by D A Kent
Louis kicked open the door of Juncker’s shop in St Anne’s Court. His arms were full of files from an old litigation case. He had just collected them all from the High Court. It was the type of thing he would normally have got the articled clerk to do but they were ‘in between’ at the moment. He and Edward felt it unfair to get one now that George had reappeared in the office; whoever they got wouldn’t last five minutes. They all used Juncker’s back room for what they called ‘interim storage’ while they waited for space in other, larger archives to become available.
‘Usual deal, Franz,’ said Louis. ‘And then I’ll have some of that cat’s whisky if I may.’
‘Oh yes, put them in the back room.’ Juncker seemed rather distracted. Truth be told, Cumberland’s suitcases had gone right out of his mind. ‘Go on through.’
Louis immediately spotted George’s suitcases in the corner; he had seen him in the office with them and thought it strange. They weren’t locked. He had a quick look inside while Juncker continued to write up his ledger book in the next room. Just as he thought; full of confidential files. They might as well stay here. He concealed them carefully amongst his own files, which he scattered all over the place, and then wandered through for a drink with Juncker and Galland. He never quite knew what to make of Juncker. Still, the whisky was superb.
Nothing much escaped Louis’s notice. He had eyes and ears everywhere, including Haifa, where his cousins had just settled. He had heard all about the nice young English couple they had met on the boat, staying with Aaron Vogel out towards Mount Carmel. Well, they clearly weren’t there for a holiday at Cumberlands’ expense. He recognised that he needed to sit tight and let them do what they had to do. The crucial thing was to keep Edward under control. What was the expression the English used, loose cannon? That was Edward down to the ground. He drained his glass and set off back for the office, just in time to whisk Edward off for a liquid lunch at The Two Chairmen.
The duplicitous Alaikum had kept his word to his Israeli paymasters. No harm would come to the English girl. He was a little surprised not to have had a reaction from Mueller to the completely fabricated and carefully crafted report (‘You’re terrible,’ Otto had said, shaking his head) he had sent through earlier but Mueller had said something about being away for a few days.
Out of breath from her walk down the mountains, Elise had taken one look at the pile of paper by the ticker tape machine, gathered it all up and thrown it in the bin. It could rot in hell now, along with Friedrich. Feeling strangely liberated, she began packing her case for her new life back in Berlin, her riding crops at the top. She had already been on the telephone to Trudl, her old school friend, who had been ‘on the fringes’ of the party. Trudl, seeing an interesting opportunity in four power Berlin, was opening a brothel and was delighted to find Elise was available to come and help. She would ask no questions; everyone had secrets nowadays.
In Haifa, Sylvia was in the garden with a cool drink. Things seemed to be running smoothly at Clements (she resolved to take Kiwi and Joan out for lunch somewhere decent as a thank you) and she had had a brief but cryptic call from Gunn, to the effect that ‘everything was fine’ and that they would be back soon. He seemed to have acquired yet another car. They would have to open a garage at this rate. The young Israeli doctor who was part of the security team and who had checked her over had taken a shine to her and had taken her out for a ‘spin’ with a couple of the ‘lads,’ as they were designated, in the back of the jeep. It made a refreshing change to be out for the day without having to kill someone. She had also become firm friends with Marguerite, Lev and Aaron, who seemed totally unfazed about having her staying with them and the whole security team. The ‘lads’ were billeted in the storm cellar.
She was perfectly aware that this was a false idyll. The time was approaching when they would have to return to London and face Cumberland. She knew that Gunn would prefer to ‘deal’ with him himself, believing that the authorities would be indifferent to the whole business. There was probably a certain merit in such an assumption but she had to admit she was worried about their constant stepping outside the law. An idea was beginning to form in the back of her mind. For now, she returned to the moment, the sea shining blue and gold in the late evening sun, and the simple fact of being in a place where history was stamped in every stone.
