Moral Compass (The Samuel Beasley Trilogy Book 1)

by Adam J Watts

  'Pardon my intrusion gentlemen, but I need to speak with the boss.’

  What happened next was not too dissimilar to poking a guard dog with a stick. If he hadn't been sure of the numbers before, he was now. Four guns of varying calibre cocked and one voice spoke from the centre of the room.

  'That would be me,' the figure shrouded in darkness said.

  Either the air of authority was cool or the cellar was well ventilated. The confidence was apparent in his tone. 'You are either very stupid or very brave to interrupt our business.’

  Ordinarily he would have been experiencing some form of nervous disposition right now, but thanks to Gerald these troublesome side-effects were now under restraint.

  'I have a proposition for your organisation. I came, because I hear you are the best in Paris.’

  Seb doubted the value of the courier's life and as such, decided a little flattery couldn't go a miss in his current situation. Thankfully his statement appeared to amuse their leader, as he let out a hearty laugh.

  'The best in Paris you say?' There was a pause in which his four henchmen took their cue to laugh as well. 'Try the best in France, my friend.’

  Seb did not laugh. Instead he elected to press the issue.

  'Even better.’

  The seriousness of his two word reply curtailed the laughter. After a moment’s hesitation, the leader of the organisation rose from his seat.

  'Very well. I will hear what you have to say, but please do not offend me further. Release Maurice.’

  Seb gave the suggestion a second's thought, before removing the gun from the small of Maurice's back and pushing him into the centre of the crowded cellar.

  'Thank you' the boss replied.

  What happened next both shocked and reassured Seb, not usually two reactions that go hand in hand. At the wave of a candle lit arm, one of the henchmen moved casually into the middle of the room and stood next to a now trembling Maurice.

  'Maurice, let us conduct our original business.’

  The sound of the mob boss's voice failed to sooth the courier's nerves and he fumbled in his pocket for the piece of paper. Slowly one of the heavies took the note and handed it to his boss. Holding up the solitary candle, he squinted to read the information written upon it.

  It was the first time Seb had been able to see his face. He was clean shaven with short black hair and bore a half decent resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte. This realisation resulted in Seb smiling to himself.

  'Very good Maurice. Your contribution is appreciated.’

  'Thank you Mr...'

  Unfortunately for old Maurice, he had little time to finish his sentence before the hired help bludgeoned him over the head with a length of metal pipe.

  After examining his crumpled body and confirming his death, the perpetrator returned his large frame to its original position.

  'Now Mr...?’

  'Call me Seb.’

  ‘Sebastian. A good, French name... very well. What is your offer?’ He broke eye contact only to look at Maurice's lifeless corpse and emphasise his next point, 'As you can see, we are busy men.’

  Seb needed to be succinct. He knew what he knew and had a fairly good understanding of which buttons to push.

  'Call it what you will; a hit man, a hired gun, a contract killer, but that is what I am. I am here tonight to offer you my services.’

  There was a pause in which his counterpart thought over what had just been said.

  'And what makes you think my organisation needs such an employee? As you can see, I have many men who can undertake such tasks.’

  'I cannot disagree. Your men appear very effective in their own way, but it is not my way.’ Another pause ensued and distant music could be heard from the bar above.

  'I am aware of the inconvenience a certain, family is causing for you on the east side of town.’

  'How do you know about that?'

  There was a slight peak in the gangster's voice. One of the heavies flinched.

  'I have done my homework. I was trained by one of the best. There are quite a few things I know about your organisation.’

  'So you know about us. Then you will know who you are dealing with.’

  'Of course. And it is with the greatest respect that I address you.’

  As the flame from the candle flickered, Seb could see the Napoleonic character raise a hand to his chin.

  'And your terms?'

  ‘Boss, we should…’

  ‘Silence!’

  The leader of the group was now looking straight at Seb. His eyes bored through him like a drill bit through pine.

  'Once I have carried out the job satisfactorily, I require passage to North Africa.’

  At this remark the kingpin threw his arms in the air.

  'Ha! Out of the question.’

