D-Notice

by Bill Walker

  Controlling himself as best he could, he reached for his wallet and realized that he’d forgotten to ask Erika for some German money. Panic seized him then. He had to leave. But how was he going to do it without arousing suspicion, and without paying?

  The girl brought the two rolls, giving Michael an idea. “How much for three dozen?”

  “Seventy-two marks,” came the heavily accented reply.

  “I’ll take it.”

  The girl frowned, noticing as he had, that the tray was just shy of that amount of rolls. “I will have to check the back,” she said.

  Michael smiled, “Please do.”

  When she disappeared, Michael snatched up the paper and left the café, rounding the corner already sprinting. He forced himself to slow down.

  Reaching the car, he flung open the door, startling Erika awake. “Where is the tea?”

  “Never mind that,” he said, thrusting the newspaper into her lap. “Look at this.”

  She appeared confused, at first, but her eyes widened in alarm when she caught sight of the photograph. “Oh, no, Michael.”

  “What does it say?”

  She scanned the article quickly. “It says that you are sought in the murder of your friend, that you are armed and dangerous, and at large on the European continent, perhaps in Germany.”

  He pounded his fist on the dash. “Damn those bloody bastards!” He turned to Erika his face flushed a bright crimson. “It’s those fuckers in Whitehall. How often do you think a routine murder in England would make the papers here in Germany? Zero. Armed and dangerous, for Christ’s sake. They want me dead.”

  Erika grabbed his hand. “We’re almost home, Michael. In a little while they won’t be able to touch us.”

  “You sure about that? Can you guarantee it?”

  “Of course not. I—”

  Michael held up his hand, silencing her. “It’s okay. It’s not as if it really changes anything. It just rattled me.”

  They decided to drive around the city for a while, rather than stay where they were. This way, they would be far less vulnerable. At least it sounded good in theory. The time crept by, each minute ratcheting up Michael’s anxiety level. He kept spotting a blue Citroen in the side mirror pacing them at least half a kilometer back. Coincidence? He didn’t think so, not anymore. Whoever they were he hoped they kept their distance. He was getting sick and tired of being followed and chased.

  They arrived back at the College of Geopolitics at five minutes till one. Michael checked the street finding no blue Citroens in sight. It did little to relieve his anxiety.

  Inside the building, the hallways were choked with students headed for classes.

  Erika stopped a militant-looking girl and asked for directions. She rattled them off in rapid German and took off running, no doubt late for a lecture.

  They found Jarmann’s office on the fourth floor, a small plastic nameplate affixed to the door the only indication. Michael looked at Erika, his pulse beating a tattoo in his ears. She smiled and nodded. He raised his arm and knocked.

  “Ja, herein,” came the reply. The voice was low and guttural.

  Michael pushed open the door and entered a twenty-foot square room that could best be described as organized chaos. Papers and books stacked on top of each other covered every available surface. Michael cleared his throat.

  “Professor? Professor Jarmann?”

  Jarmann’s eyebrows arched at the unfamiliar sound of English, but his attention remained fixed on the term paper in front of him.

  “Yes, young man. You wish a copy of the syllabus for next semester?”

  Michael shot an unsure glance at Erika, who encouraged him with a curt nod toward the older man.

  “No, Professor, just a message.... The Eagle Flies....”

  The effect on Jarmann was immediate. His head snapped up from the paper, eyes ablaze with suspicion, and perhaps a touch of fear.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m sorry to upset you, sir, but we’ve come about an important matter.”

  “You have not answered my question. Who are you?”

  “Forgive me,” Michael said, moving toward the desk where the old man sat. “My name is Michael Thorley, Jr. My father was an acquaintance of Friedrich Rainer. This is his daughter, Erika.”

  Jarmann eyed Erika, the hint of a smile on his lips. “What took you so long?”

  “Pardon?”

  Jarmann stood and crossed the cluttered office to a credenza, pushing a stack of papers aside to reveal a battered coffeemaker. He opened the top, put in a filter and began filling it from an open can of ground Turkish coffee.

