A Time for Vengeance

by Geoffrey Osborne

  “Come on James, couldn’t you do this liaison stint for me?”

  “Can’t be done. I’ve got to stay in and await the delivery of a Very Important Parcel.” He looked at his watch. “Tell you what, you’re not due over there for another hour, so why not have a shave and a cold shower. You’ll feel as fresh as a daisy.”

  Jones snorted in disgust and stood up. As he left the table, Dingle called after him: “Don’t forget to thank our friends for getting you off the hook last night.”

  Jones swore.

  *

  11:30 a.m.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said the courier when Dingle opened the door of his room. “The flight from Delhi was two hours late, so I missed the earlier plane.”

  “You’ve got the parcel, though?” Dingle asked.

  “Yes, here it is.” The courier pulled a small brown paper package from his pocket. “Still sealed, as you can see, exactly as it was handed to me by our chap from India.”

  “I should bloody hope so,” said Dingle.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “Alright, alright. Sorry I spoke. Oh, there’s a letter for you from the Director.” The courier pulled a long, white envelope from an inside pocket.

  Dingle opened it, read the instructions inside and nodded.

  “You can go and get a meal and do some sightseeing this afternoon,” he said. “I’ve got to write a report, so come back here at six o’clock to collect it before you catch the plane back to London.”

  “Suits me,” said the courier. “It’ll help to make my expenses sheet look healthier.”

  As soon as the man had gone, Dingle reached for the phone, asked for an outside line, and dialed a number. A man’s voice answered.

  “The goods have arrived,” said the SS(0)S agent.

  “I’ll be there to collect them within the hour,” the voice replied.

  *

  12:30 p.m.

  Jason Ritchie looked at the package on the table. “Is that it?”

  Dingle nodded. “One of our friends is coming to collect it in…” he was interrupted by a knock. “…ah! That must be him now.”

  The American opened the door to admit a small, swarthy man with a face like a monkey.

  “Is that it?” he asked repeating Ritchie’s question of a few moments earlier. He sounded slightly breathless, as if he had been running.

  “That’s it,” said Dingle.

  The little German almost ran to the table, picked up the small package and ripped off the brown paper wrappings to reveal a white bag.

  “There’s no time to lose,” he said, peering into the bag before dropping it in his pocket. “I have a car waiting. One of my messengers is crossing to the East in about fifteen minutes. I might just catch him.” He tapped his pocket. “As soon as this is safely on the other side, I shall telephone you.”

  “Everything is arranged all right over there, I hope?” Dingle asked.

  “Don’t worry. My men have been fully briefed, and they are very efficient,” replied the German as he hurried towards the door. “I shall telephone you soon.”

  “Now there’s a real whiz kid,” remarked Ritchie as the door closed. “I’ll buy you a drink while you wait for him to phone you.”

  Dingle shook his head. “Sorry, son. I’ve got to write my report.”

  “Hard luck. I’ve done mine. If you want me I’ll be in the bar.”

  *

  1:45 p.m.

  Dingle put down his pen and reached for the phone.

  “Herr Dingle?”

  “Speaking.”

  “The parcel has been delivered safely.”

  Dingle recognized the voice of the little man with the monkey face.

  “Good. Thank you for telling me. And the other business? Is everything still okay?”

  “Okay, yes. I told you, don’t worry. My men will begin the operation tomorrow. You will have twenty-four hours from six a.m.”

  “I hope it works.”

  “That is not my concern,” replied the German. “I have carried out my instructions from my own headquarters. What you do is your affair. I shall not make contact with you again. The phone number you used earlier will not find me now. Goodbye.”

  There was a click and Dingle was listening to the dialing tone. He grinned, flashed the switchboard and asked for a number.

  “British Military Hospital.”

  “Colonel Barrett please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Dingle.”

  “Just a moment sir, I’ll see if Colonel Barrett is available.”

  After a short delay another voice came on the line. “Barrett here. Is that you Dingle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any news?”

  “The operation is timed to start at six in the morning, sir. I’d be obliged if you would stand by from that time.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”

  The SS(0)S agent replaced the receiver and went down to join Ritchie at the bar for a late lunch.

  *

  4 p.m.

  For the second time that afternoon, Dingle’s report writing was interrupted by the persistent ring of the telephone.

  “Hello. Dingle speaking.”

  “There’s lovely.”

  “What the hell do you want. I’m trying to write a report.”

  “Well don’t take it out on me boyo,” the lilting Welsh tones came back over the wire. “I’m only the poor bloody liaison officer, but if you speak nicely to me I might give you something to stick in your report.”

  Dingle stiffened into alertness.

  “What is it?”

  “My old pals in Hamburg have been on to the Abteilung Eins chaps here. They’ve seen a friend of our fat friend.”

  “One of Kohner’s men?”

  “Yes. At least, they’re pretty sure he is.”

  “In Hamburg?”

  “Yes. He’s there now. He was in Winsen earlier – with Frau Mueller.”

  “Is that so? And is she still with him?”

  “Yes. They’re booked on the nine o’clock flight to Tempelhof.”

