by Unknown
‘What about you?’ Thorn asked.
Trave shook his head. Off duty or not, it was his responsibility to try to help with the rescue effort, and he was in a hurry to get outside.
‘Good,’ said Thorn with a determined smile. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Outside, the raid was at its most intense. The neighbouring apartment block had been hit and there were fires breaking out all the way down the street, with acrid black smoke billowing from the blown-out windows of the burning buildings. The incendiary bombs dropped at the start of the raid had done their work, and the flames were beacons for the heavier high-explosive bombs that were now finding their targets. They whistled and whined on their way down – some, with tubes shaped like organ pipes welded to their tail fins, actually screeched – and then exploded on impact with vivid white flashes and terrifying thuds that made the ground heave all around as columns of earth and broken masonry flew into the air.
And shrapnel falling from the ceaseless AA barrage clattered on the pavements, heating the concrete so that it burnt the feet of the rescue workers, while the embers and incandescent particles from the fires pricked their faces and slivers of flying glass cut into their skin. Four fire engines had arrived on the scene with a great clanging of bells just as Thorn and Trave came out of Gloucester Mansions, but the crews were finding it hard to control the flames, which were now being fanned towards the smaller terrace houses in the narrow streets behind the apartment blocks by the strong south-westerly wind. It didn’t help that a mains had been hit further up Prince of Wales Drive, sending up a useless spume of foaming water and leaving little more than a trickle to emerge from the firemen’s hoses. A thick pall of dust and smoke hung in the air, while up above the full moon turned from orange to crimson red, the colour of spilt blood.
Trave and Thorn crossed over to the park, which provided a vantage point from where they could see what was happening all around. Some of the trees were alight, but the heat was a little less intense away from the burning buildings on the other side of the street. And then suddenly, without warning, the water supply returned. The big hoses reared up like monstrous fat snakes, knocking some of the firemen off their feet, but they quickly recovered and it seemed for a moment that the worst might be over. The drone of the planes began to recede, and the deafening chatter of the AA guns grew more intermittent and finally ceased. It began to be possible to pick out individual sounds – ceilings and walls collapsing; the cries of the wounded and bereaved; and the shouts of firemen and other rescue workers directing residents away from the buildings and towards the park on the other side of the road. Trave went over to offer help but was turned back by an ARP warden in a tin hat who told him to rejoin the throng of residents standing under the trees. Some were in dressing gowns, and most of them were holding handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses, gazing with red-eyed incomprehension at the ruins of their homes across the street.
And then out of the smoke-filled sky a green parachute appeared, floating down over the trees towards where Trave and Thorn were standing. A shape was hanging down from beneath it – obviously one of the German airmen, trying to save his skin. The crowd cheered spontaneously. The AA guns must finally have struck lucky; downing one of the bombers was better than none at all. Four or five men rushed out into the road, running to intercept the parachutist. It looked as though he were going to land at either the front or the back of Gloucester Mansions, which had remained mysteriously unscathed during the bombing. Trave went to follow them, fearing for the airman’s safety, but then almost at the last moment the smoke cleared and he saw what was attached to the parachute – not a man at all, but a thick black iron cylinder, about six feet long. He knew immediately what it was: a land mine filled with high explosive, the most lethal of all the different bombs that the Luftwaffe had been dropping on London since the start of the Blitz.
‘Get down!’ Trave shouted. He pushed Thorn violently to the ground and then followed suit. He pulled his legs up under his chest, put his hands up behind his head, and closed his eyes, waiting for death. And in that last moment before the explosion, he had a crystal-clear vision of his wife, Vanessa – one that he would never forget. They were outside, standing on the postage-stamp lawn in the walled garden at the back of their little terrace house in Oxford, and the sun was shining and she was laughing, holding their baby up towards him. He reached out to touch the child’s unbelievably tiny fingers and splayed toes, inches away, and suddenly there was nothing. A blinding white light and a deafening roar, and Trave felt as if his eyeballs were being sucked out of his head. He was moving through the air, and then he hit something hard and felt a sharp pain in his lower back. Only when he opened his eyes did he realize that the blast had thrown him against the thick trunk of an old beech tree. When he looked up, he saw it had lost all its leaves, while less well-entrenched trees on either side had been uprooted and blown to the ground.
