DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  “No? Well then, I suppose it’s only fair we each have our secrets.”

  “You knew Chandler had followed me here tonight?” I asked, wondering how long Ellingham would allow this to go on before he felt it necessary to put a bullet in my brain. But perhaps there was information he hoped to gain before that moment arrived.

  “Oh yes,” he said in response to my look of consternation. “Major Chandler has had an interest in you for some time now. Tracking you here however was pure serendipity I assure you. The Major was as thick as a brick when it came to anything requiring intellectual prowess. He was merely in the wrong place at the right time. Even so, he was so dim witted he never stopped to question the larger picture.”

  “You’re going to have to help me understand Bertie, as I have no idea to what you are referring.”

  “Come, come Michael. We’ve known all along you were searching for the Russian mole within MI6. Commander Whitley is as transparent as he is tedious. Our plan was to provide you with a plausible candidate.” With a nod of his head he indicated the lifeless body of Freddy Barton. “Give you the mole you were hunting and bring this investigation to an end. Had you not followed me here tonight we might have done exactly that. But as it is you have become an unacceptable liability. One which we must see eliminated.”

  “You say we as if there are many others?” I asked instinctively.

  Ellingham smiled and shook his head.

  “No Michael, I shall not divulge other members of our group so cavalierly just to satisfy your curiosity.”

  I knew the men he meant, Philby, Burgess, Mclean and Blunt. All known members of the Cambridge five spies identified in the 1960’s.

  But it appeared Ellingham had reached the end of his patience with my questions. I could see the knuckles on the hand in which he held the pistol turn white. A clear indication he was preparing to fire.

  “I must say I have enjoyed our brief time together immensely and I am truly sorry to have to end your life. But this is war and sacrifices must be made.”

  “I think I deserve to know why you’ve betrayed your country.”

  “Betrayed my country!” He sputtered. “Nonsense. Britain has betrayed the most basic tenet of all, the natural rights of the individual. We live in a society that burdens the masses for the benefit of those who control the capital necessary to production. It is a cycle that can only be broken by revolution. If people who believe as I do don’t act the masses will loose out to either the forces of fascism as they have in Germany and Italy or continue to suffer under the thumb of capitalism. I want humanity to be free from the oppression of the ruling class.”

  “You have a strange way of demonstrating that,” I suggested.

  “It is of little consequence you do not see things as they are. Most of the decadent west is so addicted to its insatiable consumption of material goods it can not see past its flawed system of greed and despondency. I don’t despise democracy Michael, I pity it.”

  I was finally seeing the affable, everyman disguise evaporate, revealing the true Bertram Ellingham. The invective in his voice and the hatred etched on his face told me volumes about his feelings for his countrymen. I wondered how such rage had gained a foothold on his soul.

  Just behind Ellingham Chandler stirred. Spread eagled on the floor he opened his eyes to stare in disbelief at the growing pool of blood spreading out from beneath him. His face showed no sign of horror or shock at the sight of his own blood leaving his body. Just an acceptance of his mortality and a realization the little life he had left would soon be deserting him.

  Slowly his eyes traversed the room coming to rest on the body of the man he had shot just minutes before. Freddy lay with his head resting very near Chandler’s own. Peeking out beneath Freddy’s left shoulder was the butt of the pistol he had dropped when Chandler shot him. Chandler saw it too. Reaching up with his right arm the major slid his hand under Freddy’s body and pulled the pistol out from under him.

  I had to keep my attention focused on Ellingham for fear he would note my gaze had settled beyond him.

  “And you learned your world view from the Apostles Society when you attended Cambridge?”

  It took him off guard, as if he were not anticipating a strike so close to the target’s center.

  “The Apostles were only one venue to a clear perspective of the world. But I am afraid we are out of time, though I would enjoy continuing our discussion. “

  “As a point of curiosity, how do you plan explaining our deaths?”

  Ellingham thought for a moment, considering the merits of my final request. The hand in which he held the pistol never waivered from my chest, but I thought I detected at least an inkling of hesitation clouding his expression. Perhaps he meant it when he said he regretted having to kill me.

  “Alright Mister Riley, I suppose it will do no harm. It will appear as if Major Chandler had discovered you are the source of our leak. You killed him but not before the major was able to get off a shot. You both die. Your countrymen especially should like that. A genuine shoot out just like those cowboy movies you Americans seem to love so much. ”

  “It’s pretty thin,” I argued. “What about Freddy?” Ellingham shrugged.

  “Freddy could also have been the mole. He’s not the type, but it really doesn’t matter. One of you will have to have been the mole and that should bring an end to the hunt.”

  “No one will accept I was the mole,” I argued.

  “Well then, you don’t understand the British Michael. They will be so relieved to discover the source is an American they will excuse the most egregious inconsistencies. The Americans will protest of course and some will insist the hunt for the mole continue. But the British will have found sanctuary in this scenario.” Ellingham paused then, considering an alternative to his first proposal.

