kneel down, both of you.” Reluctantly, they complied with this demand.

  They knelt in silence for half a minute or so and then Barton said wistfully: “You know, the last time I was in this position was at school. I had to kneel in the corner for talking in class.”

  “You obviously haven’t learnt your lesson – shut your yap!” she snapped.

  Looking up at her, Bronx watched attentively, hoping for an opportunity to overpower her and take the gun. Even if only one of them could get away, he thought, it would be worth risking. She just needed to drop her guard momentarily, he told himself, and he would make his move.

  Barton’s attention, however, had now wandered elsewhere. He was looking past her at the three men, who had started to take bags and cases out of the Riley and stash them into the winch cage on the back of the lorry. Once their baggage was loaded in, Elliott covered it all with a tarpaulin that he had found rolled up in the cage. DaSilva, meanwhile, lifted a jerry-can of petrol out of the Riley’s boot and took it over to the lorry. He managed to force open the jammed cab door and placed the can in the passenger footwell. Barton noticed its cap was off: instead, there was a spout fixed in position.

  When they had transferred everything from the boot, they proceeded to bump the car round onto the right-hand verge, making just enough room for the lorry to pass. DaSilva then got behind the wheel of the Fordson, and Len got in at the passenger side and sat in the middle, making room for Elliott. Elliott, however, had one more item to collect from the car: he reached into the front of the Riley and removed from it a leather music case that had been lying on the dashboard. As he was walking over to the lorry with it, he stopped and bent down to pick something up. It was the book of matches that he had tossed away. He seemed to have had second thoughts about discarding them, for he now put them in his pocket before continuing over to the lorry. After getting in at the passenger side, he pulled the cab door shut.

  Barton was aware that Vivian Adair was speaking to him but paid no attention, continuing to observe the occupants in the lorry.

  “I warned you what would happen if you crossed my path again, Barton,” she told him.

  Something in her tone of voice surprised Bronx: she sounded slightly apologetic. He watched as she absently began to screw the silencer onto the barrel of the automatic. He got the impression that her mind was elsewhere. Was she hesitating, he wondered? He reasoned that if they could stall her until the others had set off, he and Barton might stand a better chance if they managed to overpower her.

  “Don’t we get a last wish?” Bronx asked her, in an attempt to delay the fatal moment. “‘The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast’ and that sort of thing.”

  Vivian Adair stared at him blankly and did not reply.

  “What about a few last words then?”

  “What do you want to say?” she asked impassively.

  “How about you go first, Barton. Any last messages you would like Miss Adair to pass on?”

  Barton, however, was not paying attention. He was still observing the lorry. Elliott had just put a hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. Smiling out at Barton, he took a cigarette from it, tapped it on the case and put it to his lips.

  Bronx repeated his question, louder this time: “I say, Barton, do you have any last words for Miss Adair to pass on?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” Barton responded distractedly, still staring past her at the Fordson. He began, as if reciting facts in a classroom: “Hydrogen is a colourless, odourless gas with a molecular weight of 2.016.”

  Vivian Adair gazed at him uncomprehendingly and shook her head.

  “Very amusing, Barton,” Bronx interrupted, “I see you intend to die laughing. Can we just focus and take this seriously.”

  Vivian Adair seemed to have come to a decision. She snapped out of her abstracted state and pointed the gun at Barton’s head. Barton, however, still paid no attention. He continued to look past her at the three men in the truck. DaSilva had started the engine, and the lorry was moving off, carefully negotiating the wrecked Riley. With the cigarette in his lips, Elliott stared over to Barton through the side window of the cab and grinned. He took the book of matches from his pocket and conspicuously tore one from it.

  “ ... When combined with oxygen it forms an explosive mixture ... ” Barton went on, ignoring his friend and watching the lorry accelerate away.

  Vivian Adair sensed that something was going on but could not fathom what it might be. Whatever it was, there was no time to dwell on it. “Sorry, Barton, I’ve got to do this.”

  As if on queue, there was an ear-splitting detonation behind her. Instinctively, she ducked down and swung round to see what had happened. Rapidly getting over the initial shock, she straightened up and watched aghast as the Fordson, with cab ablaze, trundled along the road at the edge of the clearing. Flames were leaping out through its front and side windows, the force of the explosion having blown out the glass. She guessed that DaSilva must have lost control of the lorry, for it almost ran into the Hillman and was starting to veer towards the verge. The engine had cut out but, propelled by its own momentum, it was heading towards the ditch that ran along the right-hand side of the road.

  As the blazing wreck lurched onto the verge, the passenger door – burst open by the blast – swung out lazily and a slim, rectangular object, burning with greenish flames, fell from it. Vivian Adair recognised it immediately as the music case Elliott had taken from her.

  The lorry rolled on a few more yards and then ran into the ditch, crashin
g over onto its side. Seconds later, its petrol tank ignited and there was another explosion, which sent out a blast of air that hit her in the face like a warm pillow. A column of black smoke began to rise slowly from the wreck. She knew there was no hope for the three men inside the cab.

  Suddenly, she recalled the captives and turned back to the spot where they had been kneeling, but they were gone. Scanning the surrounding forest, she spotted two figures running away into its depths. They were now hardly visible among the trees.

  She decided there was no time to go after them. Instead, using an arm to shield her face from the heat of the blazing lorry, she ran crouching over to the music case that had landed near the verge. After stamping out the flames, she picked it up, still smouldering, and ran back with it to the Hillman.

  #

  Grace Harrison had managed to work her way around to near where Barton and Bronx were kneeling and had positioned herself so that, if necessary, she could emerge from the trees unobserved by Vivian Adair. She had recognised that something terrible might be about to happen to the two men and, having pulled the screwdriver from her pocket, she had been on the brink of rushing Vivian Adair from behind. But then the lorry exploded. She had seen Barton and Bronx run into the trees, however, transfixed by the shock and violence of the explosion, she had not followed them. Instead, she looked on horrified as the blazing lorry rolled along the track at the far side of the clearing and then crashed into the ditch that ran alongside. She watched in case the men managed to get out, but soon realised that there were unlikely to be any survivors. It seemed that Vivian Adair was now on her own.