by Bill Walker
He shook his head and stalked off toward the school.
Set off on about five acres, it appeared to be no different architecturally than a thousand other places in London. Jack remarked that it looked remarkably like a smaller version of Harvard University. Surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, there was a sentry box with two MPs standing guard, one American and one British.
There also appeared to be a hive of activity as dozens of personnel crisscrossed the grounds, intent on business no doubt pertaining to the next day’s historic briefing. What Jack found amazing is that none of these people knew what they were preparing for. Compartmentalized totally, these men and women did their jobs without question, and very likely, without much curiosity. Certainly, none of the burning desire he felt.
“What now?” Denise said.
Jack knew it would be no easier getting in here than into Grosvenor Square, harder in fact. For a brief moment he thought of having Denise pop them into the middle of the meeting and pointing the accusatory finger at Kruger. It satisfied his sense of the dramatic, but would it work? More than likely, their appearance would give the old generals coronaries and accomplish Kruger’s mission for him. And that was assuming they could pinpoint the right classroom.
“Well, we can’t stay here, or someone may get suspicious seeing us waiting around,” he said, turning his head from side to side. “Let’s go back to that hotel and see about a room. We’ll come back tonight. I have an idea.”
“Jack? What are you thinking?”
He grabbed her hand. “You’ll just have to wait. Come on, let’s go... and no transporting.”
“You’re no fun, Jack Dunham.”
“Right. Come on,” he said reaching for her.
Hand in hand, they ran back down Hammersmith Road and grabbed the first available cab back to the Royal Arms.
Chapter Twenty
London, England
14 May 1944
For the first time in a long while, Werner Kruger allowed himself to feel the giddy sense of excitement bubbling within him. The importance of the mission had taken precedence at all other times, stifling any expression of happiness, fear, or any other judgment clouding emotion. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to enjoy a degree of pleasure, and strolled through London’s historic and stately government district. He watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, stared resolutely at the black door of number 10 Downing, and fed the pigeons flocking around Nelson’s Column. Yes, for the first time, he felt completely at home.
What made his stay in London especially sweet were the admiring glances he received from pretty girls and the scarcely disguised envy of other men both young and old. Remarkably, the uniform had other benefits. While shopkeepers sometimes overcharged the boisterous Americans, not a single shopkeeper, public house, or restaurant owner would take his money. Discreetly, with a nod and a wink, they would slip him a glass of beer or a filling meal.
This was what a king felt like, he thought.
Jumping on a double-decker bus just as it pulled away from the curb, he climbed the spiral stairs and sat on a seat near the front, right above the driver. As ungainly as they looked, he’d always wanted to ride one of London’s famous buses, but never had. Now he found himself enjoying the ride much as a small boy would. The route took them westwards down Kensington Road.
Glancing out the window, he caught a glimpse of red hair and found himself inexorably drawn to it. The woman talked animatedly to her beau, who looked oddly familiar. With a sickening twist of his stomach, he knew who it was.
Jack Dunham and that woman!
The bus flashed by the corner and Kruger raced toward the back of the bus and down the spiral stairs. He pulled the stop-cord and braced himself as the bus screeched to a halt, then jumped off and ran back to the corner, his eyes searching the crowd, head turning in every direction.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
“Damn you, Dunham!” he screamed, oblivious to the stares he drew from passersby.
Suddenly realizing the spectacle he’d made of himself, Kruger walked on, trying to sort things out. Perhaps he’d been mistaken. Perhaps it was some kind of bizarre mirage brought on by pre-mission jitters. But that was ridiculous. Everything had been planned meticulously down to the finest detail. Nothing left to chance.
Dunham.
It had to be him.
He marched off toward Jane’s flat. She wasn’t due to go back to work for another few hours. Time enough for some fun and games.
Ever since that moment in her cab when Jane had seen those eyes burning with repressed fury and heard that voice with its unmistakably German accent, she was desperately afraid.
