Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

  They awaited him by the lorry in a respectful line, Pym at its head. Bruckmann wondered why he suddenly rated such reverence and then saw the dents and dust covering the vehicle.

  “Sweet saints and fairies. What happened here?”

  Pym saluted. “That’s how Peckham brought it back from Patchbourne, sir.”

  Peckham remained frozen in a flawless brace.

  Of course. The bombing raid. Bruckmann wanted to rip his hair, or better yet Peckham’s, but it would hardly inspire the troops. Instead he returned the salute. “All right, corporal. Let’s get moving.”

  When they arrived at the chicken farm, the RAF contingent was already there, a handful of grim sentries in blue with matching shadows beneath their eyes. While they pushed Mr. Ashleigh’s poor Austin off the road, six Bedford trucks pulled onto the verge near Tanyon’s position atop the rise and gushed forth khaki-clad soldiers in a considerable stream. They formed into perfect phalanxes before their lieutenants and sergeants, and Bruckmann’s spirits rose at the disciplined sight. Now there was a chance against the bugger. He left the Austin and strode to meet them as an officer jumped from the cab of the lead truck.

  The Army duty officer looked as he’d sounded: a small, dapper man with a millimetrically-aligned mustache and amused green eyes in constant calm motion. His shoulder straps sported the single crown of a major in the Royal Engineers. Bruckmann liked him instantly.

  “Alfred Kettering.” He returned Bruckmann’s salute and turned to Tanyon. “Well, sergeant, where shall we find your will-o’-the-wisp?”

  “South, sir,” Tanyon said. “He went into the Dark over there.”

  “The forest, you mean?” Kettering paused only long enough for Tanyon’s nod. “And of course, you held the high ground on this road and stopped him turning north.” He glanced about again, then turned to Bruckmann. “Your billet is northeast of this position?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know, you could have moved directly south from there, instead of meeting us. Then we’d have had him between our forces.”

  Bruckmann’s face warmed. It had been too obvious for him to notice. “You’re right. I didn’t think of it.”

  Kettering swept his gaze beneath the massive beeches atop the rise, briefly up into the canopy overhead, then south along the Dark’s southern marches and across Jerome Owen’s turnips. “Would you know if this chap is familiar with the lay of the land round about?”

  “I should think so.” Bruckmann hesitated but honestly, there could be no harm in sharing what was common information. “He studied a year at Oxford.”

  “Well, he’d have done some hiking then, wouldn’t he?” Kettering stroked his mustache. “You know, if he gets up into the forests along the Chilterns, we’ll have the devil’s own time wrangling him out of there.”

  This was looking better by the moment. Major Kettering offered the same sort of sturdy competence as Sergeant Tanyon, along with a lot more words and explanations. “He can’t climb. His right arm’s been injured.”

  “One wing down, eh? Then we’ll pen him before he gets there.” Kettering sounded disappointed. “Well, perhaps he’ll make a good show of it.” He turned to his own sergeant, waiting patiently nearby. “Deploy one company here, Gregson, in a long line south of the road and a bit north of it in case he manages to give us the slip, aiming generally southeast. Same as we did Saturday night.” He glanced at Bruckmann. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same man, would it?”

  “The same.” And blast him for a tinker.

  “Gets about, doesn’t he?” Kettering returned to his sergeant. “I’ll take the other company about by road to the far side of Bowdon and start them in a northeast direction from there. You’ll drive him before you and we’ll nab him.”

  The sergeant saluted and trotted toward the two companies, formed up and facing their lieutenants along the verge. Kettering eyed Bruckmann, then flashed him a smile.

  “No offense, leftenant, but your force isn’t large enough to be effective, you know.”

  Bruckmann sighed. “Use them.”

  So his infinitesimal command was broken up and scattered among Kettering’s two experienced companies under their capable lieutenants. The handful of exhausted RAF sentries were sent back to their base, finally smiling.

