DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  Chapter 36

  DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR

  I had no sense of the passage of time. The freezing water had so numbed my bare feet I could no longer feel them. I couldn’t allow myself to sit for fear I would fall victim to hypothermia, and in any case after a few hours the chair would begin to feel like concrete.

  I knew eventually Washington would respond, saying they have no record of a Michael Riley and that would be the end of it. I needed time to invent another story, something credible, something the major would believe.

  It would be far more difficult to fool him a second time. His pride will have been injured and he’d want some payback for that. He’d also have less reason for restraint, concluding that if I wasn’t an American I must be Irish and probably IRA. If I were suspected of being a member of the Irish Republican Army working for the Germans I’d be in for a rough go of it. The British fatal attraction for Ireland caused them to turn a blind eye to even the most reprehensible treatment of Irish rebels.

  I needed a credible story that would put the major off and maybe get me transferred to a more hospitable environment where I could heal. Once I was healthy again I could deal with my situation. In combat you make use of your superior firepower, tactics or knowledge of the terrain. I had none of those advantages. What I did have was knowledge.

  In two years as a research analyst I had learned a great deal about contemporary history. I needed to find a way to put that knowledge to good use. I focused my entire being on resolving that single issue, oblivious to the physical discomfort of my current circumstances.

  I had no idea how long I paced the floor of my cell. The single overhead light remained on both day and night, disguising the passage of time. When I heard the bolt in my cell door being slipped it took me a moment to pull myself back from the recesses of my mind. When the door swung open I saw the big man filling the doorway with his considerable bulk.

  He did not smile or otherwise indicated the reason for his presence but I feared the worse. But when he approached me it was only to take my arm. With a motion of his head the big man signaled we were leaving my cell together. I hobbled along beside him down the musky corridor to the set of wooden stairs I had traversed once before.

  Though my need to stay warm had kept me in constant motion I stumbled on the stairs. The big man noted this and slipped a thick arm around my waist. I placed my arm over his shoulder and together we climbed the stairs, the big man taking most of my weight as if I were inconsequential.

  I felt as if I were hanging on to a boulder. Upstairs we passed by a large bay window facing onto the street. I could make out the tops of cars passing by over the top of a brick wall that ran in front of the building. There were trees and shrubs at various intervals effectively blocking the view from the street. I surmised I was in a large residence in an upscale residential neighborhood. It was an odd place to incarcerate prisoners.

  I had a vague recollection the SIS owned several such facilities in England and Scotland where the worst of the SS and Gestapo prisoners were interred. It was considerably warmer upstairs and the heat started to make my nearly frozen feet itch.

  The big man led me down the hallway to a set of double doors leading into a large room that would have been called a sitting room in the Victorian era. It was wallpapered in a decorative blue pattern with strands of gold running through it.

  Inside were several tables draped in white linen. One of the tables, larger than the rest and near the center of the room was laid out with two settings, a pot of tea and an assortment of jams. Two high backed chairs were positioned facing each other across the table. On the far wall a gas fireplace sent waves of heat billowing across the room.

  “What is this?” I asked, transfixed by the stark contrast to my previous accommodations.

  “Please,” the big man motioned me toward the table. “The major will join you shortly.” These were the first words the big man had spoken in my presence. With that he left me alone, leaving the door open with a clear passage to the front door of the mansion.

  I hesitated. If this were a trap I wouldn’t be allowed to exit the mansion, so attempting it wouldn’t offer any advantage. Pulling my blanket tightly around me I moved into the room and took a chair close to the fire. The warmth from the blue flames of the gas jets was soothing.

  I had to get my mind around the probability I was being lulled into the belief I would soon be set free. The major, as the big man had referred to him would likely view his request to verify my status had left him vulnerable to the ridicule of his superiors. He would need retribution for that. I didn’t have long to wait.

  Almost immediately the major strode into the room dressed in a Regular British Army uniform. There was a single royal crown on his shoulder boards signifying he held the rank of a Major. As soon as he took note of me he broke into a spontaneous grin.

  “Please,” he indicated the table near the center of the room. “Join me for breakfast and we shall talk,” he said, encouraging me to accompany him to the table. I hobbled ahead of him to the table where I choose the high-backed chair facing the door. I still wore the blanket over my shoulders, a fact the major mysteriously chose to ignore. I wondered if the Major were even conscious of the disparity between us.

  “I have tea set on but I can order coffee if you prefer?” he offered solicitously. I found I could not reply. The words simply would not form on my lips so incongruous was the Major’s solicitous behavior.

  “Tea then,” the Major chose for me. I wondered if this was no more than an elaborate ruse.

  Gripping the teapot in a large and meaty right hand the major poured the steaming copper liquid into each of our cups, filling them close to the brim. There was a small pitcher of milk on the table between us. The major took the handle between his thumb and forefinger and held it out to me. When I declined he proceeded to pour the white substance into his cup until it overflowed onto his saucer.

