The German Half-Bloods (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 1)

by Jana Petken

  “My beloved Klara, there are things I must tell you, things you must hear.” Klara opened her mouth as if to speak but Max laid a gentle finger on her lips. “The British government has ordered me to bring you in. You are to train in Britain with a new executive intelligence branch. Afterwards, you’ll be reassigned with a different identity and sent to Poland. This is not a suggestion, it is a bona fide instruction from the British Government, and it’s a one-time deal…”

  “Max? What are you saying? You want me to leave France?”

  “Yes, my darling. I need you to be brave, this is a fait accompli, do you understand?”

  Max had already guessed that Klara hadn’t seen the poster of Paul, for if she had it would have been the first thing she would have mentioned. Just as well, he thought, it would have made their reunion much harder to handle. He wasn’t ready to discuss his brother’s situation with anyone, not even with Klara.

  “Max? Are you saying that I have to leave Paris today?”

  “Yes. Will you?”

  “No. After all I’ve set up and achieved here, to leave now? No!”

  Max, running out of time, decided to try another tack. “Klara, this order has nothing to do with how we feel about each other or how you feel about Paris. It comes from official channels, and it’s quite clear – if you don’t come back with me, MI6 will disavow you. You will not receive support or another handler. You were finished when Romek’s group went down. Frankly, it’s a miracle you’re still alive. The British won’t continue to use a blown agent, not even one who has been as loyal and successful as you.”

  “I see. I’m a blown agent now. I’m to be abandoned, thrown out with the rubbish like a defective part.” She scrambled to put her clothes on, angry and trembling. “I have struggled to build my network, and sacrificed everything … I’ve lost my soul … even that…” she hissed, refusing to look at Max.

  He sensed fear in her, he knew her so very well. But what she was afraid of he didn’t know. He gripped her chin between his thumb and fingers and forced her to look at him. “If Romek is in a German concentration camp, the SS will wear him down until the name Klara and Chirac dribbles out of his mouth into the Gestapo or Abwehr’s lap. Intelligence is like a fine wine, Klara, it is patiently stored until it matures, and then every drop is savoured – you weren’t captured, but that doesn’t mean you’re not being investigated or that your cover wasn’t burnt the minute Romek was incarcerated – trust me, the Germans haven’t taken you down yet, but they will.”

  Klara’s eyes welled up and her face crumpled like a baby’s. “You don’t know everything, Max.” She gulped. “Romek escaped German custody. The last I heard, he was in Spain.”

  Max was elated, but those details would have to wait for another time. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time. But it doesn’t change my orders concerning you.”

  He gazed at her as she wiped her eyes. He had never seen her this lost or desolate and he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d been through. “Klara, say you’ll come with me? You’ll be invaluable to us in Poland.” He tucked an errant tendril of golden hair behind her ear. “You’re invaluable to me.”

  He leant in to kiss her again, but she pulled away, leaving him still naked and alone. She shot him a cold, almost disdainful glare. “All right … yes, I’ll come. I’ll do whatever it takes if it means defeating the Germans. I’ll work for the British, and I’ll even go to Poland, but you, Max, you will leave me alone to do my job. We cannot love each other again, we can’t…” Unable to finish, she mumbled, “Get dressed. Go and sit with the driver and leave me to my thoughts – I need to come to terms with this.”

  Max regarded her defiant, upturned chin and for a moment was confused. She was clearly shocked at his decision, but her ice-laden words gutted him after the passion they’d just shared. She’d probably gone through hell in the last year, and he hadn’t lifted a finger to help her. Her husband and friends were lost, and she was suffering survivor’s guilt. He had a lot to learn about women and their peculiarities. “Very well,” he said in a business-like tone of voice. “Thank you … Britain thanks you.”

  He dressed quickly, trying to hide the pain in his legs and buttocks, then he opened the back of the van and got out.

