The Sleeper

by J. Robert Janes

  There was no sense in avoiding it, thought Beck. ‘I have two alternate routes, Admiral: the main shaft and the adit. Both will, no doubt, be watched, and of the two, the adit offers the better route if needed. Karen will, I agree, most certainly be afraid. Sounds will echo and be confusing but not just to ourselves, also to any who might pursue us.’

  But had Herr Beck ever been in such a mine or even in an operating one? wondered Canaris, and how would he react himself? ‘What mines have you been in?’

  ‘Iron in Lorraine, Admiral, coal in the Ruhr, and potash to the north of Mulhouse.’

  That last in Alsace. Herr Beck had obviously expected the question and had been prepared, so gut. Ja, gut. ‘What makes you think MI5 won’t suspect you of using the mine, if necessary?’

  ‘Ach, the flooding and the danger,’ said Beck, ‘but you see, Admiral, I really have found an exit route. This early haulageway that extends right to below where the stamp mill and washing tables used to crush the ore and separate the cassiterite, continues on towards the adjoining Wheal Garrett. To get to it from below, there are any number of possibilities. Once there, we can not only reach the surface through those ancient workings, but will also be well to the south and downslope of the engine house and its main haulage and pump shafts, things the British will most likely be intently watching. The Luftwaffe’s photo reconnaissance was able to provide these aerial photos. Long moundlike ridges of waste rock lie between the ancient workings and the remains of that engine house, and on this early set of drawings, Admiral, whoever noted the ancient workings also noted “surface fissures.” That means that the horizontal sheeting planes and vertical joints that naturally cut such igneous rocks as granite into blocks, offered those very early miners a way of gaining entry. Bracken and surface rubble now hide those entrances, as they must have, no doubt, for centuries.’

  For millennia? wondered Canaris. Herr Beck had, however, looked quite deeply into things but that early haulageway’s timbering could well be highly questionable, subsequent rockfalls no doubt apparent. Certainly General von Hoffmann had set them a task, and since he was on the best of terms with Reichsführer Himmler, failure was not an option. But the child would not be taken into the mine unless absolutely necessary. ‘What about that county road that runs past the cottage and but a kilometre from it?’

  Beck acknowledged it would be closely watched by MI5 and that this had forced him to concentrate on a final exit as far to the south of it as possible. So intense had their discussion been, they had completely forgotten their coffee.

  ‘Joachim, what do you think?’ asked Canaris.

  ‘That I am grateful it is not to be myself, Admiral.’

  ‘And the other business?’ asked Canaris.

  That of MI6 and MI5 competing against each other instead of working together. ‘Progressing, Admiral. Brigadier Charles Edward Gordon will soon have to make a move. Osier, of course, will be aware of this.’

  Agent 07392. ‘And the general’s daughter?’ asked the admiral.

  ‘Prepared also.’

  Joachim was no fool, the woman could be very useful. ‘Her father wishes me to convey to you that should you fail, he will, indeed, hold you responsible, as will the Reichsführer. Now, please, a little coffee and for you, Herr Beck, a photograph of Hilary Bowker-Brown taken yesterday, I believe, in the rain and in London as she discovered someone had stolen those plans to that mine of hers. But it is interesting, is it not, that a girl should have wanted to buy a derelict mine and live like a hermit, especially one who can, apparently, use a revolver?’

  No more than twenty-eight, she was of medium height, the hair most probably dark brown, the style not new but deliberately cut short and swept back on both sides so as to keep it out of the way when needed. ‘She’s very French-looking, but does she also think like a Frenchwoman?’ asked Beck.

  ‘A good question for which, alas, we do not yet have an adequate answer, saving only that she spent much of her school years going from school to school and fighting far too often with the nuns over topics they felt she had no business thinking. The evils of war and the rights of the common people who become victims of such senseless killing and destruction, none of whom receive any posthumous remembrance nor even a mention in history books other than as casualties; the banks and their hold over personal finances, for another; the need for social well-being, too; and Karl Marx, Communism, Socialism and, if I may quote a reference, “the rights of the poor that God himself and his only son demanded they have.” A problem, I think, Herr Beck, should you have to settle her, even in that mine. Major-General Sir Stewart Menzies of MI6 would not have had the slightest interest in her, including his setting aside her socialistic convictions, were she not extremely capable.’

