DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  Mansfield had been livid when he was told Riley had been released from his custody by a ruse. Chandler had never before been so callously reprimanded by a superior officer. It was made clear to him his career was in jeopardy if he failed to apprehend the American. Mansfield had gone so far as to hint it might be preferable now if Riley were dead. The American had brought into sharp focus a number of SIS failings; failure to recognize the leakage of highly classified information, failure in SIS security measures, failure to inform Whitehall, failure to recapture a lone fugitive. Worse, each of these failures had been placed directly on Chandler’s own doorstep. Killing Riley might be his best option for bringing this embarrassment to an end.

  As to the culpability of the CSDIC in Riley’s release Mansfield retained that inquiry for himself. In light of Mansfield’s threats the major had put all of his men in play on this single mission, finding Riley. Now that two of his agents were down he was determined to find Riley and wring from him the information Whitley was so determined to hide. To that end he was ordering an agent long ensconced in Whitley’s command to secure whatever information he could on Riley’s whereabouts. Not even Colonel Mansfield knew he had a man inside the White House.

  Chandler had little use for the information this insider had provided until now. His foresight however proved wise because his inside man reported the Wing Commander had one of his agents track the couple to London Station where they bordered a train to the Cornish Coast. The agent was unable to board the train which eventually terminated in Truro. There were no reliable reports of where the two may have left the train.

  Chandler was furious and ordered his men to check every stop between London and Truro to follow up on leads to the couple’s whereabouts. He had expected it would be only a few days before they were located but he was disheartened two months later when nothing had turned up. Colonel Mansfield had grown ever more impatient but Chandler’s men were at a loss as to the location of the two fugitives. It was as if they had disappeared from the face of the earth.

  Chapter 55

  CORNWALL

  It was the first of May and already flowers were in full bloom on the hillsides and in the valleys throughout Cornwall. Crocuses, snowdrops, daffodils, tulips, primroses and camellias all broke into flower under clear skies and bright sunshine. Despite the changing weather far offshore in the deep recesses of the Atlantic huge ocean waves were forming. Cold air descending from the north began to churn the waters of the channel.

  It had been three months since their arrival in Falmouth. Mary had settled in to their small cottage and made it as much a home as she could, decorating it with wildflowers she and Riley picked from the hillsides on their many walks into town to restock their pantry.

  The town was a two mile hike from the cottage that they made twice a week for food stocks and to break their routine. She enjoyed this time with him but knew his motivation to accompany her was as much to stay apprised of strangers as it was his desire to spend time alone with her.

  Their lovemaking was both passionate and sweet as they grew familiar with one another’s bodies and desires. She refrained from asking him about the secrets he kept or his past as these she felt were off limits to her. Riley’s secretiveness would have weighed on her had she not suspected he acted to protect her. In every other way he demonstrated his affection for her, indulging her whims and attending her brazen desires.

  Three weeks ago at the end of April she suspected she was pregnant and today she was certain. It had been two months since her last period. She had yet to tell him, worried about his reaction. She was thrilled about the baby and prayed Riley would be as well. It was Saturday, their day for hiking into town for supplies.

  “Are you ready?” I asked Wellington as she was completing her morning ritual of brushing out her soft, brown curls.

  “Ready,” she smiled back at me. She was wearing a beige cotton dress with small brown buttons down the front. I had bought it for her on our last trip into town. Spring comes early in Cornwall and already the weather had turned warm enough to go about without a coat.

  Wellington grabbed a sweater from the closet and brought it with her just in case the weather turned. I had disposed of my RAF uniform and it its place wore a pair of tan trousers, plaid shirt and what we would call in my time hiking boots. I carried a knapsack in which we would carry the items we purchased. I also carried the Webley in my pant’s pocket, leaving my shirt tail out to hide its bulk. Wellington gave me a look but said nothing. I kissed her on the lips and she smiled.

  “I don’t think they’re still looking for us,” she said confidently.

  “I know. But it can’t hurt.” She relented and we both stepped out into bright morning sunshine. The walk into town took us along a narrow dirt road bounded by tall hedgerows on either side. Sheep in their hundreds grazed on the lush grasses in the fields and hillsides surrounding us.

  The road sloped at a gentle grade into town where we stopped for tea at The Kettle, a small teahouse near the entrance to town. We took our seats at a small table on the sidewalk near the entrance. Wellington was in particularly bright spirits and it was good to see she had put the deaths of Chandler’s men behind her. We stayed in town most of the morning visiting the shops, buying what groceries and sundries we could without coupons, laughing and basking in the warmth of an early spring. I knew the weather in the channel would turn menacing and delay the planned invasion for nearly a month. But today was flawless and we reveled in our good fortune.

  But I should have been more watchful. I had allowed myself to slip into complacency and ignored those little warning signs that are the precursors to danger. It would have been better if I had not fallen in love.

