Smoke and Mirrors: The next instalment of the riveting Marnie Walker series

by Leo McNeir

  Approaching Liège, Anne read the road signs carefully.

  “I suppose we follow the E42 then the E40, direction Aachen. Is that right? Seems the logical way to go.”

  Donovan looked at Anne.

  “What did you say?”

  “Our road is the –”

  “No, I meant about it being logical.”

  “Well, I assumed that was where we’re going. Aachen is just over the border and it’s the direct road into Germany.”

  Donovan was shaking his head.

  “No. This is wrong. That’s what anyone would expect. Aachen … Köln … Koblenz … Frankfurt. We’re too conspicuous in this car.”

  “But we’re going to Germany and it’s up ahead on this road.”

  Donovan shook his head again.

  “No. That’s asking for trouble.”

  “Another change of plan?”

  “There’s a motorway south from Liège. Can’t remember the number.”

  Anne searched the map.

  “There are two. The good ol’ A26 goes roughly towards Luxembourg.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “It cuts through the Ardennes. That’s a very scenic area, isn’t it?”

  “Beautiful, but we’ll not get to see it.”

  Anne looked alarmed. “Why not?”

  Donovan pointed through the windscreen. “Look outside.”

  The light was fading rapidly as they bypassed Liège on the ring road.

  “The darkness will help us.” Donovan switched on the headlights. “You’ll find a torch in the glove box.”

  “Are we still aiming to cross into Germany this evening?”

  “It should take a couple of hours from our turn-off.”

  Anne was reading a road sign and glancing at the map.

  “I think this is it. Yes. A26 … E25: Bastogne, Arlon, Luxembourg.”

  “That’s great. You can relax now, Anne. We just take this road till we join the connection to Luxembourg.”

  Anne closed the atlas and slipped it into the footwell. Donovan took the filter lane and swung round to pick up the new motorway. Outside night had fallen, an all-enveloping cloak of darkness that promised safety. They had barely reached cruising speed when the first snowflakes scurried towards them in the headlight beams.

  *

  “Whoa!”

  Donovan twitched the steering wheel left and right to correct the skid. They were already down to forty and had been gaining altitude and losing speed for the previous half hour.

  “What was that?” Anne peered forwards. “The road seems to be straight.”

  “Black ice. Every now and then the steering gets lighter and we lose grip.”

  On the emergency hard shoulder they had passed numerous lorries that had pulled off the carriageway, all of them caked in snow. In the headlights they saw two parked petrol tankers that seemed as long as Sally Ann. The consequences of either of those crashing were horrendous.

  Anne was studying the atlas again.

  “What are our options, Donovan? We’ve still a long way to go through the Ardennes. I’m assuming that’s where we are. I haven’t seen a sign for ages.”

  “We’ve passed Bastogne,” he said. “The next landmark must be the junction with the road that cuts east to Luxembourg.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Try to reach Arlon.”

  They were crawling along at less than forty, Donovan muttering quietly to himself.

  “What did you say?” Anne asked.

  “I was just thinking about the Battle of the Bulge.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Right here where we are now. In 1944 the German army mounted a huge counter-attack when the allies were least expecting it. The Panzers came roaring through the Ardennes in the snow, took everyone by surprise.”

  Anne looked out of the window at the snow swirling by in the darkness.

  “I’m so glad you told me that.”

  *

  At ten-thirty Anne was too tired to eat and Donovan looked drawn. Twice the Porsche had skidded sideways on the motorway at low speed and each time Donovan had only just managed to keep the car pointing in the right direction. Complaining that they could travel faster by sleigh, they finally reached the exit for the town of Arlon and gratefully parked outside a small hotel in the centre. The whole place was blanketed in snow.

  Anne was amused to see that the receptionist took Donovan’s passport and booked them in as Monsieur et Madame Smith. They took the lift to the second floor, where their room overlooked the street, and stared down at the Porsche parked under a lamp. It was the only car not covered in snow, as if the gods had deliberately made it stand out for the benefit of their pursuers.