  The Abwehr had been busy. There were dossiers on the girl, but others on Captain Anthony James Pearce, Captain David Douglas Ashby, a Roger Banfield and one on Sir John Masterson. Leaving Beck to look through them, Canaris drew the Kapitän out onto the tiny balcony that overlooked the canal. ‘Joachim, how certain are you that this will succeed?’

  Far too many in Berlin must now be watching the outcome. ‘I’m never certain, Admiral. My whole intent is to minimize risk and maximize return.’

  ‘Colonel Buntington Hacker could be confronted with the murder of Ashby’s barmaid.’

  ‘A fact he would most definitely deny, Admiral, unless …’

  Canaris gave him a faint smile. ‘Unless we had indisputable proof.’

  Taking the envelope from him, Burghardt couldn’t help but see the return address of New Scotland Yard.

  ‘It is the summation, Joachim, of their investigation. Use it if necessary.’

  ‘The Abwehr never ceases to amaze me, Admiral.’ Quite obviously it had come from a source within the British upper echelons, but had it been deliberately leaked by Brigadier Charles Edward Gordon?

  ‘Sir John Masterson must be stopped,’ said Canaris. ‘If AST-X Bremen is ever to succeed in England, Wales, Scotland and even in Ireland, both North and South, he and his Watchers, who are the only ones in MI5 that currently see the Reich as a threat, must be dealt with. All the others, such as they are, seem far more concerned with the Soviets and Britain’s Communists. That …’ He indicated the envelope. ‘Will stop him, at least for a time. Masterson may well believe that Hacker, being overzealous and knowing they had to have a success against our threat that Whitehall would notice, killed the barmaid. But, Joachim, Masterson will also know that he, himself, will be called to account if ever the truth comes out. All that is necessary, then, is that we release that document to the British press.’

  ‘And Brigadier Gordon?’

  ‘Still has much to tell us.’

  The hawk, noted Christina, was hooded and on the heavy leather gauntlet of his left forearm, and when he removed the hood and untethered the flying jesses, he gave that arm a short lift and the bird sprang into the air. Taking a coiled thong with a feathered lure, he began to let it out, and as he swung it round and round, the hawk circled with it, calling sharply. It was Saturday, 11 June, and early, she having come up here as she had before, to survey the school from a distance. Not expecting to have met anyone, she was hesitant yet terribly excited for she had recognized him at once, and hadn’t both Werner and herself decided who he really was.

  As the length of the thong increased, the lure came low to the ground, then went higher and higher before dropping towards the ground again. Round and round it went, the mist grey on the pinkish-shouldered moors of the Quantocks.

  He wore no hat, this brigadier, this Osier, the dark blue canvas duck coat buttoned but open at the throat to reveal the soft grey collar of a plain Viyella shirt. Whipcord trousers and gumboots completed the attire. Swift-winged, the hawk rose and fell, the lure never far from it until Gordon suddenly thrust the arm that held the thong above his head, the hawk hitting the lure so hard feathers flew, its cries t
hose of elation and hunger.

  Giving it a moment before coiling in, he walked easily towards the hawk, his voice but a gentle admonition. ‘My dear, dear lady, don’t be so greedy. Your time will come.’

  The bird was refusing to give up the lure, felt Christina. It couldn’t understand the lack of blood and warm flesh, was tearing the thing to pieces, but had the brigadier known she would come here? Had he had someone follow her?

  Giving the hawk a bloodied tidbit, he coaxed it onto the gauntlet, calming it by stroking the back of its head and lightly preening the feathers.

  ‘It’s not your land, is it, dear lady?’ he asked, finally taking notice of her.

