Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  Jane opened her eyes. She was breathing heavily. Sweat prickled down the middle of her back. ‘Will you tell Brinkman?’

  ‘No,’ Rutherford said. ‘There’s no need, surely,’ he added quickly as Crowley turned to stare at him.

  ‘And what if he finds out anyway? We don’t know who was there, who witnessed these events. Who they will tell.’

  ‘About a dead cat?’

  ‘There was a fight,’ Jane pointed out. ‘A robbery.’

  ‘We don’t know they got away with it.’

  ‘An attempted robbery, at least,’ she snapped.

  Rutherford turned to Crowley. ‘We can’t just tell these people everything we know. All the time.’

  Crowley sniffed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I thought we were after power for ourselves, not to give it away to others.’

  ‘You think knowledge is the only power?’

  ‘It’s a damned good start.’ He got up and went over to the desk, reaching for the whisky decanter.

  But Crowley put his hand over it. ‘Do you really have such little understanding of the sort of power that we have? That I have?’

  Rutherford met his stare, but only for a moment. Then he turned away. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you – I’m leaving,’ he said.

  For a brief instant Jane was elated.

  But Rutherford added: ‘Just for a couple of days. I have some business I need to sort out.’

  ‘Yes,’ Crowley agreed. ‘Take a break, by all means. But come back with a better attitude. A better understanding of yourself and of us.’

  Rutherford looked like he was going to say something in reply. But then he changed his mind, and walked quickly from the room.

  Crowley stood up and came over to where Jane was sitting. He held out his hand, and she lifted her own to take it. The metal bracelet was heavy and loose on her thin wrist. As she moved her arm, it shifted, a thin trail of blood oozing out from beneath.

  ‘Interesting,’ Crowley murmured. ‘Hold still a moment, my dear.’

  He unclipped the bracelet, and it swung open, coming off easily. There was a band of congealed blood round her wrist where it had been attached, droplets of blood still oozing out from the tiny holes drilled into her flesh.

  * * *

  There was time only for hastily exchanged whispers on the gallery before the Gestapo men arrived and took the two spies away. Guy didn’t like what was decided, but he could appreciate it was the most pragmatic approach. It might yet save all their lives. Or it might condemn an innocent man to death.

  But Kriminaldirektor Fleisch, the senior Gestapo officer at the facility, knew nothing of his prisoners’ hasty and desperate plan. He was a lean man, with angular features and dead, grey eyes that he fixed on the three men.

  ‘Take them to the cells,’ he ordered.

  ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong,’ the monk protested.

  ‘You collaborated with enemy spies,’ Fleisch told him.

  ‘Because the Abbot asked me to. He said to bring them here and make sure they stayed until you arrived to arrest them. I was helping. Please,’ the monk continued, ‘I have to report back to the Abbot. And I am due at prayers in a few minutes.’

  ‘Prayers?’ Fleisch gave a snort of derision. ‘In that case, thank your God that I am a reasonable man.’ He nodded to the guards to let the monk go, and turned his attention to the real spies. ‘If either of you believe in a God, then perhaps you should make peace with him now.’

  Amused and pleased with this quip, Fleisch stepped back to allow the two spies to be taken away.

  He started with the shorter, stockier man. But it was soon apparent that he spoke almost no French at all, and Fleisch wondered how long he had hoped to survive here. One of his men, Helmut Blau, spoke some English, but it was slow work punctuated by punches and kicks to encourage the man to open up.

  What they did learn was unedifying. His name was Carlton Smith and he was a History professor from Harvard University. An American, surprisingly. His story that he was interested only in examining the medieval volumes held by the monks in their library for research was plausible. But Fleisch didn’t believe it.

  Keeping the men in different cells meant he could double-check the story. Fortunately, the second man spoke excellent French – better than Fleisch did in fact. Except he refused to speak at all, even to give his name and tell them he would say nothing more. After a fairly comprehensive beating, the man still remained silent, staring back defiantly through eyes almost hidden in his swollen face.

  ‘This is just the beginning,’ Fleisch assured him. ‘In the morning we shall start in earnest. Heat, cold, electricity, water, knives and shears. I confess, I am rather looking forward to it.’