  “Just what I said, young man,” Jarmann said, picking right up where he left off. “What kept you? It seems my erstwhile associates have been dropping like flies, as of late. Do you like cream and sugar?”

  Michael couldn’t believe the old man’s blasé manner.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he asked, his anger overcoming his decorum. “Aren’t you afraid? By our reckoning, you’re the last living member of Der Weisse Adler left. If they kill you, it will all have been for nothing.”

  Jarmann paused in his task and stared off into space, his expression saddening. “My God.... I haven’t heard that name spoken for over forty years. I’d almost forgotten it.”

  “The Russians haven’t,” Erika said, speaking for the first time.

  The old man shot her a troubled glance, then resumed making the coffee.

  “In answer to your question, young man.... No, I am not afraid. I am too old to worry about such things.”

  “But surely what you know is important?” Michael said.

  “Is it? Would you like to know why they have not killed me, why they won’t kill me?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  The coffeemaker gurgled, the office filling with the odor of brewing coffee. Jarmann stared at Michael, seeming to take his measure. A moment later he spoke.

  “They have not killed me because I am regarded as a crackpot within the academic community, and in the world at large—a drunken lunatic with tenure. Nothing I say is ever taken seriously. Were I to come forward and speak the truth, the world would laugh.... I will doubtless remain in these ‘hallowed halls’ until I ossify.... Then again, perhaps my colleagues are planning my demise. They’ve the most to gain, at this point.”

  The old man roared with laughter, pleased with his gallows humor. He began pouring the steaming coffee into three cracked and dusty mugs. Michael glanced at Erika, who nodded sadly.

  “He’s right,” she said. “No one would believe him.”

  “Then why the bloody hell did we come here?”

  “Because, young man, your pretty Fräulein knows something you do not.”

  “What?” Michael asked, his patience near its end.

  “That my reputation for eccentricity is by design. Friedrich entrusted me with the final proof should this day ever arise. Proof that will forever silence the Russian Bear....”

  Karl sat behind the wheel of the midnight-blue Citroen, watching the fourth-floor window of Jarmann’s office through a compact pair of Zeiss binoculars from his vantage point across the now busy street. He snatched up the compact cellular phone, punched in a long series of numbers, pressed it to his ear and waited.

  It was answered on the first ring. “Ja. What is your report?”

  “They are inside at this very moment, Comrade General.”

  “Excellent,” Mueller replied. “Make sure no one interferes. The Russian swine may still try to take the old man out, just to play it safe. After Thorley leaves the building, you know what to do?”

  Karl’s bulldog face creased into a smile. “Ja, Comrade General, I know...exactly.”

  Michael stared at the old man’s wizened face, trying to discern the slightest hint of guile, but the ancient bloodshot eyes were determined—resolute.

  Proof!

  The eccentric old bastard had proof!

  A look to Erika
confirmed the measure of his own excitement. Her eyes glittered with a fierce, almost greedy light. Michael watched, breathless, while Jarmann opened a section of his bookshelves, revealing an expensive state-of-the-art fireproof safe. He then raised a gnarled finger toward the digital keypad and entered a series of numbers, so fast that Michael could only discern the first three. The safe beeped, and a second later the door swung open as if propelled by invisible hands. Jarmann wasted no time reaching in and pulling out a yellowed envelope. He handed it to Michael, who cradled it in his hands as if it were a ticking bomb.

  Shaking, he tore open the still-sealed envelope and extracted an equally yellowed sheet of foolscap paper. His heart sank.

  “It’s in Russian,” he said.

  Erika held out her hand. “Let me see it.”

  He handed her the paper, and watched as she read through it, her lips moving slightly as they formed the Russian words. She halted, her head snapping up from the page. “Mein Gott, if this is authentic—”

  “I assure you, it is, Fräulein,” Jarmann said, indignant.

  “What does it say?” Michael asked, anxious.

