Miro got up and left the room. Running upstairs, he locked his bedroom door, shifted his chest of drawers and pulled up the loose floorboard. He took out his notes and read through them. There was no mistake. The memos to Simon had stated that the rocket base was being constructed in the Outer Hebrides. The old holiday camp was where the German POWs were being housed. He felt as if he were going mad. Running downstairs, he reached for his duffel coat and ran to his bicycle. Moments later he was pedalling towards Pines.
The morning sun rose ruddy in a clear sky. By eight, the sun’s heat had warmed the earth, releasing the scent of damp grass and wild herbs. A sharp tang of ozone was rising from the sea, but Miro had no eyes for the beauty of the morning. He searched in vain for signs of the military and eventually settled for two ARP men trying to straighten a broken sign which read: ‘Pines Holiday Camp, closed for the duration’.
‘Were they all killed?’ he wanted to know.
‘Who’s that then, young lad?’ one of them said.
‘The German POWs.’
‘You’ve got noises, young man. I’d go home and rest if I were you. There’s nowt here but old huts and one main dance hall. The rubble’s over there, but you aren’t allowed in. The land has been for sale for this past twelve months. Who would want it now? Off you go then.’
So Miro investigated the adjoining wood. Soon he was perched on the tallest pine tree, scanning the demolished camp with John’s binoculars, which he had borrowed for the occasion.
He took a last look to satisfy himself that there was no rubble, no barbed wires, just craters with scattered broken masonry, and splintered wood as far as you could see. He felt strangely disorientated as he climbed down the tree.
Helen was talking on the telephone when Miro reached home. ‘But darling, we don’t have enough coupons for a lamb roast. Be reasonable. Tell you what, get a chicken from Mrs Smith. Tell her I’ll send her a parachute.’ So Daisy was out shopping. He could see John mucking out the stables.
Miro crept upstairs to Helen’s room, turned the door handle quietly and stepped inside. There was a vague smell of lavender, perhaps from the little muslin bags Helen filled to go into her drawers. He knew exactly where she kept her gun because Daisy had shown it to him. It was in the bottom drawer under her petticoats. He didn’t feel bad about stealing it. Helen no longer needed it. She had acquired it early in 1940 in order to be able to fight the Germans should they invade Britain. Eric was in Iran at the time. All threat of invasion was over and she should have handed it to the police, like everyone else, but she had hung on to hers.
Miro’s hands were shaking as he took the gun and a box of six bullets, which was all that he would need. He shut the drawer, took a deep breath and opened the door. Fortunately Helen was still on the telephone. He crept downstairs, waved to Helen and left via the back door. It was much too early to meet Paddy, but he could not risk staying at home since Helen might discover that her gun was missing. He would hang around the beach, he decided. He set off on his bike.
He was calmer now, and a great many puzzling facts were fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle presenting a picture that he didn’t want to see. It was right there, always had been, but he had not bothered to look the facts straight in the face. He’d stupidly believed that Simon was not investigating him. What were those reassuring words Simon had uttered when he came across him practising in the folly: ‘Any one of you Kindertransport children could be a plant. If you were, you would have been moved to the Isle of Man by now, since you’ve reached seventeen. But no one could imitate a decade of hard training, to say nothing of your talent.’
Flattery and reassurance had smothered his common sense and he had continued to rifle through Simon’s work for something innocuous that Paddy might consider useful. And Simon, as if to show that he trusted him, had been just as friendly and helpful as ever, leaving his door unlocked, his bin full of crumpled, classified memos and his briefcase open on his desk. Miro shuddered. He couldn’t think straight, but he knew what he had to do.
Twenty-Five
Simon returned home from London late that evening. At first the house seemed empty. Then he saw that the door of his room lay open.
‘Helen!’
Hurrying to the doorway he saw her standing at the window. Her back was turned to him and for an insane moment his spirits soared and he imagined that she wanted to make love. He had a stray memory of Helen sitting astride him, as she had been two nights ago, her mouth swollen with passion, her eyes half-closed.