  The man was too weak for his saliva to reach Fleisch. It splashed to the floor, and the Gestapo chief was pleased to see it was red with blood. Soon he’d be spitting out his own teeth.

  Fleisch looked in on the woman on his way back to his office. They had brought her in yesterday, suspected of helping the resistance. Maybe she had, maybe she hadn’t. On balance, having heard her scream her innocence, Fleisch thought she probably hadn’t. But he didn’t really care either way. She was manacled to the back wall of the cell, wrists and ankles held outstretched tight in metal clasps. Her clothes were shredded and stained, and her face was streaked with blood. Fleisch nodded with satisfaction as she lifted her head weakly to stare at him, her eyes wide and frightened.

  Back at his office, Fleisch was surprised to see the Abbot waiting for him, together with the monk who had been with the spies.

  ‘They are no longer any concern of yours,’ he told them. ‘You did your duty, and the Reich is grateful.’ He pushed past them to get to his desk, knocking the two men aside. It was only when he sat down that he realised the mistake he had made.

  * * *

  As soon as Fleisch had dismissed him, the monk had hurried back through the monastery to the Abbot’s room. He did not bother to knock, but threw the door open and walked straight in.

  The Abbot was kneeling beside his plain wooden bed. He looked round in surprise when the door opened.

  ‘Praying for forgiveness, Abbot?’ Guy Pentecross asked angrily. ‘Because for what you’ve done, you’re going to need it.’ He crossed the room and hauled the man to his feet. ‘Prayers can wait. My friend, and your Brother Pierre, need our help.’

  ‘Please,’ the Abbot stammered, ‘I was doing what I thought was best for the monastery.’

  ‘Well you were wrong, and you’re going to help me put it right.’

  * * *

  It had taken Guy almost an hour of constant arguing and cajoling to persuade the Abbot to help. Even then, he refused to allow any of the other monks to be involved and of course there were no weapons in the monastery.

  So Guy was pleased he had been able to remove Kriminaldirektor Fleisch’s gun from its holster so easily when the man pushed past them to get to his desk. He levelled the Luger at the Gestapo chief.

  ‘It was a surprise to the Abbot too,’ Guy told him. ‘Now, are you going to arrange the release of my friends, or do I need to shoot you as well as our holy friend?’

  With luck, Fleisch would believe the Abbot was innocent of any deception and had genuinely tried to help the Gestapo. Well, he’d be half right. Provided the Abbot kept Brother Pierre out of sight for a while, it was unlikely anyone would connect a hooded monk with one of the British spies who had been captured and then escaped …

  Like so many cruel and sadistic men, Fleisch was frightened when his own safety was at risk. With his own gun jammed into his ribs, he opened the door of his office and shouted for the two prisoners to be brought in.

  ‘I’ve agreed with the Abbot that they can make a final confession,’ Fleisch told the men who led in Leo Davenport and then dragged in the barely conscious Pierre. ‘Who knows what they may say as their final words to God?’

  If the men were surprised to be dismissed from the room, they were disciplined enough
not to show it.

  The Abbot’s feelings at seeing his brother monk bruised and bleeding were more obvious. Guy gave him a warning look – he couldn’t show sympathy. Not yet. He undid the cord round his own robes and handed it to the Abbot.

  ‘Tell him to take off his uniform, then tie him up.’ Guy nodded at Fleisch. ‘In his chair. Then,’ he added, making sure Fleisch could hear, ‘you are coming with us as a hostage. Who knows, we might even let you live.’

  While the Abbot tied Fleisch to his chair, Davenport did his best to clean up Pierre’s wounds. There was a carafe of water on the desk, and he wet his handkerchief to dab at the blood. Pierre winced with each movement.

  ‘You see the sort of people you’re dealing with?’ Guy asked quietly when the Abbot had finished.

  The Abbot was staring at Pierre’s battered face. ‘I … I had no idea.’

  ‘You didn’t want to have any idea.’

  Fleisch’s uniform just about fitted Guy. So long as no one looked too closely, he reckoned he would get away with it.