  Pulling off her kerchief, she shook out her hair. ‘No, of course not. I only came up here to see the ruins and listen to the songbirds.’

  Introducing himself, he said, ‘Please don’t be afraid of Morgan, Mrs. … ?’

  There was no sense in her lying about her identity, she giving it and taking a firm hand in her own to feel its coldness and see those bluest of eyes give her the once-over, then expectantly take her in with appreciation. ‘My husband is one of the teaching masters at Grantley’s,’ she said. ‘Do you come here often?’

  He held the arm with the gauntlet out to her. ‘Morgan, stay,’ he gently said. ‘Stay, my pretty. Stay.’

  The hawk hunched its shoulders and she thought it would spring at her, but he tethered the jesses, causing her to wonder if the assumed threat had been intended, he wanting to see if she could bring herself to relax with him in control.

  Again she asked if he came here often. When he shook his head, she found her cigarettes and began to open the case only to feel the quiet rebuke of, ‘Please don’t. The smoke will only upset her.’

  Wrapped in mist, the school lay well below them, beyond the moor and then the oak woods on the lower slopes.

  ‘Is it a good school?’ he asked, noting that she had plunged both hands into the pockets of the flecked tweed jacket of her suit.

  ‘The school?’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t really know, Brigadier. I’ve only just come over.’

  That wasn’t quite true, thought Gordon, but decided to leave it just as she would, no doubt, her disappointment at the failed attempt to take her daughter. ‘Found a place to stay, have you?’ he asked.

  ‘A cottage,’ she said. ‘Wetherby. It’s just down the road, near the bridge. I’ve not moved in but hope to. My husband and I have been separated for some time. I’m hoping to bring the two of us back together, not just for my own sake but for that of our daughter.’

  But how much, then, did she really know of himself? he wondered. She seemed as though excited by their meeting, and he had to wonder if Joachim Burghardt hadn’t told her to arrange just such a thing.

  As Gordon stroked the hawk’s head, Christina noticed a gentleness she hadn’t thought possible. As if at one with the creature, it responded totally. ‘She’s very beautiful,’ she said, wondering not only how much this Osier really knew of herself, but why he had chosen to meet her here.

  When she said she must leave, that she had an appointment with an estate agent to see over Wetherby Cottage, he thought that AST-X Bremen must have warned her to be careful, but that she would, quite possibly, be amenable to further contact. ‘We shall be at Llynwood, the home of my cousins, for a short time,’ he said. ‘It’s not far and just to the west of us a mile or two. Do come for a drink. It’s a lovely house and well worth seeing.’

  ‘I will. Yes … yes, if I can get away, I will.’

  Watching as she strode downhill, he waited, and when a young cottontail darted out from some bracken nearby, he loosed the jesses and lifted Morgan into the air, the hawk, a harrier, coming far too close for comfort and causing the schoolteacher’s wife to shield her face.

  As the rabbit’s shrieks pierced the early morning silence, it began to kick and squirm as rabbits will, and Christina Ashby, née von Hoffmann, half-lowered her arm. Still terrified, she looked uncertainly back at him from perhaps one hundred yards of moor.

  ‘Sorry about that, Mrs. Ashby,’ he called out as he approached. ‘Natural of her and a fine kill, but I mustn’t let her consume the rabbit, not if I’m ever to hunt with her.’

  Crouching to free the rabbit, he broke its neck and pocketed it before taking the hawk back onto his forearm and calming it, his time with the hood and then the tethering, his tone of voice again betraying a gentleness the Ashby woman found both difficult to understand in one such as himself and disconcerting. ‘Let’s walk down together,’ he said. ‘The invitation to Llynwood was genuine, Mrs. Ashby, though now I feel I owe you a profound apology and perhaps even a supper should you so choose.’

  Wetherby Cottage had been empty for some time, but where sunlight streamed in through the bay windows of the sitting room, it shone across a herringbone floor Karen would be sure to notice was crisscrossed by the diamond shadows of the leading.