  Anne leaned against Donovan.

  “D’you think we could be the only people in the world still involved in a war that everybody else thought ended fifty years ago?”

  “Have you forgotten about the grey BMW or the person who was watching the office at Glebe Farm?”

  Supper was a bar of Kit Kat, followed by a banana. Anne insisted they toss a coin to decide who took the first shower. She lost.

  When Donovan came out of the bathroom with a towel tied round his waist, Anne had a sense of déjà vu. The same idea occurred to Donovan.

  “This is just like last year,” he said. “Do you remember that night we spent together in the school?”

  “I don’t think that’s an occasion anyone ever forgets. You said it was your first time too.”

  “Didn’t you believe me?”

  “Yes. It’s just that you were older than me and I thought you’d probably … you know …”

  “There had been someone, once, but it didn’t work out.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Her name was Annette, Annette von Droste-Hülshoff.”

  “A German girl. What happened?”

  “She’d been dead … for a hundred and fifty years.”

  Anne laughed. “That’s a pretty good excuse for not requiting your feelings.”

  “Being dead? Yeah, I suppose it is.”

  “That put you off girls, did it?”

  Donovan shrugged. “When someone lets you down like that …”

  When Anne came out of the shower, Donovan was lying across the bed, sleeping. She gently moved his legs, kissed the top of his head and draped the duvet over him. Before turning off the light, she looked out of the window.

  It was snowing again.

  Chapter 55

  Dead End

  When Anne awoke the next morning she thought they had slept late. It was light in the room and Donovan was in the bathroom. She rolled out of bed and drew the curtains. The snow brightened up the morning under a cotton-wool sky. Down in the street the Porsche was safely tucked under a camouflage coating and blended in with the other parked cars.

  After breakfast Donovan borrowed a broom from the hotel and swept the car clean. He had a small shovel in the boot and dug snow out from around the car’s tyres. They made slow progress back through the town and onto the motorway for Luxembourg. When Donovan yawned, his breath clouded in the chilly cockpit. It took several minutes before the heater raised the temperature.

  Anne was studying the atlas.

  “Which way are we going, round Luxembourg past Koblenz and pick up the A3 going south?”

  Donovan pulled a face. “I asked at reception about road conditions. There are big hold-ups on some of the motorways, jack-knifed lorries and the like. The Köln – Frankfurt Autobahn is the busiest road in Europe. That’s the A3.”

  “So we find another route?”

  “I think we have to.”

  Anne turned a page, shaking her head. “There isn’t any logical alternative motorway, just country roads that the motorways go round. Are there mountains in the way or something?”

  “Not mountains, no.”

  “What then?”

  “You said you were looking forward to seeing how pretty Germany is. Now’s your
chance. Once we’re past Luxembourg we’ll stay on the motorway till beyond Trier. Then we’ll turn off and go down the Mosel valley.”

  “Will the roads be open?”

  “Snowploughs will’ve been out all night keeping them clear. It won’t be fast but it’ll cut off a huge corner, and at least we won’t risk getting stuck in a motorway tailback.”

  Donovan’s plan proved to be sound, at least until the snow began falling again mid-morning. Up till then, Anne had been enchanted, gazing out at the Mosel landscape. Tree-covered hills encircled them. Vineyards spread out in all directions from the gently winding river. The towns and villages looked as if they had slipped out of the pages of story books from her childhood. She caught glimpses of half-timbered houses, turrets, cobbled streets, arches, steep gables, squares with fountains. And everywhere she looked, Christmas trees had been set out, their white lights burning in the frosty air.

  When the first barge cruised by, Anne had a flashback to home. The Grand Union Canal was like a stream compared with the Mosel. The narrowboats – even the old working pairs of seventy-foot motorboats and butties – seemed like toys compared with the substantial craft plying this river. That first barge flew a Luxembourg flag of red, white and pale blue horizontal stripes, and carried a small car on the deck. She thought of Donovan’s bicycle on the roof of Exodos and smiled at the memory.