  “She agreed,” he told Marcel, now waiting in the driver’s seat. “Let’s get back to Saint Quentin, it’s time to go home.”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  London, October 1941

  Max took Klara straight to his SOE headquarters in Orchard Court near Oxford Street. There, he left her in an interview room with an SOE intelligence officer and told her not to worry; the captain’s job was to debrief her not to interrogate her. She had responded with the distant, frosty attitude he’d come to expect from her over the last twenty-four hours, and he left her to it without a backward glance.

  As he waited outside his boss’ office, he wondered if he’d ever really understood Klara Gabula. She had listened to his advice and insights about what she’d face in England like a willing partner, but she’d barely spoken to him from the moment they’d arrived in Saint Quentin until they’d boarded a light aircraft in Dieppe two days later.

  German anti-aircraft guns had targeted the plane all the way to the Channel, but she had shrugged him off when he’d tried to hold her hand as they were buffeted about. Flights between England and France, known as the ‘goodnight flights,’ were incredibly dangerous because they had to fly at very low altitudes to avoid detection. They affected the bravest of people, but against human nature, Klara had stared torpidly at the bulkhead or out of the tiny window the entire way as though she were utterly oblivious to the possibility of being blown out of the sky. He recognised that she was a complex creature, maddening and unpredictable, but whenever he’d been with her, she’d seeped into his skin and nourished his soul.

  Major Bernie Blackthorn, the commander of the SOE’s French F-Section, had built his department almost from scratch. It carried out sabotage, intelligence gathering, and provided the funds and equipment to the French Resistance.

  Blackthorn had joined the British Army in October 1939, after a spell in France working as a reporter for a French newspaper. He’d also been with the British Expeditionary Forces fighting in France until the retreat to Dunkirk, and afterwards, he went from the General List to the Intelligence Corps. He was not a politician or a sycophant to those he served up the chain, he fought for his men and women and had been instrumental in getting Klara to England and obtaining her security clearance without the tedious paperwork that could take weeks or even months.

  “I’m deeply sorry, Max. Please accept my condolences. Is there any hope he might still be alive?” Blackthorn asked after Max had shown him the poster about Paul.

  “Thank you, Major. I’m clinging to the hope that maybe he’s got lost or has been injured in some way. I’m trying to run through every conceivable reason for his disappearance, apart from the most terrible one, but he went missing over ten days ago, and I … it’s not looking good.”

  Blackthorn offered Max a cigarette. “You must be devastated. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

  Max paused to regain his composure, sucking hard on his cigarette and expelling it with a long sigh. “The Saint Quentin group will keep their eyes open for news of Paul. If the Wehrmacht recover his body, they’ll inform my parents in Berlin. With that in mind, I’ve already contacted Romeo in the hope that he can get to Big Bear who has access to the German High Command. If anyone can find out what’s happened to the son of one of Germany’s principal industrialists, it’ll be him.”

  “You’ve never met Big Bear in person, have you?”

  “No. Heller and Romeo deal with him. All I’ve ascertained is that he’s a German national and moves in important circles.”

  “Speak to Heller about it. He was asking for you this morning.” Blackthorn then changed the subject. “You won’t be returning to France until we sort this out, but you
already suspected that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Where do you want me to go?”

  “Home. I’m giving you a week’s leave. You need to clear your head and grieve, Max. I see from your records that you’ve not had a break in over two years, so don’t argue with me, take some time off. We’ll decide where to send you when you get back. Now, as for Marine, she will go on to the Polish section after her training courses. She’ll begin her transition tomorrow.”

  “I thought I might take her to dinner this evening,” said Max.

  “No. You’re no longer her handler. Best not to, eh?”

  Max’s face fell.

  “Don’t worry about her, Max. You get off now and leave her to us.”

  Max went straight to MI6 Headquarters. Heller wasn’t in his office when Max poked his nose in, but a message from him said to go home and Heller would contact him soon.

