by James R Benn
“You don’t know anything!” Snow yelled, pointing his pistol at me. I didn’t flinch. Even at this distance, I could see his hand shaking. The Webley was a decent revolver, but any farther than fifty yards out, it was hard to hit the target. Hardly a comfort.
“I know about your cousin George,” I shouted. “I know why you did it. Don’t you want people to understand?”
“Get people out here, I’ll tell them all,” Snow said. “Hurry, or old Blackie goes over.” With that, he gave Blackford a sharp rap on the side of his face with his pistol. A rivulet of red ran down the colonel’s face.
“He’s going to kill him anyway,” I said to the small group of onlookers. “But let him talk, it’ll buy us time.”
“Sorry, Boyle, but I won’t let my patients out here. Seeing this could set them back. This place is supposed to be a refuge, not some macabre theater,” Robinson said.
“Some of us are strong enough, Doctor,” Iris said, stepping out from the front door, Faith at her side. “Why don’t you get all the guards, staff, and orderlies out here? A few of the south wing patients too. It may be enough of a crowd for a speech.”
“All right,” Robinson said. He told Snow he needed time to gather people. He got five minutes.
“We have five minutes to pick that lock,” I told Faith.
“Simple,” she said. “Especially if I don’t have to worry about being discovered.” We went inside and through the foyer, heading for the clock-tower door. Clarissa was leaving her office and joined us.
“The keys are gone,” she said to Big Mike, who must have sent her to look. “The major has a set, but he must have taken the spare as well.”
“Give me a minute,” Faith said, withdrawing a thin strip of metal from within the folds of her dress. She worked the lock, cursed like a sailor, and worked it some more. Then, a click. She grabbed the latch and it opened.
“Keep Snow talking out there,” I said, drawing my .38. “Big Mike, if he even looks like he’s going to shoot into the crowd, you let loose. Make him keep his head down, okay?”
“Got it. Hey, maybe I should go up. You’re better at talking than I am. You could keep him occupied.”
“You’re too big a target, pal. Let’s get this over with.”
Big Mike left to join the crowd outside. Faith shut the door carefully behind me, minimizing the sound from the creaking hinges. As soon as it was closed, I felt cut off from the world. Alone, with a homicidal maniac. Two, if you counted Blackford and his death sentences.
I had maybe one full minute left on Snow’s deadline. I slipped off my shoes and took the stairs silently, listening for him to start ranting. I was halfway up when I heard my name.
“Boyle! Where the devil are you? Show yourself!”
He was looking for me in the crowd. It would be hard for him to keep an eye on the door behind him as he searched for me down below. He called out again, and I raced up the remaining stairs. I got to the top, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Snow had Blackford by the collar, shoving his face onto the rough stonework as he gazed down.
“Boyle, damn you! Come out!” Shouts and cries came up from below as he cursed.
I moved forward. He turned.
I ducked as he squeezed off a shot, then darted right, using the wooden framework of the flagpole as cover. Another shot, and a round thunked into a beam by my head. Snow had spun Blackford around, putting him between us as a shield. I rushed him, grabbing his gun hand and forcing it up as he fired again. The three of us were in a bizarre embrace as Snow reached out and grabbed me by the wrist, immobilizing my weapon while keeping a bleeding and stunned Blackford between us.
We careened against the wooden beams, then back to the crenellated stonework, Snow and I trying to bash the other’s hand or head hard enough to gain an advantage. Snow was grunting, Blackford moaning, and I yelled in indecipherable rage.
Snow twisted us halfway around, sending Blackford’s head against the hard stone with a crack. Blackford dropped, dead weight falling against Snow who stumbled backward, losing his grip on my wrist, flailing with his one free arm as he tried to keep his balance.
Before I could bring my pistol to bear—whether to shoot or threaten, I couldn’t say—he stumbled, the weight of his upper body tipping over the edge of the parapet. I still had him by his gun hand, but he wrenched it away, freeing himself as the pistol went flying and he vainly reached after it. His body wavered with the growing force of gravity, and I wondered if this is what it had been like with Holland. A struggle and an unintended outcome.
