Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  She burst into angry sobs. ‘I hate you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do you? You’re confusing me.’ He began to draw away. She ran her hands over his chest and fought for control. She mustn’t give way to the storm of emotions raging inside her. She had a job to do and she must be calm and fully in control of herself. When she felt his sensuous lips touching hers, it was like nothing she had ever experienced. She seemed to lose herself in Bill. For a while there was no other existence but his moist and sensual mouth and his tongue probing hers. Then his hand moved to her breasts and fondled and caressed her. She felt her body throbbing with desire and Bill was stiffening, growing and pulsating against her belly.

  He picked her up and carried her gently to the bed, and lay beside her, tracing his forefinger around her cheeks.

  ‘You’re a wonderful girl, Ingrid. I admire you so much.’

  Admire? Why not love? she shrieked silently. She saw the slow, sullen rise of passion in his eyes as she waited, with bated breath and sweet agonised longing, for him to make this final movement that would join them. She felt utterly abandoned. She was his, the ready partner for his thrusting penis. When he entered her, it was the most poignant moment she had ever experienced. It felt so right, so natural, and her deeply suppressed physical longing for him came bubbling out in wonder.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she moaned.

  Her hands stroked his back, feeling the soft hairs on his firm, wonderful skin, the supple muscles rippling under his smooth flesh, his tight buttocks rising and falling. Sudden flames of feeling seared her stomach and her thighs. In a crescendo of pleasure she screamed, gasped, and lost herself in wonder.

  He came soon afterwards, and lay there with his arms around her and his wilting penis still inside her. Now she could feel the slackness of his balls against her inner thighs. All that essence of Bill was inside her.

  Eventually he rolled aside and pulled her against his shoulder. He glanced sideways at her, a trace of awkwardness in his gaze.

  ‘Now I know what it’s really all about,’ Ingrid said, with a secret smile. ‘Now I know why I have always loved you.’ She felt briefly suffused with happiness.

  ‘You’re pretty hot stuff yourself.’

  No mention of love, she noticed, suppressing a sigh, but maybe with time Bill would learn to love her.

  ‘Scotch?’ he was saying, ‘or what?’

  ‘Scotch, or anything. Mmm.’ She lay back and stretched like a cat, listening to him moving around the kitchen. Then she got out of the bed in a swift, decisive gesture.

  She looked around the room and giggled. It was long and shadowy. One wall was covered with a gilt-framed mirror, looking into its green depths made her feel she had been long submerged under the sea. An old and broken chandelier hung from the ceiling, the sofa and armchairs were over-stuffed and full of holes.

  ‘It’s too much, too much! I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s a gem. The shoddiest place in the world,’ she said as Bill came in with two tumblers of warm whisky.

  ‘But it’s home,’ he grinned.

  They lay on the bed in companionable silence sipping their drinks. In Ingrid’s mind was a terrible fear that she had overstepped the limits of her control. How could she withstand real feeling in this macabre world of make-believe she inhabited? She felt more afraid than she had ever been. In an attempt to dispel her morbid thoughts, she turned to him.

  ‘Bill,’ she asked. ‘Why aren’t you in uniform?’

  ‘Heart problem.’ Then in a quick decisive gesture, he turned her on to her back and climbed between her thighs.

  ‘Heart problem,’ she murmured incredulously, as he made love again. Later, she remembered why she was there and she began to question him as he lay drowsy and replete.

  ‘Where d’you work, Bill? In London?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘So what do you do all day in this “cushy” job?’

  ‘Ingrid, stop prying, you know the rules. I may not be on active service, but I’m still with the military.’

  ‘Well, don’t you have a rank?’

  ‘Sure, I’m a captain. You mustn’t ask about my work.’ His hand reached over and fumbled with her breasts. Ingrid abandoned her questioning and gave in to her own desires.

  Bill rose early and woke Ingrid with a cup of tasteless coffee. ‘You can use the bathroom first, that way you’ll get some hot water. It’s only for early birds.’

