DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  “Will there be anything else Sir,” the orderly asked the wing commander.

  “No Sergeant, thank you. That will be all I think.” When the orderly had left the room I was prepared to make an earnest confession when Sir James suddenly began speaking.

  “You have made comments for which I need clarity Mister Riley. Let us begin with Overlord. You claim the invasion of the European Continent will take place along the French Coast at Normandy on the sixth of June?” The commander asked, carefully observing the American’s face for any sign of duplicity.

  It was a dicey gamble. This collegial form of interrogation was seldom used as it was ineffective with German POWs. He attempted it now only because he instinctively believed Riley’s loyalties lie neither with the Nazis or the IRA.

  I was having trouble following the Wing Commander. The ringing in my ears was growing louder and my headache was growing intolerable.

  “Are you joking Sir James,” I asked pointedly, irritated by his irrelevant questioning.

  “If you think the invasion of Europe is somehow grist for levity you are sorely mistaken sir,” the commander replied testily. “Thousands of men will sacrifice their lives in the attempt and many more thousands will die if the Germans learn in advance where the Allied Forces intend to breach the Atlantic Wall.”

  “The Atlantic Wall,” I stammered, feeling as if the ground were giving way beneath me. “What are you talking about Sir James?” I demanded, a surge of nausea rising in my throat.

  “I am referring to the war sir,” he exclaimed bitterly. “The war against Germany and the Axis Powers your country and mine have waged these past three years at a cost in lives I dare say is only the beginning of the sacrifice this war will extract from us.”

  It was too much to comprehend. My head was swimming and I felt as if I were experiencing some delusional nightmare. Commander Whitely softened his tone, controlling an urge to throttle the American for what he perceived was his contemptuous attitude. He decided to attempt a different tact in an effort to elicit the American’s true loyalties.

  “This war has been difficult for us all. Even though America has not seen visited upon its cities the same destructive forces our tiny island has endured, many thousands of your young men have spent their lives defending the principles for which our two nations stand. You will understand it is imperative the Germans are utterly and unequivocally defeated. We made that mistake after the Great War and look what it has wrought. The consequences of any conclusion other than the absolute defeat and occupation of Nazi Germany would be ghastly beyond imagination for us all.”

  The ringing in my ears had grown louder and I noticed my skin was hot, pink and completely dry. It was taking me far too long to comprehend the commander’s questions. Clearly I had misinterpreted his words, or had Sir James taken leave of his senses? It was possible the man was simply overwrought and rambling on about the resilience of his country in a time of great national trauma. Sir James continued speaking but I no longer took meaning from his words. My head was about to explode, adding to the annoyance of the ringing in my ears.

  Several minutes must have passed before I realized Sir James had taken note of my desperate state for he was sitting forward in his chair, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “Are you alright old boy?” he inquired. “You’ve gone quite pale.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine Sir James,” I answered, attempting to sort through my confusion.

  “I am sorry to press you old boy, but you can appreciate my dilemma. I need answers and I dare say it shall go far more smoothly for you if you cooperate.” I was fighting to control a surge of nausea that threatened to overwhelm me.

  It felt as if I were being pulled into a vortex. The room appeared to shrink around me. There was a thunderous roar in my head. I thought I was going to be sick. I heard something crash onto the floor but I was too distracted to notice my tray had slipped from my lap.

  “You are not well Mister Riley!” Whitley observed, rising from his chair and summoning one of the guards. The room was spinning and I couldn’t seem to focus. I heard Whitley order the guard to get a medic in here on the double but the roaring in my ears was drowning out everything.

  When I came around I was in a hospital bed, an IV needle in my arm. An army officer I hadn’t seen before was checking the pulse in my wrist.

  “You were suffering from dehydration,” he admonished me. “Very dangerous for someone recuperating from the amount of blood loss and serious injuries you sustained. We’ll keep you on the IV overnight but you must see to it you take your liquids more regularly.”

  “Where am I?” I asked.

  “Wilton Park infirmary. You lost consciousness and were brought here for treatment. You should start to feel better in a few hours when we get your electrolytes back in balance. The guard will take you back to the White House in the morning.”

  “Who are you?” I asked, wondering if I hadn’t somehow imagined the past few hours.

  “I’m Doctor Benedict, and I think that will be enough questions for awhile. You need rest now. You’ve been secured to the bed and the compound is patrolled by armed soldiers so I need not warn you attempting to escape would be fruitless.”

  It seemed I was regressing, chained again as I was to a hospital bed. Looking around I noted the facility I was in was much smaller than Queen Anne’s Hospital. There were only two beds and I was the only patient. If I was still in Wilton Park the infirmary must be close by the White House. Not that knowing that would be of any help to me.

  “The nurses have changed your dressings,” he added. “I’m afraid the trauma to your temporal lobe will continue to cause you nausea and dizziness for a while longer, but it should lessen over time. Get some sleep if you can,” he said, patting my good knee. And then he was gone.