Helen turned abruptly and her expression dispelled all such foolish dreams.
‘Helen what’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening. Miro has gone and he’s taken my gun. Something is going on and I know that you are involved. Get him back, Simon. I’m telling you now . . . I want him back here unharmed and I don’t want the police to hear about the gun. Don’t call them.’ She stepped forward and gripped his shoulders hard. ‘Safe and unharmed, do you hear me? Do that for me.’
He’s not a child, Simon wanted to tell her, but now was not the right time. ‘I’ll do my best. Where’s John?’
‘He’s out looking, too.’
Moments later Simon was speeding out of the driveway in his jeep. He glanced at his watch. It was ten p.m., that curious time of the evening when headlights are swallowed by the gloom and visibility is down to a few metres. His team had been keeping an eye on Miro for the past few weeks. They knew where he met his controller and where his controller lived. They also knew his name, which was Brannigan, and his shop, and they had been following him for weeks. So far he had led them to three other spies in his network. The PWE didn’t want him picked up yet. He was too valuable where he was.
Miro always met Brannigan between eleven and midnight on summer evenings when twilight lingered, but Simon didn’t have much time. He called his PA.
‘I need backup fast. Send some of the team to the main Mowbray roads from London and Claremont. Call me at once if Brannigan passes in his van or his car. I may need you to go after him, so be quick and have a motorbike at each point.’ It was unlikely that Paddy had changed the meeting place. He’d just have to hope for the best.
Why would Miro want the gun? To kill himself? Or to kill his controller? Both, Simon reckoned. If Miro realized that the game was up he would be very frightened. Frightened boys are dangerous, both to themselves and to others. Simon pressed his foot on the accelerator.
Miro listened to the gentle splashing of the waves and smelled the seaweed and shellfish exposed by the low tide. A slight breeze from the sea brought a tang of ozone. It was colder than he had realized and he shivered. Gulls were crying from the neighbouring rooftops and he heard the occasional car drive by. Once a couple walked past the pillbox. Lovers perhaps. He heard the throb of a fishing boat returning to harbour half a mile down the coast and later he heard voices raised in the parking square behind the beach. He tried to concentrate on these familiar sounds and not to think of what he was about to do. It was over for him, and his parents, but he was determined that Paddy would die, too, because he was the enemy and he had to be put out of the way. God knows how many others were caught in his web.
Half an hour later, Miro heard a jeep pull up. The engine started up again and the driver moved a hundred yards along the road before parking. Footsteps came softly along the pavement and down the wooden steps to the beach. Someone was creeping towards the pillbox. It was Simon, Miro decided. Helen had discovered that her gun was missing and Simon had come looking for him. So he knew where they met. He wondered what more Simon could possibly know. He had underestimated him. They might have been watching him for weeks. The footsteps paused outside the pillbox and he heard a rustle of fabric as Simon squatted by the entrance.
Miro tightened his grip on the gun.
‘I know you’re in there, Miro. You shouldn’t leave your footprints all over the damn place. When you work for me you’ll have to do better than that.’
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Miro shivered. He wasn’t going to be fooled that easily.
‘Come out. I know exactly what that place is like. Fetid air, sand sodden with urine, so come out before you catch something. I promised Helen I’d bring you back safe and sound.’
Don’t bring Helen into this, he longed to say, but he decided to remain silent.
‘It must have been hell having to choose between working for the SS and letting your parents die. You thought you were locked between two evil choices, but you were wrong, there is another way . . . a way out for you and your family. I was waiting for the right opportunity to tell you. As a double agent you would be very useful to us, and you’ll be able to satisfy these creeps sufficiently to keep your parents alive. I’m coming in, Miro. We have to talk. We don’t have all night. Brannigan usually gets here around ten thirty to eleven.’
‘I don’t believe you, Simon.’
