D-Notice

by Bill Walker

  Ripley made a show of shuffling papers and then smiled, folding his hands on the desktop. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Thorley.”

  “I’m here to pick up something my late father left in your firm’s care.”

  “Ahh, I see,” Ripley said, his glasses slipping down his nose again. “Of course, I’m happy to oblige, but you see, Mr. Thorley, I’ve only just started my employment here, and I’m really not quite up to speed, so to speak.”

  He shrugged and attempted another smile. Michael noticed that the man’s hands twitched nervously, as if he wasn’t comfortable with them unless they were occupied. A moment later they began shuffling more papers, and Michael began a slow burn. The receptionist had deliberately handed them off to the most incompetent fool she could muster. Surely there was a circle in hell just for the likes of her.

  Michael sat forward in his chair. “I can appreciate that, Mr. Ripley. But what we’re looking for would have been kept under Mr. Cadwallader’s personal care. Surely those records are handy.”

  Ripley brightened, his hands ceasing their busy work for the moment. “Oh, yes, quite handy, indeed. Those records are even now being gone through and collated by my assistant for microfilming, you see.”

  “Good, then what we seek is more than likely stored in whatever boxes are marked 1941.”

  Ripley’s practiced smile faltered. “Oh, dear me. Did you say, 1941?”

  “Yes,” Michael said, not liking the man’s tone one iota.

  “Those records were destroyed in 1944. A stray buzz bomb, I’m told. Nasty business. Everything from the firm’s founding up until that time. All gone. Nearly unraveled the firm altogether, I might add.”

  Michael collapsed back into the chair, feeling as if someone had kicked him in the gut. The room seemed to tilt on some unseen axis, nauseating him.

  Erika, seeing his distress, broke in. “The woman upstairs said that Mr. Cadwallader had retired some years ago. Is he still alive?”

  “Last I heard,” Ripley replied.

  “Then perhaps you can tell us where we can find him. It’s very important.”

  Erika smiled at him and Ripley blushed a deep shade of crimson. Reaching into his desk, he pulled out a notepad and scribbled on it with one of his ubiquitous pens, tore it off, and handed it to Erika.

  “You’ll find him at that address. Although, I’m not at all sure he’ll be of much help to you.”

  “You see anything?” Michael asked.

  Their car was parked outside the East Grinstead Convalescent and Retirement Home, a sprawling two-story brick building occupying two manicured acres at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. Its nearest neighbors were blocks of dreary low-income housing that resembled concrete bunkers.

  Erika scanned the road leading to the mouth of the cul-de-sac and shook her head. “No, nothing.”

  Michael watched a group of elderly residents arrayed on the home’s front lawn. They slouched in lawn chairs, each consumed with their own thoughts, or lack thereof.

  He faced her and nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Exiting the car, they hurried across the street. Ever since they’d left London, Michael had eyed the rearview mirror, looking for the Lotus, or any other car that stayed with them too long. Of course, whoever was interested in them might have managed to remain undetected despite his vigilance, a thought that renewed his sense of unease.

  When they reached the glassed-in entrance, Michael gave the street one last look, then motioned for Erika to go inside.

  The Nikon’s motor drive wheezed as the camera snapped off several excellent shots of Michael and Erika through the car window when they entered the Home. The photographer, a burly man with a bullet-shaped head and mean piggish eyes, lowered the camera and stared at the building, his jaw working methodically on a piece of gum. His companion, the driver, tapped the steering wheel impatiently, his ferretlike eyes darting between the building and the entrance to the cul-de-sac. He didn’t like being in a place without at least two ways to get out of it. Here, if something happened, they were trapped. He didn’t like it one bit; it wasn’t professional. Still, what choice did they have? They did what they were told. And they’d been told to wait until young Thorley and the girl showed up. If they did, then they were to act accordingly. Unfortunately, they’d had to wait nearly four hours.

  “You get them, Karl?” he said, in German.

  The photographer nodded, and put the camera away, lovingly wiping the large telephoto lens with lens tissue. “Ja. Good shots. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  The driver shifted in his seat, then checked his watch. “Shouldn’t we wait for them?”

  Karl shook his head. “No. I have enough, and there is nothing I can do until this evening. Besides, I’m hungry. Killing always makes me hungry.”

  The driver laughed and started the car’s engine. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said.

  A moment later the silver-gray Jaguar XJ-12 pulled out from the curb, made a U-turn and sped away.

  Although it shouldn’t have surprised him, the inside of the home was even more depressing. Extremely utilitarian, it looked for all the world like a cross between a college dormitory and a hospital, with hard linoleum floors and painted brick walls. Their feet echoed as they walked.

  Stopping first at the front desk, they asked the duty nurse where Martin Cadwallader’s room was located. The woman had sneered, shaking her head. “It’s on the second floor,” she said. “Just follow the bloody music and you’ll find him.”

  Michael thanked her and got a grunt in return. Dodging carts piled high with dirty dishes left over from lunch, they ignored the lift and took the stairs. On the second-floor landing, Michael heard the music, and recognized the tune as Glen Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade.” It made him smile in spite of his dark mood.