  The two engineering companies broke ranks. Half of them piled back into three of the Bedfords; the others formed a long line facing the Dark, jockeying into position about fifteen feet apart within seconds. Kettering treated Bruckmann to a long, considering look, then smiled again. “Why don’t you and your sergeant join me in the southern contingent? You can be in for the kill.”

  A training exercise. Bruckmann swallowed and concentrated on hiding his bitterness. After all, it was painfully obvious, even to himself, he needed additional training. He saluted. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  the same morning

  Margeaux Hall

  “What a time to run out of carbon paper.” Jennifer slammed her desk drawer shut. “Mr. Wainwright, have you any to spare?”

  “How many times must I tell you to call me Steven?” he said. “And no, I’m out, as well.”

  She ignored his sally. He was a married man and if he argued with his wife, as all the Hall knew and were reminded several times each day, well, that didn’t mean she’d be extra nice to him. Besides, he didn’t exactly meet her criteria of a man to match Stoner, not with his wispy mustache and wallflower personality. At least he had the sense to pitch his voice low enough so his wife, managing the switchboard in the vestibule, couldn’t hear him. Maggie Wainwright would be suspicious enough as it was, with her husband out of her sight for more than five seconds.

  “Today is turning into a nightmare.” There was such a stack of work beside her typewriter; she’d be lucky to finish before the war ended, much less before Bruckmann returned to do his share. She’d worked twice as hard, trying not to think of Harriet. She’d even succeeded for a few short minutes. Bugger that Faust; this was all his fault. And she’d never forgive him if he’d killed Harriet. She’d rip him apart with her own hands.

  Wainwright reached for the phone. “Tom Burbank carries carbons at the mercantile, doesn’t he?”

  “I think so.”

  When he cradled the phone a minute later he was smiling. “Yes, Mrs. Burbank says they have some.”

  “Debbie? What’s she doing minding the store?” She ran the village switchboard and was busy enough without handling her husband’s work, as well.

  “I didn’t ask.” Wainwright pulled on his jacket. “I’ll just walk down and get them, shall I?” He smiled again as he left.

  Right. Jennifer stared at the pile of shorthand notes beside her typewriter. Just walk down and get them. Straight past Pamela Alcock’s chicken farm and the Dark, where all the excitement was underway which might distract her from the agony centered within her chest. While she held the fort alone.

  Perhaps Harriet had been right, and men had all the fun. She certainly wasn’t going to ask Debbie Burbank her opinion and have their conversation spread all over the village. But if only she could speak with Harriet one more time, have her sister back for a long, hard hug, even if she couldn’t have her back forever. The ache in her soul rose again but she quelled it ruthlessly. She had a fort to hold and she wasn’t going to run away again.

  “Oh, you just want to see what’s going on,” she said to empty air, and reached for her pad. She could at least organize her notes while he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  afternoon

  at large in the Dark

  About noon Faust exited the forest. A blaze of hot sunshine poured across his face and he reveled in its warmth for a luxurious moment, pausing just below the next rise. He’d long ago given up looking for a line of searchers ahead and had chalked the mistake up to Bruckmann’s inexperience. They were behind him, which meant he had to move fast and cover as much ground as possible to keep them
there. If he could get into the woods along the Chilterns, about twenty to twenty-five miles away, then he could lose the initial searchers and possibly make it all the way to the coast. Best yet, although he was winded, neither his arm nor side hurt worse than they had in the morning.

  One-armed, he squirmed in his finest infantryman fashion through knee-deep sedge to the top of the rise and peered over its crest. Rolling hills and dales spread below and ahead, a patchwork of planted fields and pastures and tiny forested tracts separated by the ubiquitous dry stone walls and the occasional hedge, a purely English vista which made his heart sing. The elevation crept higher to the southeast; in the distance he could discern the roughened top of the Chiltern escarpment. He started up, then motion caught his eye and he froze.