‘So far twenty-three spies have been caught in Britain. Nineteen of them have been turned and are working for the Allies. Four Nazi zealots have been hanged. It’s standard procedure.’
Was he merely one of them? Simon’s words hurt. ‘Keep out,’ he said softly. ‘I have a gun, it’s loaded and I’ll see you clearly silhouetted against the sand. I have something to do tonight and if you try to stop me I’ll shoot you.’
‘I don’t think you’ll do anything of the sort,’ Simon whispered. ‘We’re friends. I’m coming in. Please don’t shoot Brannigan. We need him to pass on our disinformation.’
‘Don’t . . .’ Miro said loudly. ‘Don’t come any closer.’
The dim light darkened as Simon blocked the exit.
Miro put the gun down. Simon was right. He couldn’t shoot him.
‘Give me the gun, Miro. Is it loaded?’
‘Yes. The safety catch is on.’
He handed it to Simon, who ejected the bullets and put the gun and the bullets in his coat pocket. ‘Came out of the ark by the look of things. It’s a good thing Helen never used it. She might have blown her hand off.’
‘How long have you known?’ Miro asked.
‘I suspected you ever since I arrived here . . . even before then. There had to be a reason why they let you out of the camp. They aren’t philanthropic, as far as I know. Have you any proof that your parents are alive?’
‘They send me snaps from time to time.’
‘Did you hear the news this morning?’
‘Just the news . . . is that it? Yes, I heard it. How did you guess that I’d transferred the rocket station?’
‘I knew you wouldn’t reveal a rocket station to those bastards, but from the enemy’s viewpoint, the exercise was far too costly merely to annihilate POWs who had turned traitor.
‘Listen Miro,’ Simon continued, ‘surely the news bulletin proves that I’m backing you? It was broadcast to save your ass. Come on, Miro. Let’s get back to the jeep. I have four teams looking out for Brannigan. They’ll contact me on the radio when he’s on the way, but you never know. He might even walk here.’
‘I can’t leave. I have to deliver some information and you know why. When I come empty-handed they cut back their food.’
Simon swore. ‘What have you got?’
‘Nothing much. Your memo about the Yanks stockpiling masses of equipment in the New Forest, but I changed that to Dartmoor.’
‘The Foreign Office has to check all the info we pass on. They call them sibs, from the Latin—’
‘I know,’ Miro said.
‘Then you should know that you can’t change them around to suit yourself. Give it to me. It will be more useful later. Meantime you can tell him that a twelve-man team, set up by me, has learned the rudiments of underwater sabotage and that we are ready for a night raid on Calais to inspect the defences. Oh yes, and there’s something else. Tell him the Brits are sending financial aid to the anti-Hitler movement inside Germany. Tell him it’s almost a million strong. That should wipe the smile off his ugly face.’
‘Why should I want to tell him about the sabotage?’
‘You won’t be giving him anything that’s factual.’
‘So what happens next?’
Simon exhaled with relief. It was over.
‘I’ll take you to London to meet the real agents – not amateurs like me. You’ll have to put up with a gruelling interrogation lasting days, or weeks. After that comes specialized training which takes a couple of weeks . . . probably longer. Tell Paddy that you are being sent away for a month’s musical study with a family friend who lives near Canterbury. We want him to believe you when you tell him about the vast array of US technical equipment being stacked all over Kent. You’ll be sent to a school in Kent to learn the things you’ll need.’
‘And then?’
‘Life will carry on much as it is now, except . . . and I must be honest here . . . it will be more dangerous for you, because you might get caught. Of course you’ll get paid.’
‘But after the war . . . I’ll face the music?’
‘No. If you’re smart you’ll be able to put yourself through university with what you will have saved. Take care. We’re with you, Miro. All of us. See you later.’
‘What about your footsteps?’
Simon swore. ‘Good thinking.’ He scuffed them with his jacket. The sand was dry and it worked.
Paddy arrived at eleven p.m. and found Miro squatting on the ledge outside the pillbox. He told him what he had supposedly overheard Simon telling John. Paddy seemed satisfied.