  “But perhaps you are correct. Perhaps Freddy Barton was the mole after all and you discovered his secret, followed him to this safe house, confronted him and tragically met your end making the world safe for democracy. You’d be the hero then.”

  “It’s a rather cynical view of things wouldn’t you say?” I observed.

  “No, I disagree. Cynical is what your country and mine have been. Capitalism is a curse and democracy an opiate to keep the masses content and enslaved.”

  Ellingham tightened his grip on his revolver and I knew he had finally worked himself up to shooting me. It was all so existential, dying before I was born. My thoughts were with Wellington and our unborn child. I hoped Whitley had the character to honor his commitment and provide for them.

  A shot rang out. It was surprisingly loud and I flinched reflexively. I should have felt it before I heard it. At least that was the way it always was on the battlefield.

  I focused on Ellingham’s face. It had disappeared into an ugly red hole. Ellingham’s knees buckled, his pistol clattered to the floor as his whole body seemed to collapse in on itself. His head hit the floor with an audible thump like the sound of a melon landing on concrete. Behind him Chandler lay with his arm extended toward me, Freddy’s pistol in his hand, blue smoke drifting out of the end of its barrel.

  Ellingham lay dead where he fell. He was probably dead even before he hit the floor. The giant hole in his head testament to that. But Chandler was far from finished. I could see it in his eyes. He had come here for me and he wasn’t going to leave this world empty handed. The pistol he held was aimed directly at my face. Our eyes met and he grinned just as he pulled the trigger.

  There was a large explosion and the pistol jumped from his hand. A bullet tore past my left temple. I could feel it sear the skin just above the top of my ear. Blood trickled down my cheek. For a moment I just stood there, getting use to the idea I wasn’t going to die after all.

  Ellingham lay face down on the floor, a dime sized hole in the back of his head just where the spine meets the medulla oblongata. The bullet that killed him had mushroomed out as it passed through his brain and exited the front of his
face leaving a hole the size of a tennis ball where his nose use to be.

  Chandler lay face up, his eyes staring vacantly up at something only he could now discern. I walked over to where he lay, stepping over Ellingham’s body, careful to avoid treading in Chandler’s pool of glistening crimson blood. Chandler’s eyes were dead. Whatever light had been there was gone forever, leaving them cold and as lifeless as glass.

  I left everything the way it was. The British authorities could sort it out in whatever way they felt served the national interest. I was done. History had been vindicated. The fifth member of the Cambridge five would never be revealed. The traitor who leaked Enigma information to the Russians would never be discovered. Enigma was as safe as it was ever going to be.

  When the Allies crossed the Rhine the Germans’ lines of communications were so compressed they ceased using Enigma and the Allies lost their window into German tactical planning. That too was history.

  I was tired. I ached to see Wellington. I wanted to sleep for a week holding her in my arms and breathing in her sweet scent. This was the era of the great generation. Young men who sacrificed everything because they believed totalitarianism was a scourge that must be eliminated. Shortly they would discover the Nazi death camps and learn why they were fighting this horrible war. The postscript was already written. I was just lucky enough to be a witness to the process of getting there.

  I walked out of Ellingham’s safe house into the warm night air. It was the fifth of June and people were still out on the sidewalks and streets, enjoying the warm evening air. Much of the rubble from the bombings had been trucked away and although there was still the threat of V1 terror rockets the mood of the people was hopeful. I was hopeful too. In a few hours thousands of young men would invade the continent of Europe at Normandy. Already airborne troops were being dropped behind enemy lines in France.

  I had long ago resigned myself to living out my life here. It seemed like as good a place as any to make a home. Despite Ellingham’s shortcomings, if that was a word one could apply to someone who betrays his country, I admired him. He could have been a great man if only he hadn’t fallen prey to a facile ideology that warped the better part of him. It was sad really.

  I longed for a cold beer but the blood splattered down my cheek and across the shoulder of my tunic didn’t bode well for public places. I was done with Whitley, the British Secret Service and everything connected with contributing to a war that had ended nearly four decades before I was born.

  I managed to hitch a ride with some accommodating MPs who brought me back to Camp Griffiss where I showered and treated the wound in my temple with antiseptic. I needed a solid nights sleep. As soon as my head hit the pillow I was out and didn’t awake until the sun was well up.

  Chapter 65

  DENOUEMENT

  That final day, the day I saw Whitley for the last time he appeared rested for the first time in a long while. Willie barely raised his head when I entered the commander’s office. I think I even detected a subtle wag of his tail but I could have been mistaken.

  “I thought you might be dead,” the commander exclaimed as I entered the room. I hadn’t reported in for at least forty-eight hours.

  “I almost was,” I said, turning the wounded side of my face toward him.

  “A near thing,” he commented drolly. “It was Ellingham then,” he added succinctly.

  “He’s been the one all along. Even before Cambridge I suspect.”

  “Sad thing really,” Whitley commented. I was surprised by the generous tone he was taking. I would have thought the commander of all people would have been furious at Ellingham’s betrayal.

  “And Chandler?” Whitley inquired.

  “He was tracking me. It was just pure coincidence. Ellingham thought Chandler had discovered his secret and killed him.”