  She laughed. Swinging her legs over the bed, she stood up and stretched. ‘I’ll bath at home. Don’t worry, I’ll take a taxi. How about dinner tonight?’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t.’

  ‘You say when.’

  ‘Maybe Saturday. I’ll be in touch.’

  She put on her clothes feeling she’d been used.

  ‘Darling, I’ve got to hurry.’ Bill kissed her briefly. ‘Goodbye pet. See you soon.’ He disappeared into the bathroom and shortly afterwards she heard him whistling over the sound of running water.

  Bill’s briefcase lay by the door. It was not locked, but her hands were shaking so much she could hardly open it. I’m never this nervous, she cursed under her breath. This was no time for weakness. She was playing for her own survival. She took her camera out of her bag.

  *

  Months had passed since Bill first heard about the Richard’s Mine research project, but still they had no proof of what was happening there. It had been mooted that they should try and send in some undercover operatives. It was an idea which appealed to Bill, but Schofield believed the risks outweighed the chances of any success. But precious time was passing as they argued the point and Bill resolved to try once more to get his superior to see things his way.

  ‘We’ve let too many weeks go by, sir. Trouble is, there’s so little to go on. Just the hearsay of these two men, both ex-prisoners. Let’s face it, the very fact that the mine security is so good means that there must be something worth guarding in there.’

  Schofield sighed. ‘I’m learning to respect your hunches. What do you think is going on there?’

  ‘It’s like this, Sir. Back in 1938, Albert Einstein warned President Roosevelt that the Nazis could develop an atom bomb first. We can’t afford to ignore this possibility. Even if the war was virtually won . . . if the Germans manage to produce that bomb, together with long range missiles, they would have the Allies over a barrel. Enemy missiles could be launched from Czechoslovakia, or Poland, or the Low Countries. It’s not impossible. It will take us over a year, maybe longer to win the war as it is now. That gives them ample time to manufacture the bombs.’

  ‘Hm! I’m inclined to agree with you. So we assume that the warhead being developed in Czechoslovakia, under conditions of the greatest secrecy, could be the much-flaunted V3, which Hitler is hoping will win him the war.’

  ‘Exactly, sir. It’s time to get moving.’

  ‘This matter has gone to the very highest level,’ Schofield said. ‘I don’t have the authority to mount the mission you propose, but I am charged with gathering more information, so tell your Czech friends to get us more details.’

  ‘OK,’ Bill stood up. ‘I’ll try and push them harder.’

  After he’d gone, Schofield stared at his desk, obsessed with his own personal anxieties, pondering over the cruel games fate liked to play. In the past two years, Bill Roth had proved to be the finest officer in his group. The man had also become his friend, despite their age difference. What he hadn’t disclosed to Bill was that he’d been told to suggest a good team for training in case it was decided to drop them into Prague to join the Underground. Their mission was near-impossible . . . to delay V-3 production so that the rockets were never fired, but without destroying the plant or the research which had to remain intact for the Allies at the war’s end. If the Soviets took Czechoslovakia first, they must be prepared to blow up the mine and themselves with it, rather than let the Soviets take control of the scientists and the research.

  On paper it was a certain suicide mission, but
how could he send Bill Roth? He had to admit that Roth was the best man to head the team of saboteurs and the mission was important enough to warrant wasting this fine officer, but he didn’t want to make the decision.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The public library at Chalk Farm always depressed Ingrid, although she was never sure why. People stared at her, although she went to some pains to look like them, and that morning she was wearing an old gaberdine raincoat with her hair pushed into a thick net. Nevertheless, they all looked up as she walked in.

  She tried not to glance at the posters on the wall, but she never succeeded in ignoring them. Be like Dad, Keep Mum, reminded the locals of the danger of spies around them. Careless talk costs lives was another. They always jolted her out of her world of make-believe and back into the dangerous, treacherous present. If she were caught . . .

  If only Fernando and the rotten world she was trapped in would disappear. If only she could be free of it. There was only one escape route . . . If Bill were to marry her and take her back to the States she would be free of them all.