  My hands were still numb with the cold and I doubted I could grasp something so delicate as the handle of a teacup. Instead I took the cup in both hands and held it between them, the heat from the porcelain burning my palms.

  “I don’t believe we have been properly introduced,” he said, his voice dropping an octave to emphasize his adherence to decorum. “I am Major Andras Chandler, with the British Secret Intelligence Service.”

  Before either of us could comment on that fact the door opened and an orderly dressed in a white coat brought in two plates containing bangers and scrambled eggs, most probably made from dehydrated eggs and vegetable oils. There was also a plate of toasted muffins that was set down between us. When the orderly departed the major picked up where he had left off. “Washington has confirmed your identity,” he said as if it had been his expected outcome. I was momentarily stunned and did my best to hide my surprise by taking a long sip of tea that I held cupped in both hands.

  “Good!” I managed to croak in response. My throat was ragged and it pained me to speak. The major was eyeing me intently, searching perhaps for some sign of gratitude. I disappointed him by staring down at my bangers and eggs. The thought of food, let alone sharing a meal with a brute like the major gave my stomach a turn.

  “Your mission is of course classified,” he continued. “But Washington requested we extend every effort in assisting you. Of course you can rely on me for whatever assistance you need,” he offered magnanimously. The major waited for me to respond, but as I had not the faintest clue how this had come about I remained silent.

  “A car has been sent round to collect you,” he declared finally, seemingly disappointed I was not sharing in his enthusiasm. “I expect it should be here momentarily.” The major hesitated, his lips slightly parted as if he were struggling with what to say next. “I hope you will appreciate our position in all this Mister Riley. We had no way of knowing where your allegiance lie and you must admit you were not forthcoming in that regard until very late,” he offered. It was probably as close to an apology as I w
as likely to get from Major Chandler.

  “Believe me Major Chandler, I understand you completely,” I said in response. The hot tea had warmed my throat, greatly facilitating my speech. The major, apparently unfamiliar with innuendo broke into a grateful expression of relief.

  “Thank you Mister Riley. We all have our responsibilities. I expect one day I shall learn of your exploits and we shall reminisce this little diversion together.”

  I took solace in the fact that in my world the major was likely dead and buried long ago. Relieved of the impending threat of censure for having abducted an Allied intelligence officer the major grew loquacious, prattling on about the benefits of inter-allied cooperation. I doubted there was an ounce of sincerity in anything he said. Twenty minutes later the orderly returned to whisper something in the major’s ear.

  “It appears your transportation has arrived,” he said wistfully, as if he were parting company with an old friend.

  Despite the major’s congenial tone I had the unmistakable feeling his demeanor hid a roiling anger. He was not a man who could easily accept what amounted to censure. None-the-less the major escorted me to the front door but did not accompany me outside. We must have appeared a ridiculous pair, the major in his officer’s uniform beside his former prisoner wrapped in a khaki blanket.

  I squinted against brilliant sunlight, shielding my eyes with the palm of my hand. Cautiously I negotiated the steps leading down to the sidewalk with as much alacrity as my injuries would allow. I was barefoot and the cold from the stone steps was painful.

  I wanted to be away as quickly as possible on the offhand chance my release were an administrative error. Painfully I covered the short distance to the gate, imagining at each step I would hear the major call out for me to stop. It was cold and I could feel what little warmth I had managed to gain in the past hour leaving my body. I found the gate latched but unlocked. Fumbling with the latch I pushed the gate open and moved through it to the sidewalk beyond.

  Chapter 37

  AN INVITATION TO BETRAYAL

  Lieutenant Wellington saluted smartly as she entered the Commander’s office.

  “You wanted to see me sir,” she stated in response to his unexpected summons that morning. Commander Whitley came around from behind his desk, returning the Lieutenant’s salute. Willie followed at his master’s heels, always interested in the people who entered his domain.

  “At ease Lieutenant,” Sir James ordered in his most congenial tone. “Please have a seat,” he indicated the table and chairs off to one side of his desk.

  When they were both seated Whitley reflexively started to dig into his pocket for his pipe and tobacco but at the last second thought better of it and withdrew his hand, bringing it up on the table intertwining the fingers of both hands.

  “I have an assignment for you Lieutenant,” he began, his eyes locked on the young officer’s. “It’s not without danger but I expect you are up to it or I wouldn’t be asking.”

  “What is it?” Mary inquired. She was always nervous in the Commander’s presence. Something in his demeanor intimidated her. It seemed as if what he wanted was somehow quite different from that which he requested. It made her uncomfortable.

  “I want you to help a prisoner escape,” he said.

  Chapter 38

  WHERE LOYALTIES LIE

  Commander Whitley had his doubts about using Lieutenant Wellington as a means for getting at the truth. That she had agreed to his request surprised him. Perhaps he had missed something when considering the Lieutenant’s suitability for this assignment. He had expected her to object vociferously and yet she consented almost immediately and without reservation. It was curious and would have given him pause to reconsider had he other options.