It would have been easy, just another second, just a breath of wind to send him down to the hard ground.
Gasping for breath, I grabbed his legs and pulled him toward me. I shoved Snow against the wall and twisted one arm behind his back. Snow’s face was contorted with agony, but it wasn’t from pain in his arm. He was crushed at still being alive.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Feet pounded on the stairs. Big Mike came through first, automatic at the ready. Then Doc Robinson and a couple of nurses. Big Mike patted Snow down as Robinson checked Blackford.
“He took a hit on the head,” I managed. “Passed out.” Like I wanted to right about now.
“You should have let him go over,” Faith said, spitting out the words. “But I am glad you’re unhurt.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Blackford owes you his life.”
“I wonder what it’s worth,” she said, and then turning away, laughing.
“Not much, the bastard,” Snow said, as Big Mike kept him in a firm grasp.
“You’re welcome,” I said, looking over the edge at the drop I’d saved Snow from, not that he’d been in the mood to thank me. “Let’s get downstairs. I think I’ve developed a fear of heights.”
Big Mike had a firm grip on Snow, as Robinson led us into his office. Hughes had shown up in the tower to take Blackford away and assess his concussion. I’d asked Faith and Iris to tell Kaz what had happened. Big Mike pushed Snow into a chair, then stood guard behind him.
Robinson and I were in our usual seats. That felt strange.
“You know about Operation Periwig?” Snow asked. “The Red Horse?”
“All of it. I know Holland and George were friends, possibly went into SOE together. Holland volunteered for the German Section but they turned him down,” I said.
“Too British,” Snow said. “But he sent George in his place.”
“Holland didn’t know,” I said.
“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Snow said. “I found him up in the tower the day after I learned about Periwig.”
“From the recordings,” Robinson said. “So much for medical ethics.”
“Ethics? Don’t make me laugh. Anyway, I lost my temper, told him what I’d heard. He didn’t believe me. Next thing I knew, we’d exchanged blows and he went over.”
“He wasn’t mute?” I asked.
“He was coming out of it. I can’t say we had a coherent conversation, but he got his point across. He said he’d report me for the recordings,” Snow said. Which meant the murder had been deliberate. On some level, at least.
“How did you get the postcard?” I asked.
“George gave it to me. He shouldn’t have, but I saw him on leave before his mission. He was so proud. He said he’d palmed it and wanted me to have it as a souvenir. Since I’d inspired him, he said.” Snow’s face broke. Tears bled from his eyes.
“But why keep the Weisskopf family connection secret?” I asked.
“I wanted to be a soldier. A career professional. How far do you think I would have gotten in the twenties if people knew I was half German? My mother came over before the war. She was the oldest child of a large family. George’s mother was the youngest, and she came later. Being known as a half Hun and a half Jew to boot would’ve ruined my chances. The
British Army is quite hidebound. Plenty of the pure-blood English would have given me bad marks for one or both. Anti-German sentiment was running high after the last war, whereas anti-Semitism is always lurking behind the stiff upper lip.”
“That’s why you listed no next of kin?” I said.
“Indeed. By the time this war rolled around, I knew I wanted to move up in the intelligence services. If SOE found out I had family in Germany, I would have been suspect.”
“Why?” Robinson said, his fingers steepled as if he were in session.
“I could be turned if caught, my family’s survival used against me, forcing me to act as a double agent. Not that I expect many Jews in Germany are left alive. But if any relatives are, I could have been offered their lives.”
“In exchange for your services,” Robinson said, nodding his understanding.
I began to understand something too. A notion was beginning to form, indistinct and likely dangerous, growing out of Snow’s comment about an offer. But I had one more question for him before I moved on.
“Charles Cosgrove was your friend. Why did you kill him?”