  They found Cadwallader’s room at the end of the hall, the door standing ajar. The music was so loud, Miller’s trombone made the walls throb. Peering in, Michael spied a frail-looking old man sitting in a sagging easy chair, eyes closed and a blissful smile on his face, his half-eaten lunch on a tray in front of him. A quick scan of the room revealed a lifetime of knickknacks crammed into every available space. There were also several ancient wooden filing cabinets lining one wall. Michael was wondering what they might contain when the music ended. Taking advantage of the silence, he knocked on the doorjamb. The old man remained oblivious and he knocked harder. This time Cadwallader cracked open his eyes and turned toward the door, an expectant look on his face. When his eyes connected with Michael’s, they widened in astonishment, his lips trembling.

  “M—Michael? Michael Thorley?”

  Now it was Michael’s turn to be astonished. How could he know me? Had Ripley called ahead? It would seem unlikely, but—

  The old man spoke again. “Dear God, Man, you look bloody wonderful. But I thought the Jerries got you last year.”

  A wave of disappointment rushed through him. Cadwallader was confusing him with his father.

  Michael and Erika approach him, not quite sure what to expect.

  “Mr. Cadwallader? I’m Michael Thorley, Junior. Michael’s son.”

  The old man looked nonplused. “Junior? Michael’s son?”

  Cadwallader suddenly began to cry, big fat tears coursing down his pale wrinkled face.

  Panicked, Michael looked to Erika, who knelt by the old man and comforted him. His manner abruptly changed. He eyed her with suspicion and began to sniff the air around her.

  “You’re German, aren’t you?” he said, continuing to sniff. Michael could see Cadwallader’s question and his odd manner had taken her off-guard. She backed off from him, a puzzled frown on her face.

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  Cadwallader’s eyes were wild.

  “Can smell ‘em. I know a Jerry from their stink!” He turned to Michael and screamed, “Why have you brought one of them? You’ve gone over, haven’t you? A traitor to King and country!”

  Suddenly f
earful the old man would draw attention—the last thing they needed—Michael moved to the door. “Mr. Cadwallader,” he said, returning to his place in front of the old man, “I’ve come for what you’ve been keeping for my father.”

  Confusion flashed across Cadwallader’s face, and then he appeared to relax, a friendly grin creasing his face.

  “Michael? Michael Thorley is that you? Where’s that beautiful wife of yours?” He turned to Erika, the smile widening. “Lillian! You look absolutely ravishing! I’m always telling Michael he should bring you round when he comes to visit. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Erika shot a glance at Michael, who nodded for her to play along.

  “It’s good to see you, Martin. It’s been much too long.”

  Michael winced inwardly at Erika’s atrocious English accent. Fortunately, Cadwallader was submerged too far into his fantasy to notice.

  “Michael and I have come for the items you have been keeping for him,” she continued. “Do you remember what they are?”

  “Items?”

  Erika leaned close to the old man’s ear. “The Eagle Flies,” she whispered.

  Cadwallader stiffened and the glaze left his eyes, replaced by a measure of lucidity and a sly smile.

  “Damn doodle-bug hit the firm in ‘44. Blew it all to hell. For some reason I can’t explain, something made me remove certain items from the firm’s safe beforehand. Yours were among them. I put them in a safe place.” The old man grinned like a schoolboy and tapped the side of his head.

  For one horrifying moment, Michael believed the old man meant that he’d memorized whatever had been in the safe. And then Cadwallader struggled to his feet and hobbled over to one of the file cabinets. He kept up a steady patter of muttering while he pulled open drawers and rifled through them, sometimes extracting a file, brown and crumbling with age. Each time the old man yanked open a drawer, wood shrieked against wood, making Michael wince. It was like the proverbial chalk on a blackboard. He looked to Erika and saw that she wore an eager, expectant expression. His own face must look much the same, he thought.

  “I know the bloody thing’s around here somewhere....” Cadwallader said. “Blast! They’ve been mucking about in here again.” He turned to Michael and Erika. “So sorry for the inconvenience, Michael, but I can’t keep a decent secretary anymore. Practically a different one every day. And these white uniforms they insist on wearing! No style at all.”

  Cadwallader turned back to his cabinets and opened another drawer. It howled in protest. Michael began to wonder if they’d wasted their time. For all he knew those filing cabinets contained nothing more ominous than old time sheets. Suddenly the old man straightened up. “Aha! Knew I had the blasted thing!” He raised his arm in triumph, revealing a yellowed file clutched in his gnarled fingers.

  Bringing it over to a small table, he opened the folder, extracted a sealed envelope, and handed it to Michael, who wasted no time in tearing it open, and dumping out its contents into the palm of his hand.

  It was a key to a safe deposit box.

  And on it was the box’s number and nothing else.

  Cadwallader squeezed Michael’s hand, his aged eyes burning with fervor. “Barclay’s Bank,” he whispered. “Trafalgar Square.”

  A surge of adrenaline raced through Michael’s body. He cradled the key in his hand like a holy relic, feeling it warm to his touch. The gentle pressure of Erika’s hand on his arm told him she felt the same way. A troubling thought occurred to him and he looked up at the old man.

  “How will I get into the box if it’s under your name?”