  A man — no, a soldier — hiked up the slope through a field of stubble directly toward him, about a half mile and two dry stone walls away, a rifle cradled in his hands. Faust paused. A lone soldier had no business here. But there was a second one, about fifteen feet to the right of the first and also coming in his direction, and another beyond him. A few moments of searching showed him a long line of soldiers stretched directly across his path as if they knew his location to the inch.

  Bruckmann organized this? Faust humphed. He hadn’t expected such intuition from the young lieutenant, nor such a large contingent at Stoner’s disposal. But of course, they would have alerted other military installations in the area, which meant the additional troops would have their own officers and sergeants, which meant his opinion of Bruckmann’s practical capabilities could remain unimpressed.

  But still, it looked bad. The land sloped down in front of him and on both sides, past a wall into an overgrown meadow where sheep grazed; if he went forward or directly to right or left, he would be silhouetted first against the horizon and then against the grassy area outside the wall, and he’d be spotted before he reached cover. He could return to the shadows of the forest, but he knew without seeing them an identical line of searchers approached from that direction and he couldn’t be sure how near or distant they were. The further back he retreated, the more he cut what little lead he had.

  To his left was a hamlet, no more than a few homes but as good as a roadblock. To his right the ground sloped down to a small narrow valley, not much more than an indentation in the topography, then rose on the other side into a much steeper hill where more sheep grazed. Faust visually traced the line of the little valley between the two hills as it curved toward the soldiers ahead. Halfway along its course, a deeper shadow stopped his roving eye. It was a ravine, where rainwater runoff fell from the steep hill beyond into the valley itself. If he could get into it, he could possibly avoid both lines of searchers, even if he did rip his arm or side open in the process. It wasn’t much of a chance but it was all the world offered.

  He dropped below the crest of the rise and raced downhill.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  the same afternoon

  near the hamlet of Bowdon

  At the top of the hill, Bruckmann gingerly stepped over the last anthill, paused against the dry stone wall and panted for a moment, then hauled himself over to join Kettering. The engineering officer leaned on his elbows atop the artfully arranged squares of flint and stared into space.

  “Where the blazes has he gotten to?” Bruckmann asked. “We should have run him over by now.”

  Kettering pointed with his chin. “Right there.”

  It took some squinting before he saw what Kettering saw. Halfway up the neighboring hill, half a mile distant across another sheep field, a grey-clad form clambered up a shadowy ravine. Bruckmann said one of the rude words he’d learned from Tanyon.

  “Squeezed him out like toothpaste from a tube,” Kettering said. “Clever chap, that. Most men would have tried to break our ranks.”

  The hill and ravine surged up at a precipitant slope and Faust’s achievement looked impossible. “His right arm is injured. Just yesterday afternoon a surgeon was cutting shrapnel from his side. He can’t climb.”

  Kettering pursed his lips. “Seems to be doing rather well.”

  He threw out another of Tanyon’s choice expressions. “Let’s go after him.”

  But Kettering touched his arm. “Hold hard, leftenant. Let’s do this the easy way.” He turned to his sergeant, standing nearby. “Gregson, are you live?”

  The staff sergeant unslung his Lee Enfield. “Yes, sir.”

  “Put one across his bows.”

  The report of the .303 rifle cracked across the hills like the explosion of a metallic whip. Bruckmann couldn’t stop himself from flinching. On the steep slope, the grey-clad form ducked, slid partway down the ravine, scrabbled for purchase, came up against a rocky outcrop, and rolled behind it.

  The air shivered as the echoes fell away.

  “Seen combat, he has.” Kettering’s voice betrayed no more excitement than if they discussed the weather.

  The hillside was still. Then Faust peered about the boulder.

  “He’s looking right at us.”

  “Of course, leftenant. We’re the only officers out here.”

  As he watched, Faust swiveled about and peered up the ravine.

