The Nazi Spy

by Alan Hardy

  She worried about that, and about Matthew. He had to come through it unscathed. If anything happened to him, she would go berserk.

  But it wasn’t just the dangers of combat. There were other dangers for Matthew, and for her. In the last day or two Fiona had taken the habit of always keeping her beige handbag with her, wherever she was, whether outside in the gardens, or sitting in the drawing-room. She always had her bag on her arm, or beside her. Within easy reach. Not so much for the handbag itself, as for the fully-loaded Smith & Wesson revolver inside it.

  Matthew gave her one piece of news which quite annoyed her.

  He mentioned that extra pilots were being summoned back to bulk up the numbers 287 Squadron would have for the duration of the current emergency. Pilots who thought they’d been given weeks of leave, or would be posted to other squadrons once their leave had ended, were summarily ordered back. Included in their number were both Freddie, and Granville.

  “Freddie!” she exclaimed, horrified, and furious. “And where’s he being billeted? I won’t have him here. You promised—”

  “Don’t worry,” Matthew said soothingly. “He’s been put in some convenient barracks nearby. Leave it to me. You won’t be troubled by him.”

  “I’d better not be,” hissed a venomous-looking Fiona. “You promised to deal with him, and I’m holding you to your promise.”

  “Keep your hair on, Fiona,” said Matthew. “I’ll sort him out.”

  Fiona couldn’t understand why they were calling back Granville. How could they rely on him to engage German planes in combat? Fiona pointed out that he was a traitor after all, which elicited quite a strange look from Matthew.

  “In a dogfight over Kent in July last year,” Matthew explained, “we were credited with shooting down a Messerschmitt 109 together. I got a burst in first, bits came off it, and it was smoking badly, and then Granville moved in as I overshot it, and he finished it off. Don’t you see? Granville is fairly confident he’s safe, especially after his conversation with you, and the subsequent disappearance of Belinda and her husband. He’s a German spy, but he’s not going to blow his cover. He’s as ruthless as his Nazi masters. His cover is that he’s a British RAF pilot, and his job is to kill Germans. And he’ll do it as long as he has to.”

  Fiona felt nervous, nonetheless. She didn’t know how things were going to end. She didn’t know everyone’s motives in the ensuing game. Unforeseen events and emergencies might arise, and she would have to be nimble-footed and quick-witted enough to deal with them. And survive. And ensure Matthew’s survival.

  She had to stay strong. Resourceful. And, like Granville, and Matthew, ruthless.

  She reached instinctively with her left hand for the beige handbag by her side on the sofa, and fondled it lovingly. At the moment, it was for her like a talisman. A lucky charm. A rabbit’s paw that she believed promised her everything she wanted. But soon it wouldn’t be a reassuring fetish. What it held within it would be the means by which she would live or die.

  They were nearing the end-game…

  May 17th.

  Fiona was in the breakfast room, idly flicking disinterested eyes over the pages of The Times.

  Matthew had already been long gone. He was up well before dawn. Off to do whatever a Squadron Leader—with extra secret service duties—had to do.

  James, the butler, with a discreet knock at the door, entered, trailing the table, with the phone on it, behind him.

  “Acting Squadron Leader Manfred, Mrs MacIntosh,” he murmured.

  “Thank you, James.”

  Before speaking, she listened to Matthew’s breathing on the line, smiling and licking her lips as she felt his presence, however disembodied, so close to her.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Fiona,” said Matthew in an urgent voice, causing her to sit up straight, “the two gentlemen we thought might be visiting Scapa Flow are not doing so. Just high-ranking officials. Still leaving on the same day, and at the same time. Can you please go and confirm all that with our interested third party?”

  “Of course, darling.”

  “Now, immediately, Fiona!” he snapped.

  “This very minute, Matthew.”

  “And Fiona…”

  “Yes?”

  “Be… Be careful… Keep that beige handbag by your side…”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be back shortly.”

  And that was it.

  The tension over the line had been palpable. Fiona breathed in sharply. Butterflies in the stomach. Pain in the chest. Light-headedness. Fiona had them all, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t dwell on such trifles. She grabbed her handbag off her lap, and rushed out to get a message off to the Germans.

