Authors: Robert Ryan
The kicking again and a muffled scream. Virginia. The drug had worn off. He’d have to readminister. He had picked her up near Salzburg and she had come quietly, convinced he was going to kill her. Instead, he had tied her, gagged her and injected her with the sedative Rose had provided while he went to complete the pair. She could breathe in there, he was sure. She could wait.
His heart racing at the thought of the confrontation, Williams pulled back the slide on the Colt pistol and laid it on the seat next to him, beside the handcuffs and a US army burp gun, the sort of machine gun that was a lethal shredding machine at close range. He hoped he didn’t have to use it.
Williams selected first and set off down the hillside, carefully taking the bends at sensible speeds so no tyre squeal would alert the man busy stowing oars and ropes in the shed by the roadside.
He drove to within a hundred metres, then something made him pull over. Keppler. That stooped, arthritic creature, his skin grey, his hair thinning, that was an SD man? The man who sipped fine wines while he conjured up some new Faustian pact?
Yes it was, he reminded himself. The very same. The man still blighting his life with his lies. As he pulled away, Keppler, warned by the canny survival instincts that had kept him alive these last few months, looked up. He peered at the windscreen and again, although there was no way he could recognise Williams, he knew he had to defend himself. Calmly, Keppler pulled out a Luger pistol, levelled it and fired.
The bullet shattered the screen, and tiny slivers of glass peppered Williams’ face, each one hot and stinging. He punched out the remnants of the windshield and headed straight for Keppler, foot flat down now, wheels spinning, engine protesting, right at him. A second shot. A third, and part of Williams’ ear flapped open, squirting blood across the upholstery. Rose won’t be pleased, said a stupid irrational voice in his head.
He hit Keppler full on, snapping a tibia with the bumper, and sending the man careering over the bonnet towards him. Williams raised his arms as the figure suddenly filled his vision, crashing into the space where the glass had once been. The car slewed to a halt.
Williams reached for the gun, but a bloody claw grabbed his wrist. Keppler twisted in the space, bringing another arm on to his face, scratching at Williams’ eyes. He felt a lid tear, and lashed out, punching, but the massive woollen coat absorbed his blows.
Now Keppler was also scrabbling for the gun. With his elbow Williams knocked the gear stick into reverse and floored the pedal as he let in the clutch. The car careered wildly backwards, bumping up the grass verge, and still the SD man clung on. Williams stamped the brake hard, but felt the wheels lock on grass made slippery by the recent thaw. The Humber slithered on, slipping and sliding, back towards the edge of the low cliff where it tipped over into the black waters with a stomach-turning free fall. Even as the icy mass closed over him, Williams could still feel the German’s hands desperately trying to find his windpipe, to earn the satisfaction of choking the life from him before the lake had a chance to drown them all.
O
CTOBER
2001
D
EAKIN HAS FORGOTTEN
how ear-piercingly raucous Brighton’s seagulls can be as they swoop down to dive bomb a ragged old man who throws bread on to the shingle for them. The sea is lively, the tide running and waves leaping up around the pillars that support the skeletal remains of the West Pier, now slowly being restored.
He is sitting in the Victorian shelter alone, watching the families enjoy what may be the last fine weekend of the year before winter closes in. He scans the promenade and finally sees the old lady appear in the distance, propelling herself along the prom towards them, threading through rollerbladers and dog walkers. She had told him on the telephone that she has finally had to accept a wheelchair.
She whirrs up to him, a smile on her face as if she is genuinely pleased to see him. She holds out a bony blue hand and as he takes it he is shocked to see the Carrier watch on her wrist. She catches the glance.
Oh I know. I was going to do something melodramatic, but … well, it’s rather nice isn’t it? Too nice to waste on a lake. Shall we walk? Or rather, you walk, I’ll roll. We can get a cup of tea along there.’ She points to the café at the end of the prom.
He stands and paces alongside her. ‘Still on the payroll, Deakin?’
‘Part time. Good to be back.’
‘I told Sir Charles he was a damn fool letting people like yourself go.’
‘I appreciate it.’
‘I trained him you know. Back in the fifties.’
‘Ah.’ That explained his loyalty and indulgence.
‘It’s very kind of you to come down from London, Deakin.’
‘It’s not entirely a social visit, Dame Rose.’
