A New Kind of War

by Anthony Price

  Once again, Clinton had been right: for his years, the boy was very quick. But, because of his years, he still wasn’t quick enough. And now, at the last, Fred needed him to understand fully what was at stake. ‘But what if they didn’t want him dead, David—Number 16? What if all the other things that have “gone wrong”, all the way from Greece, were just to delay us, so that they could get to Number 16 first? But now we’re too close to him, in spite of all they’ve done?’

  The boy goggled at him, trying to catch up with insufficient understanding of what the whole race had been about, and failing miserably.

  ‘We don’t really need Number 16 now, David.’ He had to tell the truth, because there was no time to prevaricate. ‘We never did need him, thanks to his own conscience. And thanks to your old Professor Schmidt, too.’

  ‘Why not?’ Failure to understand only made the boy angry.

  ‘It’s the Russians who need him. And especially after yesterday —’

  ‘Yesterday—?’ Audley frowned at him.

  ‘All that marvellous German research, David—remember?’ At the last he couldn’t sweeten the pill. ‘Everything they did was better than what we did, David: better weapons than ours—better guns, better guidance systems, and better radar … And their jet-planes years ahead of ours … and rockets beyond anything we’d ever imagined? And chemical weapons they didn’t use only because they thought we’d got them too?’ Now he was straying perhaps too far into what Clinton had finally told him, as they had come to the final crunch under Hermann the Liberator’s statue yesterday. So he must stop before he went further. ‘But we dropped that new bomb on Japan two days ago. The Germans didn’t drop it on us, David—’ Now, also, he had to look away. Because now Amos de Souza had finished his survey, and was advancing towards them. Audley caught his glance. ‘So … they got it wrong—’

  ‘The atomic bomb?’

  ‘They got it wrong.’ There was just time to agree. ‘Because the one man who could have pointed them in the right direction wasn’t there to correct them. And the Russians have known that ever since von Mitzlaff joined Schmidt’s group—or even before he did, maybe. Because we got that information out of Russia, David: there was a man in Russia who warned us about Number 16.’ He looked away again, and Amos de Souza was very close now. ‘Only he got the warning out at the cost of his own life, at Osios Konstandinos. Because you already had a traitor in the Tenth Legion—’ Time ran out for them also in that second of time ‘—Major de Souza—Amos! I didn’t think you were scheduled to join us here? What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’m not here—at least, not officially, Major Fattorini.’ De Souza stared past him. ‘You’ve got your two men up there, have you, David? Devenish and Hewitt?’

  ‘Yes, Amos.’ Audley answered quickly. ‘As per your own orders, actually … So what’s the problem, then?’

  De Souza swung on his heel, through a full circle before coming back to Audley. ‘Perhaps no problem, dear boy.’ Then he passed Audley by, to concentrate on Fred. ‘Your rendezvous is in five minutes’ time, major?’

  They both knew that perfectly well. ‘Yes, Amos.’

  ‘Yes.’ The concentration became fiercer: this was a very different Amos de Souza from any of its predecessors. ‘And you’re quite happy about all this—’ De Souza gestured around him ‘—here?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ But he had to play the game until the last throw of the dice, so he looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes as of now—yes. But you’re not meant to be here, actually. So … is something wrong, then?’

  De Souza looked round again, uneasily, until he reached RSM Levin at his back, standing stiff as a board behind his adjutant, exuding blanket disapproval of everything and everyone. ‘Mr Levin … you wanted to get those two men up there under cover, off the road—so do it, then. They’re lounging around as if they were at a vicarage tea-party!’

  ‘Sah.’ The RSM straightened up an inch beyond his usual ramrod self.

  ‘Let me do that, Amos—’ Audley moved ahead of the RSM, half-apologetically ‘—they’re my chaps, after all—’

  ‘You stand fast, Captain Audley.’ De Souza immobilized Audley. ‘Mr Levin—if you please!’

  ‘Sah!’ The RSM stepped out smartly, always as though on parade.

  ‘Amos—what the hell—?’ Audley exploded mutinously.

  ‘Shut up, David.’ De Souza quelled him flatly as he watched the RSM’s progress towards Devenish and Hewitt.