‘Not bad, Miro, not bad at all. In fact, well done! Your mum will get caviar, my boy.’
Miro hoped that Paddy couldn’t see the fury in his eyes. Was he really human? Hell was too good for him.
Paddy seemed pleased when he heard about his holiday. He wanted an update on US equipment stashed around Kent and details of additional troops arriving. ‘We need some juicy gossip, Miro. Everyone’s too pally around this area. How about the black market? That’s a fertile area. See what you can find out.’
Miro said goodbye and cycled home, but something was different tonight – what was it? He paused some distance down the road and stood still, scenting the air, listening and feeling the vibes. It was well after dark, but some birds were still singing and there were rustlings in the grassy ditch beside the road. He smelled honeysuckle and privet in bloom, and the strong scent of tobacco flowers from a neighbouring garden. But what was new? Then it came to him. He had lost that spooky feeling, a sense that someone was targeting a spot between his shoulder blades. He felt as if he’d shed a heavy load. The penny dropped at last: they must have been following him for weeks, but tonight no one was targeting him. He was completely alone and it felt great. Jumping on his bike, he sped home.
Miro endured Helen’s tears and hugs and reprimands and insisted that he had only borrowed the gun to shoot a badly maimed rabbit caught in a trap.
Later, in bed, he wept because at last he was able to live with himself. He wept for his parents, too, who had encountered only hatred, and for himself, because he had found only love which he was sure he had never deserved, and he wept for Helen, who would worry about him for the rest of the war, and Simon, who he knew loved him, too, and he wept for every Jew who had ever been abused. Finally he wept for all humanity because now he knew that people were filled with love, but sometimes that love was smothered and suffocated, through no fault of their own until they lost faith in themselves and forgot who they really were. Mainly he wept with relief.
Twenty-Six
As Mike drove towards the village centre on Sunday morning he had an impulse to turn back to camp. He had planned this stolen day to give him a chance to explain to Daisy what had happened, but he could hardly face her. It was his fault for falling asleep. He understood Gramps and knew where he stood with him. The old man wanted to keep his family in England, but he’d been sneaky and underhand in going to their company commander. Captain Rose was determined that ‘his boys’ would not marry foreign women and he’d taken Cooper’s side wit
hout bothering about the emotional repercussions, although he’d had the nerve to lecture Mike at length on doing the right thing by ‘this young lady’. Mike guessed that Daisy could do better for herself, perhaps living on a ranch was not ideal for a talented artist, but she wouldn’t find anyone who loved her more than he did.
It was early September and the day was perfect, warm and sunny without a cloud in sight. He was driving past farmlands, with occasional stone cottages set between the fields and before him the morning sun shimmered on the dew-damp road. This year’s lambs were fat and glossy and almost fully grown and the wheat was ripening, as strong and healthy as you like. He swerved to miss a partridge racing across the road. A good place for farming, he thought, but he’d rather be home. Daisy and he would build their own house right next to Pa’s, or maybe down across the river beyond the willows. It was nice there, with ducks in the dam and trees all around. He began to plan the house and almost before he knew it, he was pulling up at the bus stop.
There was Daisy, looking so pretty in her blue floral frock, with a white leather belt and her hair piled up on top of her head, a straw purse flung over her shoulder.
He waved and Daisy ran towards him, cheeks flushing, eyes sparkling, her fine blonde hair loose and bouncy. He hurried around the jeep to help her in and she pounced on him, but he fended her off. ‘Whoa there! Hang on . . . let’s get out of the village first.’
As soon as they were out of sight of the village, Mike pulled up on a grassy verge to kiss her. Her thighs were warm against his. ‘It’s real nice here,’ he said, feeling down in the mouth at having to leave.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Daisy asked. ‘You’re different . . . you even kissed differently and you’re making an effort to talk. You never have to make an effort. What’s got into you?’
‘No, nothing.’ Perhaps he should tell her now and get it off his chest.
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