  “And how did Ellingham meet his end?”

  “Quickly and I suspect painlessly. He never saw it coming.”

  “Hmmm,” the commander murmured. “Their bodies were discovered this morning. It’s all over Whitehall and the intelligence services. Ellingham was high on everyone’s list to be the next director of MI6. They’re still trying to figure out what happened and why. No one wants to say what everyone is thinking.”

  “That Ellingham was a mole?”

  “Either that or Freddy Barton was. But the odds all favor Ellingham. Freddy didn’t have it in him to pull off such a ruse.”

  “And Chandler?”

  “Oh Chandler is quite the hero. He tracked the mole and killed him in his lair.”

  I nodded, not knowing what else to say. The commander studied me for a moment and I wondered what he might be thinking. I hoped he hadn’t planned other projects.

  “Check yourself into sick bay and have that looked at,” indicating the gash across my temple. “No sense taking chances with infection.” I nodded and turned to leave.

  “When you’re done come back. We need to discuss your future.”

  I wondered if I had a future and if I did what it might look like. I knew a lot about the future but I was as clueless about my own as if I had remained back in Washington and never come to London.

  Down in sick bay the nurse treated my wound with iodine and put a bandage over it. The iodine stung worse than when I was shot.

  When I returned to Whitley’s office he invited me to sit down.

  “What shall we do with you now Captain Riley?” he inquired. I wasn’t at all certain his question wasn’t rhetorical.

  As it turned out Whitley graciously released me from my duties after offering me a commission with MI6 which I respectfully declined. It seemed everyone was absorbed with the political fallout of finding three dead MI6 agents at a Russian safe house. Now that Chandler was dead no one had the time to hunt down one lone escaped POW.

  I found Wellington had opted to continue working at Queen Anne’s. She was gorgeous, six months pregnant and excited to see me. We got married as soon as we could get the paperwork approved. Commander Whitley approved her stipend and wrangled six months Captain’s pay for me. It gave us enough of a stake for a new start. Mary wanted to return to Cornwall so we packed what little she had and took the train to Truro where we caught the Maritime Line to Falmouth, about twenty minutes away.

  We found an inexpensive cottage to rent on the hillside overlooking Falmouth. I took an assignment as a journalist at a local newspaper. It wasn’t much money but it paid the bills and I enjoyed writing. The first week in November Wellington and I had a healthy baby boy we named Whitley. Six months later Wellington was again pregnant. Mary hums a lot these days. I’d like to think it’s because she’s happy.

  I never spent a single minute wishing I could return to my former life even if it had been possible. In twelve years Wellington and I had seven children, four boys and three girls. Our oldest, Whitley wants to be a writer when he grows up.

  In those same twelve years I visited London only once. At considerable expense I procured a copy of a book I wanted to send to a friend. I found a solicitor who committed to following my instructions for its delivery along with a letter I had asked them to include. It was the least I could do.

  It’s been forty years now since that January day in 1944. Mary and I have had a good life. Our children are all grown and onto adventures of their own. They stop by to see us every once in a while. My career as a newspaper man proved fortuitous. It seems I have a facility for writing. In fact I’ve published twenty-seven books over the years. All science fiction. It appears I’ve been prescient in my predictions and I have garnered quite a following even among academics. I have one more manuscript that I have entrusted to my solicitor. It’s a work of fiction about a man who is catapulted sixty-eight years into the past. My solicitor will forward it to my publisher when Wellington and I have finally left this earth.

  Life often throws us knuckle balls we don’t always see coming. You don’t always have to hit them out of the park. Just getting on base is sometimes enough. Desp
ite my difficulties with everything that transpired I hit a home run with Wellington. She doesn’t understand baseball but she knows I love her. That’s been enough for more than forty years.

  Chapter 66

  CONTRITION

  Washington, D.C January 2011

  Shortly after the new year I had a date to meet Catherine in a downtown Washington café equal traveling distance from our respective offices. She was already seated when I arrived. As I walked toward her table I noted she wore a puzzled expression. When she spoke there was a hint of alarm in her voice.

  “Michael,” she said, looking nervously up at me as I entered the cafe. I took a seat across from her and grasped her hand across the table. She smiled weakly and squeezed my fingers.

  “Michael I received something strange this morning and I’d like you to read it.” She withdrew several sheets of thick white paper from a leather carrying case and handed them across the table to me. There were four neatly typed pages in black ink. Immediately I noticed both the paper and the type were quite old, perhaps a half century or more. Documents are created almost exclusively on laser or dot matrix printers today. These were clearly created on a mechanical typewriter. The print type appeared to be from an inked ribbon struck by metal keys. The paper was coarse and slightly yellowed but originally of quite good quality with high cotton fiber content.

  After examining the typed pages I began reading them.

  Dear Catherine,

  I appreciate you will have many questions regarding this letter that I am unfortunately unable to answer. The contents herein however are accurate and I implore you most strongly to seek the advice of your doctor before proceeding with the medical procedure you now contemplate.