  Tearing her glance from the posters, she passed the counter. The librarian, a small woman with rimless glasses, iron-grey hair and a sour expression, sat behind the desk pounding books with her stamp. Her name was Annie Atkinson and Ingrid disliked her. Annie had nothing better to do than poke her nose into other people’s business. ‘Ah ha! Our one and only celebrity, Princess Pluck,’ she said in her unpleasant nasal whine. ‘What brings you here so early in the morning? I haven’t seen your picture in the papers for a long time. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen you here, either.’

  ‘I’ve been away,’ Ingrid lied.

  ‘Lucky you,’ Annie said, her eyes glittering with envy. ‘There’s a new historical romance in. It’s all about the Habsburgs. Just up your street. Here it is . . .’ She thrust a book at Ingrid.

  ‘No . . . thanks . . . I’ll just look around.’ Ingrid had been told to leave her films in the Irish literature section, and she needed to take a book from those shelves as part of her cover. ‘Please don’t bother yourself, Miss Atkinson. I prefer to manage on my own.’ She could sense the woman’s malice as she hurried down the aisles.

  Fernando was hunched over a table reading the morning newspaper. She walked past him without looking at him, made a pretence of selecting a book and thrust her microfilms deep into the shelf, leaving two books slightly extended in the row.

  ‘Yeats?’ Annie said, when she returned to the counter, looking at her in amazement. ‘Collected Works and an analysis! Oh my! We’re an intellectual, are we? I look forward to hearing your views on Yeats.’ She sniffed again and stamped the book with extra venom.

  Refusing to rise to her sarcasm, Ingrid smiled briefly and briskly made her way out.

  Ingrid trudged home feeling tired out. She was overworked, as most people were. On her few free evenings, Bill tried to be with her, but all too often a hasty call cancelled dinner. This evening she had planned something special. She’d managed to buy a bottle of French wine on the black market, which would be marvellous with two small pieces of steak she’d coaxed out of the butcher.

  Bill arrived at ten, carrying a briefcase full of work that had to be finished before morning, he told her. Lately he always looked so tired, too. He went into the dining-room and spread his work on the table. After a few moments he shut the door, leaving her alone in the kitchen to warm up the ruined food.

  She couldn’t help feeling depressed. She’d got nowhere with Bill. She’d been so sure that she could make him fall in love with her, but he had not. He stayed over two or three nights a week, but he’d retained the independence of his own flat. He was not committed. Probably, he never would be.

  Dinner was a disaster. His late arrival had ruined her careful plans, the meat was over-cooked, the wine tasted like vinegar and the potatoes brackish and watery, but Bill munched everything distractedly.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Just work. I’m sorry, Ingrid. Please forgive me. Something happened today . . . of course, I can’t talk about it, but I think maybe we finally hit the jackpot. I’m sorry, I’m not much company, am I?’

  She reached across the table and thrust her hand into his.

  ‘Bill, darling, after the war . . . well, I mean . . . you’ll go back to the States, won’t you?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Do you think that you and I . . .’

  Bill glanced at his watch and leaped up with an exclamation of disgust. ‘Goddammit, we nearly missed the news.’

  Was he deliberately fobbing her off? Ingrid wondered.

  The wireless took its usual interminable time to warm up, but eventually the announcer’s voice came through:

  ‘Good-evening. This is the Home Service of the BBC. It is Thursday, September 16, 1943. Here are the news headlines, read by Alvar Lidell. The Germans are retreating from Salerno as the Allies advance in a continuous line across Southern Italy. Troops in the Soviet Union, are continuing to advance and are on the outskirts of Smolensk. The tide has turned in the Battle of the Atlantic, and the U-boats are on the run . . .’

  ‘Not much change since yesterday,’ Bill said, at the end of the bulletin. ‘It’s only a matter of time now . . .’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ she blurted out and instantly regretted it. Could they lose the war? Was it possible? Ingrid’s stomach contracted in painful twinges. She dared not look at Bill. She was too afraid that he might read her expression of fear and misery. Once again she was drawn to the inescapable conclusion that there was only one way out for her. She gazed at the debris of the meal and tried to rehearse exactly what she should say to Bill.