Sol and Gunn were on the edge of Lake Konstanz, with a sandwich each. It looked for all the world like a picture from the top of a chocolate box. Sol threw some of his bread to a family of swans which had been watching them hopefully.
‘I keep expecting Elise to rise up out of the water.’
‘Like a German Lady of Shalott? What a ghastly image.” Gunn shuddered. They smoked a cigarette each and watched the mother swan expertly marshalling her brood of cygnets into a line.
‘This place of yours in France, this demeure,” began Sol.
‘Well, we’ll have to see about that,’ said Gunn. ‘From what Sylv tells me, probate needs to go through in three different jurisdictions. We’re not putting money on it happening any time soon. We’re expanding the business in London so I think the emphasis will be on that for a while. Tell me about this work you want me to do.’
Sol chewed on his sandwich and then took a sip of brandy from what had become the communal hip flask. He considered for a moment, and then, assessing Gunn as being someone who wouldn’t appreciate a lack of directness, plunged on:
‘Well, as I mentioned earlier, you have a talent for the kind of work we are undertaking. We have people to pay back, a reformed country to protect, and we would appreciate someone like you. You have brains, you can handle yourself, you’re not afraid to kill although you can show mercy.’
He looked at Gunn.
‘Are you sure you’re not Jewish, somewhere along the line?’
Gunn thought about this. ‘I’m a real mixture. There’s some Irish on Dad’s side; he was raised a Catholic. Had me baptised as such; family pressure more than anything else. Rest of his side as English as they come. I think my grandmother on Mum’s side was Jewish, although we didn’t talk about it. I’ll have to ask Dad. I can’t remember Mum’s family very well; she was an only child and her parents died when I was young. Mum died when I was thirteen. A late pregnancy killed her. Fairly horrendous.’
He fell silent for a moment, reached for the hipflask and said
‘Your good health. Sante. Slainte. And l’chaim. Sums me up really. Ready for the off? We’ll find somewhere for a kip when we get over the border.’
They drove on through the darkness into Switzerland, the Horch eating up the miles. Their papers passed muster at the border, along with their cover stories.
‘This Clements Investigations of yours,’ Sol asked. ‘Are you the boss?’
‘No, Sylvia is,’ replied Gunn. ‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t dare. Seriously,’ he explained ‘We’re equal partners. Always have been. She tends to be a little better than me at the detail; I go out on the ops. But she goes out on a few too. She’s brilliant at her pretext calls. She’d be a good poker player, I reckon. And we talk about everything.’
‘Quite a girl.’
After a while, they pulled off.
‘Let’s see what that fat old Frau kept in the boot,’ suggested Sol. ‘Something horrific, I should think. Maybe a whip and some handcuffs?’
Actually, there were two very serviceable travel rugs, which they spread out across the grass. Gunn looked up at the stars before he drifted off, identifying constellations again, and thought back to when he had done that for Sylvia, in the sea. He also resolved he was not going to part with the Horch. That was going back to London, one way or another. He had always wanted a decent car. The liberated Packard had been useful but did not fall into that category. He wanted something rakish but piratical, engineered to within an inch of its life. The Horch made the grade. The irony of a British Army officer of questionable background owning a car beloved of the fat clerks of the master race merely added to the
appeal. Mueller would certainly not have appreciated the irony.
They were back on the road again at first light. Sol reckoned they might ‘have to hang around a bit’ to get their lift back to Israel; the sooner they got to Urbe, the better. The questions began again. Gunn didn’t mind really; it helped to pass the time.
‘Where did you meet Sylvia?’
‘Oh, when I was back on leave. She was in a bookshop in the Charing Cross Road. I’d come in out of the rain. She was completely engrossed in a book. Scarcely noticed me, but I noticed her all right. She reminded me of…well, for me it was like seeing a ghost. A devastatingly pretty one.’
‘Ghost?’
‘Oh, someone I once knew.’ Gunn turned to Sol. ‘What about you, you old devil? Anyone in tow?’