  I looked around at my new surroundings. At the far end of the room was a uniformed soldier seated in a chair by the door. A rifle was propped up between his knees and on his hip he wore a side arm. I attempted to get my mind around what had just happened. I flexed my good leg and discovered I was again chained to my bed as Doctor Benedict had indicated.

  Doubts plagued my mind as I struggled to sort out the events of the past few days. Surely I was overlooking some rational explanation for the conclusions that were so aggressively asserting themselves in my thoughts. What I was thinking just wasn’t possible and I immediately rejected the notion out of hand. But then I was left to wonder why every perception I had lead to the same, inescapable conclusion.

  The Commander’s diatribe was inexplicable in any context other than the one I was unwilling to accept. Perhaps this was some elaborate hoax? But by whom and for God’s sake why? I made a concerted effort to recall what I could of the Italian Campaign.

  To the best of my recollection British and American forces were battling the Germans south of Rome along the Gustav Line in early forty-four. It was frightening to consider how everything fit so precisely into place when I accepted the fantastic notion this was 1944, and the whole of England was a giant arsenal poised to launch the Allied invasion of France.

  Whatever the circumstances of my situation there were immutable facts on which I would rely. I was confined to an infirmary under military authority after sustaining serious injuries. British Intelligence was interrogating me under suspicion I was engaged in espionage. Everything else, however fantastic was incidental. If I were to improve my circumstances I would have to deal with these facts first. I spent the rest of the evening crafting a persona that might grant me the leverage I needed to extricate myself from this mess.

  Chapter 32

  THE LONDON CAGE

  At seven o’clock sharp a nondescript lorry with government tags arrived outside the White House. Four large men in civilian overcoats and hats stepped out of the vehicle. One of the men, considerably shorter than his peers with an errant shock of red hair protruding from beneath the brim of his hat made his way up the stone steps and into the foyer. Just
inside the foyer he encountered a uniformed officer who impeded his progress.

  “Wing Commander Whitely,” the man demanded, flashing his SIS credentials at the officer.

  “If you will wait here Mister Chandler I’ll ring him for you sir,” the officer instructed the stocky man. During the few minutes it took for the officer to confirm the visitor’s appointment Chandler paced back and forth across the foyer’s hand knotted Persian carpet.

  “Third floor to the right, second office on your right sir,” the officer directed him. Barely acknowledging the officer Chandler sprang up the wide marble staircase, climbing the three floors in surprisingly short order. In the Wing Commander’s outer office Whitley’s ADC rose from behind his desk to intercept the pugnacious SIS Major.

  In his office Whitley was just finishing an unsuccessful bid to convince Mansfield the prisoner’s tenuous medical condition made transferring him to PWIS control dangerous. But without convincing evidence of Riley’s true nationality the SIS Director was unmoved by any concern for the prisoner’s health. Colonel Mansfield was an opportunist with an intuitive sense of political expediency. As such he could be relied upon to act in the best interest of the organization he commanded.

  Major Chandler was a different sort. His motivations were far more basic and Whitley had a visceral dislike for the man. When Wilcox informed him the Major had arrived with an order for Riley’s transfer, Whitley resigned himself to the inevitable.

  “Please send the Major in,” he told his aide de camp. When Chandler strode into his office he observed none of the courtesies due Whitley as his superior officer even to the extent of removing his hat. Instead he simply handed the wing commander an official Order for Transfer.

  “I’m here for the prisoner calling himself Michael Riley,” Chandler demanded. Whitley studied the Order of Transfer he’d been handed.

  “The order states the prisoner is to be remanded to the PWIS facility in London where he is to be held as an unprivileged belligerent?” Whitley observed.

  “That’s correct,” Chandler confirmed. “He is engaged in espionage against the British Empire and has forfeit the privileges of a lawful combatant.”

  Though such a designation was tantamount to Riley’s death sentence it seemed to please the SIS Major, for he made little attempt to suppress the wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  A growing feeling of disgust gripped the wing commander but there was little he could do short of defying a lawful order.

  “The prisoner is in the outbuilding infirmary,” he said, intending to bring this interview to as rapid a conclusion as possible. Chandler, sensing he had gained as much advantage from the situation as the Wing Commander would allow departed without another word.

  Outside Chandler signaled for his men to drive the short distance to the infirmary where the four of them strode into the building, presenting their credentials to the soldier guarding the entrance.

  I heard the commotion before I saw the four burly men dressed in civilian clothes striding purposefully toward me. The man in front, shorter than the rest with sprouts of dark red hair escaping from under his brimmed hat came abruptly to the side of my bed.

  “Michael Riley, you will come with us,” he announced bluntly, signaling his men to assist me out of bed.

  One of the men unlocked my ankle chain while another yanked the intravenous needle from my arm. Taking hold of my arms the men pulled me to my feet. I was still in the pajamas I had donned the previous morning. A wheelchair was brought into which I was roughly placed. A black hood was pulled over my head and my arms were strapped to the wheelchair’s armrests. The hood smelled bad, like sour body odder and vomit. A blanket was thrown over my torso and I felt someone wheeling me across the room and then outside into the cold.