  ‘Ingrid, you’re not concentrating,’ she heard.

  Looking up, she realised that Bill had been talking to her. He was showing her a map he’d sketched on a message pad. She struggled to concentrate. He was explaining to her exactly why the Germans could never win the war. Oh God! How could he know? She placed her hand over his.

  ‘Make love to me. I want you to love me tonight. I want to feel I belong to you. I love you, Bill.’

  Bill sighed. At that moment he wished he were anywhere but there. Was he doomed to repeat the whole Vienna fiasco? How could he let himself fall into the same trap twice over? There must be something wrong with me, he thought, I never learn.

  Putting his qualms aside, he held her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. Dear Ingrid, he had so much compassion for her . . . and lust. Did lust plus compassion equal love? It was an equation which bothered him whenever he thought about it. Would he ever be able to bury his ghosts? Probably not.

  ‘What are you thinking? You’re so far away.’

  ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I’m not.’ He turned his attention to Ingrid, but this evening she was insatiable. She came again and again, and each time she exploded into loud sobs and clung to him.

  Desire fled and Bill gave up. He pulled her on to his shoulder. ‘I’m bushed,’ he said.

  ‘The war is going to end one day. Will you go back to America?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe!’

  ‘Could we go together?’ Bill pretended to be asleep, but the next moment, Ingrid leaped out of bed, flinging the blankets on to the floor.

  ‘Forget what I said,’ she snarled. ‘I must be drunk. I’ll make some cocoa.’

  He didn’t try to stop her, but lay back in exasperation as he listened to her clattering in the kitchen. He felt a heel, but how could he marry her?

  *

  ‘You fool,’ Ingrid muttered as she retrieved the sleeping pills from their hiding place. Fernando had given them to her and they worked like a charm, but she hated drugging Bill. Lately he complained of feeling muzzy in the morning and always waking with a headache.

  Twenty minutes later Ingrid had Bill’s case unlocked and his papers spread over the desk. She photographed each page. After a while, she paused and tiptoed to the bedroom door, but Bill was breathing heavily, so she carried on.


  Her eye caught the name Edelweiss on the sheet she was photographing. She paused in her task and began to read the paper . . . believed to be the V-3 . . . vital research . . . prisoners en-route to the extermination camps . . . instructions needed . . . Then, to her surprise, she found a Czech phrase book under the papers. Many of the words were ticked or under-scored and the book was dog-eared. Why was Bill learning Czech?

  She was so engrossed that she hadn’t registered the air-raid siren and the distant clamour of the ack-ack guns. Suddenly there was a massive explosion and the lights failed. The floor lurched, her stomach jolted up and banged against her ribs. She was flung forward over the table as glass showered across the room. Ingrid lost consciousness.

  Was it minutes or hours later when she dragged herself to her feet? Oh God! Her camera was lying on the floor. She grabbed it, thrust it into her dressing-gown pocket and looked around. The window was swinging open crazily, papers were scattered all over the place. She could hear Bill’s shuffling footsteps. There was no time to put anything away. The next moment he appeared, dishevelled and half asleep.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said, shining his torch into her face.

  She shielded her eyes with her hand and burst into tears.

  Bill put his arms around her. ‘Sweet Jesus! What happened?’

  ‘I heard the siren,’ Ingrid gabbled. ‘I came here and . . . I simply don’t remember another thing. Look what the blast did. It blew the window open.’

  Bill looked in horror at his briefcase. ‘I must have forgotten to lock it. Goddammit!’ he swore. He began shuffling his papers together, swaying on his feet. She could see how muzzy he felt. ‘I must have gotten drunk,’ he said, looking apologetic. ‘I had no idea I’d had so much. Heck! I’ll have to be more careful in future.’

  Chapter Sixty

  ‘So,’ Jan said, climbing down the ladder from the radio in the loft. ‘I have decoded a message from London. It’s all settled at last. The British want us to send them Professor Ludvik Alesh, now all we have to do is to get him to Switzerland.’