“He ceased being a friend as soon as I learned he’d betrayed George. I saw it in Holland’s file. Charles conveyed him to Blackford, who sent him on to his death,” Snow said, his voice turning to a snarl. “When I showed him the postcard—”
“That’s enough,” I said. “I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses. Unless you have a good one for trying to frame Dr. Robinson.”
“What?” Robinson said. The steeple came apart.
“A diversion, that’s all it was,” Snow said. “An attempt to sow confusion.”
“He planted a red horse drawing in your quarters. I’ll explain later. Right now I could use a favor, and it’s got to be quick,” I said. I told him what I needed. After the revelation of the secret recordings and Snow trying to cast suspicion on him, it wasn’t a hard sell.
I left Robinson and Big Mike to take care of Snow and headed over to the south wing to see Kaz. When I got there, I found Kaz dressed and sitting in a chair by his bed. Clarissa, Faith, and Iris were clustered around him. His color looked good, as did his languid smile. Kaz always did attract the ladies.
“Billy,” he said, standing and waving off three offers of assistance. “Thank God you are unhurt.”
Then he hugged me. A strong hug. I held him gently, afraid something might break, but I hugged him back. “Thank God you’re alive,” I whispered. I heard him gasp and took him by the shoulders, looking for what was wrong.
“It is these damned stitches,” Kaz said. “I will have my physician in Harley Street take them out after we go home.” Home. That had a nice sound.
“You’re being released?” I said.
“I am leaving,” Kaz announced. “With the head of security uncovered as a murderer, there is some confusion as to authority. So, I shall take advantage of the situation and be done with this place. If they want me, they know where to find me. Right, Clarissa?”
“Why, I don’t even know who ‘they’ are at the moment,” she said. “Dr. Hughes should be in charge, but he told me to refer any questions to Dr. Robinson.”
“Hughes pronounced me fit. I see no reason to remain, other than for the lovely company. But I must find some decent clothes and have a good meal,” Kaz said, as he stretched out his arms, showing off the baggy British Army tunic and the worn wool shirt. “Ladies, I shall miss you. Please call on us if you find your way to London. Billy, are you ready?”
I was more than ready. But first, I asked Clarissa for help in getting an outside line and making a telephone call. I walked Kaz to the car, marveling at his pace and his stamina. I got him settled in and went to meet Clarissa in her office.
By the time I hung up the telephone, I believed my plan might work.
Or, I’d end up in Leavenworth.
Chapter Forty
They raised the gate without question. No pass or identity papers required. A friendly wave from Private Fulton was all it took for the MP to let us pass. Strange what happens when order is upended, and people start thinking for themselves. It would be nice while it lasted, but soon enough SOE would send in a hard man to take over. Saint Albans would never be the same.
I didn’t tell Kaz or Big Mike what I was up to. There was no reason to get them involved in case things went south, so I acted as if everything had been said and done. On the way to London, I filled Kaz in on what we’d discovered about Periwig and Snow’s relation to George Markstein. I sat in the back with him, Big Mike at the wheel.
“It sounds as if he may have blamed himself, if only unconsciously,” Kaz said. “George was following in his footsteps, after all. If Snow couldn’t admit to his own complicity, he may have found it easier to blame others and take out his rage on them.”
“Or maybe he’s nuts,” Big Mike said.
“Or that,” Kaz said, with an easy laugh I hadn’t heard in a while. “What will happen to Snow now? Where is he, anyway?”
“He’s secure,” I said, and changed the subject.
At the Dorchester, the sandbag wall was finished. Kaz stepped out of the staff car, eyed the doorman, and said, “Good afternoon, Richard. Redecorating?”
“Welcome back, Baron,” Richard said, holding the door open for Kaz. “It’s on account of those flying gas mains. Not to worry, sir.”
I explained the remark to Kaz as we entered the lobby. It hadn’t taken Londoners long to see through the cover story. As soon as Walter spotted Kaz, he snapped his fingers at an unseen staffer and rushed forward. Kaz was home. By the time we got to the lift, Kaz had an entourage of well-wishers and was busy assuring them that he was just fine.