  Jarmann took the paper from Erika and gave it a quick glance, then handed it back to Michael. “It is an order to Marshall Ivan Tinenko, commander of Russian forces in Finland in 1941. It was found on his body after a particularly vicious firefight with Friedrich’s battalion. It is the express order to liquidate the Royal South Wessex Regiment—with prejudice.... For some reason, the Marshall disobeyed orders by not destroying the letter immediately. Perhaps it was the novelty of having his name on an order signed by Stalin himself.”

  Michael’s disappointment grew. “So what? Everyone knows that Stalin was as much a monster as Hitler. Russia’s repudiated the man, and everything he stood for. Why should any of this matter, now?”

  Jarmann smiled as a teacher would to a dull child. “Indeed, young man, why should any of this matter, now? It wouldn’t, except for one not-so-insignificant detail.... England and Russia had just become allies. Before Stalin gave the order.”

  The room seemed to tilt as Michael reached for the desk to steady himself. “Dear God....” he said.

  “You see,” Jarmann continued, “alliances were very fluid at that time. The English were secretly helping the Finns fight the Russians, who until June 22, 1941, were allied with Germany. Stalin wiped out the regiment as a warning, as a way to ensure that England would never join with Germany to defeat Russia, as British Fascists and Hitler desired.” Jarmann slammed his empty coffee mug onto the credenza. “That Georgian lout even had the nerve to inform Churchill of the massacre via a secret communiqué.”

  “And we did nothing?” Michael asked, already suspecting the answer.

  “Churchill’s hands were tied. To expose Stalin for what he was risked splitting the alliance and perhaps ultimately losing the war for the Allies. It was far too great a risk to take for men who were already dead.”

  “If they already knew, then why send my father at all?”

  The old man’s expression softened. “The proof, my boy, they wanted the proof the Rainer uncovered...so they could bury it.”

  Michael stumbled over to the window and stared out into the tiny park the building overlooked. Benches surrounded a tiny fountain, and one lone statue of some forgotten academic stood facing it, covered with pigeon droppings.

  They’d sacrificed his father, tossed him to the bloody wolves—for nothing! They’d sent him on a mission when they already knew what had happened, and why. All they’d wanted was an errand boy—an expendable one....

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stem the flood of hatred that washed over him. All the venom he’d felt over the years, blind anger against faceless unknown men, now finding its true home with those who now professed to have their country’s best interests at heart. They weren’t as bad as the monsters who’d pulled the triggers in that distant forest. They were worse.

  I won’t let them get away with it, Father. I promise!

  “Will you let us take it?” Erika asked.

  Jarmann stared at her with a look that was a curious mixture of suspicion and amusement, then handed Erika the paper.

  “I would be very careful with that, my dear. Far too many have died for it already.”

  Erika nodded and turned to Michael. “Michael? What is it?”

  He turned from the window. “Our friends have found us.”

  Erika and Jarmann rushed to the window and followed Michael’s gaze. Down in the park, seated on one of the benches, was a large bullet-headed man staring brazenly up at them, a smile on his face.

  Erika grabbed Michael’s shoulder. “We must go.”

  She headed for the door, the two men following.

  “There is a fire exit down the hall,” Jarmann said. “It will take you to the other side of the building.”

  Erika started down the hall and Michael hung back a moment, his eyes meeting Jarmann’s. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Jarmann nodded, saddened. “Yes. As far as I know...Friedrich Rainer never had a daughter.”

  Michael didn’t say anything, couldn’t even think of how to respond to that. Was the old man crazy, after all?

  “Michael!” she called. “Come on!”

  He turned to go and Jarmann grabbed his arm, his grip like a vise. “Good luck, young man.”

  He nodded, and the old man released him. Out in the hall, he spotted Erika at the end of the corridor holding open a door marked: Notfall-Ausgang—Emergency Exit. He ran to meet her, blood pounding in his ears and a brackish coppery taste in the back of his throat.

