by D A Kent
One or two questions were taxing him. They both expected that Mueller would not be a pushover. Now, it seemed they would have to deal with his wife too. Hadn’t Marguerite described her as a fearsome woman? Well, it was just something they would have to factor in. And this cottage seemed very remote. What would the escape routes be like? Gunn was not unduly worried but a couple of years working with Sylvia and his army experience had reinforced the old adage: ‘prior preparation and planning prevents piss poor performance.’
In a small clearing, just before the gentle incline turned into a steep ascent, Gunn shrugged his pack off and let it slip to the ground. He stretched his hamstrings whilst pressing against the trunk of a pine and then took a mouthful of water. He passed the canteen to Sol, who took a long draught and handed it back. Gunn peered up the trail. It was barely a deer track, twisting and fading up the incline.
‘You know, we should probably decide how we approach this.’
‘We don’t know if they’ll be in the cottage. We don’t know where they’ll be.’ Sol shook his head. ‘Basically, we are going in blind. Why don’t we knock on the door and pretend to be two hikers who cannot make head or tail of their map? At worst, we get no answer. At best, Mueller or his wife will come to the door. Then we are in.’
It was as good a strategy as any. They walked in silence up the steep track for almost an hour, stopping occasionally for a cigarette. They were making good time. It was getting quite warm. Eventually, the track took them onto a gentle downward incline. Mermaid Lake was now visible, between the tall, brooding conifers. Gunn appreciated its beauty; he would have enjoyed this hike under normal circumstances.
‘Well, here we are,’ said Sol, a few minutes later. On the opposite side of the lake there was a restaurant. It was popular with walkers, and they were already setting tables for lunch. There was a mooring for boats. There were a few little houses beside it, which looked like cuckoo clocks, well-tended, with pots of red geraniums outside. They, and the restaurant, looked rather inviting.
Gunn got out a pair of binoculars. Whoever had assembled this pack had done them proud.
‘I don’t think it’s one of those. I think it’s that building, over to the right.’
The cottage was on the same side of the lake as them, probably about twenty minutes on foot. It didn’t look as though it got much sun. He noted that there wasn’t really a path between them and the cottage. Obviously, most people came and went by boat. They would have to strike off, away from the side of the lake and back through the trees. Still, that would afford them good cover. A boat was moored neatly outside.
It was harder going through the forest than they had imagined. At times, it was quite dark, with slippery moss underfoot. Just as they were both feeling despondent and irritable, they emerged beside the cottage. ‘Well, no time like the present,’ said Sol, as they walked up the path. Gunn was reminded, strangely, of Hansel and Gretel, except there were no sweets on this cottage. It was whitewashed, low and austere.
‘Maybe we should have left a trail of crumbs, so we could find our way back,’ Gunn suggested. Sol gave him a quizzical look, and knocked on the door. There was no response.
Both almost felt relieved. Then Sol led the way through a gate in a high wall, which led to a bend in the lake. He stopped dead. Gunn almost fell on top of him.
‘I think that’s what you call a sight for sore eyes,’ murmured Sol.
It was indeed a ghastly apparition. Mueller and Elise, were about to take a dip in the lake, thinking, perfectly reasonably, that there was nobody about. Elise was a vast square of solid, white flesh, any trace of a distinction between her mountainous breasts and her waist having disappeared years ago. Beside her, Mueller looked small, although he was probably of average height and stature. Apart from having lost much of his hair, he had changed very little since the photograph Sol and Gunn had seen. That was them all right.
‘I just pray she doesn’t turn round,’ breathed Sol ‘In case she turns us both to stone, or causes a tidal wave in the lake. Some mermaid, anyway.’
‘It’s not funny, Sol. Jesus Christ, what’s that all over his back?’
‘Scars,’ Sol grimaced. ‘I would guess the gorgon beats him. He gets his jollies that way. Some of them look fresh.’