  'I beg to differ. We both know that you have more than one trade route into Africa. Would you like a reminder of its purpose?'

  With hindsight his last remark was probably a stupid one and did not sit well with the French leader.

  'Don't get clever with me.’

  'I would not dare. I simply wanted to point out that I know it is possible.’

  'Very well. I like the terms you are offering, even if I do not care for your attitude.’

  'You won't be disappointed.’

  'Oh I know. Because -- if I am – you will never leave Paris, my friend.’

  Chapter Eleven:

  Turning The Screw ~ Autumn, 1939

  Herman had been in Berlin a matter of days, but there was no rest for the wicked. Samuel Beasley's dossier lay opened upon the Hauptsturmführer's desk. Alongside it, the other documents obtained from the treacherous Stratton.

  His superiors would be coming to collect the documents tomorrow, but Herman would withhold the information about Gerald's associate. What good would it have done in the wrong hands?

  The clock ticked relentlessly as he studied the paperwork. Beasley was a well-connected man from his publishing days, with contacts throughout the UK, Scandinavia and Europe.

  There was one other detail, which caught Hackbeil's eye. Gerald had noted that his first meeting with the young Samuel had occurred in Ireland. The old fool had also been so kind as to record his reasons for being there.

  It would appear that Heir Beasley was suffering from delusions of grandeur; spending the best part of three months working with the Garda Síochána.

  Obviously the cases and any other details were omitted, but with a little work, Herman was confident he could ascertain with whom Beasley had worked.

  The SS officer reclined in the leather chair and smiled to himself. Progress was a pleasant thing indeed and here he had just made great inroads.

  The very thought of his earlier faux-pas brought about recurring images of his superior's solemn promise. Failure was not acceptable at any level within the Reich and he expected to pay for his short-comings.

  For now though, Herman needed to make a few phone calls. He would then prepare himself a light lunch, followed by a spot of interrogation. It was good practice to tighten the screws on any hostage, but not until they had been given sufficient time to think.

  With a bit of luck she would be an easy nut to crack. Any information about his latest nemesis would prove invaluable over the coming days. Perhaps the phone calls and dinner could wait? There is after all, no time like the present...

  ***

  'Good evening Fräulein, I trust you approve of our hospitality?'

  The sinister undertones of the German Officer's voice sent shivers down her spine.

  Hauptsturmführer Hackbeil had entered the room swiftly, pulling a second metal chair from underneath the desk. He appeared eager to begin proceedings, despite the late hour of the day.

  The room was no more than a stuffy cell. There were no windows and the only variation came in the form of the odd shelf against the cracked, concrete walls.

  Caitlin would not be surprised if the space had been a storeroom in a previo
us incarnation.

  The radiance from a solitary lamp was angled towards his captive and provided the perfect atmosphere for interrogation. He couldn't help but notice how the light glistened along the cut above her painstakingly pruned eyebrow.

  'That looks nasty' he proclaimed, toying with the young woman. 'You should be more careful.’ Caitlin threw the officer a disapproving scowl. 'Unfortunately your parents did not heed my warnings...' Pausing for effect, Hackbeil straightened the folder in front of him before continuing his sentence. 'I sincerely hope you will, my dear.’

  Herman was surprised at the pleasure he took from observing the stages of emotion playing across her well-lit face. Confusion, recognition and grief came and went, quickly followed by anger.

  She was strangely more beautiful when angry.

  Almost on impulse Hackbeil leaned closer to his hostage. There was after all, only the two of them in the room... What happened next took him by surprise and brought him back to reality. In one swift move, the prisoner had slapped him across the face.

  A lesser man would perhaps lose his composure, but not Herman. The officer granted his captive an ounce of compassion and, once reseated, continued the questioning as if nothing had happened.

  'So Miss Legard, do you know why you are here?'

  A few seconds passed before his prisoner uttered a solitary word.

  'No,' she murmured whilst wiping away another tear.

  For a moment, Herman appeared disenchanted with this response. The feeling did not last however, and quickly came his next statement.