  When she came downstairs again, clutching her handbag in her hand, she decided to stay in the drawing-room. She wanted a whisky to calm her nerves. Just one. For the moment.

  The doorbell rang.

  She could hear James’s footsteps across the spacious lobby, the opening of the door, and the sound of muffled voices.

  The voices, accompanied by footsteps, got closer and closer to the drawing-room.

  Fiona’s stomach-muscles tensed up. She was sitting in an armchair in the middle of the room, facing the drawing-room door.

  The door was opened.

  “Warrant Officer Wilkinson, Mrs MacIntosh.”

  “Thank you, James.”

  Fiona stood up, smoothing out her beige skirt by giving two half-hearted rubs to the back of her thighs.

  Keep calm, she told herself.

  “Hello, Mary,” she said, advancing slightly towards Mary’s approaching figure.

  Mary was in uniform. It suited her. The smart cut of the greyish-blue tunic and skirt flattered her shape, and set off her pale, pretty face quite sweetly.

  “Mrs MacIntosh,” said Mary with a nod, shaking Fiona’s hand.

  Mary’s hand was hot. Trembling slightly. Fiona feared hers was vulgarly sweaty. She wiped it instinctively on the front of her laced white blouse.

  “Call me Fiona,” Fiona said, giving a polite smile, and motioning to the sofa.

  Mary nodded again, and went to sit down.

  Fiona feared she was fiddling with her left wrist again, looked down, and was quite amazed to find she wasn’t. Both arms were hanging limply, and awkwardly, by her sides, but there was no rubbing. That pleased her. It gave her strength.

  Fiona returned to her armchair. She saw the handbag there. She should have taken it with her, even to walk a few steps. That was careless. As she sat down, she purposely grazed against it with her bum, even gave it a touch with her right hand. She needed reassurance.

  As she looked up, she saw Mary’s intense eyes staring at the handbag, and then shifting to meet Fiona’s eyes head-on.

  Fiona had made a mistake. She could have kicked herself. She had made it obvious there was something important in that handbag.

  Get a grip, she told herself.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure, Mary?”

  Mary leant forward, cupping her hands on her lap.

  “Let me be blunt, Fiona,” she said.

  She paused, as if debating how blunt to be, and cleared her throat a couple of times.

  “Fiona, I must ask you a question,” she stated curtly, and abruptly. “Let’s not mince matters. You know who I am, and you know what’s going on here at Scapa Flow these days. My question is… Have you received any information about a change of plan?”

  Mary’s eyes bore into Fiona’s, but Fiona found solace in her awareness that Mary was very nervous, her two thumbs playing silly games with each other, and her knees knocking agitatedly against each other, like an embarrassed schoolgirl.

  “A change of plan?”

  “Any change in the departure date or time of the flotilla?” explained Mary.

  “No,” intoned Fiona slowly, wondering where this was leading, and how she should respond.

  “I’ve heard the day is still the same, tomorrow
, the 18th,” continued Mary, “but the time has been put back to three o’ clock.”

  “That’s when it’ll set sail?”

  “Well, of course,” Mary snapped, looking impatient.

  “Who told you that?” asked Fiona, emboldened by Mary’s obvious edginess.

  Mary didn’t answer immediately. She was very indecisive. Fiona liked that.

  “That old fool, Group Captain Jenkins, let it slip,” Mary said finally. “Orders are going out to the squadron to marshal its forces for that time. Y’know, ground crews preparing the Spitfires, pilots being informed, ops-room getting final weather forecasts together, that sort of stuff, all for the afternoon… John Granville has confirmed that he’s picking up the same indications. You haven’t heard anything like that?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “You’ve only heard of the other time?” queried Mary. “Can I ask you to confirm what that time is?”

  Mary’s eyes fastened horribly upon Fiona.

  “Ten o’ clock.”

  “Where did you get your information?”

  “From Matthew. He tells me everything.”

  Fiona smiled. Mary returned a half-smile.

  “Has he reconfirmed that?”