  ‘They will know you are a fraud as soon as you open your mouth,’ Fleisch told him defiantly.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Guy told him in perfect German. ‘I am here at the direct instructions of Gruppenfuhrer Muller, Generalleutnant der Polizei. Would you dare to doubt me? Would any of your men?’

  Fleisch looked away. Guy took hold of his chin and turned his face back, stuffing his mouth with the bloodstained handkerchief Davenport had used to clean up Pierre.

  The monks’ robes served to disguise that Leo and Pierre were former prisoners, and cover their wounds. With the hoods raised, they became anonymous. If Pierre was leaning heavily on his fellow monk for support, it was not too obvious. Leo himself seemed remarkably resilient. He admitted that he’d taken a bit of a beating – though nothing like the punishment meted out to Pierre. His apparent willingness to cooperate while actually revealing nothing had paid off. Not for the first time, Guy guessed.

  Guy himself did his best to walk tall and proud, not showing how nervous he actually felt. Perhaps he should have changed clothes with Leo – the actor was more than capable of pulling off the role of a major working for the head of the Gestapo. But unfortunately, his German wasn’t up to the task.

  In the event, they were not questioned as they made their way past the cells and back towards the library. Being the small hours of the morning, there were few people about. Those who were had evidently become conditioned not to speak out of turn. It seemed that Fleisch’s cruel grasp on his own people as well as others had done them a favour.

  Several of the cells were occupied, pale, haunted faces staring blankly back at them as they passed. Pierre shook his head sadly. The Abbot crossed himself and murmured a blessing. If the prisoners appreciated it, they made no sign.

  The last cell contained the woman that Guy and Davenport had seen brought in while they were keeping watch. But she was barely recognisable, manacled to the wall and spattered with her own blood.

  The Abbot drew a deep shuddering breath. ‘Madeleine,’ he breathed. ‘I remember her baptism.’ He turned to Guy, eyes pleading. ‘We have to help her. We can’t let those … those animals—’ He broke off, unable to continue. In the cell, the girl raised her head slightly at the sound of voices.

  ‘We can’t just release her,’ Leo said.

  ‘Why not?’ the Abbot demanded.

  ‘She’s in no fit state to escape, and they’d just drag her back again. We have to hope that when they’re done with her they’ll let her go.’

  ‘You think that’s likely?’ Pierre asked. He coughed violently with the effort of speaking. He suppressed it quickly as a figure entered the cell corridor through a door further along – one of the guards.

  ‘The Abbot is right,’ Guy murmured to Leo. ‘Let’s worry about sorting it out later.’ He didn’t wait for a response, but walked briskly up to the approaching guard.

  ‘The woman is to be released at once,’ he said. ‘She obviously has nothing to tell us. She can go.’

  ‘Go?’ the guard laughed. He tried to turn it into a cough as he saw Guy’s expression. ‘I doubt she can even stand, sir.’

  ‘The Abbot and brothers are here to take care of her.’

  The guard nodded. ‘Of course, sir.’

  The Abbot and Guy had to almost carry her through to the library. Leaving the Abbot looking after the girl as she sat on one of the benches, leaning heavily against him, Guy and Leo helped Pierre up to the gallery. The volume they had been inspecting was still out on the reading table.

  ‘I can’t let you take it,’ Pierre said weakly.

  ‘We can’t risk the Germans discovering what we were looking for,’ Guy said. ‘We know what it says now. If you copy it down for us, that will suffice. But can we risk the book staying here?’

  ‘They can’t know that it is this book you were interested in,’ Pierre pointed out. ‘But I can hide it. Replace it with another volume, in case they come looking.’

  ‘There is another problem,’ Leo said. He glanced down at the Abbot below, the woman still leaning weakly against him. ‘Fleisch will know there was no order for her release. And the guard knows she is in the monastery.’

  ‘We just have to hope he’ll have other things to worry about,’ Guy said. It wasn’t a perfect solution, and they all knew it. ‘Maybe when news of this gets out Fleisch will be replaced before he can do anything. Or if it doesn’t, he’ll need to keep things hushed up and won’t dare to act.’