  “It isn’t. It’s under yours.”

  Michael’s eyes widened. “But how could you know that I’d come?”

  Cadwallader clapped him on the back affectionately. “Kept tabs on you, my boy. From very early on I knew you were your father’s son.”

  Michael felt a wave of emotion wash over him. “Thank you, sir. I am in your debt.”

  “Of course, you are,” the old man snapped, “you haven’t paid your bill in months.”

  The dark veil had descended over the old man’s eyes again, and Michael signaled to Erika that they should leave. She nodded and walked out the door, leaving the two men with a moment of privacy.

  “I wish you well, sir,” Michael said.

  The old man remained silent, staring out into space, his mouth hanging open as if in the middle of forming a word. It made Michael’s skin crawl. Feeling awkward standing there, he turned to go. He’d barely taken a step when Cadwallader called out.

  “M—Michael?”

  He turned to face the old man and found that the light had returned to Cadwallader’s eyes, along with an expression of wistful sadness.

  “Your father was a good man,” he said, moving to the ancient record player, “a man I was proud to call my friend.... He just trusted the wrong people.”

  The smile that had come to Michael’s face faded as he walked out of the room. Once again, the music of Glen Miller blasted out into the hall. This time its lively rhythms and happy-go-lucky sound grated on his nerves.

  Trusted the wrong people.

  The old man’s words sent a chill up his spine. He hadn’t wanted to admit, even to himself, that there might be a grain of truth to it. And if that were true, what did that bode for him now that he was dogging his father’s footsteps?

  Erika fell into step next to him, and remained silent, sensing his darker mood. Back on the ground floor, she stopped him when they reached the front door, her face etched with concern. “What is it?”

  He sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing, just something the old man said about my father.”

  Erika squeezed his arm. “It’s hard to hear unexpected things about someone you love.”

  Michael frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry, I am not trying to be, how you say, enigmatic. My father had secrets that I am just now finding out. It’s hard—” She stopped as tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m sorry....”

  “Me too,” he said, laying his hand over hers. “It’s all a lot of bloody crap.” He looked out on the street until he was satisfied that nothing was amiss, then held open the door. “Come on, we need to hurry if we’re going to make the bank before it closes.”

  In a few moments they were back on the A22 headed for London. For the entire drive, Michael was very much aware of Erika’s presence in the car. It was palpable, as if the air pressure had increased somehow. Part of him wanted to pour out his feelings to her, feelings that were growing by the hour. The other part of him resisted the urge, fought it tooth and nail, as if his life depended on it.

  When are you going to grow up and be a bloody man? he thought bitterly. When, indeed? Perhaps his father had asked himself the same questions, and the answers had placed him inevitably in harm’s way. And that was when another thought came to him in the form of an old quote from George Santayana, one his old philosophy professor at Cambridge had drummed into his head: Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it.

  He only hoped the old goat was right, and that he would have the time to learn enough about what had happened to avoid the same fate.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The coarse wool of Werner Mueller’s pea coat made the back of his neck itch, as did the rough denim of his shirt. Thank god the shoes fit, at least. They were stout, hobnailed boots, the kind a laborer wore on a construction site, which was precisely the image he was out to project. Ignoring the tickling on his neck, Mueller adjusted his hard-hat and squinted toward the guard shack up ahead. He’d been standing in the line at Checkpoint Charlie for slightly over an hour. And it had barely moved. He cursed the Grenzpolizei and their damned painstaking efficiency. The bastards were cracking down, checking every umlaut in every passbook. No doubt this was due to his own efforts as Stasi Chief to reign in the rampant escapes to the West. He’d never understood the Communist mentality, even after all these years working for them. On the one hand, they e
xtolled the worker’s paradise and how great it was to live in it. And yet, they were so bloody paranoid about some grandmother going to West Berlin and not coming back. So what? If anything, they should encourage the malcontents to leave, give them all amnesty and say you have a choice: stay or go. Mueller was willing to admit that more of them than not would elect to stay. Human nature always dictated that people would not want something as much if they were given it freely. They would think it tainted.

  Unfortunately, the party never thought in such flexible terms. Dogma ruled and that was why the Grenzpolizei were so vigilant. It was a vicious cycle of repression and escape. If it went on long enough there would be no one left. But Mueller saw the handwriting on the wall. He could see that the days were numbered. And like the last time, in the days when he’d been SS-Gruppenführer Gerhard Müller, he intended to land on his feet.

  The line began to move, and Mueller saw that the Grenzpolizei were waving several people through. The next person was hauled off, his protestations of innocence sounding like the bleating of sheep. Mueller smiled. He always found this sort of scene entertaining.

  After another fifteen minutes, it was his turn. One of the guards, a pasty-faced man with the breath of a bear, thrust out his meaty paw and glared at him with witless intensity. “Papers,” he said, his voice edged with fatigue and boredom.

  Mueller handed over his identification and watched the guard with a steady gaze. The man glanced down at the passbook, comparing the grainy picture with Mueller’s face. The photo had been taken some years ago, and Mueller realized it was time to update it. Too much Bratwurst had changed the lines of his face. That and time, the grand thief of all that was good.