Avenging Steel 4: The Tree of Liberty

by Hall, Ian

  Suddenly the music stopped. “James!”

  I held my hand up, stopping the women from rising from the table. “I’ll get it. I started it all.”

  I found Frances standing in her room. The bed was littered with broken pieces of record. “What happened?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question, brother.” She held up a record, it was cracked, but not quite broken. “The first six records are all smashed, wasted. I wondered what had happened until I found this one, the next one in.” She held it closer to me, but I still didn’t see what was wrong until she angled the disc. A small ingot of metal was wedged into the paper label near the centre of the record.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s a bullet, dummy.”

  “What?” I feigned surprise. Now I knew how I thought I’d been shot in the back. The rucksack of records had saved my life.

  “It’s a bullet, James.”

  I tried to feign surprise. “Oh dear, that means the man in the bar did steal them.”

  To my surprise she just leered at me. “Don’t treat me like a kid, James.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She dropped the record carefully onto the bed, and lifted the empty haversack. “See the next time you go doing your dirty deeds?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t take your old high school haversack on the job with you.” She turned it inside out. Faintly, written in blue ink.

  James Baird, 6A, 9 Barclay Terrace, Edinburgh

  Oh Biggles, some super-master-spy you turned out to be.

  I gave her a sheepish look, then roused myself. “Put the records in your collection, throw the broken ones away.”

  She advanced on me, put her arms round my neck. “I’m glad you’re my big brother.” She hugged me real tight.

  “I’m glad too.”

  “My commando.”

  “Shut up.” I released her, pushed her to arm’s length. “Nothing to Mum, right?”

  “Promise… as long as you promise me back.”

  “Okay.”

  “Next time, less Tommy Dorsey, more Glenn Miller, right?”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  She stuck her finger through the hole in the rucksack. “There almost wasn’t.”

  I swallowed hard and re-joined the ladies in the kitchen.

  I half expected Balfour to arrive at the door with my promised ‘new instructions’, but bedtime arrived, and he hadn’t showed face.

  Friday came and went like a lamb. While we were outside, Alice and I played dumb, and acted dumber, but still no Balfour and no new instructions. I couldn’t understand why the organization were not putting the Bismarck films on the priority list.

  Friday night dinner was a wonderful family affair; Mince and tatties, with fruit and custard afterward. Almost like the old days.

  And that somehow made it worse instead of better; we were starting to get used to life under the German regime.

  The phone rang, rousing us all from our bellies-full stupor.

  “Morningside 4591,” Mother always said that like she’d moved up in class or something.

  She held it out to me. “It’s for you.”

  “Clear the room,” Ivanhoe’s voice, and he wasn’t best pleased. At my motion, Alice bustled everyone out into the hallway and out of sight, closing the door behind her.

  “Did Balfour contact you Thursday night?”

  “No, nothing. Why?”

  “Because he hasn’t turned up here,” That was bad. “You wanted a meeting, what have you got for us?”

  “Eh, I got three rolls of film of the Bismarck and Prince Eugen on the Forth.”

  “Oh tally-ho! How close were you?”

  “Oh, real close. We were out on the Forth on a German torpedo boat.”

  “Well, bugger me. We need a drop, and we need it quick. This stuff is time sensitive.”

  “Just tell me where.”

  Tomorrow morning, Saturday 30th August was the first day of the new German organized football season, both in Scotland and over the border, and Hibs were playing at home. I hadn’t been able to persuade Alice to come with me, and Frances was still far too glued to her new gadget to leave it for three hours. It was perfect. “Do you fancy going to the fitba’?”

  I hit the street around twelve thirty. By the time I’d walked half a mile I knew I wasn’t being followed.

  Ivanhoe was waiting in the Black Bull at one o’clock. In the throng of supporters, we blended right in. I passed the three small rolls of film to him, and he promptly left, leaving me his half empty glass. I stood for a moment, thinking of the upheaval in our family caused by my inclusion in this great Intelligence organization, and just how much I got out of the whole thing. I came up short in every regard.

