Moral Compass (The Samuel Beasley Trilogy Book 1)

by Adam J Watts

  'I see. Where is this man now?'

  'Ireland.’

  Alarm bells started ringing in the Hauptsturmführer's head, but his facial expression didn't even flicker.

  'Tell me about this man Miss Legard.’

  'Why?'

  The way she fired this response back forced Herman to pause for thought. This kind of defensive reaction could mean only a few things.

  'Firstly, I would like to talk about his character.’

  ‘You didn't answer my question.’

  ‘I am the one asking the questions Miss Legard! It would pay for you to remember that.’

  She looked sheepish. A sign of recognition; she was in no position to argue.

  'Not much to say really. Educated, sporting, sociable.’ He decided to push the matter.

  'That is all well and good my dear, but you tell me nothing of value.’

  'I don't know what it is you want to hear,' her voice was strained.

  Before she knew what had happened, the officer's chair was on the floor and his figure was looming over her, his voice echoing around the walls of the tiny room.

  'I want a name!’ he snarled.

  Caitlin retorted with her arms raised in a defensive position.

  'I don't see how that is relevant.’

  'Trust me Fräulein, it is extremely relevant.’

  His composure regained, Herman gathered up the chair and retook his seat at the table.

  'Why do you need to know about Edward Irwin?’

  'Finally you are asking the right questions,' Hackbeil announced in an exasperated sigh. 'What I need to understand is why Herr Beasley sought out Detective Irwin.’

  An awkward silence befell the interrogation room.

  'How do you know Ed is a policeman?'

  'I know many things, Fräulein' he said with an air of confidence.

  For a moment, eye contact with the German officer was impossible.

  Seb had gone looking for Edward? The notion was not a plausible one.

  'Seb would never go to Edward.’ Caitlin finally murmured.

  'And why is that?'

  The suspense killed Herman. Finally an answer was forthcoming.

  'Because Samuel despises Ed.’

  It was getting late and the Hauptsturmführer had already garnered some valuable information from his first interrogation.

  'Not many more questions now Fräulein.’ He looked at her for a moment. She was clearly tired, but he had not

  finished with her yet. 'Tell me. Did you ever receive letters from Herr Beasley?'

  'Letters? No.’

  'But you must have seen how he composes his correspondence my dear. You did study together after all.’

  'I suppose so.’

  'Ja oder nein?' The tone of his voice was impatient now.

  'Yes,' she replied flatly. Herman smiled.

  'Excellent! What I would like you to do for me now is write a letter to Detective Irwin.’

  'I’m sorry?'

  She was clearly apprehensive toward the suggestion, but Herman had little time for deliberation.

  'It is not difficult Miss Legard. I shall tell you what to put and you shall make it sound like Herr Beasley has written it, ja?'

  Caitlin was aware that she had little choice in the matter. There was no place for refusal at this desk.

  A further ten minutes passed before the SS officer was satisfied with the work. Without uttering a word he called time on the interrogation.

  He was just about to close the door when his prisoner spoke out.

  'When you send the letter, put the envelope inside another, larger envelope.’

  He could not help but be intrigued by this instruction.

  'And why would I do that?'

  'If you want Edward to believe the letter is from Seb you'll do it.’

  Her voice was calm and steady with no sign of deceit.

  'Thank you Fräulein. I will make sure of it. There may be a position for you in the Reich after all.’

  His chuckle reverberated around the tiny closet of a room. Suddenly his prisoner spoke at speed.

  'Go ahead. Put your plan into action and see how far it gets you.’

  Herman did not approve of this comment and re-entered the room wearing a heavy frown.

  'Something tells me that you would like to see Detective Irwin suffer at the hands of the Nazi party my dear.’

  'I don't know what you mean.’ Herman knew that she did.

  The Hauptsturmführer locked the door behind him. She could spend the night tied to the chair for all he cared. He had got everything he needed for now.

  Ignoring the clock on his office wall, Herman set to work on his next ploy.

