A New Kind of War

by Anthony Price

  ‘Indeed he has.’ Still the man studied him. ‘The Russians want me, just as you want me. So they do not want you to have me … even though all these desires are foolish, of course—foolish beyond belief! For I am too much behind the times now. And especially since yesterday’s news—yesterday’s terrible news, Herr Major.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I have heard of what has happened in Japan: it was on the wireless last night.’

  Fred swallowed. ‘That’s not for me to comment on, sir. I am here merely to make you an offer. Which you have the right to refuse.’ He submitted to the man’s scrutiny for another long moment. ‘We have no demands to make on you. We merely wish to take you into protective custody for a time.’ The closer he got to something like the truth, the better he felt, and the firmer became the voice—his own voice—that he heard. ‘In due course, when we judge it to be safe, we will arrange for you to be accepted by the university of your choice. Or any other establishment—’ He had got it exactly right ‘—in Germany, or in England. But there is another consideration to be made in that choice, it’s only fair to add, sir.’

  ‘Another consideration?’

  ‘It will be easier to protect you in England for the time being. You will be safer with us there, sir.’

  ‘Ach so! Yes … ’ Number 16 saw clear through that instantly. ‘You have your own nuclear research to think of now that the war is won—of course!’ At last he nodded, but without any hint of a properly cynical smile. ‘But … if I told you that my research is now into scientific dating of ancient remains and artefacts, in which I have been engaged these last six years—would that be acceptable?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Clinton’s exact forecast of this very question, and his research into its correct answer, kindled Fred’s confidence into flame: ‘He has no family. Otherwise we’d have got to him much sooner—or the Russians would have done. And most of his friends are dead too, now. All except one, you see—eh.’ But he musn’t look at Zeitzler yet. ‘We’ve got quite a few of our own old Roman cities which have been … cleared by bombing, for archaeology. Canterbury—Bath … and London, of course—’ He turned casually to Zeitzler ‘—and we still have Hadrian’s Wall for you, Professor … which is much the same as your “limes” isn’t it?’

  Zeitzler’s mouth opened incredulously.

  ‘And naturally the invitation includes you, Professor Zeitzler.’ He nodded at Corporal Keys. ‘Dr Crawford of our Ordnance Survey has been one of your admirers ever since he published your “limes” articles in Antiquity ten years ago. He will be honoured to arrange for your reception—’ Back to Number 16 ‘—and yours too, sir.’

  The two Germans looked at each other, just about as nonplussed as Clinton had said they might be, and he found himself admiring the Brigadier’s cunning. Because, although finding this man had apparently been TRR-2’s long-time original objective, entrusted to Clinton by the War Cabinet itself, Clinton’s own intention had been to build up an intelligence team of his own on which he could absolutely rely in this new kind of war which he—and David Audley, too—had foreseen, even before that bomb had dropped. And Clinton had used the hunt for Number 16 to gather his chosen men, and to test their efficiency in the field, and to establish his reputation for the future with them. But now, to achieve all that, he also had to use Number 16 as bait to flush out the traitor whom the Russians had infiltrated into TRR-2: now that the bomb had dropped, better a dead Number 16 than a compromised TRR-2!

  ‘There won’t be any problem, sir.’ The saving grace was that although Clinton wanted their traitor, he still also wanted Number 16 as planned. And that was probably why he got on so well with Uncle Luke: unforeseen complications, Uncle Luke always said, always provide matching opportunities for greater profits if you look at them in the right way! ‘You will both be very welcome, I assure you, sir.’ And … ‘I want him to come willingly, Fred.’ Clinton had said. ‘One volunteer is worth a hundred pressed men. Because, once he’s with us by choice … there’ll be physicists from Cambridge to pick his brains, and tempt him back to his old discipline. Because with work as well as women, you only love truly once—everything else is a delusion, major. So whatever he believes, he’s still a nuclear physicist, not an archaeologist.’

  ‘Welcome?’ The eyes were not so much pitying now as very tired.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fred continued on what he knew to be closest to the truth. ‘Our people know all about Professor Schmidt, and what he tried to do. There is … a certain sympathy for his intention—at least, among some of our scientists.’ He tried to blot out the rest of what Clinton had said: that with the British just beginning to follow their allies in de-Nazifying dyed-in-the-wool Nazis who were useful, there really wouldn’t be any trouble getting these two into Britain, willing or unwilling. ‘So you will be welcome—and free to continue your archaeology.’