They watched in horrified fascination from their vantage point as Mueller lowered himself gingerly into the water, braced for the bite against his wounds. His back was a network of scars, old and new, fading and freshly scabbed. Gunn thought quickly. They would probably have to let them get them out of the lake and then take them by surprise as they got dressed. The woman was built like a brick outhouse. It would take some doing. He relayed his thoughts quietly to Sol.
Mueller and Elise made little noise in the water. Their frolic seemed formulaic and bored, lacking any primal joy. They were trapped in a world of their own creation, sealed off and bitter but unwilling or unable to do anything about it.
Sol and Gunn hit them just as they applied towels to their heads to dry off. Sol cracked Elise across the back of her skull with the butt of his Browning. She went straight down, as if felled, landing in the soft lakeside soil. He bent and checked her pulse; she was still alive. He covered her lack of dignity with a towel and her dress, and turned her head to the side to free her airways. ‘We won’t hear much from her for a while,’ he observed.
Gunn hit Mueller in the ribs and brought him to his knees. Glassy-eyed, the German stared up at him. Gunn smiled.
‘Dr Mueller, it’s time for a little chat.’
Sol came over to join them, introducing himself as Lieutenant Solomon Kalinsky; formerly of the British Army and now with the Israeli forces. Mueller stared at him with an expression of absolute disgust.
‘We’d like to find out more about your distinguished career, after you finished murdering defenceless women and babies in the womb,’ said Sol, companionably. ‘Including your own, we believe.’
There was no response. Sol walked round and slapped Mueller on his bare back. Mueller winced. His teeth ground together.
‘Of course, my friend here is a little irritated with your efforts to kill him in Pompeii and in Haifa.’
Sol leaned in, his fingertips pressed into one of Mueller’s fresher scars.
‘Remember, he is an Englishman, and you know what cold bastards they can be, under that polite façade. He really doesn’t like the cut of your jib, old boy. Now, are you going to talk to us nicely?’
Raking his fingernail across Mueller’s back, he continued:
‘Perhaps this might help to remind you. Tell us about Lothar Kaltenbrunner. And the little operation you have been running together. Crown Jewels, I believe it is called. No marks for originality.’
Mueller looked at Sol and Gunn hopelessly. He was in agony. They must have found the papers and been through them. There was nobody about. Even if he screamed for help and someone from the restaurant heard him, he would be taken straight into custody. The evidence was damning. He was going to die, either at the hands of these two or at the end of a rope in a military prison. He had read about what those bastards had done in Nuremberg. The game was up. Unless perhaps…
Gunn looked at him. He could almost see the cogs turning over. He shook his head.
‘Turn it in, old man, tell us what we wish to know and you will have an honourable way out. That is as good as it gets.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see something. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, as his father used to say.
‘Sol, watch out. Hold on, I’ve got you covered.’
Elise had risen to her feet and was standing naked in front of them.
‘If I might make a suggestion, gentlemen,’ she said, in perfect English, ‘I may be able to assist.’
Their jaws dropped.
‘I have wanted rid of the disgusting little worm for years.’
‘Elise,’ protested Mueller, weakly.
She turned to Gunn. ‘I would prefer to negotiate with you rather than this fil
thy Bolshevik.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ muttered Sol. He had been called worse. The ‘filthy’ part was almost more offensive. He shrugged, and stood aside.
She turned to Gunn.
‘Mr…’
‘Captain Gunn,’ he replied.
‘I know something of his activities. He did not make me aware of them but I heard enough to know what was going on.’
Elise, despite her precarious situation, was cold and aloof. Gunn almost admired her for it.
‘I suggest you make him write a confession and let me see it. I will confirm, as far as I can, what he has written. You then make him write a suicide note and hang him.’
‘Elegant,’ Gunn grinned. ‘Well, practical if not elegant.’
‘My silence is guaranteed. I know you will come after me if I say a word.’ She accepted Gunn’s offer of a cigarette. ‘I am, for my part, glad of a way out.’
‘Cold, isn’t she?’ Sol observed, his Browning cradled in his hand in case Mueller made one false move.
‘I’m not cold,’ Elise snorted. ‘I just hate him. Nothing cold about that.’
