by Adam J Watts
This would deem the Spanish territories neutral and as such unsurpassable to land units. The only way around the blockade would be through the air or on the waves.
Getting the Italians onside was a shrewd move. Not only because it boosted the body count, but because it strengthened the Axis’ hold on the waterways above Africa. Seb was unsure of the military politics and any written laws, but as far as he understood it; if a political power of the same orientation controls landmasses on either side of a waterway or canal, the aforementioned powers had the final say on what vessels could utilise the channel.
As for air travel, Seb didn't fancy anyone's chances on a flight from South Africa. Especially if you were heading north.
As he stood, staring out to sea Seb could not help thinking about the last time he did so. Himself and Gerald had been having breakfast and discussing their meeting later that morning. Meanwhile, somewhere not too far away, a certain German officer had been plotting his attack.
***
The trail appeared to stop at the airbase. Aside from the scraps of information he could garner surrounding the new whereabouts of the stolen documents, there was nothing to be found.
There was only one thing for it and the thought of heading back there had him worried. He would have to return to Britain and seek council with someone in the know.
Gerald had many colleagues at the Firm and he was sure one of them could tell him something worthwhile. All he needed to do was find the right man and apply an appropriate form of pressure.
***
Two weeks at sea proved to be extremely frustrating. The sooner those white cliffs came into view, the sooner he could get to work.
Having docked at Southampton Seb edged his way down the gangplank. The harbour was bristling with people. The majority of the disembarking passengers were civilians, but a fair share of the travellers were tradesmen and military personnel.
The queue for luggage collection was enormous and Seb was thankful for travelling light. A briefcase, a rucksack and one of his many passports was all he needed on this occasion.
His primary destination had to be the building where Gerald had once had his office. The business card was no longer in his possession, but Seb could quite clearly remember the address and how the facade looked.
How he would get inside the building remained unclear, but Seb had an inkling that his history in amateur dramatics would prove useful in his hour of need.
'Pardon me sir,' the random sailor said as he hurried past.
Seb instinctively felt for his wallet. It was still in there, but he didn't like being out in the open during daylight hours.
Stopping briefly in a cafe for something to eat and drink, he observed a newspaper on the table opposite. There was obviously a man sitting behind the paper reading it, but this wasn't of any interest to Seb.
The thing that had caught his attention was the article that adorned the front page.
It was as if he were staring into the past. A grainy, black and white, miniature version of the past... Good Lord! There was a photo of him on the front page of the Evening Standard.
He needed to drink up and leave as fast as he could. It would be only a matter of time before the reader of the broadsheet and quite possibly half the paying public in the eatery realised who he was. If they hadn't already!
Safely outside the cafe now, Seb took stock of the situation. He needed to get hold of a copy of the newspaper -- without arousing the suspicion of the vendor -- and read exactly what lies his own Government were saying about him.
With a flat cap donning his head and the collar on his overcoat pulled up, Seb approached a random newspaper stall.
'Evening Standard please,' he barked in the gruffest voice he could muster.
'Certainly squire,' came the reply.
Seb paid the man with the correct change and quickly went on his way.
Thankfully he had not been identified and with a bit of luck he wouldn't be until he had put some distance between himself and the seller.
What time was it? 4.30pm. He might just have time to visit an old haunt of his. A costume shop. The place where he acquired all his personal props and stage make-up back in the day. He had envisaged the need for a disguise when he breached the military intelligence building, but he hadn't anticipated the necessity for one when merely walking the streets of London.
Closed. All was not lost however, as the shop had a tradesmen's entrance. A way in that the recently trained Seb could facilitate given the appropriate tools.
He hated the notion of stealing in any form, but to rob one's friends is a hard act to swallow.
Perhaps one day he would be able to tell old Avi the truth and confess to what was arguably a crime of desperation, but for now he would have to push his pride to one side and continue rummaging through the beard and wigs section.
Some ten minutes later Seb had amassed an assortment of disguises. He had been careful to select three of four colour combinations that were both interchangeable
and that sat well on his face/head. After all there would be no point having a disguise that looked out of place.
