DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  Only a few minutes passed before I heard heavy footfalls of several men moving in my direction at a rapid pace. Suddenly three soldiers appeared from behind the partition followed by the dark-haired woman in white. In the lead was a rather youthful looking man dressed in a military officers uniform followed closely by two quite large and sinister looking soldiers.

  The two uniformed soldiers following a few paces behind were adorned in dark green helmets and side arms in brown leather holsters that hung from web belts cinched tightly around their waists. Something about them seemed off but I couldn’t place it. The trio approached me in near military formation.

  The young officer strode directly to the head of my bed and stood hovering over me, a somewhat dark and menacing expression clouding his boyish, clean-shaven face.

  Despite the pain of what felt like shards of jagged metal slicing through my brain, my mind began to race, assessing my new surroundings, calculating threats, quantifying options. The officer, I surmised was in his early twenties, the two enlisted men slightly older. Something about their appearance struck me as odd but I could not quite place it. The young officer’s assertive demeanor suggested a disguise for a degree of uncertainty born of inexperience.

  Curiously I noted his tan shoulder boards bore gold squares denoting his rank as an officer in the British Army with the US equivalent rank of second lieutenant. I knew this because as a Marine I had occasion to work with British military units in Afghanistan. The lieutenant turned to speak briefly with the dark-haired woman but their voices were too low to be heard.

  Before I could formulate any one of the dozen so questions that immediately sprang to mind the officer spoke, his voice loud and caustic.

  “Sie und du?” he demanded sternly. I stared up at him, confused not only by what was obviously not English but also by the harshness with which I was being addressed.

  “Sie und du!” he repeated, his tone elevated and insistent.

  I surmised from his accent he was addressing me in German but I had no idea why. Instead of answering I shook my head weakly but even that little movement sent waves of nausea flooding over me. I leaned over the side of the bed looking for the crescent porcelain tray in the event I needed to vomit. The officer mistook my awkward movement for aggression and stepped back defensively. I grabbed the porcelain bowl from the table and held it under my chin just in case. The nausea rippled in waves through my body.

  It was a few minutes before the nausea subsided enough for me to ease the tray from under my chin. Despite the distraction of my illness I could tell the officer was assessing my condition. I was hoping my illness and obvious injuries would reassure him I was in no condition to pose a threat to him or his men. I noted the two soldiers behind him now had their hands near the flaps of the holsters. Turning slightly toward his men the Lieutenant held his hand out in a gesture of reassurance and the two soldiers eased their hands away from their weapons.

  Returning his attention to me he straightened, raising himself to his full height and with his head tilted slightly back asked, “Wie heist du? Was ist dein namen? Was ist Ihre mission? Warum waren sie an bord der Heinkel? Wenn sie ein soldat geben sie mir ihren seriennummer!”

  I was completely dumbfounded. It all seemed like Alice’s encounter with the Mad Hatter. It was absurd.

  “Look, buddy,” I croaked. My throat felt like it was on fire. I was holding my head steady and staring straight ahead in an effort to forestall giving any new impetus to my subsiding nausea.

  “I don’t understand what you are asking me. I don’t speak German.” He seemed earnestly surprised at first and then his expression hardened.

  “How did you know I was addressing you in German if you don’t speak the language?” he asked skeptically, a hint of derision creeping into his expression.

  I was slow, really slow processing everything. Perhaps my head injury was more serious than I thought or maybe I had been given something for pain that was fogging my mind. In either case I was having difficulty formulating my thoughts.

  “Just because I don’t speak a language doesn’t mean I don’t know its origin,” I replied slowly and decisively, noting the officer’s accent was unmistakably British.

  “You’re an American!” he stated seemingly startled and although I was not looking directly at him it seemed to me his tone carried a heavy note of disdain.

  “Yes,” I rasped wearily. “Where the hell am I? What happened to the others?” I demanded, thinking about all those people at the research center.

  “The others are dead,” the young officer replied unsympathetically. “What is your name?” he demanded, this time in English.

  For a moment I was at a loss thinking about the hundreds of people working at the Tokomak facility. Surely I couldn’t have been the only one to survive.

  “What is your name!” he demanded again, his voice rising slightly with impatience.

  As I was traveling on my own passport I could not think of any reason not to give them my name. A background check would prove embarrassing however as my vocation as a science reporter would not sustain even a precursory check. I’d decided to deal with that eventuality later.

  “Michael,” I replied weakly. “Michael Riley.”

  “You’re Irish!” Lieutenant Buckley stammered in surprise.

  I looked up, trying not to shift my focus too rapidly in an attempt to keep my nausea under control. I noticed the dark-haired nurse had disappeared.

  “Yes, on my father’s side two generations removed,” I replied, impressed I could summon sarcasm in response to a historic and idiotic British prejudice.

  Lieutenant Buckley studied the German airman for any hint of vulnerability. Observing none he was skeptical but also puzzled. The prisoner had unquestionably been aboard the German bomber that was shot down on a bombing raid over London forty-eight hours ago. The report Captain Whitehead filed was unequivocal in that regard. And the prisoner had just inquired as to the welfare of the German aircrew, a serious lapse in judgment for a spy, but an instinctive expression of concern for one’s countrymen.