He pulled himself slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on the tree for support. His legs and his hands were trembling and he was hurting all over, but at least he seemed to have the use of all his limbs.
After a few moments, the dense cloud of dust thrown up by the explosion began to clear a little and Trave was able to get a blurred view of the other side of the road. Except that it didn’t seem like the same road. What he was now seeing bore no relation to what had been there two minutes before. Gloucester Mansions no longer existed. It had been replaced by a vast pile of broken masonry. Brick and iron and plaster smashed together in an amorphous mass of devastation. A human landscape replaced by an inhuman one in the blink of an eye. No one in the building could possibly have survived. Trave thought of the kind neighbour Mrs Graves, who had plied him with whisky on the night of Albert’s murder and had done her best to help Ava get over the shock. She had to have been one of the frightened voices that he and Thorn had heard coming from the basement on their way out. And now she was buried under tons of rubble. Trave hoped that she had died quickly.
It added to the strangeness that this new world was silent, sucked clean of sound by the blast. The cacophony of the raid – the droning planes; the whistling, exploding bombs; the booming anti-aircraft guns – had all disappeared, replaced by this new throbbing silence that pressed painfully upon Trave’s ears. He wondered if he’d been made deaf by the blast. He’d heard of such things happening, and it was a relief when the noise of the crying began – a chorus of lamentation and suffering that grew in volume until he could hear it all around him, out in the road and behind him among the trees.
Trave’s sense of smell returned with his hearing. Foul odours – of ash and smoke and leaking gas and sewage coming from ruptured pipes – mixed with the choking dust that was burning his throat and nostrils. He threw off his jacket and pulled off his shirt, then tore off one of the sleeves and held it over his mouth and nose to make it easier to breathe.
He let go of the tree and forced himself forward towards the road, walking slowly and unsteadily on his shaking legs, taking care not to fall over the tangled mass of broken branches that covered the ground. He saw Thorn lying close to the pavement. He recognized him from his clothes. Thorn wasn’t moving and Trave knelt beside him, fearing the worst. One side of Thorn’s face was covered in blood so that his eye was invisible, and he lay twisted over onto his left side, contorted by some other injury that Trave couldn’t see. Thorn’s breath came in laboured gasps, and it was obvious that he was in great pain.
‘What hurts?’ asked Trave, frightened to move Thorn in case he made the injury worse.
‘My shoulder. And I can’t see properly, just enough to know it’s you. I’m glad you made it,’ said Thorn, speaking in a whisper so that Trave had to bend down close to hear him.
‘I’ll get you a doctor,’ said Trave, although he had no idea where he was going to find one. The only ambulance he could see was turned over on its side further down the street.
‘No, listen,’ Thorn said urgently, reaching out to take hold
of Trave’s bare arm. ‘You’ve got to find out what Seaforth’s planning. You have to. Heydrich—’
‘Don’t worry about that now,’ said Trave, interrupting. ‘We can talk about it later when you’re feeling better.’
‘No, I don’t know if there’ll be a later,’ said Thorn, digging his fingers into Trave’s wrist. His tautened features showed how much even this small physical effort was costing him. ‘Find his mother. Maybe she’ll know something. There’s a town—’ He stopped in mid-sentence, closing his eyes, and Trave thought for a moment he was gone. The unbloodied side of Thorn’s face had a deathly white pallor, and his breathing seemed to have stopped. But then, just as Trave was about to try to resuscitate him, Thorn spoke again. ‘Langholm,’ he said, pronouncing each syllable separately, as if determined to get it right. ‘It’s just the other side of the border. Maybe she’s still there. Promise me …’, he said, looking imploringly up at Trave.