  Just as he had envisaged on the train to Berlin, he would lure out the detective using the spurious letter.

  Despite his captive's comments he knew the plan would work. Especially if he alluded to something Irwin desired, something all washed-up policemen want.

  To prove their abilities. To solve a big case...

  Chapter Twelve: Old Ground, New Problems ~ Autumn, 1961

  The line wasn't the best, but even via a transatlantic connection, the charisma and manipulative charm oozed from his southern accent.

  'You sure we can trust this guy?'

  'I'm afraid it isn't really a case of us trusting him, Mr. President.’

  The silence apparent on both ends of the phone was deafening.

  'And what is that supposed to mean, general?'

  'I'm afraid it is us who must win his trust, sir.’

  'You've got to be shitting me.’ The expletive said it all, 'I will remind you general; it was your organisation that recommended this - so-called - Arctic Fox.’

  This reminder made General Williamson nervous. There were few things that made him feel truly ill-at- ease, but this exchange was fast becoming one of them.

  'The Berlin Blockade, the Korean War...'

  'I do not need a history lesson...'

  'Even Vietnam.’ Silence.

  'You didn't know he was present at your own private party?'

  'On whose side?'

  'He doesn't take sides Mr. Kennedy.’

  'Everyone takes sides, general.’

  At this point Williamson could hear some background chatter and what sounded like the shuffling of papers.

  'Can you find me a solution general, or do I need to take matters into my own hands?'

  Momentarily George paused for thought. He would need to call in more than a few favours...

  'I'll see what I can do.’

  Suddenly the line was dead.

  ***

  The morning of December the 13th had reached a whole new level of cold. The wind bore down to the bone and snow had become a permanent fixture. Add to this the level of anxiety currently at play within the Federation and you had a pretty unwelcoming scenario.

  'He had better be here General Polkovnik Sokolov.’ Williamson did not like Sokolov. Although it wasn't hard for the old soldier to see how this weasel of a man had worked his way through the ranks, it was still difficult to accept. To have a person so open to corruption and in such a privileged position was a disaster waiting to happen.

  'Call me Dimitri, please. He will show. I make personal request.’

  With this Sokolov puffed out his scrawny chest and straightened his military hat. A distinct show of authority and arrogance.

  How George wanted to wipe that smile from his face.

  'Very well Dimitri. I thank you for your cooperation in this delicate matter.’

  'Mother Russia is pleased to extend her cousin this act of kindness. She will of course, expect something similar in return.’

  From beneath the clock tower, the two men squinted into the low winter sun. More pointless than powerful, its rays gave nothing in the way of heat. A nuisance to most, but to those in the know, a potent tool.

  Twenty years is time enough to create a persona. The man with a different name on every continent. A ghost, an arbi
trator of death -- the Arctic Fox became his alias in Eastern Europe.

  In Africa he was revered as the White Mamba, in South America el León de Montaña. An indiscriminate predator of the deadliest kind.

  'Stealth and cunning are the primary weapons in his arsenal, general. He is watching us right now.’

  'But we are watching him too, yes?'

  Dimitri appeared to find this question most amusing.

  'I could post a man at every vantage point, but this would be great waste of resources.’

  'Oh come on, you expect me to believe...'

  'Why -- General Williamson -- do you think he has chosen this location?'

  'The open space of course.’

  'Correct, but this is not the only reason.’

  With this Sokolov waved a gloved hand in the direction of an unnervingly large man. In a matter of seconds, he had manoeuvred his oversized frame to the side of his superior officer.

  'This is Viktor Kuznetsov. We fought together on Russian front. Viktor, be so kind to tell Mr. Williamson why our mutual friend chose location.’

  George could have sworn the virgin white ground beneath his feet trembled when Kuznetsov spoke.

  'Of course. This was where we first met, but it is more than that. The open courtyard provides excellent cover for the watcher, while giving little shelter...'

  Williamson never heard the shot. Even if he had, there would have been no time to react. The only thing that prevented his bereft body from falling to the floor was the outstretched arm of Viktor.