  At first the snow dropped languidly from the sky, big flakes drifting in still air. They looked perfect in the fairytale countryside. Gradually, they began to blot out the view, and soon the wiper-blades were inadequate for the task of clearing the windscreen. Donovan muttered a quiet oath. Anne felt helpless beside him.

  “I think the next place is Piesport. We seem to cross over the river before it and go through the town. Perhaps it’ll be easier there.”

  Before Donovan could reply, a gust of wind blew a solid wall of snow straight at them and he had to brake to a halt, unable to see the road in front of their faces. Not daring to stop for more than a few seconds, he shifted into second gear and eased the car along at a crawl. They inched forward, gradually gaining speed until they were rolling at little more than jogging pace in third gear.

  Donovan shook his head. “My gamble isn’t working.”

  “It was our best chance.”

  “Anne, ring Hallgarten’s number at the university.”

  “Shouldn’t you speak to her?”

  “I don’t want to stop. We could get stuck.”

  Anne rang the number, bit her lip, took a deep breath and asked for Hallgarten in German.

  “Guten Morgen. Ist Professor Hallgarten zu sprechen?”

  Donovan stared at her in amazement.

  “Mein Name ist Anne Price.” After a pause she spoke again, this time in English. “I’m sorry about this, professor, but we’re stuck in heavy snow.”

  “Yes, I heard the Autobahn was blocked near Koblenz. So what are you planning to do?”

  “We’re on our way but we’re going to be much later than planned. I’m really sorry.”

  “You have my private number and address? You can find it?”

  “Yes, in Offenbach, across the river Main from Frankfurt.”

  “Good. Ring me when you know what time you will arrive.”

  “Thank you.”

  The snow eased off for a while, and they stopped in Piesport to buy rolls: ham sausage for Donovan, smoked cheese for Anne. The bakery where they bought them smelled wonderful, and Anne wanted to stay there forever. Back on the road, they ate as they drove along, finishing their meal with a banana and the promise of a stop at the next town for coffee.

  They pulled over in Brauneberg, where sleeping vineyards climbed steeply up from the river. Donovan told Anne they produced some of the best wines in the region. Coffee and a slice of cheesecake fortified them for the next leg of their journey, and they set off in better spirits.

  *

  By late afternoon they had left the Mosel valley and picked up a motorway not far from Bingen on the Rhine. As dusk descended, Anne was enchanted by the spectacle of so many Christmas lights. Had it not been for the thought that somewhere out there, someone was plotting against them, she would have fallen in love with Germany.

  Grateful that the motorways from Mainz to Frankfurt were clear of snow, Anne gave Donovan directions to the south side of the river, and they took a road running alongside the Main through an industrial area. It was a very different world from the lush, pastoral Mosel. She remembered Hallgarten’s request and pulled out the mobile.

  “What are you doing?” Donovan asked.

  “She said to ring when we knew what time we’d arrive. We should be there in ten minutes or so.”

  “No. Wait. Ring when we’re there.”

  “Don’t you trust her?” Anne knew the answer as soon as she had spoken. “Of course. Be aware. Be watchful.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But do you trust her?”

  “I don’t know her.”

  Anne’s estimated time of arrival was accurate. They parked in a tree-lined street facing the river, opposite the small block of flats where the professor lived.

  “Ring her now, Anne. Say we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  They sat and watched the street as the minutes ticked by. On the other side of the river they had a panorama of downtown Frankfurt, with tower cranes in the docks silhouetted in darkness against a backdrop of skyscrapers. One or two cars ventured along the professor’s quiet side street, but all of them cruised by without stopping. At the agreed time, Anne and Donovan climbed out and crossed the road.