  Number 16 continued to stare at him. But it was Zeitzler who broke the silence. ‘Heinrich … glaubst du es ihm.’

  ‘W—?’ For an instant Fred couldn’t decide whether to pretend he hadn’t understood the German words.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Number 16 held them both for an equal instant. ‘All that matters now, Ernst, is that if it is a lie, then it is a most persuasive one in our present circumstances. For we are undoubtedly caught between the Red Devil and the very deep blue British sea, I fear. But as I said last night, death by drowning is preferable to hellfire.’ The weary eyes softened. ‘Yet, as I also said last night … I will not impose my fate on you, old friend.’

  Zeitzler’s mouth twitched downwards as he glanced left and right, from his old trusted friend to his new untrusted ersatz British friend. But his eyes glittered behind his spectacles, as though at the enticing prospect of all those built-over Romano-British cities, which had been well-cleared by German bombs to open them up to archaeologists as they had not been open for a thousand years. ‘Do we have a choice?’

  Fred so much hated the truth, which Zeitzler had reached at last, that he turned away from it in distaste, first towards Audley, and then to where Amos de Souza stood apart from them: and Amos, he saw, was directing the RSM’s attention to the menacing woods around them, and to the lake, and the rocks; while on young Audley’s face there was a mirror-image of his own feelings, uglified and brutalized by the face which God had given to the boy, which he couldn’t help.

  ‘No—you are right, as always!’ Number 16 accepted Number 21’s answer as untainted by self-interest, with heart-rending innocence. ‘Then we accept your offer, Herr Major: we are at your disposal, without any compulsion—we accept the word of a British officer. Which is, of course, as strong as that of a German officer.’

  Shit! thought Fred, cutting off Audley’s face from the reckoning. ‘Major de Souza! If you please!’

  Major de Souza disengaged himself from his contemplation of the Exernsteine Rocks. ‘Major Fattorini—?’

  ‘We’re ready to go now. Would you ask the RSM to alert Sergeant Devenish?’ He worked at the formality of the command: because of de Souza, he no longer knew quite what would happen once they were on the road back to Schwartzenburg Castle, or thereafter. But the game had to be played to the last ball and the final whistle, regardless.

  ‘Mr Levin—!’ De Souza twisted on his heel, so that he was backing away from the woods. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Sah!’ The RSM snapped to even greater attention than before, first stiff as a board in preparation for obedience to orders, and then falling in behind the adjutant, while he attached an extension to his Sten’s barrel in a series of jerky, regimental movements.

  ‘Right.’ De Souza snapped open his webbing holster, lifting his arm high to clear his pistol from it. ‘As of now we assume the worst of all possible worlds until we’re in the clear—’ his glance passed Audley, to fix on Fred himself‘—right, major—?’

  Thump—

  De Souza jerked forward suddenly, arching his back and dropping his pistol, as his legs buckled beneath him—

  ‘Steady, now!�
�� As the RSM barked the words. De Souza continued forwards and downwards, unbalanced, as though fighting an irresistible blow from behind, until he finally sank on his knees, almost in an attitude of prayer.

  ‘Steady, now!’ The RSM swung the curiously long-barrelled Sten left and right, right and left, taking them all in with it, but ending up with the muzzle pointing at Fred’s stomach.

  An unintelligible groan came from de Souza, who was still on his knees, swaying in agony. And then Fred watched, hypnotized with frozen horror, as the adjutant began to reach forward towards his fallen pistol.

  ‘Don’t—’ The bulbous silencing attachment on the end of the RSM’s Sten continued to point at Fred as he spoke ‘—don’t make me do it, Major de Souza, sir—don’t make me do it, I beg you!’

  De Souza rocked slightly, but continued to stretch out slowly towards the pistol with a hand which shook uncontrollably, as though its overstretched arm was already bearing an invisible weight too great for it.

  ‘Amos!’ Audley’s voice cracked. ‘Amos—’

  Thump! This time the bullet crumpled de Souza instantly, throwing him sideways, half on his back, with his legs kicking out like a pole-axed steer.