  But as I drank Ivanhoe’s drink and ordered another, I soon disabused myself of my sober rambling. I was working for the overthrow of a cruel regime, one that subjugated my people and forced them to conform to their will.

  I thought of the Declaration of Arbroath, and its subsequent use in the forming of America’s Declaration of Independence. We’d had a lecture on it in my first year at University, and I longed for its protection now. We’d had our ‘freedom’ stripped away from us, and not in small chunks over time like a government would do, but swiftly, barbarously, and maliciously.

  As I finished my second beer, something changed inside me. Suddenly the football wasn’t enough to fill this Saturday afternoon; I needed more. I ordered another, and as the men around me sang Hibs songs, I remained outside their bubble. In a moment of guilt I felt aloof, as if sitting on a higher plane. These men, who I had once shared complete empathy with, were being duped, their lives focused away from the problem, their energies diverted.

  It was a moment of clarity, yes, but it seemed more.

  Then someone nudged my arm, and my pint spilled. I awoke into the bar again. Frantically pushing past the crowd in the stupidly small bar, I soon got outside.

  The street brought me back to reality. Normality.

  “Go to the game, James.” I said out loud. “Then go home and love your family.”

  And I did just that.

  Requiring Desperate Measures

  The air felt fresher on Monday morning; perhaps there was a slight chill in the breeze, I don’t know. I travelled lost in my own thoughts, and although I heard Alice’s chatter beside me, I swear I didn’t actually pay anything but the barest attention.

  My office phone rang at exactly eight fifteen; Ivanhoe. “You seem to be in the clear.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “The building’s clear, there’s no-one outside, there are no teams watching.”

  That made the rest of the morning go a little smoother.

  But when I left the German HQ after my meeting with Captain Möller, I caught a movement across the street; just a little head-turn by a man in the driveway to the hospital, but it was enough. I nodded, smiled to myself. Why did they need to watch the newspaper office when I walked a particular route every day? Much better to just trail me after I’d done my working day; that’s what I would have done; rely on the routine of the subject.

  I needed a diversion from my normal route back to the office. I had it in an instant. The Barber shop and Edinburgh’s Close’s.

  In the old town, where buildings were just built on the ruins of old ones, alleyways were left between buildings to allow access from street to street, but also to reach the back of buildings. These alleyways had been named Close’s, and were usually steep sided, built between structures sometimes four or five stories high.

  I walked along Lauriston Place in complete control of my pursuer; I knew he was there, he did not suspect a thing. As I turned onto Forrest Road, I stayed on the same side, waiting for my tail to gain the roadway, and thus be exposed. Nope, he walked by, leaving me looking for his partner.

  A two-man team was far more difficult to identify, trading places, swapping role
s. But I had an advantage; I’d spotted the first man. But of course, I’d also played into their hands; I’d used the same route for ages, not caring if pursuit was being carried out or not. Between the German HQ and the newspaper offices I had nothing to hide. I noticed the second man in the team as I passed him, leaning against a doorway, eyes downcast into his paper. It wasn’t the glance in my direction that alerted me, anyone could have done that, it was the refusal to meet my eyes, and the rushed attention back to the paper.

  I crossed the street past Chambers Street opening, keeping the route the same, knowing his partner was probably racing across to reach the Royal Mile, the probable new change-over point. So I played their game. I bought a Glasgow Herald at the street corner and glanced at its headlines; Rangers Win in Partick, Govan Councilor Dies in Car Crash, Trouble in the Desert.

  Nothing vaguely concerning.

  When I turned onto the Mile, number one was back; so I knew I had a two-man brick following me. On cue, and as usual, I spat on the stone Heart of Midlothian, and walked on. When I reached Cockburn Street, however, I varied my route for the first time. Turning down the cobbles, I made for Fleshmarket Close, the long slope down to Market Street. Halfway down I stopped at the Barbers. I paused for a moment, looking inside as if in quiet contemplation. The man following me had tipped his hand; caught in silhouette near the top of the alleyway. He made the split-second decision, and stopped, lit up a cigarette, and retraced his steps to the top of the hill.