When they returned to her flat, she’d run everything over in her mind about the drive out to Dover. She felt like a fool for letting her lust get the better of her. She’d let the bastard con her into breaking wartime restrictions. If they’d been caught...
But they hadn’t. He’d gotten his pictures—she was sure there’d be a camera hidden in his bag, somewhere—and now he’d be leaving. And taking the bag with him. Funny, he hadn’t taken it with him on his outing. He’d hidden it after he’d thought she was asleep. Through slitted eyes she’d watched him remove a small bundle and place the haversack deep inside her closet behind several boxes containing her dead husband’s effects. Then he’d slipped out the door. Returning without the bundle several minutes later, he’d slipped back into bed and “awakened” her to make love for the third time that day.
In spite of what she suspected, Jane found herself replaying their sexual escapades in her mind. The pain and pleasure had been exquisite.
She shook herself from her masochistic reverie, glanced toward the closet, and made a decision. If there was anything in that bag that could hurt her country, she would destroy it. Climbing off the bed, she crossed the room and tore open the closet door. It took only a moment for her to find the bag. She unzipped it and dumped all the contents on the floor. Amongst the socks, underwear, and other sundries, she spied the small Minox camera and a round can that appeared to hold movie film.
A door slammed in the hall, startling her. Whoever it was swore in a loud, gravelly voice and tromped down the stairs to the street below. Knowing that she was vulnerable, that Arthur, or whatever his name was, could return at any moment, she grabbed the small camera and tried in vain to open it. Failing, she grabbed a brick she used as a doorstop and bashed the camera until it broke open, spilling tiny gears and pieces of glass. She then threw it into the dustbin, covering it with the newspaper that had come with her lunch of fish and chips.
Next she picked up the film can and opened it. Inside, lay a small reel of 35mm black and white film. She knew she should destroy it but couldn’t resist looking at it. Spooling off a bit, she held it over her bedside lamp and found the tiny images far too small to see without magnification. She walked over to the bureau and dug out an old magnifying glass. The first thing she noticed was the Fox Movietone logo, a familiar sight even to Londoners. But what followed both intrigued and frightened her. Without the familiar narration to go with it, all she could glean was that it showed some kind of criminal trial. The superimposed titles gave the location as Nuremberg, Germany, 1946. For a moment she stood rooted to the spot, not really grasping what she held. Was it a hoax—some kind of joke? But those burning eyes came back to her and she realized nothing about this man could be construed as a joke. Then what was this?
She spooled out the reel and found a close-up of a fat man glaring at the camera as he listened to something on a pair of headphones. At that moment, her blood froze. The man was Hermann Göring! Even she knew that corpulent face seen strutting about in ridiculously opulent uniforms in countless other newsreels. Here he sat, stripped of his gaudy medals and his swagger—beaten. Here he was, yet this she knew could not be!
Stunned, she dropped the film, cursing as it rolled under her bed. Not bothering to roll it back onto its reel, she gathered it all up in
to her arms and took it to the fireplace. The coals still glowed from the fire she’d started that morning. She tossed in a few more lumps of coal and fanned them into a small blaze. She then threw the film into it, watching as the thin nitrate film burst into a brilliant flame. It didn’t burn so much as explode. Regardless, it could now do no harm.
She thought she heard something and dashed to the window and gasped. Arthur Liddington was no more than half a block from the flat, walking determinedly, his expression dark and troubled. For a fleeting moment, Jane had the urge to run, to get out and never come back. But something told her it wouldn’t do any good. Acting quickly, she threw more kindling and a couple of medium-sized logs onto the fire, hoping they would cover the remnants of her treachery. She heard Liddington’s feet on the stairs and stuffed everything back into the haversack as she found it. When he stormed into the room, he found her puttering in the kitchenette.
“Arthur, what’s wrong?”
He barely glanced at her as he paced the room, snarling under his breath.
“What is it, please tell me?” she said.