  They took the stairs two at a time, clattering down the concrete steps without concern for noise or decorum. He prayed the door leading out to the campus wasn’t alarmed. If it was, they stood the chance of alerting the hulking presence waiting for them on the park bench.

  There was no alarm, just a push-bar and a sign in German about fire drills. They blew through it right into the muzzle of a silenced Makarov pistol.

  “Good afternoon, Fräulein.” Karl said, his acne-pitted face splitting into a knowing leer. “Nice day for a jog, Ja?”

  Erika glared at him, contempt oozing from every pore. Michael’s eyes darted from the gun to Erika and then to their immediate surroundings. Surely someone had to see them. And then he saw the cold calculation in the big German’s eyes, and knew that it wouldn’t matter if someone had seen them. He would simply kill them and walk away, no doubt to the comfort of some safe house.

  “What do you want?” Michael asked.

  The big German reached into his pocket and pulled out something that resembled a walkie-talkie, except that it had a keypad, like a phone.

  “I have someone who wishes to speak with you, Herr Thorley.”

  Michael frowned, watching as the German tapped out a number.

  “It is Karl. Yes, I have them.”

  He handed the phone to Michael, who put it to his ear.

  “H—hello?”

  A momentary burst of static startled him, and then he heard a voice. The accent was also German, but sounded far more cultured.

  “Ahh, Michael. At last we meet through the wonders of micro-electronics.”

  The voice was like warm molasses, caressing his ear with its seductive timbres. He wanted to choke it off with his bare hands.

  “Who are you and what the hell do you want?”

  “Who I am is unimportant, for the moment. As to what I want, why, the same thing as you...the truth.”

  “Somehow, after all we’ve been through, I find that rather hard to swallow.”

  The voice chuckled. “I can well understand, my young friend. Nevertheless, I must ask your indulgence one last time. You and the young lady will meet me on the last outgoing Ostend-Dover ferry at midnight. You will then hand over the letter Jarmann gave you. Is that understood?”

  “What letter?”

  “Please do not insult my intelligence,” the voice said. “Someone�
��s life depends upon your cooperation, someone very close to you.”

  Michael heard the phone clunk a couple of times as it was handed over to someone else.

  “Hello, Michael.”

  Her voice was calm, almost normal, as if she’d called to ask about the weather or what he’d planned for dinner. And somehow that made it all the worse.

  “Mother! What’s going on, what’s happening?”

  Her tone changed abruptly. “Be quiet, son, and listen.... These men are quite serious. They are very capable of killing me with absolutely no reservations, so you are to do exactly what they ask. Do you have what they want?”

  Michael closed his eyes and cursed silently. “Yes,” he said finally.

  “Good. Then I’ll see you tonight, God willing.”

  He heard the phone being snatched away from her and then the voice returned. “Is everything clear, Michael?”

  “Yes, quite. If you harm her, I swear—”

  “Now, now, Michael, please don’t say anything we shall both regret. Just bring the letter and all will be well, I promise. Auf wiedersehen.”

  The phone went dead. He handed it back to Karl, who put it away along with his weapon.

  “Don’t be late,” Karl said.

  Michael watched him walk away, desiring with every ounce of his being to pounce on the sonofabitch and break his neck. He felt Erika’s hand on his arm. She went to embrace him, and he pushed her away. A look of surprise mixed with disappointment flashed across her face, replaced a moment later with one of determination.

  “Who was on the phone, Michael. What did he say?”

  “I’ve no idea. But it’s someone who knows what we have, what we just received from Jarmann. And whoever the hell it is has kidnapped my mother!” Michael turned and kicked the fire exit door, eliciting a hollow boom. The toe of his shoe left a shallow dent in the metal. He walked to one of the benches and sat down, cradling his head in his hands. “He wants us to meet him on the last ferry from Ostend,” he said, continuing. “...or they’ll kill her.”

  “Oh, no.... We can be in Ostend in a few hours. Perhaps we can set a trap?”

  “No. No traps. We’ll meet them just as they say.”