  ‘That was a pity.’ The RSM spoke slowly, his words all the more menacing for the hint of genuine regret in them. ‘Because it was not necessary as well as useless.’

  ‘You … b-b-b-bastard!’ Young Audley’s stutter was shrill with rage. ‘In the b-b-back, you fucking bastard!’

  ‘You want it in the front, Mr Audley?’ The RSM took the boy’s acting rank from him contemptuously. ‘I can oblige you now if you wish—’ he made an unhurried adjustment to the sub-machine-gun ‘—I can cut you in two before you can take another step, Mr Audley. And I will if I have to, if you want to be a hero too, like the adjutant.’

  Fred’s mind began to race. They had their man now, albeit at a terrible and unnecessary cost. But now, also, they had to survive to tell the tale. So this was no moment for subaltern heroics. ‘Stand still, David.’ He looked up the track quickly. ‘And shut up.’

  ‘No good, sir. I have sent Sergeant Devenish and Driver Hewitt away.’ The RSM caught the look. ‘They are both guarding the road junction until I come to relieve them. And we shall not be leaving by that route.’

  ‘I see.’ It was no good trying to play games with the man when he was as quick as that. So what could he do? ‘There are forest-tracks, are there, Mr Levin?’ All he could do was play for time. ‘And no Fusilier picquets guarding them, I take it?’ But, even as he spoke, the truth of what he was saying soured the words in his mouth: who better than the RSM, in his unique controlling position between the officers and the men, to know everything, and to order everything as he wished in seeming to carry out the orders of the adjutant and the commanding officer?

  Christ! And, of course, to betray everything, being above suspicion himself!

  ‘As you say, Major Fattorini, sir.’ Levin saw through his ploy and shifted his attention to the two Germans, while carefully stepping back to distance himself from Fred, and even more from the temporarily silenced Audley, whose fuse was still more dangerously short, in spite of that recent warning. ‘Listen to me, you two—right?’

  That was curious, thought Fred with a detachment of his own which was also curious: in contrast to his deference to his officers, who were now his enemies to be shot down like dogs at need, the RSM’s attitude to these Germans, who were his prize, was uncompromisingly harsh.

  ‘In a little while, you-will-be-coming-with me—do-you-understand?’ Levin spaced his words, as though he was addressing British Army recruits of limited intelligence.

  Number 16 drew himself up. ‘And if we do not choose to come with you?’

  ‘Then I’ll shoot you where you stand.’ The RSM pronounced this threatened sentence-of-death almost with relish. ‘Don’t you make any mistake about that.’

  ‘I make no mistake. But your Russian masters would not like us dead, I think—yes?’ Number 16 didn’t look at Fred, but he was playing the same delaying game now, hope against despair.

  ‘My Russian—?’ The RSM stopped suddenly. And then he nodded towards what had been Major Amos de Souza without taking Fred or David Audley out of his reckoning. ‘You see that, do you?’

  ‘I see a dead man—’ The German’s chin came up ‘—I see a brave man—yes?’

  ‘Aye. And a good one, too.’ Levin matched the German’s measured insult with cold malevolence. ‘Worth ten of you, you bugger. So don’t bandy words with me.’

  ‘Heinrich —’

  ‘Hush, Ernst!’ Number 16 cut off Zeitzler. ‘You have made yourself very plain, sir. But I also wish to make myself plain. For I wish to speak with my friend. And I do not think you will prevent me doing so.’

  ‘No?’ Levin had moved as the German spoke, circling cautiously to keep everyone in view as best he could while also flicking a quick glance at the woods across the meadow.

  ‘No. For I do not think your Russian masters have paid you for a dead man. But I am not yet sure that I wish to be bought, you see.’

  ‘No?’ Levin’s lips compressed into a thin line, with a fleck of white at one corner. Without looking down, he kicked de Souza’s fallen pistol further away. Then he drew a deep breath, and glanced towards the woods again. ‘No?’

  He was expecting company, thought Fred despairingly, And … there were no Fusilier picquets in those woods, of course!

  Number 16 nodded. ‘So … I will talk with my friend. For, believe me or not as you will … I will decide what I shall do—not you—and not your masters … do you understand?’