  ‘What do you mean, “shut up”?’ Audley only remained quelled for that single moment before erupting again. ‘Your own orders—’

  ‘The devil with my own orders!’ snapped de Souza. ‘But if you want an order, then I’ll give you one now: you go down by the end of the lake, where you can see round the rocks, and keep a sharp eye on the woods there. And if you see anything move, you come back and tell me. Understood?’

  The boy rolled an eye at Fred, while his right hand massaged his leg nervously on the edge of his webbing holster. ‘W-w-w —’

  ‘Did you not hear my order, Captain Audley?’ De Souza’s voice had lost its sharpness: now it was menacingly soft.

  Fred remembered his own orders. ‘Do as the adjutant says, David.’

  Audley seemed to struggle with himself for an instant, then the hand stopped massaging and slapped the leg irritably. ‘Oh … shit! Mine not to reason why again! Okay, okay!’ he swung on his heel, shaking his head and growling to himself as he stamped heavily away, kicking angrily at tufts of grass as he went, like a schoolboy. It was good acting if it was an act, thought Fred. And now he must match it with one of his own.

  ‘What the blazes are you playing at, Amos?’ In fact, he only needed to imagine himself in the real military world to strike the right note of outrage. ‘This is my show, not yours.’

  ‘Yes.’ De Souza looked around again. ‘This place gives me the shivers, you know. Always has done, and always will.’ He sniffed. ‘Maybe Colbourne’s right—’ He looked Fred in the eye ‘—a bad place for honest soldiers, maybe?’

  The flesh up Fred’s back crawled with a million tiny insect-feet because of this shared insight. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘My duty, I hope.’ The sardonic glint was back, with the old self-mocking Amos-voice. ‘David was right, of course—I’m disobeying my orders as well as complicating yours and his.’ He turned lazily to watch Audley place-kicking another piece of grass. ‘He often is right, actually. But it does him no good. But … he’s a good lad … maybe.’

  ‘Maybe?’ The curious emphasis de Souza had placed on the word startled him.

  ‘Yes.’ De Souza came back to him. ‘Aren’t you happier for my presence, then?’

  ‘Why should I be happier?’

  De Souza nodded. ‘After the night before last?’

  ‘The night before last?’ He didn’t have to think hard to recall those beastly images. But he had to remember who he was supposed to be. ‘We got our man the night before last. And the other side got the wrong one.’

  ‘Did they?’ De Souza stared up the path. ‘I wonder, now.’

  Fred followed the man’s stare. The RSM had dismissed Audley’s men, and was now standing alone at the top of the track, studying the circumference of his world in a series of jerky movements, as though his head were fixed immovably on his neck.

  ‘Almost everything we’ve done in the past hasn’t gone right,’ said de Souza softly. ‘We’ve found men who couldn’t help us much—and we’ve lost the ones who could. But this time we were very clever, and we got our man. But, what I’ve been thinking is … perhaps that was what someone intended we should do. And that makes you very vulnerable in this place this morning—if it’s true. So today I have taken certain extra precautions, without orders.’

  A cold hand squeezed Fred’s guts. ‘Is that why—’ But then the sharp snap-crunch of the RSM’s hobnailed boots on the broken road surface silenced him.

  ‘Sah!’ Having stamped himself to attention, the RS
M scorned any further explanation of a completed order.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ De Souza accepted this information.

  ‘Arrgh-hmm!’ The RSM cleared his throat formally, but did not withdraw.

  ‘Yes, Mr Levin?’ De Souza interpreted this signal interrogatively.

  ‘Sah! There are two persons now approaching in the distance—civilian persons—upon the roadway, from the direction of Detmold. German civilians, I take them to be, by their dress.’ Faint disapproval crept into the RSM’s voice, as though tatterdemalion natives really had no right to disturb the British Liberation Army in its lawful business in the Teutoburgerwald this grey August morning. ‘They appear to be in no hurry … sah.’

  Fred looked up the path. From where the RSM had stood he would have had a good clear view.

  ‘Arrgh-hmm!’ The RSM cleared his throat again. ‘Shall I now attend to Captain Audley … sah?’

  ‘Attend?’ Fred’s attention snapped back to de Souza. ‘What d’you mean “attend”?’

  ‘Do that, Mr Levin.’ De Souza nodded. ‘Disarm him and bring him up here.’