  “No,” lied Fiona.

  She instinctively realized she had to keep that secret. Matthew’s hurried phone-call, and the warning he had given, had made it clear.

  She felt more confident. She knew more than Mary. She knew things Mary didn’t. And Mary was irked by her answer, and her inability to know if Fiona was telling the truth or not.

  “I think the British are setting a trap,” blurted out Mary. “They’re enticing the Germans… They’re tricking them… Getting them to send in some of their crack bomber formations to bomb a flotilla out in the open sea which won’t be there. The long flight from Germany, Denmark or Norway will mean the bombers, and fighter escort, will have little petrol left once they’re over the target area. If they’re set upon by a horde of British fighters…”

  “They’ll be like moths drawn to the Spitfires’ flame?” suggested Fiona rather cruelly, intrigued by Mary’s nervous distress.

  “What do you think?” she asked, looking quite pitifully at Fiona. “What’s your opinion?”

  “Such an elaborate plan, bringing over high-ranking Americans for a meeting, just to down a few dozen aeroplanes? Hardly seems logical, or worthwhile,” replied Fiona.

  Mary seemed deflated. She had wished for a different opinion. She was insecure, like a cat on hot bricks. Fiona watched her carefully. She would have to be quick, if Mary made a move.

  “Fiona,” said Mary, her voice quite high-pitched and shaky, “I want you to send a message to Berlin, saying we have heard of this alternative time for the sailing.”

  “But haven’t you contacted them already?”

  “Yes, I have, but…”

  “But..?”

  “But, if you haven’t heard anything, then maybe I… I don’t know… That’s what Jenkins thinks, but it’s Matthew who counts in all this, isn’t it, Fiona? We both know that, don’t we?”

  She looked directly and intensely at Fiona, even smiling slightly, despite her pale, nervous face.

  “I haven’t heard anything more from Matthew,” Fiona repeated, tensing up her muscles, and mapping out in her mind the simple, swift moves she’d have to make to get her Smith & Wesson revolver out of her handbag.

  “That’s what I mean, Fiona,” said Mary, her eyes narrowing. “If he hasn’t heard anything, then we can’t be sure. I want you to send a message to say we have conflicting information, and that we cannot as yet give a definitive time.”

  “You want to cover yourself in case you’re wrong?” suggested Fiona quite brutally. “And it’s me you want to use as cover, isn’t it?”

  Mary didn’t answer. She remained motionless. Was she like a lion about to strike, or like the antelope the lion was about to leap upon, terrified into immobility?

  “You see, Fiona,” she said, “if they take my time, three o’ clock, to be correct, and it isn’t, their squadrons will arrive too late. The flotilla will have sailed north around Scotland, and beyond their range.”

  Fiona kept quiet. And very still.

  “Has Matthew reconfirmed that time of ten o’ clock?”

  “No.”

  “And will you make that call to Berlin for me?”

  Mary continued to glare at her, waiting for an answer, and, in the flicker of an eyelid, tossed a glance at Fiona’s handbag.

  Fiona decided. It was now or never.

  She moved her hands tremblingly, but swiftly, to the handbag, fished out the revolver in a flash, and aimed it at Mary who had barely had time to do more than half-raise herself from the sofa.

  “Stay where you are! Don’t move!” ordered Fiona.

  “What is this, Fiona?” demanded Mary.

  “Sit down!”

  Mary sat down.

  “Explain yourself, Fiona,” Mary said defiantly, but looked anxious and, if not totally nonplussed, at least in something of a mental cul-de-sac.

  “Mrs MacIntosh to you,” Fiona corrected her quite rudely. “Acting Squadron Leader Manfred will be here shortly. It’ll be up to you to explain yourself to him.”

  “John Granville told you who I was. He explained everything to you,” said Mary, a little colour returning to her cheeks, which disturbed Fiona. “I don’t understand your actions, and your motives.”

  “I don’t understand yours, either,” snapped Fiona. “I’ll leave that to Matthew to work out. You just sit there, and be a good girl.”

  “Your hand is shaking, Mrs MacIntosh,” Mary pointed out, emboldened, more confident.