  For a sick fraction of time Fred thought Levin was going to make good his threat, and tensed himself to attempt the impossible. But then the long black silenced barrel came round to cover him.

  ‘Don’t make me do it, sir!’ The barrel passed him, to point at Audley. ‘Steady, Mr Audley—Captain Audley—’ There was something close to contempt in the RSM’s warning ‘—you were going to be the example, not the major, Mr Audley … so you’re already on borrowed time, Mister Audley—’

  ‘David!’ Fred held the boy back. ‘Mr Levin—’

  ‘That’s enough, sir.’ Levin looked at Number 16 quickly. ‘Very well, then! If you want to talk to your friend … it won’t make no difference. But you talk in English to him—right? And you remember … if I can’t have you alive, then I’ll have you dead—right?’ The long black barrel jerked slightly. ‘Go on, then—talk, then!’

  ‘Heinrich —’

  Fred fought the lethargy of helplessness and hopelessness: Number 16 had to give in … and once he had done that, when Mr Levin’s friends had arrived, then Major Fattorini and Captain Audley were surplus to requirements—useless even as hostages, after de Sauza’s death—?

  ‘Mr Levin!’ He felt life within him fight against logic: in killing de Souza, Levin had burnt his boats, and there was no deal left to him. But he had to fight against logic. But how?

  ‘Steady, sir.’ Levin didn’t even look at him: Levin knew the score just as well as he did.

  ‘Mr Levin … this doesn’t make sense—’ His tongue was thick in his mouth, hindering the words.

  ‘No, sir.’ Still Levin didn’t look at him. ‘I don’t suppose it does, to you, sir. And I am sorry for that, believe me, sir. But that’s the way of it.’

  The man’s politeness clogged his brain. And, more than such insane politeness, there was bitterness and regret and loss; and he wanted to use them all to save himself, but he didn’t know how to do it because he didn’t understand what was happening to him. ‘Mr Levin … why, Mr Levin—?’

  ‘Sah!’ For an instant Levin became his old self again. ‘Sah —’

  ‘Heinrich—now there is no choice, truly! We must go with him—’ He heard Zeitzler argue common sense and survival in the distance—

  ‘Mr Levin—’ Fred tried to receive different messages simultaneously ‘—what—’

  ‘This is not how I wished i
t to be, sah—’

  ‘There is always a choice, Ernst. Do you not remember —’

  ‘It was Mr Audley who was to be the example, sah—not the major—’ Levin drew a huge breath ‘—never the major—’ The long silenced barrel swung slightly, and then steadied on the young dragoon beside Fred, who stood swaying and twitching, almost beyond reason and sense, waiting to be loosed.

  ‘But, Ernst-’

  ‘Steady, David!’ Survival was what mattered now! ‘You are taking us prisoner now, are you, Mr Levin?’

  Another deep breath. ‘If I can, then I will.’ Levin took in the woods again, almost desperately. ‘Because there is a message I wish Colonel Colbourne to receive … if you would be so good as to deliver it … sah—?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Levin—?’ Fred steadied the question, so as not to grasp at his own life too humiliatingly, even as he welcomed it and despised himself for his cowardice. ‘What is your message?’

  ‘Heinrich—’ Suddenly Zeitzler leaped into incomprehensible German.

  ‘In English, you bugger!’ Levin snarled the order.‘ What was that—?’

  For a moment they were inside a huge silence. ‘Do you promise my friend’s life? And the lives of these British officers?’ Number 16 issued his demand in a flat and uncompromising voice, almost arrogantly.

  The RSM stared at Fred, ‘Yes.’

  ‘On your honour?’ The German stretched his arrogance insultingly, leaving ‘for what that may be worth’ unspoken, transcending insult. ‘Is that your word?’

  ‘Yes.’ Still the RSM stared at Fred, with a dead blankness as treacherous as Clinton’s, which scorned forgiveness, accepting only final responsibility, true or false. ‘Don’t believe him!’ Audley snarled. Tell him to go to hell! Tell him—‘

  ‘Shut up!’ Fred nodded to the German. Take the offer, sir. And we’ll take our chances.‘

  The German looked at Levin. ‘Very well, then.’

  Still that stare. So, their only hope left was that message to Colonel Colbourne. ‘Yes, Mr Levin? What is it you want me to tell the CO?’