  ‘Sah.’ The RSM stamped a backward pace before moving forward again.

  ‘What the blazes—?’ Fred didn’t need to act any part.

  ‘Merely a precaution.’ De Souza raised a soothing hand. ‘You can rely on the RSM to be as civil as the circumstances permit. He has his orders. And young David is used to obeying him … And there’ll be a gun on him now if he isn’t quite what we’ve taken him to be, all these months.’

  Fred stared at the RSM’s fast-receding ramrod back. Typically, the RSM carried an issue-Sten, rather than the more exotic foreign weapon.

  ‘I hope I’m wrong, Major Fattorini. But if I’m not … then it has to be someone inside the unit,’ murmured de Souza. ‘I’ve known something wasn’t right … oh, for a long time, I suppose.’ He sighed. ‘But … it goes against the grain, rather. Because they are all Clinton’s picked men, after all.’

  The cold hand inside Fred squeezed even harder. If Audley was right about Amos de Souza … then things were going wrong before they had a chance to do so in a way Clinton had intended them to do, and in a manner which neither of them had foreseen. But he still couldn’t be sure of that, so he must still play the game.

  ‘All except Audley.’ He turned deliberately back to de Souza.

  ‘All except Audley.’ But de Souza echoed him without nodding. ‘Except that I don’t think he’s our man, actually. Even though he fits well enough—and he’s a smart boy, I would agree.’

  ‘He fits … well enough?’ Watching de Souza was more important than watching the boy’s humiliation. ‘All the way from Greece, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. And he’s a bit too thick with the man Schild, who is really a most equivocal character.’ De Souza’s voice tightened. ‘And whose whereabouts I do not at this precise moment know, as it happens.’

  ‘But … isn’t Otto Schild the Colonel’s man?’ A faint echo of Schild’s Teutoburg song came nastily to mind.

  ‘In a sense—yes. But he’s also not what he seems, the RSM says.’

  ‘I thought he was … a butcher—a civilian butcher—?’

  ‘A butcher, maybe. But Mr Levin thinks not a civilian one.’

  Colbourne, thought Fred. And this was his place—the Externsteine! ‘Where is the Colonel this morning?’

  De Souza’s lip curled slightly. ‘He’s seeing a man about a plane—an RAF spotter-plane, at Gutersloh—to try and spot Roman marching camps east and south-east of here. Which I gather was your idea, major?’ The lip tightened. ‘I lent him my driver, as a matter of fact. Just to make sure.’

  Everything was going wrong—one way or the other. ‘And … the other officers—M’Corquodale? Kenworthy—?’ De Souza looked past him suddenly, up the tracks again. ‘Don’t worry, major. The RSM has this place well staked-out, by arrangement with the Military Police and our local Fusilier battalion. So your civilians have got in easily enough. But they won’t get out unless you are accompanying them, believe me—’ He straightened up perceptibly. ‘And now here they are, anyway. So I take it you’d rather I withdrew somewhat, while you have your little chat? Would that make you feel more at ease?’

  Not de Souza? Fred could no longer make his mind up there; only, although he experienced a certain amount of satisfaction about that, it was instantly swallowed up by the realization that, if he was innocent, then Amos had nevertheless very likely ruined Clinton’s plans with his over-intelligent innocence, by scaring off whoever wasn’t innocent with his unscheduled precautions.

  ‘That might be advisable, Amos.’ His mind raced ahead, trying to predict how their unknown traitor might adjust to this new situation. In such a last resort, all that was left was an ambush on the way back to Schwartzenburg Castle—which had always been a dangerous possibility in the back of Clinton’s mind. ‘The sooner we’re away from here, the better.’

  Amos de Souza nodded. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ He glanced around quickly. ‘This is a damn stupid spot for a meeting. I don’t know what’s got into the Brigadier today—it isn’t like him … ’ He came back to Fred. And nodded again. ‘But don’t worry. Because Mr Levin and I will watch your backs here as best we can. And Mr Levin has arranged a sufficient escort to pick you up just down the road to take Number 16 back safely after that.’

  ‘Yes?’ That was the final irony: Amos had thought everything through, to amend his superior’s defective planning. And not de Souza was certain now, since he would hardly have needed to do as much, even apart from this otherwise risky warning, if he had been the traitor. ‘Well … thank you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Amos looked over his shoulder, at the fast-approaching figures of David Audley and the RSM. ‘And Audley—?’