But Trave was spared the need for a response. An ambulance – a converted greengrocer’s van – came to a screeching halt beside where Trave was kneeling and the driver jumped out – a determined-looking man of about Trave’s age wearing an ill-fitting tin hat with SP for ‘stretcher party’ stencilled on the front in capital letters. Trave could see that the rest of the crew were heading over to the devastation on the other side of the road.
‘Let’s have a look,’ he said, taking Trave’s place beside Thorn, who appeared now to be unconscious. He examined Thorn quickly and then cut away the sleeves of Thorn’s jacket and shirt with a pair of sharp scissors and injected his arm with a syringe. Trave assumed it was morphine.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Trave asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said the medic, who was now busy writing on a tag that he’d taken from his pocket. ‘He’s hurt his shoulder, although I can’t tell if it’s a break, and he’s got some nasty shrapnel injuries around his right eye. Maybe there’s more, but that’ll have to wait for the hospital.’
‘Which one?’ asked Trave.
‘St Stephen’s – over the river,’ said the medic as he tied the label around Thorn’s ankle. There was a capital M written on it and an X with a question mark. Trave had been at enough incidents before this one to know what the letters stood for: M for morphine and the X? for the possibility of internal injuries.
‘Come on, help me with this,’ said the medic, opening the back of the van and taking out a stretcher. ‘You’re lucky you were in the park, you know. Word is the mine exploded on the other side of that building,’ he said, pointing over towards the ruins of Gloucester Mansions. ‘You’d both have been goners if it had gone off in front.’
Trave swallowed and his hands shook as he helped lift the now comatose Thorn onto the stretcher and carry him to the back of the van. He realized he’d been saved from extinction by nothing more significant than the strength of a south-westerly wind that had happened to be blowing just hard enough and in just the right direction to take the mine’s silk parachute over the roof of Gloucester Mansions before it fell to the ground and exploded. His survival was pure chance, and the poor devils who had died were the victims of an entirely random harvest.
There was nothing more Trave could do to help Thorn. So, holding his shirtsleeve mask over his face, he crossed Prince of Wales Drive to get a closer look at the smoking ruins of Gloucester Mansions and the destruction in the narrow streets beyond. He moved carefully, picking his way around an abandoned fire engine smouldering in the road with its rubber tyres entirely melted. Shattered glass lay everywhere like dirty drifts of pack ice.
The larger fires seemed to be coming under control, but here and there flames kept springing up, and residents were helping the firemen to put them out, using sand and stirrup pumps. Many of the firemen looked like ghosts with their faces covered in plaster dust from the falling walls and ceilings and their eyes red from the smoke. Trave had to tread carefully to avoid tripping over their tangled, twisting hoses that lay interwoven with the dust and debris, snaking in all directions like the entrails of some gigantic disembowelled monster. In some places he used the fallen masonry as stepping-stones to enable him to keep moving forward. He needed to keep going; he thought he would go mad if he stayed standing still.
He turned into a street of terrace houses that had felt the full force of the blast. Some were still standing, unlike Gloucester Mansions, but none had been left undamaged. It was as if a gigantic tin-opener had wrenched them open, revealing their broken contents to an indifferent world. Trave thought of all the years of hard work and saving, all the scrubbing, and all the pride that had gone into these homes that were now no better than scrap heaps, fit only for the bulldozer.
He was filled with a sudden, intense hatred for the country that had perpetrated this wanton destruction. Not just for Germany and its rulers, but for the German people as well. They had elected Hitler to power; they were responsible for the crimes he was committing against innocent civilians. Now Trave understood the men who had rushed towards the descending parachute, burning with murderous rage. He felt just the same. He wanted revenge.
But there was no outlet for his anger. The enemy planes had disappeared from the sky, and there was nothing to be done. God had turned His back on the world, and this was the end of days. The last war had been a dress rehearsal; this was the real thing. Here among the smouldering ruins, under the smoking red-black sky, amidst the apocalyptic desolation, the young policeman gave way to despair.
And it was then that he saw it. A hand sticking up disembodied out of a pile of broken masonry where there once had been a house. He went over immediately without thinking, knelt down, reached out, and took hold. The hand was warm and he knew straight away that the person below was still alive, buried under the rubble on which he was standing. Not just alive but conscious too – he could feel the fingers wrapping themselves around his. It felt like a woman’s hand. There were no rings on the fingers.