  Chapter 56

  RUN YOUR QUARRY TO GROUND

  It had taken three months to track them down but finally Chandler received word his men had sighted Riley and a young woman answering Lieutenant Wellington’s description in the resort town of Falmouth in Cornwall. Chandler wasted no time. Since Riley had dispatched two of his very best men he was taking no chances this time. He couldn’t risk sending a squad of men to collect Riley. They would surely be noticed and he did not want Whitley to know he had arrested the fugitive. He called on his most stalwart and reliable man to handle Riley’s capture and return to the London Cage.

  Sergeant Günter Scarpic’s enormous frame made it difficult for him to avoid garnering attention wherever he traveled. It made surveillance work a near impossibility. Fortunately his target had already been identified.

  Corporal Leonid Zhukov had already made a positive identification of the couple forty-eight hours earlier. Zhukov, born in the Caucasus of Georgia was a big man, six feet two inches and two hundred ten pounds of hard muscle. Though he had recently celebrated his thirty-second year he still maintained a rigorous physical regimen to keep his body toned and in top physical condition. He had come to England during the purges in Russia and joined the British Army. His physical prowess and stamina had made him a natural for the army boxing team where he won a majority of his twenty-eight fights. More importantly he had never been knocked to the canvass.

  Now he sat silently in the Packard’s passenger’s seat next to the massive bulk of Sergeant Scarpic as the sergeant continued his observation of the fugitive. Zhukov detested Scarpic but was cautious not to reveal his feelings. Despite his prowess as a boxer Scarpic he feared, could break him with one hand.

  The two men spoke little except when it was necessary to communicate some action that needed to be taken. Zhukov preferred it that way. The less he had to say to Scarpic the better. Scarpic he speculated, was suffering from some mental disorder. He seemed to take enormous pleasure inflicting pain on others. Zhukov would be only too happy to have Riley in custody and bring this assignment to an end.

  Sergeant Scarpic took little notice of Zhukov. His attention was riveted on the target which he observed through binoculars from two hundred meters away. Scarpic was intent on minimizing the risk they would b
e spotted. It wasn’t just his six foot three, two hundred sixty pound bulk he feared would draw Riley’s attention. The American was proving to be more cautious than he would have assumed.

  Scarpic had been studying him from a discrete distance most of the morning, watching as Riley kept his eyes focused on his surroundings, never letting his attention be drawn in so tightly he missed what was happening on his periphery. He even sat with his back to a wall giving him protection from behind. Scarpic surmised his target was former military, former special ops perhaps. He’d be a difficult man to approach without setting off his natural instincts, a hard man to take down once you were inside his zone of situational awareness.

  It was fortunate his orders included terminating Riley if the American proved to be impossible to subdue. Now his caution had proved fruitful. He had identified Riley’s weakness. The woman who accompanied him made him vulnerable. It was obvious he cared deeply for her and this would make him hesitate when he should act instinctively.

  Scarpic thought for a moment. He would use the woman as leverage but he would just as soon kill her. She would be a fatal distraction for Riley, but if not Scarpic was prepared to kill her just to take the heart out of Riley’s will to fight.

  Satisfied he had taken Riley’s measure Scarpic set his binoculars down. A plan had already been formulated in his mind. He would kill Riley if necessary but he would attempt to subdue him first. The woman would provide him the advantage he needed. He decided he’d take Riley at the cottage in the early morning hours just before dawn.

  Chapter 57

  WELLINGTON’S SECRET

  By the time we were ready to head back to the cottage the sky had turned ominous. We could make the two mile hike to the cottage in about twenty minutes if we hurried. My wounds were completely healed and all the exercise I’d been getting from our daily excursions had strengthened my muscles and increased my endurance.

  Wellington was in top shape as well though she had been looking a little peaked these past few weeks. I’d been meaning to ask her if she was feeling well but her recent burst of enthusiasm and uncharacteristic moodiness had pushed it from my mind. We dashed up the road leading past the cottage in a rush to stay ahead of the rain.

  We almost made it when the storm broke above us and the sky opened up showering us with a torrent of wind driven rain. We broke through the door to our cottage drenched to the bone and laughing, nearly tumbling onto the floor as we crossed the threshold. Wellington fell against me and we held each other tightly, the Webley in my pocket pressing against her abdomen.

  “Is that a gun in your pocket?” She asked playfully.

  I picked her up and carried her onto the bed and we made love until the rain stopped. Later we snacked on the cheese, bread and wine we purchased in town that morning. Wellington kept giving me these long curious looks as if there was something on her mind but she would not say what it was even when I coaxed her.

  “I’m just happy,” was all she would say. There weren’t any DVD’s or cable TV to distract us.

  We didn’t even have a wireless. It was just the two of us. I wasn’t the best at expressing my feelings but I thought Wellington would know by now how I felt about her. I had put the recent past out of my mind and was content with the present, with our little cottage and with her. It was just too perfect to last.

  I built a fire in the oversized stone fireplace that took up most of one entire wall. The heat filled the three rooms quickly and we had to open a window to cool us down. We talked about London and how she chose the medical profession. She told me about her experiences during the Blitz and about the stoicism of the British people. I told her about my home and growing up in New York. I kept it generic not wanting to frighten her with tales of time travel and temporal causality. Though the rain had stopped the winds picked up and the sky continued to darken.