  Bruckmann stiffened. “What the blazes is he doing?”

  “Checking his options.”

  “What options? We’ve got him.” His stomach roiled. “Don’t we?”

  “Well, he could make a run for it up the ravine, but he knows we’d just send troops ahead by road to cut him off.” Kettering straightened as Faust swiveled back. “Come on, man, be reasonable.” He held his arms out to the sides, waist high, and stared up the hillside. A half-mile away, Faust stared back.

  They were alike, Bruckmann realized. Differences in education and languages aside, Kettering and Faust were twins under the skin — two military minds traversing the same lines of thought, a tactical fraternity, which remained closed to him. Bruckmann bit his lip. The theoretical logic of intelligence work he found simple, comfortable, appealing; all this physical maneuvering made him blanch deep inside. Would he ever be able to look at a landscape, the way these two did, and see it as points of cover and fields of fire, lines of advance and retreat, the best place for an ambush or where to set up camp? They knew; Faust and Kettering both knew he was lost.

  Kettering he believed he could trust. But Faust was the enemy at best and a murdering one at worst. For such a man to be so conversant with his weaknesses was both unnerving and inexcusable. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it.

  Halfway up the slope, Faust sagged. He lifted one hand, rose from his cover, and started sliding down the ravine. The watching soldiers cheered.

  “Bring him in, Gregson.” Kettering turned to Bruckmann and smiled. “There, you see? I told you we’d have him home in time for tea.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  the same afternoon

  Margeaux Hall

  What to do with Faust?

  Stoner sighed and rubbed his eyes. Weariness sapped him, body and soul, like some dark beast dragging him off to its shadowy lair, and he wondered how long he could withstand it. Papers again littered his desk, Bruckmann’s reports, typed transcripts of Faust’s interrogations, his own notes from Wurlitzer, from observing Faust’s behavior, from he couldn’t recall what. He pushed them aside. Rubbish, all rubbish.

  Behind him at the secretarial station, the scratching pencil ceased. “Ready,” Jennifer said, adding, “sorry.” She was neither as practiced nor as swift at shorthand as Bruckmann, forcing him to pause occasionally and allow her to catch up.

  He swiveled from the desk to give her his best smile, then leaned his head against the chair back and resumed dictation.

  “After consideration, my conclusions are as follows. First, if this prisoner is an espionage agent, he is not their most sterling and was recruited on short notice to fill the obvious gaps in the Abwehr’s data regarding the military defenses within our shores. Second, if this prisoner is not an espion
age agent, then his knowledge of Army Group A’s staff implies he is precisely what he, his uniform, and his identification documents all proclaim him to be, a junior staff officer in training, which increases his intelligence value significantly.” He paused; the pencil continued scratching.

  Personally, he could no longer believe Faust was a spy. Despite his obvious qualifications for such an assignment, his other qualities and characteristics — his unfettered, unhidden emotions, his candid conversation, his obvious confusion at the accusation — all spoke against it. The unworldliness described by Wurlitzer was too marked; Faust was a political innocent abroad.

  The scratching stopped. “Ready.”

  “Even in comparison to the German espionage agents already within my acquaintance, whose level of expertise is not particularly impressive, this man is poorly prepared for such a role and the Abwehr would have to be desperate indeed to entrust an important mission to such as he. I cannot consider it likely.” He paused again.

  Criminal folly on the part of Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr; it would take criminal folly or downright treason on his part to send Faust to England as an agent. Stoner’s entire being rebelled against such a possibility, finding it even more improbable than Faust being shot down and captured so near Oxford.

  “Ready.”

  “This of course changes the thrust of the interrogation, as we previously discussed. Our original plan in this instance remains fundamentally sound and I intend to psychologically undermine Faust’s position as a prisoner of war protected by the Geneva Convention, forcing him to barter military secrets to preserve his life. Within the intense setting of an interrogation, the leverage afforded by such a ruse should be enormous.”