  He could neither afford to loose Riley nor have him fall into the hands of the SIS. But he desperately needed the information Riley possessed and he would use any means necessary to secure it, even if it meant putting the life of the young Lieutenant in jeopardy. The stakes were simply too high to grow squeamish about the risks to himself or even others.

  D-Day was barely three months off and there was literally no time for more traditional methods to be successfully employed. He knew he was taking an inordinate risk. A dozen things could go wrong any one of which would be costly including the loss of the young Lieutenant’s life.

  But he was convinced he had correctly discerned the Lieutenant’s character and he was confident she would do what was necessary.

  Riley on the other hand was an enigma he had not yet deciphered. Having reviewed the transcripts of their conversation perhaps as many as a dozen times he was convinced the American knew far more than he had so far divulged. Not that Riley appeared to be intentionally withholding information. To the contrary Riley spoke openly of things about which he should have no knowledge, seemingly oblivious to their implications.

  What was most puzzling was his frequent use of the past tense, as if these events had already transpired? In particular his statement about the D-Day invasion having occurred on the sixth of June was both disconcerting and inaccurate. D-Day was planned for early May, so why use the past tense? Why say the Supreme Commander observed the D-Day landings on the sixth of June? He even went so far as to claim the General’s picture was taken on that date. Sir James dismissed the American’s supposition the weather or an inadequate supply of Higgins Boats would cause a month’s delay as pure speculation.

  Riley’s knowledge of nuclear physics was no less a puzzle. When Riley’s statements about fusion experiments were reviewed by some of Britain’s most respected physicists they claimed such experimentation was beyond the current state of scientific inquiry. It was all too fantastic to be credible. And yet the underlying fact Riley knew about Overlord and Normandy was far too dangerous to ignore.

  What he needed most to learn was how much of this the Germans knew. And of that he needed to be certain. Besides he was already too far down this road for redemption now. He would confirm his suspicions in the only way he knew for certain Riley would be truthful. It was a risk, but one Whitley felt it necessary he take.

  Up to this point Lieutenant Wellington’s face showed little emotion with the exception where the corners of her mouth drew up slightly in a thin line of tension.

  “I don’t understand sir?” She said, her voice tight with suppressed emotion.

  “Lieutenant it appears you have formed a bond with our Mister Riley and I want you to exploit it,” Whitley replied frankly. “I intend to confine him to an RAF base in Bettencourt where he will be compelled to attempt an escape. When he does I want you to assist him.”

  “To what end Sir James? What do you expect to learn that you don’t already know?”

  “I expect Mister Riley will reveal the truth lieutenant. Something he has been reluctant to do in confinement.”

  The Commander waited, watching Lieutenant Wellington’s face for signs she was emotionally capable of carrying out this assignment. Mary held the commander’s gaze but did not immediately reply. Whitley suddenly realized the lieutenant had developed sincere feelings for the American. It was a factor upon which he had counted and yet held reservations about its unpredictable aspects.

  “I intend no harm to Mister Riley,” Whitley added, attempting to assuage the lieutenant’s aversion to duplicity. Again he waited, keenly aware pressing his case could easily elicit emotions deleterious to his goal.

  “I’ll help,” Wellington finally agreed. “But I want your assurances you will help him once he has established his innocence.” It was a naive request Whitley surmised, but one borne of an untarnished soul. He would of course promise her whatever she required to ease the burden of her guilt.

  “Then we have a compact?” Whitley concluded.

  Chapter 39

  OUT OF HARM’S WAY

  The car to which the major referred was sitting at the curb in front of the mansion, its engine running. It was an old Packard Clipper sedan wearing its khaki military colors. A gi
ant white star painted on the Packard’s front door identified it as a U.S. military vehicle. Two American soldiers wearing helmets and carrying side arms stood on either side of the walkway. They saluted as soon as I stepped through the gate. One of the soldiers carried a U.S. Army cold weather jacket with a fur hood.

  As I approached he held the jacket out to me, indicating I should put it on. Gratefully I dropped my woolen blanket and slipped into the jacket, pulling the hood up over my head. The soldier with corporal stripes on his sleeves held open the Packard’s rear door while the other stood off to one side, his gaze fixed on the gate through which I had just come, his hand resting on the leather flap of his holster. I crawled into the back seat while the corporal took his position directly beside me. Within seconds the second soldier also took his place beside me on the far side.

  As soon as we were secure the driver gunned the Packard’s engine and accelerated away from the curb. I had the distinct impression the soldiers were anxious to be away. The traffic on the street was extremely light in what I assumed was a reflection of fuel shortages and intermittent German air raids. The driver made several sharp turns in a pattern suggesting his concern was eluding anyone who might be following us.

  The soldiers appeared to stare anxiously out the windows as if expecting some unknown threat would swoop down on us at any moment. When we had put several blocks between us and the London Cage the corporal took a set of handcuffs from his pocket and held them out to me.

  “If you would sir,” he commanded, indicating I should cuff my wrists. I did as he demanded, realizing I had little option.

  “What is your name corporal?” I asked the senior NCO seated to my left.