He forced himself to let go and began scrabbling madly with his hands in the dirt, trying to dig down into the wreckage. But he made no progress. He’d come up against two heavy blocks of masonry lying side by side and he couldn’t move them, however hard he tried. The hand was sticking up between them; the rest of the woman’s body had to be lying trapped underneath. Without help there was nothing he could do to get her free.
And there was no one in sight who could help. Further down the street, a few people were picking through what remained of their homes, but Trave didn’t bother calling out to them. He knew that even if they came, it would make no difference. Heavy lifting equipment would be needed to move the slabs that were pinning the woman down.
Trave thought of leaving, going in search of professional assistance, but he knew it would never arrive in time. So he sat down in the dust instead and once again took hold of the hand. He squeezed it gently and felt an answering response, and then he remained where he was, summoning all the love in his soul, trying to communicate it through the medium of touch to the invisible dying woman by his side.
He had no idea how long his vigil lasted, except that it was dark when the hand held his hard for a moment and then relaxed, letting go. She was gone. He could feel it. She didn’t need him any more. He wondered who she was, what her life had been, and realized that he would never know. Yet he felt certain that he had learnt more in the preceding hour than he had done in all his life before he entered the ruined street. And until his dying day, he never forgot the feel of the woman’s hand in his and the knowledge it brought of the transcendent power of human love in the face of certain death.
CHAPTER 4
Earlier the same evening, Seaforth sat alone in the living room of his Chelsea apartment, twirling the stem of a glass of dry white wine between his fingers. From his carefully positioned armchair, he had a beautiful view not only over the canopy of the plane trees in Cadogan Square below, but east too over the rooftops towards the Palace of Westminster, where Churchill was no doubt meeting his ministers, plotti
ng his next move in the war against Germany. A war he was going to lose because he now had less than a week to live. Seaforth knew he might be being optimistic about the timing. The journey of the Portuguese diplomatic bag from Lisbon to the embassy in London could take anywhere from several days to more than a week depending on interruptions to air and shipping routes caused by the war, but he had no doubt that he would receive the go-ahead from Berlin by the end of the month and that Heydrich would provide him with sufficiently appetizing intelligence to ensure another summons to the Prime Minister’s presence.
He had prepared the ‘detailed written report’ on the assassination plan that Heydrich had requested in something of a hurry, distracted by the unwelcome news that Heydrich’s radio message to him had been intercepted and decoded. But he had ended up feeling pleased with his composition. The writing was clear and sharp, and in the days since he’d taken it to the embassy, Seaforth had enjoyed reading the text over to himself in bed before he went to sleep, repeating some of his better phrases out loud as he imagined Hitler considering the same passages in his office in the Reich Chancellery, admiring the daring and brilliance of Agent D.
It was the simplicity of the idea that delighted Seaforth the most. He would receive credit for trying to prevent an assassination that he had in fact committed, and with any luck he would end up taking over Thorn’s job as deputy director as a reward for having shot the poor bastard in the head. Seaforth smiled at the thought of Thorn, patriotic to his backbone, immortalized in death as the ultimate traitor to his country. Commemorated in wax, he could have a special place alongside Guy Fawkes and John Wilkes Booth in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussauds.
Seaforth wondered why he hated Thorn so much. His own pursuit of Ava had been necessary to cover up her father’s murder, but Thorn’s obvious jealousy, first apparent at the funeral, had added spice, and Seaforth had taken a sadistic delight in observing Thorn’s impotent rage when they passed each other in the corridors at HQ and, best of all, when Thorn found him hiding in Ava’s bedroom. He looked forward with relish to the prospect of putting a bullet in Thorn’s head. Why? Partly, of course, it was because Thorn hated him. But it was more than that. Thorn had come to stand in Seaforth’s mind for that whole class of self-assured, born-to-rule, upper-class Englishmen that this war was on the way to wiping out once and for all.