  Once the top of the Close was clear, I turned on a sixpence, and went into The Scotsman doorway. Damned if I wasn’t still under surveillance.

  “You go out for pies.” I said to Alice minutes later.

  “Where to?”

  “Oh, Crawford’s should be okay. I’ll watch from Graham’s window on the second floor. Stop halfway across the bridge, look in your bag for something, then carry on.”

  I stood in Graham Telfer’s office minutes later. He made no effort to ask my purpose, just watched me in silence. I immediately wondered if he was in Alice’s Scotsman cell.

  When Alice left the building, a familiar figure followed thirty or forty yards behind; number two. When she returned, Crawford’s paper bag tucked under her arm, he resumed a different place. After a minute or so, he took a small notebook from his inside pocket, and wrote for ten seconds. Just enough to write… 12.47, Alice went to Crawford’s.

  So much for us not being under observation.

  My phone rang almost as soon as I’d got inside the office. “Where the hell have you been?” Ivanhoe, sounding mightily pissed off.

  “I was…”

  “We’ve found Balfour. I’m assembling a team. You’re in. meet outside Holyrood Palace in half an hour. Butcher’s van.” And he hung up.

  Number one; he’d used the phone, so it was urgent. Number two, he was using me, so his options must be limited. Number three, Holyrood Palace was hardly an off-the-grid place to meet. Not only that, I had to traverse some of the busiest streets in Edinburgh; Holyrood Palace lay right at the foot of the Royal Mile.

  I did have one advantage over my overseers, however; I had four or five exits to choose from.

  I also had a different color jacket and a hat and thick glasses in the office.

  I didn’t even say goodbye to Alice; I didn’t fancy the having to tell her she couldn’t come.

  I left the newspaper offices through the print-shop’s doors on Market Street. My intended route had the straightest streets I knew, perfect for those following me, but it also had one great advantage; I could spot a tail a mile off.

  I strode straight across into Waverley Station, and along the wrought-iron concourse; the first part of my easy-to-spot-a-tail route. The concourse had three exits, two popular, one less so. The main pathway went from Market Street right over the complex station tracks to Waverley Steps up to Princes Street. The less traveled route split to Calton Road, coming out near the Black Bull pub.

  By the time I’d reached the steps down onto Calton Road I knew I wasn’t being followed, no one walked behind me, and no one could have predicted my exit. I walked briskly along the street, down the hill, and under the long tunnel, the railways now above me. Soon I strode out onto a road lined with warehouses, large and small.

  With the Athenian pillars of the follies of Calton Hill high above my left, I crossed the road, using the maneuver to look behind me; still no one.

  As I approached the Palace, the tarmac road gave way to cobbles, and the warehouses to old walls that must have been built centuries ago. I felt my feet sink deeper and deeper into history with every step.

  I wondered how many of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s troops strode the same route in 1745. I asked myself how many illicit wagons had plied their trade along this backway.

  When I got to the bottom of the road, the tree-filled park came as a pleasant surprise. A shock, however was the form of Dave, the man from the Radio Station raid walking past me. We both locked glances for a second, then looked away. In that split second, we both knew we had the same purpose. I slowed slightly, let him get some distance between us, then followed.

  There were German guards at the palace gates, but they didn’t give us a glance. Dave walked past, and again, I followed. With the high decorated iron railings of the Palace on our left, in front of us now loomed the slopes of Salisbury Crags, one of the features of Arthur’s Seat, the extinct volcano. Yellow broom decorated the slopes, and I could see Dave’s head also rise, the sight too good to ignore.

  A white butcher’s van veered into my field of view, coming from my right. Dave met it as he reached the lower road, I had to run to catch the open back door.

  Oh, the smell! It was a butcher’s van alright!

  I fell on the floor as the door was fastened behind me. A Sten gun dropped into my hands, the British sub-machine gun. Three clips of spare ammunition followed.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Ivanhoe who sat immediately behind the driver.