  ***

  A few hours passed before the commotion died down and the scene was clear of any evidence. Not a trace of the late General Williamson remained and neither did the Russian authorities.

  This was an occurrence they would try and keep under lock and key. Only a select few would ever know the truth. An unfortunate accident, a most regrettable incident. Of course, the British Government would be informed, but what happened next would be decided in a boardroom or via a long-distance call.

  Seb had seen the whole thing unfold from his vantage point in a hotel room across the courtyard. It was a good shot and a clean kill, but one thing worried him...

  It did not come from his rifle.

  He had no intentions of shooting anyone, but it paid to be cautious. High-ranking military officials do not call you out of hiding for nothing. Whatever it was, it was going to be big.

  The shot appeared to have come from another building, further to the left. His best guess? That someone knew about the meeting and wanted to provoke a response.

  A sneeze in the wrong place could send the world into nuclear meltdown.

  His first reaction was to track down the rogue sniper. This was however, foolish and could not be achieved without raising the suspicions of many people. Whoever had committed this crime was aware of that. For now, Seb was confined to his hotel room and his thoughts.

  What did British Intelligence want with him?

  Who stood to gain an advantage from what had just happened?

  This was something he needed to find out and quickly.

  Chapter Thirteen: A Cold Front ~ Autumn, 1942

  Seb couldn’t tell if the distant rumblings were a direct result of the relentless weather or another aerial bombardment raining down on Leningrad.

  It made no difference; he was still wet and the closer the noise came, the better the aural camouflage.

  The Western Front was hardly the best place in the world to move around unseen. Time and experience of the game plan here had so kindly informed Seb of this fact. You could not move a few metres on neutral ground before the shots rang out and anyone wishing to go the distance out here would have to learn these facts quickly.

  Russia is sniper territory, simple as that. Be it the Russians themselves or the German marksman, there was a high-calibre rifle bullet with your name on it.

  If you needed to get from A to B in this desolate landscape, you moved very carefully. Seb’s tactic for making headway usually involved a diversion of some sort.

  Today would be no different.

  So many days held a similar feel, the same sights, sounds and smells. Objects and belongings appeared eternally dampened, along with the spirit of the locals. Not once in his two weeks here had Seb witnessed anything but a battleship-grey sky overhead.

  From his vantage point on the second floor of an abandoned factory, he could see a tired-looking group of soldiers. As he continued to observe the men they began to reluctantly form up in front of a staunch senior officer.

  Pausing for thought, Seb tried to recollect where he had previously seen the expressions ground into their weather-beaten faces. It was no secret that the ranks of the glorious Red Army had suffered heavy casualties and a drastic drop in morale.

  The men directly below him were like many more he had seen. Seb could only imagine what it must be like to live in the knowledge that you will be killed in the next few minutes.

  It made no difference if you moved forward or back in these situations. Move forward and you will be saying hello to the aptly named ‘buzzsaw.’ Move backwards and there will be a revolver pointing at your head.

  How about that for motivation?

  He had to do something. Although well aware of the potential repercussions Seb had to level the playing field. Besides, he had been in the Soviet state for a while now and made absolutely no progress.

  Perhaps sparing a few of these chaps and gaining some positive yardage would have an impact? There was no time to weigh up the options. The assault was imminent and Seb still needed to descend from the factory and get to the group before the kick-off.

  The plan was risky but it was a calculated risk. Being recognised was hardly the issue, but a lot hinged directly on the willingness to bend of the soldiers he approached.

  Seb laid everything on the line and believed that given the choice, a few of the men would readily take another route. As long as his disguise held up, they should be open to offers.

  It was a large group and during a rough count of heads Seb spied at least fifty men. Half a ton should prove more than enough of a smoke screen, provided he moved quickly.

  There had been something of a delay surrounding what can only be described as an upset stomach and a similarly perturbed senior officer. In his finest hour, one soldier had elected to bring up his beetroot and potato salad, all over the commanding officer’s boots.