He stopped pacing and smiled, as if nothing at all bothered him. The abruptness of his transformation unnerved her. He came to her and took her into his arms, kissing her savagely. She responded to his burning lips in spite of herself.
“I want you,” he whispered. “I’m going to spank you just how you like it.”
He reached for her blouse, then stopped, his face clouding. Shoving her aside, he rushed to the fireplace, and peered into the pulsing flames. There was no doubt. It was the reel of newsreel film, the twisted metal now glowing a fiery red. He whirled, his eyes filled with fury.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!”
Jane flinched, her eyes looking guilty.
“I-I haven’t done anything,” she stammered.
Without answering her, he raced to the closet, pulled out the haversack, and dumped it onto the floor, much as she had done. The two halves of the empty film can rattled noisily on the floor. He appeared to swoon for a moment before his anger returned. He crossed the room and grabbed her around the throat.
“Where is the camera?” he hissed.
Jane felt blind panic at that moment, but her mind held on to one unshakable truth: she stood no chance if she admitted anything.
“I don’t know anything about your camera. I didn’t know you had one.”
“Lying hündin,” he said, backhanding her across the face.
She tried to pull away from him, but he grabbed her by the hair and threw her across the room. She slammed into the bureau and crumpled to the floor.
“Where is it?” he demanded, approaching her.
Dazed and disoriented, Jane again tried to get away, quite unprepared for the kick that now struck her full in the face. She crashed into the dustbin, knocking it over. Kruger made for her again and halted. He could see the remnants of the Minox. Reaching into the garbage, he pulled it out. Trembling, he sank to the floor.
“NO!” he wailed, almost crying from frustration.
Jane took that moment to scramble to her feet and lunge for the kitchen knife lying on the table. Grasping it, she turned and ran for him. In the last second before she could plunge the knife into his back, Kruger turned and grabbed her hand. Drawing back his fist, he punched her in the face, breaking her nose. She flew back, hitting the table, and let go of the knife. Blood gushed from the crushed cartilage, splashing her clothes as she crumpled to the floor.
Kruger took the knife and approached her. In spite of the beating, Jane was conscious and alert.
“Is this what you want, my dear?” he said, holding the knife to his body.
Jane watched him, now devoid of fear, accepting the inevitable.
“Is this what you want?”
“Go to bloody hell,” she said, her voice sounding muffled through her ruined nose.
Kruger laughed. “I’ve already been there.”
Laughing again, he plunged the knife into his abdomen. Jane screamed as the blood gushed.
“What are you doing?” she shouted, shocked to the core.
“Isn’t this what you want, Jane?” he said, slicing a deep gash into his arm. “Don’t you want to see me bleed?”
Again, the knife flashed, opening up an artery in his other arm. It spurted rhythmically in time to his rapidly beating heart. Was he mad, after all? Kruger dropped the knife and Jane watched transfixed as the man she knew as Arthur Liddington closed his eyes and began to chant. The words sounded ancient, formidable. A moment later, the air around his body glowed a deep, fluorescent blue, crackling with a kind of static electricity. Awestruck, she saw all the cuts and stab wounds melting away, knitting themselves back into seamless, unblemished skin.
He knelt down and took her head in his hands.
“You think you can beat me, my dear Jane?” he asked, staring into her frightened eyes. “Think again.” With a savage twist of his hands, he heard her neck snap and felt her body go limp. Clamping his eyes shut, he began to chant again. A moment later, Jane’s body glowed, then imploded into nothingness.
Dressing quickly, Kruger gathered his things. Jane’s naive patriotism had been a bad miscalculation on his part, one that had cost him priceless proof, proof needed to convince Der Führer of the veracity of his claims. Leaving the flat momentarily, Kruger scanned the deserted hallway, listening for any clues that someone might have heard—might be watching. He heard someone screaming, a child crying, and smelled the odor of boiled beef and cabbage. But the hall remained empty. Closing the door, he padded down the hall to the small lavatory and went inside.