  Alone, Christina stood with the sunlight warming her silk-stockinged feet. Some time ago she had kicked off her shoes and removed the woollen socks she had worn up on the moor.

  The estate agent, Mr. Horris Lamb of Taunton, had gone away to see to the papers, she having agreed to purchase the cottage and having put down a deposit of fifty pounds. But would it be enough to convince Brigadier Gordon that they could work together and that she wasn’t a threat to him? And would Ash believe what she was now going to claim?

  The meeting with Osier still excited her, but would the brigadier again try to take Karen without her help, even as MI5 were trying, or would he do something to stop them?

  There were benches beneath the widows, storage places that were lined with cedar. Karen would love it here. Ash would see this clearly and might accept that she hadn’t stayed in London at the Dorchester as he must have expected. He’d have telephoned to find out and she would have to lie, couldn’t tell him she had been back to the Reich and had only just arrived again. But had Ruth Pearce told him she had threatened her? Had Colonel Hacker told him she had locked him in that church?

  When he came up the walk to find her shoes and socks, and know she was in the cottage, he called out and she heard him clearly. Hesitantly he came on through, went into the kitchen, the pantry, found no sign of her and called out again.

  As he climbed the stairs, Christina heard him pause. Hesitant still, he came on, her heart hammering now, for he would see the lie of it all and spoil everything, and she had to get Karen away from him.

  Noticing the cigarette she had left to smoulder on a windowsill in one of the bedrooms, he waited, she to finally say, ‘Hello, Ash.’

  As he turned towards her, she stepped in on him so fast, he was caught off guard and felt the urgency of her embrace, her lips, her body, the sweet smell of her, the softness of her hair against a cheek.

  Grabbing his hands, she said, ‘Darling, this place is perfect. Karen will love it and you can come home to us every day.’

  ‘Christina, what are you up to?’

  A faint and nervous smile would suit best, her lips trembling with uncertainty. ‘That sounds as if you do not want me back. I thought … Well, after you had left my room at the Dorchester, we would … Well, you did say that if I came to the school, I could tell you what I had decided to do. But … but where is Karen? Isn’t she with you? She would love this house, would be so happy. It’s what I’ve come to realize we must do, darling.’

  Freeing his hands, he awkwardly straightened his glasses, was obviously quite disconcerted by her coming here like this.

  ‘Just where have you been since the Dorchester?’ he asked. ‘I tried to call you.’

  Since that, too, had been anticipated by herself, her smile could now be a little braver. ‘Why, I came to see the school, of course. I wanted to make up my mind, Ash, but unfortunately, not knowing of it, stayed at an inn near where that … that poor woman … That lover of you
rs had been murdered. Naturally I wanted to find out all I could about her.’

  ‘But used a different name, a Mrs. Talbotte from London.’

  ‘Of course. I couldn’t involve you, could I, until I knew what I had to do?’

  Having removed her suit jacket, she had hung it over a doorknob.

  ‘They tried to take Karen, Christina. They would have killed Hilary had she not shot at them.’

  So it was Hilary now, was it? She would turn away, would walk towards the window where she’d left her cigarette, would let him see her reach for it. ‘I didn’t know. My God, how could I have? Is Karen all right? She’ll have been terrified, poor thing.’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  Sitting down on one of the benches, she would let him see how the sunlight brought out the amber in her hair. ‘Is it that you think I must have had something to do with that attempt? Well, is it?’ she asked.

  He didn’t answer, only remained standing in the centre of the room, still not knowing exactly what to think, the fool. ‘All right, I did go back to the Reich. I went to see my father’s friends, and yes, I did come to know what they had tried to do and that this girl, this … this nanny you’ve got looking after our Karen really did shoot at them. We argued. I told him that Karen could well have been killed or seriously wounded had those idiots returned fire. One of them, I gather, told the wounded one not to do so, but to leave because Karen was standing far too close to that girl. Hearing all of this, I … I came over at once, and … and now am waiting for you to decide. You.’