  Though he denied understanding German this was obviously a ruse. His name, if he was being truthful was Irish and the Germans were known to have many Nazi sympathizers among the Irish.

  No identification or personal items were found on the prisoner but then his kit could easily have been destroyed in the crash. He was also quite fit despite his injuries. Physical conditioning would have been a component of any training he might have received. And yet Buckley had to admit there were anomalies to be considered. His accent was clearly American and it would seem highly improbable for an American or even someone of American heritage to be engaged with the Nazis. There were many German nationals in America but few to his knowledge were Nazi sympathizers.

  The German, having dressed in civilian clothes had placed himself in severe jeopardy. The rules of war were clear in this instance. He could be shot as a spy. However, the prisoner’s intentions and knowledge of the German Abwher could be of importance to British Intelligence. Buckley concluded the prisoner warranted the attention of special branch and he would make his recommendation accordingly.

  I didn’t know what I was expecting but it sure wasn’t this. Something had happened to cause this type of reaction. This obsession with a German sourced terrorist group was curious much because no German terrorists groups had been identified since the demise of the left wing Baader-Meinhof Gang in the 1980’s. This wasn’t making any sense. If I were truly a suspect in a terrorist attack my medical condition would not prevent my sequestration in a far less hospitable environment than this.

  I had no intention of revealing my affiliation with the Central Intelligence Agency. At least not yet. I was in no condition to argue the point further in any event. Already I could feel pain edging out my attempts to control it. I was weak and sick with exhaustion. I was finding it difficult to care where I was or who these soldiers were or even what had happened me. I simply wanted to lie bac
k and drift off into sleep.

  The Lieutenant appeared on the verge of renewing his interrogation when suddenly the dark-haired woman returned in the company of a man dressed in a brown military uniform over which he wore a white coat opened down the middle. In his mid forties I guessed, with wisps’ of thinning dark hair combed straight back he strode purposefully toward the youthful Lieutenant. The gold staff and snake emblem on his collar identified him as one of the medical staff, probably a doctor.

  Motioning the Lieutenant out of earshot the two began speaking animatedly. Judging from their body language they were in disagreement over something. It was probable I was the focal point of their disagreement.

  “My patient is in no condition to be interrogated Lieutenant!” Doctor Kensington insisted. “He is fortunate to be alive quite frankly and if you want him to stay that way I recommend you give him a few more days to regain his strength before you question him again.”

  Lieutenant Buckley frowned but relented. He had already decided on his course of action and had no more questions for the prisoner in any case. But he could not help but dismiss the physician’s concern for this Nazi spy. His family had suffered gravely at the hands of the Germans. His youngest brother had been critically burned fighting the fires during the Blitz and his two older brothers had also dead, one during the failed raid at Dieppe and another fighting Rommel in North Africa. He felt nothing but contempt for the Germans who had started this war.

  “This Nazi would have been responsible for the death of British soldiers and civilians had he not been apprehended,” Lieutenant Buckley responded coldly. “His medical condition is not my concern.”

  “It is mine,” Doctor Kensington asserted calmly. “Isn’t it enough you have him shackled to his bed? I doubt he is any condition to escape.”

  Kensington, despite concern for his patient wasn’t entirely unsympathetic with the young lieutenant. The Blitz had caused the deaths of tens of thousands of innocent British civilians and devastated cities from Falmouth to Sunderland. It would be decades before Britain recovered from the wreckage even should the war end this year.

  Undaunted the Lieutenant stood his ground.

  “I will return tomorrow Doctor,” he insisted. “Whatever the prisoner’s medical condition I will interview him. In the meantime I want him off all pain medication before I question him again Doctor,” Lieutenant Buckley insisted. “I can’t interview him if he’s incoherent. How long before he’ll be well enough to travel?”

  Doctor Kensington struggled to restrain his growing frustration with the lieutenant’s persistent interference. Ignoring the lieutenant’s demands to withhold pain medication from a seriously injured patient and restraining his anger Kensington fought to remain calm. He knew the military had the authority to question the prisoner at their discretion even over the objections of the appropriate medical authority. In addition protocol required he release the prisoner into the custody of the military as soon as he was healthy enough to travel.

  “You can have five minutes with the prisoner tomorrow afternoon,” was as much of a commitment as he was willing to make. “It will be at least a week before his injuries are healed well enough to release him safely into your custody. Moving him sooner could reopen his wounds making him vulnerable to sepsis.”

  Lieutenant Buckley frowned dismissively at the physician’s overly sympathetic attitude towards the prisoner’s condition but said nothing more.

  “Were you aware he saved the life of one of our nurses last night?” Kensington asked, hoping to mollify the Lieutenant’s invective if only marginally. Buckley was momentarily taken aback by this revelation but quickly regained his focus.

  “I don’t see how that changes anything doctor. It only proves he is in better condition than he lets on. I am posting a guard while he is in your care and I strongly advise neither you nor members of your staff engage the prisoner in conversation,” he added dismissively. Signaling to his escort the three men departed, this time disappearing through the door at the end of the corridor.