  “Good. You can trail them from there. You know what Hilde Mueller looks like. Cheerio, keep in touch.”

  “Hey Jim! Jim boyo!” The Welshman’s voice was almost a shriek. “Don’t hang up.”

  “What?”

  “Their plane won’t be here before ten.”

  “I know. So what?”

  “So I’m still tired. Can’t someone else do the liaising while I get some shut-eye. If I’ve got to be at the airport for ten, I’m going to have another late night. It’s four o’clock already, I’ll get less than five hours’ kip as it is.”

  Dingle sighed. “Alright. I’ll see if I can dig our American cousin out of the bar. He can relieve you.”

  “Thanks boyo. I always knew you had a kind heart.”

  Dingle made the necessary arrangements with Ritchie and then got back to his report. Meticulously, he recorded every detail, including the afternoon’s telephone conversation. By six o’clock, the report was ready and waiting for the courier.

  *

  10:30 p.m.

  In London, the SS(0)S Director finished reading Dingle’s report. He grunted with satisfaction and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. He picked up the phone to his Control Room.

  “Duty Officer speaking.”

  “I’m going home now.”

  “Yes, sir. Very good sir.”

  “And I shan’t be in tomorrow.”

  “Not in sir?” The Duty Officer could not keep the note of surprise out of his voice. The Director was rarely away from his desk.

  “Tell Williams when he takes over from you in the morning that I shall be in Berlin. If I’m needed urgently I can be contacted there through Mr. Dingle.”

  “Very good sir.” />
  “And arrange for someone to meet me at Heathrow at eight o’clock with tickets for the eight forty-five flight.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good night.”

  The Director recorded a message for Miss Peach, repeating that he could be reached through Dingle – and adding a long list of work he wanted her to do; then he left the building.

  He hardly noticed the journey home, sitting behind the chauffeur. He was thinking of Kohner and Mueller.

  The day of reckoning was near; and when it dawned, he wanted to be there, where he could see the two men he hated above all others.

  Chapter Ten

  Erich Mueller stretched out on the bed: a real bed this time, with a comfortable mattress. He’d enjoyed an excellent meal, and now he drew in a satisfying mouthful of smoke from his favorite brand of cigarette.

  His appreciative gaze took in his new quarters: the carpet, the polished table, the deep, well-upholstered armchair, the door leading to the private bathroom and lavatory. It could have been a luxury hotel room… except for the bars at the window, the locked door and the armed guard outside. They were the reminders that this unaccustomed feeling of well-being was an illusion, which could never still that quiver of fear in his belly.

  Reluctantly, he admired Kohner’s technique. If he were to be plunged back into that nightmare of cold, hunger and torture his will would be sapped, his resolve that much weaker.

  He tensed at the sound of the key in the lock and swung his legs to the floor, trying in vain to relax the hard knot of nerves in his stomach, which made it difficult to breathe.

  Kohner, smiling, stood in the doorway.

  “A visitor for you, Erich.”

  Mueller’s throat dried suddenly. He stood up.

  “I’ll leave you two alone, because you will have a lot to talk about,” Kohner continued. “Then you and I can have a chat later, eh?”

  He stepped outside quickly. His place was taken by a woman, and the key rattled in the lock once more.

  Mueller stared at the woman. Her blonde hair had faded and her skin had coarsened slightly, but there could be no doubt that it was Hilde, his wife. Her figure, a little thicker perhaps was still beautiful. Attractive enough for any man to… he felt a sharp stab of jealousy. It had been a long time. Could there be another man? The thought had never occurred to him before: but seeing her there now, staring back at him…

  “Erich? Yes it is you. I can see that now. You have aged.”

  He tried to smile, but his face seemed to be frozen. He struggled desperately to swallow, to ease his parched vocal chords. His voice, when it came, was a croak.

  “Only in the last few weeks, I assure you. Before I left Ecuador I would have passed for a man of forty-eight.” He managed the smile and added: “Or perhaps forty-nine. Since I came… home…” He let the sentence drift, but was too late to hide the note of bitterness and self-pity. “But you are as young and as beautiful as ever, Hilde.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled politely. But the smile didn’t reach her blue eyes. She seemed nervous and unsure of herself.

  Damn! He’d handled it all wrong. It was nothing like the way he’d always imagined it. In his dreams, they would run towards each other, laughing and crying at the same time before he took her in his arms…

  “How… how have you been all these years, Erich? When I didn’t hear from you, I thought, I thought…”

  The earlier feeling of fear mingled with jealousy rushed back.

  “You didn’t remarry?”

  “No! Oh, no.”

  He smiled. “Well that’s all right then. But look at us! Divided for years by thousands of miles; now there is just the width of a room between us, and we can only stand and stare.”

  He held out his arms awkwardly, but dropped them when she made no move, and gestured towards the armchair. “At least you can sit down.”

  “Thank you.” She moved at last.

  “Cigarette?” He crossed the room and offered the packet.

  She shook her head.

  “Why did you come back Erich?”

  He walked quickly to the bedside table, angrily stubbed out his cigarette and lit a fresh one.