Upstairs, we found flowers on the table and a bottle of champagne on ice. Now I knew what that snap had been for.
“I have to see Harding,” I told Kaz and Big Mike. “You guys crack that champagne, and I’ll join you in a while.”
“You want me to come along?” Big Mike said.
“No, you keep an eye on Kaz. Make sure he doesn’t have too much booze his first night back,” I said, giving Big Mike a wink to let him know I was kidding about the booze but not about watching over Kaz.
“I shall work on an order for room service, a dinner for the ages,” Kaz said, flopping down on the couch as Big Mike popped the cork. “When will you return?”
“Coupla hours, maybe a little more.”
Or never. It could go either way.
Colonel Harding greeted me with a curt nod when I entered the conference room at Norfolk House. This was one of the grander rooms, with walnut paneling, heavy curtains over tall windows, a large map of Europe along one wall, and a highly polished ten-foot table at the end. It looked like the kind of room where secrets from past wars still hung heavy in the air.
Or maybe the people assembled here had carried in the whiff of secrecy with them. Vera Atkins, her glare alternating between fury and curiosity. Douglas Tiltman of the Foreign Office, affecting a look of boredom as he scribbled on a notepad. Duncan Sandys, chair of the government committee charged with defending against the German missile threat, with his nose buried in a file. It didn’t hurt that he was married to Churchill’s daughter. A little pull in the right quarters could go a long way. Or save my bacon if things went south.
Lastly, Major-General Sir Colin Gubbins, commanding officer of the Special Operations Executive. I hadn’t met Gubbins before. He sat erect and motionless; his neatly clipped mustache was turned up slightly at the ends. A face as long as it was sharp turned in my direction.
“Captain Boyle, tell us what the hell we are doing here,” Gubbins said in a rough Highland accent. “And be quick about it, man.”
“If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, the captain will brief you,” Harding said, leaving the table. I’d asked for fifteen minutes alone with this group. For his own good.
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“Interesting,” Sandys said, closing the file in front of him as he watched Harding leave, shutting the door firmly. “What do you have for us?”
“This,” I said, taking the Red Horse postcard from my pocket and sliding it across the table to Gubbins. “Do you know what this is, General?”
“You should not be in possession of that,” Gubbins said, looking me in the eye and avoiding a second glance at the card.
“But I am. Makes you wonder how it came to me, and how many other people know about it. Outside of your German Section, I mean. And outside of those who received it in Germany.”
“Well-done forgery on the stamp, old boy,” Tiltman said, reaching for the card and holding it up. “You’ve captured Adolf’s essence.”
“The purpose of this meeting again?” Gubbins said, his voice like iron.
“I have something for all of you,” I said. “First, for Vera, a guarantee that one of your F Section agents will be released from Ravensbrück. Mr. Sandys, to you I offer the debriefing of two slave laborers from that same camp who have worked at the nearby Siemens factory.”
“Where they make parts for the V2,” Sandys said. “Keep talking, Captain.”
“Mr. Tiltman, you will do good works with the Swedish Red Cross, but also for your nation, if you ensure these two names are on your list of one hundred prisoners to be released. Both names,” I said, as I took a slip of paper and gave it to him.
“Malou Lyon and Angelika Kazimierz,” he read. “I am familiar with the first, but not the second. And neither sounds Scandinavian, Captain Boyle. As I told you, this project is run under their auspices. One might work, but not two. Never.”
“What project, damn it!” Gubbins said, the first hint of confusion shadowing his face.
“A trial run, so to speak,” Tiltman said. “Himmler has authorized the release of one hundred concentration camp inmates. More to follow if Hitler doesn’t find out and have him shot. Mostly Swedes and other Scandinavian prisoners.”
“Those names are important, Mr. Tiltman,” I said, as I watched Vera. I could tell by her expression that she was on board. Getting one of her girls back was a top priority. “Both have access to vital information. I won’t settle for ‘one might work.’ I want you to make sure both are released.”