  Donovan checked the names beside each bell and pressed a button. A woman’s voice told them to come up to the first floor. A buzzer sounded and Donovan pushed the front door open. As they approached the door to the flat, it swung inwards and they were greeted by the professor. She was not what they had expected.

  “Come in, come in.” She stood aside in the doorway with a welcoming smile, gesturing them to enter. “You must be frozen and hungry.”

  Tall, with a mane of dark hair held back by an Alice band, Professor Ingrid Hallgarten was wearing a striped apron, her hands covered in flour.

  “Please excuse me. As you see, you find me baking my Christmas biscuits. I’m late as usual, always too much to do.”

  She ushered them into a spacious open-plan living area with subdued lighting and comfortable, inviting sofas. Her personality seemed to fill the room with warmth.

  “Now, I’ve made some soup. I hope you’ll have some. It’s vegetable with mushrooms, an old recipe from my grandmother.”

  Donovan thanked her in German. With a glance at Anne, she continued in English.

  “Please take your jackets off and make yourselves comfortable. If you need a bathroom, it’s through there.”

  To their surprise, a young woman appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. In jeans and a smock top, she was slim and pretty with bobbed hair and glasses, smiling broadly. Hallgarten introduced her.

  “This is Helga, one of my students. She likes baking biscuits. She’s volunteered to help me.”

  They shook hands. Whatever Anne had expected, it was not such a friendly informal reception. She relaxed, and even Donovan seemed at ease.

  While Anne and Donovan ate their soup, Hallgarten sat with them at the table, leaving Helga in the kitchen.

  “This is wonderful soup, professor, just what we needed.”

  “Good. You’ve had a long and tiring journey. So, how do you like Germany, Miss Price?”

  “It’s beautiful, specially with all the Christmas trees up.”

  “Have you seen many?”

  Anne pictured the Mosel valley in her mind. She was about to mention it when she sensed Donovan stiffen beside her.

  “Quite a few. You can see them from the Autobahn.”

  “Of course.” Hallgarten became more serious. “Before we speak about the reason for your visit, you must first promise me that if anything of what I tell you is t
o be published, you will ask for my approval beforehand.”

  Anne shook her head. “Nothing is to be published, professor. That’s not why we’re doing this.”

  “But you must promise nonetheless.”

  “I do promise, definitely.”

  “Very well.”

  Hallgarten stood up, went to an antique polished bureau in the corner of the room and picked up a folder.

  “When I was asked by Professor Fleischer if I had any information about my father’s activities during the war, my first reaction was that I had nothing that would be of direct use to anyone, apart from academic historians.”

  “Something changed your mind?” Donovan said.

  “It was the name. I thought about it. Somewhere I had seen a name that could be connected with your enquiry.”

  “The name of an agent?” Anne asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You know the actual name of that person?” Anne felt her heart beating faster.

  “Yes. The name in the papers was … Knightly.”

  Anne was perplexed. “Knightly? That’s the name of our village, more or less.”

  “And the name given to my father’s contact.”

  Of course. Anne realised that any agent would have a codename. They might not even have come from the area. It was just the place where they operated. They had travelled to the centre of Germany to be given the name of their village.

  “What else do you know about this agent Knightly?” Donovan asked.

  “I don’t know if it was a man or a woman. Let’s call him he. Like all the agents, he had a general role.”

  “Spying,” said Donovan.

  “He gathered information about military and economic activity in the area: transports on the road, passage of aircraft, movement on the canals.”

  “The canals?” Anne found it hard to imagine an enemy spy watching the boats plying the Grand Union Canal. “That’s beside where we live.”

  “I see.”

  “Did he have any other duties?” Donovan said.

  “He was to infiltrate pacifist groups and encourage them to undermine the civilian population. For example, he gave them money to pay for printing posters. He planted rumours that German paratroops had already landed in England and were disguised as foreign allies: Czechs, Hungarians. He also had to help fascist sympathisers to escape to Germany.”