  “Why have I come back?” His voice trembled with suppressed rage. “For years I was hunted like an animal across South America. For years I dreamed of coming home… home to you and Kristen. When I got the chance, I came – only to be betrayed, imprisoned and tortured by the man who pretended to be my friend. All I wanted was to live my remaining years in peace… with you. But you…” he sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. “You… my own wife…” He choked on the words.

  She was on her feet again, running to him. She sank down beside him, taking his hand.

  “I’m sorry, Erich. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so frightened. Why are we here? What is going to happen to us?”

  “I’m here because I have something… information… which the Communists want.” Mueller was calmer now. “You are here because you can help me out of this mess. Then we can be together again… in the West.”

  “Are you going to give them this information?”

  “Eventually, yes.”

  “Why haven’t you given it to them before?”

  “Because unless I can arrange an adequate safeguard, they will never allow me to cross the Wall. They are afraid I will give the West the information, too.”

  “You couldn’t do that. You’d be arrested as soon as you showed your face.”

  “Kohner thinks I might be able to bargain with them… the information in exchange for immunity from prosecution as a war criminal.” He laughed harshly. “I must admit I hadn’t thought of that until Kohner put the idea into my head.”

  “But how can I help you?”

  “You – or Kristen.” His eyes narrowed. “Where is Kristen? She came with you, didn’t she? Kohner promised she would.”

  Hilde’s eyes slid away from his.

  “She didn’t come.”

  “Why? Is she ill? Is that it?”

  Hilde said nothing.

  “Tell me! What’s wrong with her? She isn’t…?” his question faded away.

  “No, she’s alright. It’s just that… she doesn’t remember you, that’s all.”

  “But that’s no reason,” he protested. “I’m her father.”

  “She is married now. She has a daughter.”

  “Surely she can leave them for a few days. I haven’t seen her since she was a year old; her first birthday party.”

  Hilde forced herself to meet his eye.

  “She doesn’t want to see you,” she said brutally. “She’s ashamed of what you did in the war. She’s terrified in case her husband finds out who you are… because his own father was anti-Nazi. He was murdered by the Gestapo.”

  “Murdered?” Mueller looked sick.

  “You would have said executed as a traitor,” Hilde said. She smiled wryly and added: “Kristen would have a fit if she knew where the money came from for my home and for her education.”

  He stared at his wife.

  “And where did it come from?”

  “The Kameradenwerk. They told me they had got you safely away to South America.”

  He nodded. “They hid me in the Franciscan monastery in Rome for a while. A German bishop was there. He arranged a false passport for me before I sailed to Buenos Aires.”

  “I wondered how you did it,” she said. “After you had gone, the Kameradenwerk were very good to us. They kept Kristen and me in food and clothing after the war. Then, a few years ago, they paid for my home in Winsen – and arranged an annuity for me.”

  Mueller’s shoulders straightened, and some of the old arrogance came back to his voice.

  “Meine Ehre Ist Treue,” he said, quoting the SS motto – “My Honor is Loyalty”. “At least there is loyalty among my old comrades, which is more than can be said for my own daughter.” He stared at his wife. “And you?�
�

  “I am here,” she replied flatly.

  “Yes, you’re here. So you’ll help?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’d hoped to return to West Berlin with you. Once there I could have negotiated with Kohner while Kristen remained here as a hostage. Now perhaps Kohner will agree to let me go alone while you…”

  She recoiled from him.

  “No! No, I won’t stay here. I won’t be a hostage. You must trust them. Tell them what they want to know, when I’m back in West Berlin. I’ll wait there for you.” Her voice rose to a hysterical shriek. “But I must get back over the Wall first.”

  Mueller was on his feet again, his face mottled with anger. But before he could say anything more, the door opened and Kohner, still smiling, was back in the room.

  “Had a nice talk?” he said.

  Mueller’s gaze swung to the fat SSD man.

  Slowly, his anger subsided as the old, familiar nagging fear took over.

  Chapter Eleven

  Glyn Jones was whistling softly to himself as he walked down the corridor to Dingle’s room. He opened the door and stopped in his tracks; his lips, frozen in mid-whistle, formed a surprised O-shape.

  The Director turned away from the window.

  “Ah! There you are Jones.” He looked at his watch. “Have you only just got up? It’s nearly eleven o’clock man.”

  “Well, you see sir, I haven’t had much sleep. I didn’t get to bed until after two this morning sir – and I had no sleep at all the night before sir because…”

  “Oh, come in man, dammit. It’s draughty with the door open.”

  “Pour yourself a drink, Glyn,” said Dingle.

  “Thanks, boyo,” answered the Welshman, moving purposefully towards the drinks trolley. “What the bloody hell is he doing here?”

  He mouthed the words at Dingle, while his back was turned to their chief.

  “I heard that Jones,” snapped the big man.

  “I didn’t say anything sir.”

  “Not out loud, perhaps, but I saw you in the mirror.”

  Jones swallowed with difficulty and made a dive for the whisky bottle.

  “I thought I’d better come over to get the work done,” the Director continued smoothly, “in case you decided to get yourself arrested again.”