‘There was.’ Sol was suddenly pensive. ‘Sarah. I know, I know, a bit of a cliché. But, she really was called Sarah. We grew up on the same street. We were at school together. Everyone assumed we would always be together. Then the Germans came. I got out before they arrived. Sarah stayed, with her family. I have a pretty good notion of what became of them.’
Gunn didn’t know what to say; anything he could think of almost seemed banal. He steered the conversation onto more neutral ground for a while. Sol, who seemed fascinated by Sylvia, asked why they were only just getting together now. Gunn paused for a moment.
‘Actually, I can’t really explain that. Irrelevant now, anyway. But, you know what it was like back then. I needed to forget, well, never mind, I won’t go into that. I went back out to France for Liberation. She was off somewhere with the army, then she went out to Nuremberg to the War Crimes Trials. She had a German nanny when she was a child, hence she speaks the lingo. She was married before, you know, to a Canadian. Not for very long. He died in Italy. We were both, and probably still are, fragile in a way. And then we started up Clements Investigations.’
‘Why Clements?’
Gunn told him about the building, their office, which they called the bunker, and Joan and her legendary tea. That led on to Cumberlands, and Edward and George, and the best way to take him out.
‘You could use Sylvia to lure him’ suggested Sol. ‘That would probably be the most effective way of catching him off-guard.’
‘Not an option, old boy,’ said Gunn firmly, remembering what Sylvia had told him about George’s previous advances. ‘I’ll think of something.’
At the Italian border, a sleepy official gave their documentation the most cursory of glances, for midday. After a stop for coffee and cigarettes, they decided to press on to Urbe, check the situation with the air force, and then if they had to hang around, to go into Genoa for something to eat. Sol watched Gunn changing up through the gears as they negotiated more mountains.
‘You love this car, don’t you?’
‘However did you guess?’
‘Oh, just the way you seem to wear it as opposed to drive it.’ Sol laughed aloud. ‘Wild horses would have their work cut out, dragging you out from behind that wheel.’
‘Possibly.’ Gunn changed up, and the Horch slipped faster out of the traces like a hound at the chase. ‘So, this Urbe place – I have heard of an Urbe near Rome?’
‘That’s why we chose it.’ Sol tapped his nose. ‘There’s a smaller one near Genoa. Local airfield, nobody pays much attention to it. Good training area. We have a flying club in there now.’
‘Clever.’
‘We like to think so.’
Urbe was, exactly as Sol had described, more of a flying club from the outside. Sol got Gunn to wait outside the perimeter gate. Gunn lit a cigarette and walked around a bit, to stretch. It was warm and he could hear crickets. He watched a pair of lizards chasing each other in and out of a stone wall. Sol emerged smiling about twenty minutes later.
‘Eight thirty tonight,’ he said. ‘No buggering parachutes. And I may have found a way to get your precious car to London. If you want.’
‘Landing on Mount Carmel could get spiky,’ commented Gunn, drawing on his second cigarette.
‘We’re not going to Haifa. Well, I suppose we could, but we’d have to wait for a couple of days. We’re flying into Sde Dov, outside Tel Aviv.
‘Righto.’
‘The British built it.’ Sol cadged one of Gunn’s cigarettes. ‘The evil British.’
‘We are evil,’ agreed Gunn. ‘But we’re good at it.’ He grinned and passed Sol his lighter.
‘So, from Sde Dov, how do we get back to Haifa?’
‘Drive, I guess, though it won’t be the same standard as the Horch.’
‘Pity. Now, tell me about the plan for getting this beast to London.’
Sol had spoken to an airman who was off to England with his Italian girlfriend for a holiday. For £20, he would drive the car there (he jumped at the chance) and park it at a location of Gunn’s choosing. They drove into town for a long lunch, which they both agreed they had earned and then Gunn said his farewells to the Horch, giving the steering wheel a fond pat. He handed it over to the young man, wondering if he would ever see it again. He was to park it in Oriental Place, Brighton, at the hotel, and leave the keys with his father. Gunn watched his beloved car roar away, with the speed of a tumbling angel.