  In a cab, Max reflected on the conversation he’d just had. Blackthorn was right to give him leave. He was exhausted and in no fit state to function mentally or physically. He needed to heal, both his injury and his heart, although the latter would never be whole again. He needed to sleep, and yes to cry. The bloody war and everything else could wait another day.

  ******

  Klara’s head was spinning. She’d answered what had seemed like a thousand questions about whom she had met in Paris? What had she seen that might determine the mood within the German High Command? Did she uncover German battle plans or atypical troop movements? What happened to Romek and his fighters; and so on and on, and on.

  The officer conducting the debrief was kind and easy to talk to, and were she in her right mind she’d be savouring her transfer to the SOE. But she wasn’t herself and wouldn’t be until she’d told the truth about everything she’d been involved in with Romek and Duguay – only then could she move into a new phase in her life.

  “Well done, Marine, I think we’ve finished for today,” the captain said, putting a pile of papers into a file. “You must be tired.”

  “Yes, I am very tired, Captain.” Klara smiled. “Maybe you could call me by my real name. I’m not going back to France, and it’s been a while since I’ve been able to be myself.”

  “I understand, but until you leave F-Section, we need to stick to your French cover name. Let’s not complicate things.”

  She had already complicated things, she thought. She’d behaved despicably towards Max and had been dishonest with him on two fronts. She had melted at the sight of him in the van, and all she’d wanted to do was make love to him, to kiss him, to feel his arms around her as he whispered, I love you, and respond in kind. But after they had made love, when she’d looked at him, she’d seen Paul, Max’s mirror image, pleading for his life, and she’d wanted to escape.

  “Marine, are you all right?” the captain asked when her eyes started to tear up.

  “No, I don’t think I am,” she told him truthfully. “And before I leave this place, I need to tell you about a specific incident that happened in Paris.”

  “I see, carry on.”

  Klara gulped, guilt festering like a cancer at the back of her throat.

  “We’re here to listen, Marine. You’re not the first woman, or man to find it difficult to talk about actions you took in the field. Take your time, we have as long as you need.”

  She began from the beginning, but was unable to look directly at the captain as she spoke. “You know, I thought it would be exciting to play a part in a world that the average person knew nothing about, but since being involved in the spy game, and please, forgive me for calling it that, I’ve learnt that it is managed and controlled by deceit and sustained by a never-ending cycle of mistrust and one-upmanship. I have also experienced, first-hand, the fatal mistakes inflicted within Resistance groups when paranoia supplants common sense.”

  Klara paused. She checked the captain’s expression, but it didn’t inspire much confidence. “Please, bear with me. Everything I say is for a reason.”

  “Yes … yes, of course. Carry on.”

  She took a couple of sips of the water that had been sitting in a glass on the table for the past two hours. “Romek killed a fellow Resistance fighter because of his fear of being betrayed.” She snapped her fingers. “Albert … dead, just like that, without being able to defend himself or give an explanation because Romek believed that Albert was guilty. He shot him in the head there and then – but the irony, Captain, is that Oscar, the man who was the traitor to the Polish-French Resistance group, deliberately ordered Albert to practice his espionage skills with a camera while fully expecting Romek to catch the man in the act.”

  Klara closed her eyes. “Some weeks later I, too, made a similar mistake out of fear and suspicion and deceit in all its glory. And my error of judgement caused the death of Major Vogel’s twin brother, Paul. He’s dead because I couldn’t … I didn’t do my job properly. So, you see, Captain, I’m not at all sure that I’m cut out for this line of work.”

  The captain nodded, cool as an ice-cream, as Klara wiped her eyes. It was out in the open, she thought. She had told the truth, and with it would come a torrent of hatred from the man she loved, and her possible dismissal from British Intelligence before the ink was dry on her enlistment papers.

  “Did you kill the Major’s twin personally?”

  “No.”

  “But you saw his dead body?”