There was no time to waste. Someone could recognise him at any moment, so disguise number one had to be fitted and adjusted right there in the rather basic bathroom behind the shop.
Looking in the cracked mirror Seb could hardly recognise himself and this was just what the doctor ordered.
He did his best to secure the back door of the shop as he left. The last thing he wanted was for a real criminal to chance upon an unlocked building. Especially if it was his carelessness that lead to the future intrusion.
Back on the streets, his confidence was restored. He now sported a wig considerably longer than his own hair and of a darker tone, a relatively dense, top lip moustache and a fedora. A combination that should allow him to blend in whilst riding the underground rail network to the home of MI6.
***
The train journey was a particularly awkward one. A small child had taken a liking to his hairpiece on an incredibly cramped train. One sharp tug and the toupee could have stilted to one side, or worse become completely detached.
There was nothing for it. He had no choice but to cause a fuss over the behaviour and adopt the persona of a, 'spiv' whilst doing so.
'Madame. Can you please do something about your unruly child?'
'He's just being friendly,' replied the cockney maiden.
'That may be, but I have only just had my Barnet attended to.’
'Sorry my love?'
She had clearly paid as much attention to the conversation as she had done her boisterous brat of a son.
'It's just been done!'
'I think you were.’
With this the woman stood up, grabbed the arm of her child in a similar fashion to that of a parental orang-utan and shuffled down the train. Crisis averted.
The newspaper article was farcical. Seb was apparently public enemy number one. In the time he had been away from home, the press and those pushing the political buttons had him marked as a Nazi sympathiser. He shuddered to think how news like this might have impacted on the family business... If he hadn't already sold out to an American consortium.
Unbeknown to his mother, Seb had been in talks with the overseas businessmen shortly after his introduction to Gerald. He knew that if things were to go wrong, the Government would try to ruin him, slur his good name and leave him with nothing. This way they would hope that he would have no alternative, but to come crawling back to them cap in hand.
They would once again be his master and force him to do their dirty work.
Well not for this lad. He was shrewder than that. As soon as he became aware that his immediate future lay with Gerald, he concocted a contingency plan of his own: sell up, save some and invest the rest. He would
do all of his financial dealings via an establishment in a faraway land -- somewhere well out of the blast radius.
He had eventually settled on a West
Indian bank and conducted the deal via telegrams and the occasional phone call. He'd gotten a pretty good price, considering it was a quick sale and was happy with the end result. His account manager was informed of the investments he wished to make and Seb proceeded to live off the interest.
'Wanted for crimes against the crown.’ How could they?
The idea of betrayal was still playing on his mind when the train started to slow down. This was his stop. Quickly he disembarked and worked his way along the platform. It was only a short journey on foot from the station to the building in question and Seb knew that time was of the essence.
Gerald had once told him that the man in question almost always worked late. On some nights the guard on the front desk had been left with no alternative but to physically remove the pair. Seb hoped that tonight was one of those occasions.
The sound of his own footsteps could be heard against the pavement. They formed a kind of uneasy rhythm as he advanced down the road. In a way the noise was comforting, as he at least knew nobody else was in the immediate vicinity.
His mind was ticking over like the engine on an old diesel. He was formulating his plan of entry. The means with which he would convince the guard on duty to let him in. Without proper identification in the form of a
security pass, there was no alternative, but to sneak past the sentry.
A distraction was necessary. Something big and effective enough to give the guard a desire to leave his post, but not so dramatic that it caught the attention of otherwise oblivious passers-by.
The pavement was rapidly running out and a plan wasn't forthcoming. Maybe something simple would do the trick? It was a long shot, but worth a try. He could always revert to an elaborate ploy afterwards.
It didn't take long to find an appropriate object. Not far from the entrance of the building there was a patch of grass and a few trees. The eternally optimistic may well have viewed this as a small park, but to Seb it was just a poor attempt.
Gift horses however, should not be looked in the mouth --whatever that actually means -- and the ample boulder he now held in his hand would certainly serve a purpose.
By now it was practically dark and this particular district of the capital rarely saw visitors after six o'clock at the latest. This didn't prevent Seb from being careful, as he circled around and approached the glass frontage from the right.