  Audley’s outraged voice arrived before Fred could answer. ‘Fred —’

  ‘Hold on, David.’ He was simultaneously aware of the two Germans hovering discreetly, and of the RSM behind Audley, just as discreetly trying to hide whatever he had used to disarm the boy. And of Audley himself, his ugly features aflame with anger and humiliation.

  ‘But, Fred—’ The outrage became almost plaintive.

  ‘Shut up, David.’ At least Audley’s face wasn’t white with fear, as his own might have been: it was ugly with rage! ‘Thank you, Amos—Mr Levin … But you stay here, David.’

  ‘Right-o.’ Amos accepted his dismissal with a good grace. ‘Come on, Mr Levin—let’s admire the view for a moment, eh?’

  Audley watched them for another moment, his mouth working. Then he returned to Fred. ‘B-b-Woody Mr L-L-Levin … has t-taken my fff—’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Fred had had just enough warning to nip the stuttering fuse before it became an explosive shout, so that he could turn towards the Germans. ‘Herr Zeitzler—’ No! That was wrong! ‘—Professor Zeitzler—’ He felt under-rehearsed in matters of greeting ‘—good morning, sir!’

  Professor Zeitzler was less humiliatingly dressed (or, as he had been, half-dressed, undressed, and then uniformed) than the night before last. But he was still tall and very thin, and even with his spectacles safely on his nose he was still very far from happy.

  ‘Herr Major.’ The eyes behind the spectacles were wide with uncertainty; which was reasonable enough in the circumstances, even if ‘Herr Major’ had been a captain the last time they’d met.

  ‘I’m glad you were able to come, sir.’ Somehow, it wasn’t so hard to be polite to the man: he was, after all, ‘a decent chap’ (in Audley’s own words, from long ago); yet it wasn’t just that—or even because, if the man had never been an ally, he had also never truly been an enemy; it was just that he was what he looked like—just another middle-aged academic pacifist in a mad world, fallen among soldiers. And that made it easier to pity him, even as Fred turned at last to the cause of all the trouble. ‘And you, sir.’

  ‘Herr Major.’ The Cause of All the Trouble gave him a formal little bow. But with it there was a look of understanding and
resignation which turned Fred’s pity back on himself.

  ‘But … there were to be two officers only.’ Professor Zeitzler’s expression was less fearful now, after such politeness. ‘It was promised, sir—only yourself, and the … the large young officer.’

  ‘An added precaution.’ Sod you! thought Fred with sudden brutality. You’ve done your job now—it’s only Number 16 that matters now! So he concentrated on Number 16. ‘There are dangers, you understand, sir.’

  ‘I understand.’ Number 16 didn’t nod, but there was a strained greyness in his complexion and a wariness in his eyes which had nothing to do with any of the more recent privations of defeat: Fred had seen such masks before, on the faces of infantrymen who had been too long in the line.

  ‘But it is not as was arranged—not as was promised.’ Zeitzler looked at his friend as he emphasized the word before coming back to Fred. ‘A word of honour was given—by a senior British officer. And I—’

  ‘Hush, Ernst.’ Number 16 cut Zeitzler off softly. ‘If a word was given, then it was given. If it is to be broken … then it will be broken. We have already talked of that possibility. And I have made my choice, just as this officer has done.’ As he spoke, he never for one instant took his eyes off Fred; and, although not one of his words was stressed more than another, their challenge was plain enough.

  So here was the first test, thought Fred. And it was as searching as the Brigadier had warned him it would be, by God!

  ‘You are free to go, sir. If you wish to do so.’ The enormity of the lie thickened his tongue inside his mouth as he committed himself finally to the acceptance of the truth about himself, which Clinton had apparently known before he did. ‘My superior’s word of honour is the same as mine.’

  Again that terrible hint of pity, almost sardonic now. Then I ask your pardon—shall I do that?‘

  Did he know? Or had he mistaken those half-strangled words for honest outrage? Fred questioned himself desperately for an instant. ‘I think you’d do better to remember what happened the night before last, sir.’ He flicked a glance at Zeitzler. ‘I’m sure your friend has told you about that—?’