  ‘You hope,’ Pierre said.

  ‘I hope,’ Guy agreed.

  But when they returned to the lower floor, the Abbot had a different idea.

  ‘Find a room for her. Let her rest,’ he said, helping the girl to her feet. ‘Brother Francois can tend to her injuries. And yours, my friend,’ he added, gripping Pierre’s shoulder.

  ‘What about you?’ Pierre asked.

  ‘I’m going back to Fleisch.’

  ‘What?’ Guy said.

  The Abbot nodded. ‘I shall give you a few minutes to get away, then I shall go and tell him I escaped from you. I shall also tell him that in return for my silence about his incompetence, I want safety for the girl. I will tell him she is innocent, and that we will look after her until she has recovered.’

  ‘You really think that will work?’ Guy asked.

  In answer the Abbot pulled him into a sudden embrace. ‘I pray that it will.’

  Leo nodded. ‘I think your plan is probably the only one with a chance of success,’ he said. ‘You are a brave man, sir.’

  ‘I’m merely putting right what I helped to make wrong.’

  ‘I hope you find peace,’ Leo told him. Guy thought it was an odd thing to say.

  They helped Pierre get the girl to a room and settle her on the plain, hard bed. It would be luxury compared with her earlier predicament. Leo had Guy’s own clothes bundled under his robes.

  ‘Best wait until we’re clear of this place before you change back into civvies,’ he suggested. ‘Just in case we need to bluff our way out again.’

  They left Pierre and Brother Francois with the girl and let themselves out through the door they’d arrived by just a few hours before. Guy had folded in his pocket the sheets on which Pierre had transcribed the relevant section of the manuscript.

  Only when they were well clear of the monastery and leaving the village of St Jean-Baptiste de Seine behind them did Guy realise that he no longer had the Luger he had taken from Fleisch.

  ‘I must have put it down in the library,’ he said. ‘Unless I dropped it in the cell when we were helping that poor woman.’

  ‘No,’ Leo said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. ‘When the Abbot embraced you, he took it from the holster.’

  ‘But – why?’

  ‘Because, like I said, his plan is the only one that will guarantee no one ever discovers that Fleisch didn’t order the release of the girl.’

  * * *

  The Abbot closed the door behind him. The
relief in Fleisch’s eyes was apparent from across the room. The Abbot walked slowly over. He turned the chair away from the desk, and leaned down so he was staring into Fleisch’s eyes.

  ‘I have sinned,’ he said quietly. ‘I have stood by and allowed terrible things to happen. And today, I was confronted with those things. Today I saw for myself what I have ignored. I saw your sins. I am horribly afraid,’ he said, ‘that despite a lifetime of devotion, so many prayers that I cannot count them, so much love for my brothers … I am horribly afraid that today I am going to Hell.’

  He reached for the bloodied handkerchief stuffed into Fleisch’s mouth, and gently pulled at it.

  ‘But at least I have the satisfaction of knowing,’ he went on, ‘that you are coming with me.’

  Fleisch’s eyes were wide with horror. The handkerchief fell from his mouth, but before he could cry out, the cold barrel of his own Luger replaced it.

  The Abbot was surprised how loud the sound of the shot was in the confined space, echoing off the stone walls. He did not hear the second shot.

  CHAPTER 12

  Fritz Weingarten saw more time-wasters than anyone else at the embassy. There were usually several every week who wandered in off the streets with something to sell. Or, mostly, nothing at all to sell. He was sympathetic, a good listener. But his patience wore thin when local down-and-outs who spoke not a word of English and barely any German turned up and suggested they could somehow become the best spy Germany had ever sent to Britain.

  Occasionally – just occasionally – he found gold. That was why he was here, and it was what kept him going. With his ample frame squeezed into the chair behind his large desk, blowing cigar smoke across the room, he reflected that today he just might have hit gold again.

  The man sitting opposite him in Weingarten’s office at the German embassy in Lisbon was also smoking. He held a cigarette between his fingers, unconsciously making a V sign. Ironic really, as he was British. It was rare for a real Brit to turn up and offer information.