  Though I did not hear their conversation I noted from the young officer’s demeanor he was decidedly upset. I listened as the echoes of their footsteps against a flight of stairs faded away into silence. The dark haired nurse from before reappeared beside the doctor. They spoke in low voices I could not hear and then they both disappeared down the corridor.

  A few minutes later the dark haired nurse reappeared carrying a tray on which sat a glass syringe with a large diameter needle. It struck me as odd and I was reminded of hospitals in Eastern Europe where patient care was decades behind what we have come to expect in the west.

  “I don’t need that,” I protested as she approached my bedside. In truth managing my pain was exhausting, leaving me queasy and weak.

  “Doctor’s orders,” she said with a smile, ignoring my feeble protest.

  Setting the tray on the table beside my bed she took the syringe, found a vein in my right arm and skillfully inserted the needle, easing in on the plunger. I watched her closely as she leaned over my bedside. Her hair smelled of shampoo, her skin of scented soap. It was a familiar smell. Some distant thought played at the edges of my memory, but I could not reel it in.

  “We need to keep your pain under control Mister Riley,” she explained softly, placing the depleted syringe back on the tray. Despite her cool demeanor for a moment I detected an underlying desire to comfort me. I also wondered absently why she hadn’t just injected the morphine directly into my IV tube.

  “If the pain gets out of hand it will be more difficult to bring it back under control,” she explained, her hand ever so gently resting on my chest. Standing back she hovered there for a moment gazing down at me, an inscrutable expression masking her feelings.

  “You’re an American?” she asked curiously, having likely overheard my conversation with the Lieutenant.

  “Yes, from Maryland,” I answered. For some reason I could not fathom this seemed to surprise her as her expression lingered somewhere between curiosity and disbelief. “Where am I?” I asked though in truth it mattered little.

  “You are in Queen Anne’s Hospital, in London,” she answered softly.

  I was about to ask her name when the morphine took hold and my words dissipated before they escaped my lips. Like easing back into a tub of warm water I drifted down a long corridor away from the light until it disappeared all together.

  Chapter 20

  WOMAN OF MY DREAMS

  I awoke to a raging thirst. I wondered how long I had been out. In the closed atmosphere of the hospital ward I could not distinguish day from night. The lights were on. Big yellow bulbs hung in metal containers half the size of garbage can lids. I couldn’t remember if I had noticed them before. Where were the fluorescents?

  This facility was in desperate need of renovation, I thought. I didn’t see anyone so I tried to call out but I managed only a rasping cough. I checked either side of the bed but could not locate the call button. The facilities in fact reminded me of those in third world countries, crude and absent any modern medical technology.

  Looking around I saw there was an empty glass and a white pitcher on the stand beside my bed that hadn’t been there before. I knew with an abdominal wound I couldn’t take liquids but I needed something just to moisten my throat that ached from the intubation tube.

  Reaching out with my good arm I nudged the pitcher. It rocked on the table splashing water onto the floor. I stretched out as far as I could and managed to grab the pitcher’s handle in my right hand. In doing so I noticed the guard from the night before had gone to be replaced by one of the soldiers who accompanied Lieutenant Buckley. He was seated on a wooden chair beside the green door, his helmet on the floor at his feet. He watched as I struggled to pour water from the pitcher into the glass. It suddenly came to me what had seemed odd about the soldiers from the previous day. Their helmets were steel not Kevlar. No modern army issued steel helmets any longer.

  Just at that moment the d
ark haired nurse appeared carrying a tray on which sat a large bowl of steaming water, a small cup and an old fashioned straight razor. Setting the tray on the nightstand she poured a thimble sized drop of water into the glass and handed it to me.

  “Just enough to moisten your throat,” she cautioned. I downed it gratefully. I spied a bedpan on the table beside the water pitcher.

  “No catheter?” I inquired. She gave me a quizzical look but did not reply.

  “You need a shave,” she said instead. Pulling up a chair she sat down close by the head of my bed. Lathering up a small brush from a container of soap she held in he left hand she began applying it to my chin and cheeks. The soapy foam felt warm and comforting against my face. I was hesitant as she lifted the razor and placed it high against my cheek just below my right eye.

  Light glinted off the blade as she deftly drew the steel across my face. I could feel the cold edge of the blade sliding smoothly across my skin. The fragrance of her skin coupled with the sensation of warm soapy water followed by the cold steel of a razor sharp blade sliding across my cheek was strangely intoxicating.

  “I thought I heard music before,” I said in an effort to ally her apparent but unfathomable fear of me.

  “Yes, that was the wireless,” she answered hesitantly, as if she were consciously considering her words before she spoke.

  “Wireless,” I repeated somewhat amused by her quaint reference. “It sounded like an old Glenn Miller tune,” I offered lightly in an attempt to nurture a conversation. She paused momentarily, the razor coming to a slightly jerking halt on the edge of my chin.

  “Not so old,” she laughed softly. It was good to hear her laugh. Around her neck beneath her dark hair I caught the glint of a delicate gold chain.

  “Are you afraid of me? I asked pointedly, carefully observing her expression. For the briefest of moments her eyes flashed brightly and her skin was tinged with warm hue like the color of a pale pink rose.