The scene became almost surreal, Sol and Gunn agreed later, as they set to work. Elise got dressed and went inside with Gunn to find some paper and a pen. He came out with some rope under his arm.
‘That tree over there will probably do, he remarked to Sol.
‘Where did you learn your English, Frau Mueller?’ he asked.
‘I was a nanny for a family in Hereford, before I met Friedrich,’ she replied. ‘They had an estate. Lots of hunting and riding.’
That explains a lot, thought Gunn. He turned to Mueller:
‘How are you doing, old chum? Best not to drag proceedings out unduly. Better make a start on your confession and your suicide note. Take your time over them.’
Patting him on the shoulder, he commented:
‘We will forgive a certain slapdash penmanship but we will not forgive lack of clarity. Crack on.’
Sol sat on a rock and took a slug of water from his canteen, amused at the situation. It was bleak, but funny. Mueller was getting a rich reward for all his efforts and was being shown a consideration he had probably never shown anybody else. Mueller began to write but his hand was shaking. He stopped for a moment and looked up at Gunn with hate in his eyes. He reminded him in some ways of those boys Lothar had brought over from Wellington, but there was a difference. With this one, there was a hardness underneath that civilised veneer. As if he could read his mind, Gunn gave him one of his thoughtful stares.
After a few minutes, Mueller had written both notes. The confession was brief, summarising his career in racial purity and the work he had pioneered in Berlin before his transfer to France. He made no mention of Marta. It was, after all, Elise who had finished her off. She could have that on her conscience, if she possessed such a thing. It gave some sketchy details of Operation Crown Jewels and the way it worked, between Germany and ‘points west,’ arranged by Manfred Brand, otherwise known as Lothar Kaltenbrunner, or George Cumberland, solicitor of London. The suicide note paid tribute to his children and grandchildren and ended with a simple statement that life had become intolerable and he was killing himself ‘fur Heimat und Vaterland.’
Gunn passed the note over to Elise and to Sol for their approval.
‘Usual self-serving guff, but some material I’m sure we can use,’ was his verdict. Turning to Mueller, he said, almost conversationally, ‘You, sir, are a shit of the first order. However, even a shit deserves some consideration.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mueller looked up, and was surprised to find Gunn handing him a hip flask. He took a sip; it was brandy, and a decent one too. Gunn indicated that he could take another sip before he took his final step towards the tree.
‘I don’t think we need to hear any more from you now, mate,’ said Gunn.
Mueller’s last, disordered thought was that this ‘Tommy,’ as Voss had referred to him, was indeed totally insane and ruthless with it. Gunn tied the rope in an expert noose around his neck.
‘That should do the trick,’ he said. ‘Not that the bastard deserves it, but we may as well make this humane.’
Elise shifted her vast bulk behind him and delivered a hard kick to Mueller’s backside, to send him on his way.
‘You’ve done this before then,’ remarked Sol.
‘A few times,’ replied Gunn. ‘But never for a fellow who deserved it quite this much.’
Mueller kicked and gurgled, and then Elise pulled on his ankles. Her weight broke his neck. Shit and piss ran down the legs of the pride of the party, and his tongue lolled out like something on a poorly maintained butcher’s slab. Sol spat his disgust both at Mueller and the task they had to perform. He sent a thought into the universe to the effect that the next man to marry Elise should keep a gun under his pillow.
‘Right, that’s it I reckon’ said Gunn. ‘I wouldn’t exactly say it’s been nice knowing you, Frau Mueller, but I must say your assistance this afternoon has been invaluable.’
‘Likewise, Captain Gunn.’ She contorted her features into a lascivious grin. ‘You are a very good-looking young man.’ Gunn recoiled a little.
‘Now, what I propose is that you take our car, while I sort things out here.’ She placed the notes neatly amongst Mueller’s folded clothes and then led them to an outbuilding. ‘By the time I have done that, and walked down the track, you will have had a good three hours start. I don’t walk fast now.’
‘It was going to be my getaway,’ she continued. ‘I had planned to leave him. Maybe I will start up a brothel back in Berlin one day, when things have settled down there.’