He turned to Sol. ‘If I don’t see that car again, somebody is going to get a severe beating.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Sol smiled. ‘I told him a partial truth. Said you were a member of the unit, just in. A fine soldier and a cold-hearted killer.’ Sol winked at a raven-haired lady as she walked past. ‘You’ll see it again.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Gunn.
In Cairo, Alaikum could hear the muezzin man in his minaret, calling the faithful to prayer. He had long since ceased to be among their number, but sometimes, on a lovely evening like this, he found himself moved by the austere beauty of the call. After their usual siesta, he and Otto had been sifting through the reports that were coming through from across the Middle East. The news from their woman in Haifa was interesting. She didn’t always report in every day; since April, her situation had changed, although she hadn’t gone into much detail about that. However, the intelligence, when it came, was unerringly accurate - frighteningly so, sometimes. Male asset left on civilian aircraft to Limassol two days ago; destination after that not yet known. Ha-Tamar Street surrounded by a cordon of security.
The boy from the bank had called earlier with a further draft from Israel.
‘You’re not going to meddle then?’ asked Otto, amused.
‘I could have a lot of fun but no, I’ll leave well alone.’
‘You’re a terror,’ Otto said affectionately.
Much later, Gunn and Sol were trudging across the runway. Sol was limping noticeably now.
‘Where to now?’ asked Gunn.
‘Sleep,’ came the response. ‘Got us in at the barracks. Busy day tomorrow. Lots of people for you to meet.’
Dawn was a rose wash over Mount Carmel. Sylvia was up to see it. She sat in the courtyard, eating orange segments and drinking coffee. Everything was in hand now in London. There was little more she could do until Gunn got back with Sol. She hated the thought of going back to Tufnell Park but she was troubled by what lay ahead, knowing that it was not going to be all crustless sandwiches and tea at the Ritz. She took out her notebook and made a few notes, but her mind was on other matters and had been since the kiss on the balcony. Absently, she wrote Gunn’s initials and hers in an ornate loop inside a heart.
‘For God’s sake,’ she said to herself angrily. ‘Like a teenager.’
As if on cue, the telephone rang.
‘Hallo sweetheart,’ said Gunn. Sol was watching him, shaking his head and smiling. ‘I miss you too. Can’t talk now; got meetings to go to. I’ll be back tonight, I expect. Lots to tell you. Can’t wait.’
Uttering what had become his catchphrase, ‘you and that girl,’ Sol led him firmly towards the canteen.
‘Come on. Let’s get some breakfast before the first
meeting.’
Breakfast turned out to be surprisingly good; apricot jam, decent butter, orange juice and tea. It was so good that Gunn started to feel resentful. Sol noticed his expression darken, like passing clouds on a summer’s day.
‘What’s up?’
‘This.’ Gunn tore off a heel of bread and smeared a good coating of butter over it. ‘We won the fucking war, and here we are, still on rations. The French and the Italian have plenty and we’re giving up food and goods to feed the fucking Germans.’
‘Isn’t that proof positive, despite what people say, that the British are a little above the rest of us, morally?’ Sol patted his colleague on the shoulder. ‘I can understand your anger. Maybe working with us will be something positive.’
‘Not entirely sure I see the relevance,’ growled Gunn. ‘I just don’t see why the British, who stood alone in Europe in 1940, and I sodding well know all about that, who kept fighting on so many fronts, who sent supplies to the Russians, somehow have to keep digging in. Despite winning.’
‘Well, come and meet your new colleagues,’ Sol said.
The day turned out to be a busy one, with many questions to field about his war service, family and life in general. His new colleagues, as he had expected, were a complete mix; some had lived under the British Mandate, some were British forces veterans. He would, if he accepted the assignment, be reporting to Sol. He had half expected this; he had suspected for some time that Sol was more senior than he let on.