  I could feel myself being lifted, wheelchair and all into the back of a vehicle. Two men took positions, one on either side of me. I heard the sound of doors closing, an engine starting and then the sensation of movement.

  For the next hour and a half no one spoke. I could feel the sutures in my abdomen had separated and a warm, wet stickiness spread out against my skin. The rough treatment I surmised was just part of the process. You instill fear and uncertainty in a subject you intend to interrogate and you’re halfway to getting him to tell you anything you want to know.

  Resisting interrogation is a matter of grounding. You stay grounded in the knowledge your captors want information, and everything they do is designed to achieve that end. Fear is your greatest adversary and your captors’ greatest ally.

  It helped I had a plan and training in resisting interrogation. But you could never be certain just how far that would take you.

  Most of the roads over which we traveled must have been paved for there was mercifully little jarring. The sounds of traffic increased and the lorry made several starts and stops along the way. When we finally came to a stop and the driver shut down the engine I could hear the bustle of traffic a short distance away. I guessed we were in a populated area, probably a city from the sound of it.

  The door opened and I felt a cold rush of air. The straps binding me to my wheelchair were removed. Someone grabbed my arms and I was half walked, half dragged out onto a hard surface. My left knee was still tender and slightly swollen. I grunted as my feet hit the ground and my knees buckled but I was held to firmly to fall. A searing pain shot up from my injured knee. There was a salty taste of blood in my mouth that signaled I had bitten through my tong. No one had spoken since we left the infirmary.

  Once out of the vehicle I was immediately pulled up a short flight of stone steps into room that I sensed was a residence. Without pausing I was led down a long hallway to another set of stairs leading down this time.

  I did my best to keep most of my body weight on my right side. Each time I was pulled to my left pain shot up my leg like an electric shock. At the bottom of these stairs we turned left and then right into what I surmised was a room. I was dropped onto a stiff, wooden chair. My arms were pulled behind the chair and tightly bound. My pajama top was ripped away leaving me exposed to the cold. Immediately I began to shiver.

  The men, two of them I think left me there alone. It was likely their intention to allow my fears time to grow. As part of my training for the CIA I’d been water boarded. It’s like drowning only you don’t drown, you just panic. Water gets into you nose and your throat and your lungs and you realize you’re drowning. It’s a horrible sensation even when you know it’s only training and you can stop it at any time. You think you’ll do anything just to make it stop. But you don’t because you know what’s at stake and you convince yourself you’ll survive.

  I sat there listening for any sounds that would give me clues to where I was. I had to urinate but I held it. It was difficult trying to breath through the hood’s thick fabric and the stench of it was overpowering.

  My bonds were excruciatingly tight, especially around my wrists. My hands were loosing all sensation and my legs and buttocks ached from sitting so long on the hard wooden chair to which I was bound. Wherever I was it was cold. At that temperature I would loose feeling in all my extremities in a matter of a few hours. I retreated into my mind as I’d been trained to do, allowing it to take me far from here to places where it was safe and warm and full of life.

  Chapter 33

  A CALCULATED RISK

  After Major Chandler had departed with his prisoner, Commander Sir James Whitley spent the next several hours at his desk, the transcripts of his interview with the captured airman spread out in front of him. On the corner of his desk sat the box containing the airman’s personal affects. Even Willie, usually content to lie inert at his master’s feet grew restless, rising to pace about the wing commander’s office.

  No matter how many times he read Riley’s answers they never failed to leave him puzzled and uncertain of their true meaning. He even went so far as to order the actual recordings, but they proved no more helpful than the transcripts. He had hoped
there were transcription errors but the transcripts were accurate. The American repeatedly referred to events in the past tense. He expressed the most closely held secrets as colloquialisms, as if he were speaking about events that had already transpired.

  The breadth of his knowledge was impressive if not startling. No man of such modest position would know the things Riley knew. Riley was more than a puzzle; he was an enigma. He literally appeared out of nowhere. He had no confirmed family or residence, no military affiliation, no friends or professional acquaintances. He claimed no profession or formal education yet clearly he was an educated man. His answers to questions were evasive or cryptic or both. Everything that was known of him began from the time he was collected unconscious from a farmer’s field in Wilton Park.

  No individual subjected to the scrutiny Riley had received drew such a complete blank. It was as if he had come into existence the day he was discovered by the British Home Guard. It would have been no more than an intriguing puzzle had not Riley professed to know the significance of Normandy and the secrets of the Manhattan Project. This was no game in which he was engaged. The fate of the world hung in the balance and Riley possessed at least one of the keys to its resolution.

  Frustrated by his inability to decipher the airman’s purpose Whitley reexamined the contents of the box. The clothing was unusual, the labels from nonexistent manufacturers. Everything about the airman was disconcerting. Whitley took the note Riley had written and held it up to the light. Suddenly his heart quickened. There was a partial watermark on the paper he had not noticed before. Excitedly he dug into his desk drawer to retrieve an old magnifying glass he kept there.