  “No, but I heard the shot. Minutes later, Claude, the man I told you about, warned me that I should get used to killing the enemy. He said Paul’s death served as a reminder that war was not a game. Captain, I’ll give you the details, every single one of them, but first, you should know that Major Vogel knows nothing about his brother’s death.”

  “In that case, you won’t be giving the details to me, young lady.” The captain waved a dismissive hand in the air. “You’ll have to talk to Major Blackthorn about this. Wait here.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  The Vogels

  London, October 1941

  Max arrived at his bedsit to find two notes in his pigeonhole. He unlocked the door, went into his room, looked at the couch, the bed, the sorry excuse for a kitchen and threw his rucksack on the floor. It was an unwelcoming dump, but at least it was still in one piece.

  He fell onto the bed, unfolded the first piece of paper dated four days earlier, and frowned; it was from Hannah. I’m at my house in Kent. Come, urgent. Then, he unfolded the second, which was dated two days after the first, and read the same appeal as the other apart from the end: Please Max, you need to come as soon as you get this.

  He dragged his exhausted body off the bed, not wanting to go anywhere, but into the arms of Morpheus. He was worn out.

  He rinsed his face at the sink and ran his fingers across his stubble. It was cold outside, and when he was fully dressed, he put his army greatcoat over his uniform cursing colourfully as he buttoned it up. Hannah should be in Scotland with Frank. Only a very serious problem would have torn her away from him.

  The train conductor announced the Orpington stop, jolting Max from a light doze. He got off and removed his hat for safety when the freezing wind hit him in the face; he wouldn’t be able to run after it if it came off his head.

  He limped to the station’s exit, every step giving him shooting pains up and down his right leg and into his backside. He’d be known forever as the man with the sore arse, he thought, trying to walk as naturally as possible.

  What should he tell Hannah about Paul? Should he say he was dead? Or that he was missing in action? No, not that, missing in action didn’t ring true, for Paul hadn’t been in action, he’d disappeared from relatively peaceful Paris streets. How was he to begin the painful conversation when he didn’t have any information apart from what was on the poster which he could feel crackling in his pocket? How could he say, our brother is dead; when he didn’t believe it himself.

  Hannah opened the door, scanned him up and down in the hallway, and gave him a tight little sisterly h
ug. “Don’t go into the living room until I tell you.”

  “What’s going on? Are you all right?” He turned his head at the sound of a woman’s voice coming from the other room. His eyes widened with surprise as he stared at the closed door. “Is that Mother’s voice I hear?”

  Hannah nodded. “And Father is here as well. They were worried about you when they found out you weren’t in London, but Jonathan Heller arrived about an hour ago and told them you were home. I knew you’d come as soon as you saw the notes.”

  Stunned, Max cocked his head to the side. “Heller’s here? How did he get here before me?”

  “Well, he does work for British Intelligence, and...”

  Overjoyed at the news about his parents, Max left Hannah mid-sentence, and hobbled into the living room.

  Laura squealed with delight and ran to him, sobbing as she smothered his cheeks with kisses. “Let me look at you, Son – oh, Max, you look dreadful – and you’re injured!”

  Dieter pulled Laura gently away and shook his son’s hand. “Max, it’s good to see you. What’s the matter with your legs?”

  Finally, Heller shook Max’s hand, saying, “I hope you don’t mind me butting in on your reunion, Max.”

  Laura shook her head and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “Hannah, we’ll let the men talk. Help me with the tea and cake.”

  Max, breathless with emotion, hobbled painfully to the couch and sunk into it, groaning as he sat. Questions ran through his mind; questions he was desperate to ask but whose answers he was scared to know. He gazed at Dieter and Heller, waiting for them to say something. “Are you just going to stand there and gawp at me, or tell me why you’re both here?”

  “How did you get injured, Max,” Dieter asked.

  “It was stupid. It’s nothing, just an unfortunate accident, that’s all – Papa, what are doing in England – Jonathan, what’s going on?”