  'You are here, because I believe you have valuable information.’

  A look of genuine dismay played out across Caitlin's face, as she slowly shook her head. 'You will have to do better than that!'

  His voice was somewhat masterful and the sudden change altered Caitlin's posture.

  Slowly she began to speak.

  'Tell me what I am supposed to know.’

  With this latest remark the Hauptsturmführer smiled.

  'Das ist besser Fräulein. Now we are getting somewhere.’

  His hands moved quickly and his fingers riffled the pages of the dossier in his quest for a particular document.

  He needed light. Hastily he rose from his chair and stretched out an arm in the general direction of the lamp. Simultaneously Caitlin swayed backwards in her

  chair and strained against the cord that prevented her from leaving her seat.

  Contrary to popular belief, Hermann was not a monster. He had spared her the piano wire… for now.

  It was as if the pair were polarised; two magnets repelling each other when too close.

  Herman found this reflex action intriguing, but refrained from making his observation common knowledge.

  Once the lamp had been turned to face the table, the photograph placed in front of her became clearer. The unfortunate thing was that she wished it had not.

  She knew the man well. It was Samuel Beasley.

  'Do you know this man, Fräulein?' he coughed the slightest of laughs before continuing, 'It is hard to read one's expression in the dark you see.’

  She didn't know what to do. Her current situation was one of great confusion. At that moment it felt like there were a multitude of thoughts running through her mind and there would never be enough time to make sense of them all.

  The silence that followed frustrated her interrogator and a fist made contact with the surface of the table.

  'Yes,' she acknowledged in no more than a whisper.

  'Danke' Hackbeil replied, 'Now we can truly begin.’ Slowly he removed his leather gloves and interlocked his fingers, as if in prayer.

  'Start at the beginning, my dear. Tell me how you first met Herr Beasley.’

  Out of all the emotions vying for Caitlin's attention, confusion appeared to be winning the fight.

  'What could you possibly want to know about Samuel?' Herman could not help smiling.

  'Anything and everything,' he declared with a wave of his hands.

  Caitlin was naturally apprehensive and could not imagine what Seb had gotten himself into. To say she was torn didn't do the situation justice.

  On the one hand she needed to be careful about what she told her captor and on the other she knew giving him nothing would result in some unpleasant consequences.

  After some careful consideration, she started at the beginning.

  'We met at university.’

  'Gut. Continue.’ The officer encouraged eagerly.

  'I was in my second year, studying to become an actress. Samuel was a year above me and close to finishing his degree.’

  'In journalism ja?' Hackbeil confirmed.

  Caitlin nodded before correcting him slightly.

  'English Literature. He passed with ease. He is very talented.’

  The Hauptsturmführer turned a few pages of the dossier before responding.

  'Unfortunately I can neither confirm nor deny this...' he smiled, 'but I believe you. Tell me about your relationship with this man.’

  Caitlin could not hide her disapproval just like the German had not hidden his accentuation upon the word, 'relationship.’

  'Come now Fräulein. You expect me to believe that you were merely friends?'

  'Yes' she replied abruptly, ‘Because that is the truth.’

  All the usual signs verified her response as truthful, but something refused to let Herman believe it.

  'I am afraid I do not believe you.’

  Unfortunately the dimly lit room was not weak enough. From her chair Caitlin could see the man called Herman had pulled on his gloves and clenched his leather-clad fists. Suddenly her captor broke the silence.

  'Convince me.’

  'We were not lovers, sir! Although...'

  The way his eyes shot up from the paperwork and stared into her own, startled Caitlin.

  'Continue!' barked the Hauptsturmführer.

  'I would be lying if I said there was no tension between us.’

  'And this means what exactly?'

  'It means that we both had feelings for one another, but knew it would be wrong to act upon them.’

  Herman reclined in his chair. His gloved hand made contact with his clean-shaven face.

  'Very interesting. Because you were already involved with another man yes?'

  'Yes.’

  'And you are still together now Fräulein?' There was a pause.

  'No.’

  'Why not?'

  'We were too different, too young. We drifted apart.’