  It was true. Fiona could sense her hand shaking. But she didn’t look down. She kept her gaze fixed on her antelope in front of her.

  “You’d better behave yourself then. This revolver could go off any time.”

  How long would Matthew take?

  She considered calling out for James, the butler, or Molly, the cook, or one of the other servants, but she wasn’t sure exactly, if at all, what was going on, and how the present impasse would be resolved. She felt she had to keep the episode contained, for now at least, restricted to the drawing-room and the two people in it, and wait for Matthew. He would then move it on. Best to keep other people out of it until then. Even the servants.

  “You rely a lot on Matthew, don’t you?” stated Mary, a curious glimmer in her eyes. “Funny that such a young man should inspire such trust in you. What if—”

  “I don’t want you to discuss Matthew with me!” she said brusquely.

  “We both know how imposing he can be, don’t we, Mrs MacIntosh?” continued Mary, ignoring her demand. “He’s a strange one. So aloof at times, so quiet… But he’s just waiting to strike, isn’t he? We both—”

  “Stop it!” Fiona shouted. “I told you!”

  She waved the revolver about excitedly. She felt that mist descending upon her. That swirling confusion which took hold of her head, and made her want to scream.

  “All—All right! All right!” stammered Mary, raising her hands in abeyance, feigning an anxiety her smiling lips belied.

  Where was he?

  Her head cleared a bit, but the revolver felt sweaty in her grip. She wondered if she would be able to fire if required, or if her finger would slip off the trigger as she pulled it. She readjusted her hold on it. She noticed Mary glancing ravenously at her faltering movement of hand and fingers. Don’t do that again, she told herself. Don’t rearrange your hold. Keep still. Don’t move. Let your hand get sweaty. Let your face perspire. Let beads of sweat fall down your face. Let your left eye well up. Don’t rub it. Don’t rub away imagined tears. Don’t. Stay still. Stay focussed. Wait for Matthew. He would know what to do. And, if he didn’t, well, then, she would just pull the trigger and blow this silly girl away.

  The wait seemed interminable. Mary sat quite still. She too was waiting. She was waiting for Fiona to lose her n
erve. For the revolver to become too sweaty, when she’d try to rearrange her grip on it, and fumble, and give Mary an opening. Or waiting for her to flunk it. Become all female, and have a collapse, a girlish fit of nerves and weakness. Well, it might come to that, if she waited forever. But, before she would allow it to happen, she’d blow Mary’s brains out.

  Did Mary know that? Or didn’t she have the imagination?

  As from a hundred miles away, she sensed—rather than heard—the harsh crunch of tyres on gravel.

  At last a car was arriving.

  It might not be Matthew, she told herself. Keep calm. Wait. She felt elated, but she had to curb her relief. She was like someone in the desert being offered a flask of water after days alone, but she couldn’t start screaming for joy yet. Wait. Concentrate.

  It was Matthew. He’d let himself in. He had his own key.

  Mary looked worried again. Her indecisiveness had returned. Her paleness of face was total. Fiona could see she was spinning out alternative schemes in her head. Weighing up possibilities.

  “Matthew!” Fiona screamed out.

  Mary started, as if the revolver had been fired.

  Footsteps came rushing to the drawing-room door.

  The door was opened.

  “Hello, Fiona,” said a breathless Matthew. “Everything under control?”

  “You took your time,” Fiona chided him, taking a few long, deep breaths, and the opportunity to relax her grip on the revolver, and flex her sweaty, aching fingers.

  She then stood up, flexing her legs too to smooth out her rumpled skirt.

  “Here, let me take that,” said Matthew, striding forward as he glanced carefully at Mary.

  “Don’t give him the gun!” shouted Mary, startling Fiona so much she nearly dropped it. “He’ll kill you!”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Fiona, looking at Mary with annoyance.

  “He’ll kill you!” Mary screamed. “Don’t do it! He’s a German spy!”

  “Fiona…” said Matthew gently, advancing closer to her.

  Fiona instinctively backed off him, the back of her calves hitting against the armchair.