‘No?’
‘Two things. The French have started digging up the Zyklon B at St Just.’
Rose chuckles. ‘Good. You told them about the film?’
‘I told the Alphachem CEO you still had Robert’s images of St Just trains being loaded. And a genuine canister. All they had to decide was, did they want us to announce to the world what had happened? They decided full disclosure was the best policy. Caused a bit of a stir, I hear.’
‘Excellent. Well done. And secondly?’
Deakin takes a deep breath, wondering whether he is going to shatter an old woman’s sense of closure. A spanner into the works. ‘We’ve checked the dental records of the bodies from the Humber. You were right about Virginia Thorpe. The man, however, didn’t check out. It seems it wasn’t Mr Williams after all.’
A rattly laugh. ‘I know that.’
He can’t keep the surprise from his voice. ‘You knew?’
‘Suspected shall we say. Why do you think I didn’t throw the watch into the water? I had a feeling Williams didn’t die in that lake. Not that easy to kill a man like Williams, Deakin. They were extraordinary men, both of them. But chalk and cheese. With Robert, what you saw was what you got. Charming, cultured, refined, a lovely man, a real gentleman. Apart from the language. Whilst Williams … brave, resourceful, talented, certainly. But, of course, he turned out to be anything but a gentleman. As you will see.’ She peers ahead to the café. ‘Good. She’s there. There is someone I would like you to meet.’
Deakin is trained not to like surprises and she hasn’t mentioned a third party before. ‘Who?’
‘My granddaughter. Evie. Lovely girl.’
Deakin looks down at her and up at the café, where a woman, perhaps in her twenties, sits cradling a coffee, smiling at her approaching grandmother. Granddaughter? Deakin has checked the files on Rose, at least those sections he was allowed to access. She never married. There were no children. Deakin lets the news sink in, trying to get the flailing loose ends to knit together. When they finally do, he asks: ‘Did you ever hear from him after Berlin? Did you ever hear from Williams?’
Rose shakes her head and the cloudy eyes look wetter than usual as she says quietly: ‘Not a whisper.’
F
RANCE
, S
EPTEMBER
1945
R
OSE MILLER CONSULTED
the map on the passenger seat and took a left at the cross roads. A few signs had been tacked back up, but for the most part the Normandy countryside was still denuded of decent directions. Occasionally she could spot the jagged stump of poles where the Germans had snapped off signposts to try to baffle the advancing Allies some fourteen, fifteen months previously. She had thought the place would be back to normal by now, but no, the fields had a sad, untended look, apple trees seemed to be growing through a dense carpet of rotting fruit, and precious walnuts lay uncollected on the ground. Too much land, too few people left.
Rose ground a gear as she slowed for St Arraton, taking in the little cluster of white houses, their stonework marked by the smallpox of rifle and machine-gun fire. On the far side of the village lay a scorched Sherman tank, its tracks unravelled like giblets, a gaping wound in its side.
He’s dead. We have no idea where. I’m sorry, Eve.
Would she be able to say her name without her voice breaking?
Rose Miller rounded a bend and cursed when she saw a slow-moving lorry ahead, almost filling the narrow Normandy lane. Just what she needed. She accelerated towards the tailgate and then eased off when she saw the eyes looking at her. Peering over the top of the roof, heads swaying in rhythm with the truck, were two giraffe heads, attached, she assumed, to two real live giraffes. She burst out laughing. Here she was in so-called war-ravaged Europe, and someone was moving giraffes around?
Maybe they were there to restock the zoo. She hadn’t heard of anyone eating giraffes in the desperate days of Occupation, but there was much went on that the tight-lipped French would prefer not to mention. A few cafés suddenly finding themselves with
fillet de giraf
on the menu would not surprise her one bit.
The truck belched smoke and wheezed as they hit a slight incline and the driver changed down, dropping to below thirty kilometres an hour.
‘Come on, Noah,’ Rose found herself saying. She pressed the horn and a hand appeared from the driver’s window. For a moment Rose thought she was going to get an obscene gesture and she felt her anger rise, the fury of someone used to getting her own way, but the truck slowed even more and the hand waved her on. She went down to second and floored the Jeep, brushing within inches of the truck’s side and flinching as the tendrils of the uncut hazel hedgerow flicked at the other side of her vehicle. She poked a hand through the space where canvas roof met door and waved her thanks. There was an answering flash of lights.