  The foul weather in the channel that lasted through May delaying the invasion was beginning. We went to bed early. Wellington was exhausted from our trip into town which was unusual because always in the past she had demonstrated a tremendous endurance on these occasions.

  The storm grew more violent during the night as great coils of wind driven rain were hurled against the stone walls of the cottage. The rain set a constant drumbeat against the windows and pummeled the slate roof tiles making me appreciate the angst of the D-Day planners. Out in the channel the gray wall of sky blended seamlessly into the restless gray waters as gale force winds stripped the tops off thirty foot waves. Even in my sleep a singular worrisome thought played at the edges of my consciousness, always just out of reach. I slept fitfully, the storm a fitting backdrop to my own troubled mind.

  Chapter 58

  DEATH IN THE MORNING

  It was nearly three AM when Scarpic decided it was time. He and Zhukov had watched as Riley and the woman hiked up the road leading back into the woodlands. Maintaining a safe distance they observed the two leave the road and head up a path to a small cottage about four kilometers from town.

  Now in the predawn hours before morning Scarpic drove up the narrow unpaved road as far as he felt safe before stopping a kilometer from the path. Leaving the Plymouth parked on the side of the road the two made their way up hill. The storm still raged around them, drenching their suits and shoes. Neither man had dressed for this eventuality.

  The rain made a morass of the road and sent violent torrents of water careening down the sides of the road, carving out ever larger gutters filled with mud and debris carried down from the hillside. They slogged through thick, viscous mud that clung like paste to their shoes, ankles and calves, retarding their progress.

  Near the top of the rise just before the road intersected the path that lead to cottage Zhukov slipped and fell into the surge of mud choked water streaming down the ditch on the side of the road. Scarpic had to come to his rescue else he be swept all the way to the bottom. With one massive arm Scarpic had lifted him out of the water, holding him aloft before setting him down again into the mud in the center of the road.

  Zhukov coughed up sediment while Scarpic watched, rainwater steaming over his sodden hat brim. One of Zhukov’s shoes was missing along with his sock. It would be impossible to find in the torrent of mud gushing down the hill. When Zhukov had recovered enough to resume Scarpic made it a point to stay in front where he would ignore any of Zhukov’s future mishaps.

  Zhukov limped along behind him shoeless, mud-caked and miserable. When they reached the path both men had to leap across the growing river of water flowing down the roadside ditch.

  When they cleared this final obstacle they moved quickly into the overhang of trees that afforded greater protection from the wind and rain. Beneath the canopy of trees the earth was sodden but not muddy. Leaves and forest debris littered the ground, holding in the soil and keeping the rain at bay. In the distance they could just make out the cottage and their pace quickened.

  I don’t know what woke me but I came out of a restless sleep in an instant. Perhaps it was the crash of thunder or the sound of falling trees that roused me. The torrential deluge softened the ground enough for strong winds to begin uprooting giant trees. They groaned soulfully at first and then came crashing down, splintering and cracking as they fell.

  I got up out of bed, slipped into my boxers and padded over to the French doors where I could get a better view of the storm. It was nearly three A.M. Wellington remained fast asleep, undisturbed by my absence. The storm clouds completely blotted out the stars and moon.

  The only light there was came dimly through the haze from Falmouth, three miles away. It wasn’t just the storm alone that had awoken me. I’d been worried about Wellington these past few weeks. She wasn’t herself and I wondered if she was having second thoughts about sacrificing her former life. And then I felt it. Some indefinable sense of danger laced with fear. I remembered where I had stashed the two pistols but that same sense that had initially alerted me was warning me I didn’t have time to reach either weapon.


  A distant flash of lightening lit the cottage like a single burst from a strobe light. In that instant I saw the blurred outline of a body hovering just outside the French doors. I headed directly toward it when a sound on my left caused me to duck and move slightly to my right. It was all instinctual, what the Marine Corps calls muscle memory. You practice hand to hand combat moves until they become ingrained in your psychomotor memory.

  Something heavy whizzed past my left ear, millimeters from my temple. I stepped into the movement on my left and immediately slammed into a body slightly larger and heavier than my own. The near fatal swing at my head had taken him off balance, leaving him side on to me with his left arm past both of mine.

  I hit him on his left side at shoulder height and immediately thrust my left arm up around his throat. His motion was taking his body weight away from me so I capitalized on it and rode with him all the way down. We crashed onto the floor, his head hitting the floorboards hard under the full weight of my body. Immediately I tightened my grip around his throat and squeezed with every ounce of my strength. My forearm and bicep were pressing against his common carotid artery, cutting off the flow of oxygenated blood to his brain.

  My adrenal gland was dumping adrenaline and dopamine into my bloodstream giving me an enormous surge of strength. The man I held in a death grip kicked and thrashed around on the floor desperately, his hands clawing at my arm crimped like a vise around his throat. His thrashing went on seemingly endlessly before slowing and then going quite altogether. When his body went limp and I was certain he was not feigning incapacitation I released my grip and his head rolled lifelessly onto the floor.