The car was a silver 1938 Horch 853a, top of the range. Gunn was, as usual, in his element.
‘Enjoy it, Captain Gunn,’ Elise said, as she waved them off down the track ‘Friedrich was given it as a reward for his work on the mental defectives. I think it came from a member of the party who had displeased the Fuhrer.’
‘Thank you. Good luck with the brothel.’
As Gunn drove off, with Sol beside him, he tried not to let that image and other equally vile ones spoil his enjoyment of the Horch. Watching a man dangle at the end of a rope was never pleasant. Instead, he filled his mind with thoughts of Sylvia. Not just on the beach at Posillipo, although that was probably his favourite, but at other times. That red polka dot number, for instance, or the one she wore to dinner with the Captain, which he had zipped her into. Her face when he had had the Packard winched on board (a picture, with every emotion crossing it). That kiss on the balcony when they docked at Haifa. He told himself that every mile was taking him closer to her. At least, he hoped that was the case.
He turned to Sol.
‘Where to next?’
‘Perhaps Italy,’ Sol considered. ‘Urbe. About twenty miles north west of Genoa.’
‘Why there?’
‘Our new air force has a training course there. Sol leaned back in the seat. It felt good. ‘Chap called Harry Fredkens has ‘borrowed’ a few aeroplanes. Used to be one of your lot. We could cadge a lift back to Israel, I’m sure. And no buggering parachutes, to use one of your phrases. I will have to get this ankle checked out when we get back.’
‘No buggering parachutes then,’ echoed Gunn. ‘Well, that sounds like a good plan. Shall we see what this beast can do?’
‘Good idea.’
As Gunn put the Horch through its paces, they discussed how things were going to unfold. Gunn reckoned, and Sol agreed, that George would be like a rabbit caught in the headlamps without Mueller. It would take him a while to realise what had happened, and now that they had details of Operation Crown Jewels, that escape route would be closed to him. His world would start to disintegrate around him. However, he was no pushover, and he was vicious.
‘My guys would like you to take him out,’ said Sol. ‘And I’ve been watching how you have performed over the past few days. We’d like to offer you a job. Maybe for a year, while we get things
up and running in Israel?’
‘I’ve got a job,’ replied Gunn. ‘I’m a partner in Clements Investigations in London with Sylvia. Remember?’
Sol dug him in the ribs. ‘You love that girl, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Gunn firmly. ‘That’s the one thing in this mad life of mine I am absolutely sure about. Although I haven’t actually told her that yet.’
‘Well, just think about it, all right? The money will be good. But you don’t have to decide anything straightaway. ‘
The Horch rode the mountain roads and passes on rails, low slung, and it swept like a raven’s wing. Gunn bit his lip in thought as the night came down and they raced towards it. He had to admit that he was intrigued by and attracted to the prospect of working with Sol and the Israelis. It appealed to his personal sense of justice. More than nineteen hundred years to get back home again, and to have to lose millions for that to come to pass. It would be a good and fine thing to be part of that, although he wondered why it had to happen right now. There was so much to consider. Still, a more pressing concern right now was removing that evil excuse for a man, George Cumberland, from the planet. He needed to work out how to do that.
Chapter 17
Edward Cumberland was pacing around Cumberlands’ conference room like a caged tiger. His father was now turning up at the office every day, which meant he no longer had free run of the office; just a desk in the corner like some office boy. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife. His father wanted to know where he was and what he was doing at every moment of the day. He had had to come in here to ring Meunier. It was probably pointless anyway; Meunier was struggling to be civil to him now. In a moment, he would walk over to Clements and talk to Joan. Now that the Olympics were over, it was easier to get around town. He could not stop thinking about Sylvia. He had, reluctantly, asked Caroline to marry him. The engagement had been announced in The Times. Wedding plans were under way. He was caught in a trap and could see no way out. He poured himself a large measure from the brandy decanter – if he got into trouble about that, he really didn’t care - and sat, with his head in his hands, at the conference table.