He’s dead. No, we don’t know
…
Rose looked down at her wrist and gasped at her own stupidity. The diamond-encrusted Carrier winked at her, as if party to her near-miss. It was Rose’s turn to slow down. She worked the watch from her arm and pushed it under the buff folders in the Jeep’s map pocket. She suddenly felt her mood lighten. That was what had been worrying her, not her over-rehearsed speech to Eve. Some part of her subconscious had been sending alarm signals, trying to warn her, telling her she had to take off the watch. Relieved, she settled back and pressed the accelerator and watched the giraffe-truck recede in the rear-view mirror. Soon be over, she thought to herself. And then they could all get on with their lives.
She pulled into the driveway of the converted watermill and waited, the Jeep’s engine ticking impatiently. Eve emerged from the kitchen, a couple of those hideous little dogs yapping at her feet. Rose climbed out, adjusted her jacket carefully, and approached Eve, shocked at how she’d let herself go. Where was the radiant beauty? The Yvonne Aubicq that men had supposedly done battle over in fast cars. Ratty hair, a shapeless housecoat, a tired, washed-out face.
‘Hello, Eve.’
Eve smiled weakly and nodded. ‘Any news?’
‘None. I’ve just come off the line with Vera Atkins. If anyone knows what happened to our agents, she does. The trail ends at Sachsenhausen. I’m sorry. I’ve brought you a few of his things.’
Rose reached into her shoulder pack and produced some letters and photographs, one of which—the standard SOE head and shoulders shot, the one that would line the stairwell of the Special Forces Club like so many frozen in eternal youthful sepia—fluttered to the ground. They both bent to pick it up, but Eve followed it all the way down, collapsing on to her knees, impervious to the sharp gravel. She looked at the photograph and began to weep, bowing as if praying and then, with a sickening thud, banging her head rhythmically on the drive, picking up small pieces of stone every time she did so, driving them deeper and deeper into her skin with each blow.
‘Eve,’ said Rose, touching her shoulder. ‘Eve, stop it.’
She began to wail and Rose looked around, desperate for relief, some kind of saviour. In the garage she glimpsed the unmistakable curves of the bodywork of the Atlantic. ‘You dug it up? My God …’
‘Could you go now please?’
‘Eve, I miss him too. And Robert—’
‘Go. Please. Leave me.’ She looked up, the thin streams of blood running into her eyebrows and creeping down her cheeks. ‘Please.’
Rose deposited the rest of Williams’ things on to the ground beside Eve and backed away, suddenly anxious to be away from this crazy woman. She climbed into the Jeep, started it, and, careful not to spray Eve with gravel, turned it in a large circle and drove out of the courtyard, making a right.
A great feeling of relief washed over her, relief and guilt. It was over. Done. What did it matter where she thought her husband died, or what he had got up to in a half-ruined hotel in Bad Bleibau? In many ways Williams did die in Sachsenhausen, and died a hero. This way the Deuxième Bureau suspicion would be quietly buried, as would the Rat. Weeks, all lost in the confusion of the post-war turmoil. Forty-two thousand airmen had not returned from missions and their fates were not known. What was a handful of SOE operatives against that?
Except the thousands were faceless. She had known the handful. It made a difference.
She came to the slow-moving lorry of giraffes bumping up the road, glanced at the bearded driver, and pulled over to let him pass. Return the favour. He honked as he slid by. The feeling of nausea hit her as the belch of exhaust filled the Jeep. Rose opened the door and vomited across the asphalt, once, then again, her stomach heaving on empty.
Rose took a slug of water from the canteen, washed it around her mouth and spat. She looked down and felt at the tiny lump swelling under her waistband. She knew what she had to do. Couldn’t go home as an unmarried mother. So, a nursing home in Brittany. A change of surname for the baby. Adoption to a nice English family, maybe one which lost a child in the Blitz or the youngest son to the Germans. That would be good. Maybe even replace one of those thousands of missing airmen. Then back to work. She pulled the Jeep off the verge and on to the road. Rose Miller had a feeling that Europe was about to enter a ‘peace’ that didn’t really deserve the term and she wanted to be part of the next battle.