After locking the door, he used a sixpence to unscrew the grating covering the heating vent. With the last screw removed, he pulled off the grate and saw the Semtex and detonator. He sighed with relief. Something had told him to separate the explosives from the rest of his gear, and that blind foresight had saved the present mission. Too bad he had not done so with the rest. Now his mission in Germany would stand in greater peril. For a fleeting moment he considered returning to the future and obtaining another Minox, a new copy of the newsreel and starting all over again. He could have the pleasure of killing this bitch twice. This time before she could become a problem. But Kruger realized he would have to face Armand Bock’s withering criticisms. And his ego would never allow that. No. He would continue on with the original plan. Newsreels be damned.
Gathering up the material, he returned to the flat and packed it inside the haversack. Tomorrow, he would enter St. Paul’s with both the plastique and the detonators strapped around his waist.
Satisfied that everything stood in order, Kruger scanned the flat. He found what he needed under the small sink: an old lamp filled with kerosene for those nights of enforced blackouts. He unscrewed the top and poured the oily liquid out onto the bed and the surrounding floor, leaving enough to form a trail to the door. He then smashed it to look as if it had fallen off the nightstand.
Looking out the windows, he saw the street was quiet. He pulled the shades, gathered up his haversack, and walked to the door. Reaching into the pocket of his uniform tunic, he pulled out Liddington’s trench lighter and struck the flint. The flame sprouted immediately. He reached downward and touched it to the trail of kerosene and watched as it caught. The flame moved lazily back along the trail toward the bed.
Kruger closed the door and left, taking the stairs at a leisurely pace. Out on the street, he walked briskly, turning around only once to see the faint orange glow behind the drawn shades. He smiled. With luck, this would only rate a small footnote in the morning’s paper, something quite unimportant compared to the deaths of Winston Churchill, Eisenhower, and the rest. He looked forward to those headlines with undisguised relish. If nothing else, he would see those bastards roasting in the flames. He knew Dunham would come for him there. He knew the smarmy shit would try and stop him. Let him come, Kruger thought, let him come and be damned.
Kruger smiled again and thought of the perfect solution
to annoying pests. In his foolishly valiant attempt to stop him, Jack Dunham would get the surprise of his life.
Chapter Twenty-One
London, England
14 May 1944
Don’t sit under the Apple Tree,
With anyone else but me,
With anyone else but me,
With anyone else but me, no, no, no,
Don’t sit under the Apple Tree,
With anyone else but me,
’Til I come marching home...
The crowd stood shoulder to shoulder inside the crowded pub, their voices raised in joyous song, the atmosphere made even more romantic by the dim candlelight. Songs like “Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree” competed with “Tangerine” and others Jack didn’t recognize. The piano player, an American army sergeant, banged out the tunes on a battered, out-of-tune upright, a Lucky Strike hanging from his smiling lips. The smoke hung thick, and the booze flowed freely among the civilian regulars and the military personnel from all the different branches and armies stationed in England. They smiled, laughed, cried, and hollered with a kind of deliberate abandon. Their boisterous din was guaranteed to drive away all cares. From Jack’s point of view, they all looked like they were trying very hard to forget what lay just beyond the door: death, destruction, painful memories, and dreadful uncertainties.
In a way, he envied them their frenzied good humor, their defiance in face of all they had to deal with night and day. He and Denise had come back to Hammersmith in a desperate attempt to find some way to get into St. Paul’s. Tired of going back and forth to a hotel where they still could not get a room, Denise had come into the Roundhead Tavern and played the part of a war widow looking for lodging. The kindly barkeep took pity and gave her the spare furnished bedsitter over the pub. This surprised Jack. Between the bombings over the past few years and the thousands of soldiers clogging the city, to find any available housing amounted to a small miracle. Now they sat there in the thick, hazy atmosphere, drinking their third warm beer, totally frustrated.