  “We’ll be there in three minutes.” He snapped, his face filled with excitement. I’d never seen him so animated.

  In the back of the van sat four men, each carried a Sten gun, each looked as bewildered as I felt. Ivanhoe tossed each of us a grenade. A bloody grenade. I was used to such on the high dark moors in the dead of night, but in Edinburgh? In broad daylight?

  Desperate times requiring desperate measures.

  “Right, listen up.” Ivanhoe looked around the van. “Our object is Restalrig Church.” I heard gasps beside me. “The target is Balfour. We’re here to get him one way or the other.” As the meaning of his words percolated into my psyche, I slowly understood the importance of the raid, and why it was being done in daylight. “We’ll be going in hot, safety’s off. There may be guards on the door, inside or out, maybe both, we don’t know. The first two out of the van take the first shots.”

  Oh crap, with me being last in; that meant me. I swallowed hard, gripped my Sten gun a little tighter.

  “We’ve been told Balfour is in the vestry at the back, but the only way in is down the aisle. We’re going down the throat of this one.”

  The driver turned onto a wider road, and in moments I could see a red-bricked church through the windscreen. “Two guards out front!” the driver said over his shoulder. “They’re armed.”

  Then he sped up, crossing lanes at the crossroads like he’d lost control, the front tyres bumping up onto the wide pavement. The back doors opened, and as soon as we braked to a stop, right on the pavement, I was already jumping out. I rounded the van swiftly. I shot from the shoulder, just as I’d been taught.

  Rat-at-at.

  One surprised German fell to the ground, his life gone. I heard screams from some woman bystander behind me, then more shots from the other side. I raced for the door. Damn if it wasn’t locked.

  “Get Clear!” I roared as I pulled the pin from my lone grenade, pushed it firmly at the junction of the red double door and stone step. I slipped round the large door pillar, t
o safety, seeing others do likewise on either side.

  There was a loud boom, and a smashing of windows beside me as the Grenade tore the doors apart. Moans from inside and screams of alarm from the streets filtered through my temporarily impaired hearing.

  Machine guns, a faster delivery told of live Germans still inside. Schmeisser fire.

  I fired a burst of bullets through the dust, Ivanhoe followed suit, then we charged through the cloud into the church. I immediately fell, tripping on what must have been a fallen door, and went sprawling onto the stone floor beyond. My hat and glasses tumbled beneath a pew. When I rolled to right myself, a German right in front of me turned to swivel his machine gun.

  Rat-at-at-at.

  He recoiled from at least two body shots, twisting in agony as he fell to the floor. As the rest of the group ran past me I had no idea who to thank.

  A Very Scottish Standoff

  I gathered myself to rise to my feet, conscious that our time at the scene was running out quickly; when you’re performing a daylight raid in the middle of enemy territory, time is not on your side. I knew that whatever we had to do, we had to do it quickly.

  “The vestry!” Ivanhoe shouted, already running down the aisle.

  The single door behind the altar was closed, and I presumed locked. I took after the rest of the men, me now firmly the tail-end-Charlie. I turned to the main door behind us, light pouring in from outside. Even with no order given, I knew I was now in charge of us not getting attacked from behind. I checked the weight of my magazine, found it half full, and re-fitted it.

  Through the clearing smoke I could make out a body on the floor immediately inside the doorway, a Sten gun beside him. I mentally shrugged my shoulders; we’d lost a man, but now I knew where to go for extra ammunition.

  Behind me, I heard Ivanhoe reach the door. “It’s bloody locked.”

  Single shots rang out from inside the vestry, thin slivers of the door splintering outwards.

  I turned to see Ivanhoe kick it to no avail. “Grenade!”

  I crouched, my eyes still on the main doorway, hands firmly on my ears. When the charge exploded I braced myself against the shock, getting buffeted onto the edge of the pew in front of me. I could not imagine the mayhem and destruction the explosion had caused inside the vestry.