In what would be a dash non-too-dissimilar to that of a quick single in cricket, he sprinted past the entrance, collar up and hat down.
The rock had proved highly effective, shattering one of the windows in the blink of an eye. From his hiding place a mere twenty yards to the left, Seb waited for a furious figure in blue to emerge from within.
It took no time at all for the security guard to unlock the door and exit the building. It was hard to tell in the dusk, but his body language was less than inviting.
Seb was prepared and chose this moment to throw a secondary, smaller pebble in the general direction of the, 'park.’ His hope was that the employee would hear the noise and venture further from the door in an attempt to apprehend the perpetrator.
The pebble must have landed in some shrubbery, as it made a noise more perfect than Seb could have imagined. It actually sounded like someone was trying to lay low in the bushes.
Naturally -- and to Seb's relief -- the security guard had the same idea and strode out toward the landscaped area, truncheon at the ready. Now was his opportunity.
As quickly and as quietly as he could, Seb emerged from behind the rubbish bin and scuttled into the building. He didn't turn back, thinking that time wasted doing so would favour the man he sought to avoid.
Once inside he hurried past the front desk and on towards the elevators. In theory these should be stationed on the ground floor and awaiting the arrival of a new passenger. They were. He was in. Now he just needed the doors to close and he was home and dry. Why wouldn't the doors close?
Perhaps they needed to be given a destination before they would shut. It didn't really matter where he went for now, as long as it wasn't here, so he pressed for the third floor.
The doors slowly shuddered together and Seb thought he saw the silhouette of the guard outside just as they did so.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, Seb strained to remember the combination of buttons Gerald had depressed that fateful morning. What was the number combination? It had been something memorable, he was sure of that. Could it have been an historical date?
Of course! Five, three and seven. The estimated year in which King Arthur died. Gerald you old romantic...
The lift stopped at the first selected floor and the doors opened. As expected, this was nothing more than an everyday office. Time to try the code.
Seb reached out both hands and pressed all three numbers simultaneously. At first nothing happened, although this was the case the last time, as far as he could remember.
Finally the doors closed once more, leaving the third floor behind forever. Movement. He was descending again and it certainly felt good to be heading in the right direction.
Now he would get some answers...
***
The layout of the lower levels was just as Seb remembered it. Minus the people of course. What was usually a hive of activity now stood remarkably still. There was no time for reminiscing, however; he had a job to do. Hopefully the scientist who created the stolen technology would still be here, but if not he would need to do some digging.
Slowly he advanced down the corridor, unsure of his way. It would have been helpful if there were signs of some description -- perhaps on the walls, but no. There was nothing. Obviously you needed to work here for a while before you knew your way around.
Stopping to peer along an adjacent passageway Seb heard a noise. It sounded like it came from behind him, but he couldn't be sure with the acoustics abound.
'Who are you?' an unknown voice cracked with some uncertainty.
Seb spun on his heels and the figure came into view.
He was an aging man with grey hair, spectacles and a tea cup in one hand. Covering his upper body was a long white coat. This had to be the inventor. If not, he might know where he could be found... with a little, 'persuasion.’
'I'm sorry sir. You won't know me. I used to work with Sir Stratton.’
The old man was initially confused, 'Gerald? But he's dead...'
'Yes. I was sorry to hear the news myself.’
The old man laughed unexpectedly before speaking, 'I wasn't.’
'I see...'
'Wait a minute... Are you who I think you are?'
'I suppose that depends who you think I am,' Seb replied whimsically.
The old man couldn't help, but smile, 'Are you the young man from the newspaper?'
At first Seb anticipated a reaction. Panic might have been top of his list, but yet the older gent remained perfectly calm. 'I suppose you have questions.’
'As a matter of fact I do, but those things they're saying about me...'
'Are complete nonsense?'
Seb was surprised by this, 'Yes. How did you know?'
'Because I knew Gerald my boy... Please, follow me.’
Chapter Nineteen: Out Of The Frying Pan ~ Summer, 1940
As Ed stepped from the train he was greeted by a sea of German soldiers. Occupied Paris was not a pleasant sight.