The shouts came again, this time with a warning of an attack if we weren’t out in ten seconds. I went to the window and stood by the side, not wanting to make myself a target for any trigger-happy squaddie. I eased the window catch and flung it open. A gust of warm air came in and flapped the curtain round my face.
I cupped my hands and shouted, “All right. We’re coming out. But on one condition.” I waited, wondering if he’d heard me.
“What is it, McRae?”
“We’re out of fags.”
There was silence. No sense of humour. Then, “Come and get them. Slowly. With your hands in the air.”
I walked over to her and without asking, took her in my arms and gave her a squeeze. We clung like shipwrecked sailors for a moment then let go.
“Say nothing about Jerusalem. Got me? They know nothing about any connection to the bomb.”
“But I have to get back to London, Danny. I have to tell the story!”
“The best way is to say nothing. Not yet. They’re bound to throw us on the first train out of here.”
She nodded, reluctantly. We grabbed our meagre possessions and left the flat. In the hall I pulled open the door and led the way, hands in the air. We were ringed by troopers pointing their rifles at our hearts. The Colonel stood directly in front of me. Alongside him was Vic looking sheepish. A small crowd congealed at one end of the street, in which our downstairs neighbour was prominent. He folded his arms and made some sneering remark to one of the others. This city had got into the habit of snitching on its neighbours.
We were marched to the truck and shoved up over the tailgate. Half a dozen red-faced soldiers climbed in after us and squeezed on to the parallel benches.
The familiar smell of wool uniforms and sweaty males filled the tarpaulin-covered truck. They kept their guns on us. As we settled down a packet of fags sailed through the air from outside and landed at my feet.
I looked at the boys in uniform. “All right, lads. I think these are for me.
Steady with those guns.” I slowly reached down and picked up the packet.
Woodbine. Cheapskates. They’d do. I passed round the packet as we set off and we filled the back with smoke before we got to the British sector.
“You’re a bloody fool.”
“I know, Colonel. Sometimes there’s no choice.”
He harrumphed. We were sitting – Eve and me – in his office. There were two guards outside but none in the room. It was the first time we’d been together in two days. She looked puffy and ragged, much as I felt. We’d been grilled separately by Military Special Branch. I imagine Eve got the same round of questions as me. Did you kill Mulder? Why him? On the second day there was a sudden shift in direction and tone: what do you know about the bomb in Jerusalem?
We glanced at each other as we were brought into Toby’s office, trying to read the other’s mind. I hoped she’d kept as shtum as me.
Toby had been on the blower to London twice since we’d been sat there. We were in big trouble. As well as the Mulder assassination and the diplomatic furore that had caused, London – or Berlin, maybe – had intercepted Eve’s fevered phone calls to her Reuters man.
They’d also spotted signals from a radio transmitter in the same area. Whether they’d decoded them or not hardly mattered. They knew someone had been in contact with Palestine from the same area as the phone calls. No one mentioned Willi. I assumed he’d done the sensible thing and legged it. Whatever was known or guessed, London, and now Toby, wanted to know what we knew about the bombing of the King David Hotel.
“It’s on the wireless,” I was saying. “That’s all I know.”
“We believe that you – or at least the woman here – were in touch with known terrorists in Palestine. You, Miss, were sending them instructions. We want to know what these were, and how you are involved in this… this outrage!” Toby thumped his desk for emphasis. It didn’t work; he was too round to do a convincing hard man. His act made me think that they didn’t have the evidence to tie us to either Mulder or the bomb. All we needed to do was say nothing.
Clearly not easy for Eve.
“The outrage is the British blockading a ship of refugees from finding a safe haven in the land of their birth!”
Eve’s accusations were growing ever more melodramatic. Toby looked weary. We’d been going round this topic for an hour, getting nowhere. Suddenly Toby stood up. “I’ve had enough. It’s time I handed you to the professionals. Corporal!”
The door burst open. Vic leapt in and stood quivering at attention. A faithful dog. I wondered if he’d mentioned my sudden language skills when the explosion was announced on the radio cafй? “Sir!”
“Get on to London. Tell them we’re sending this pair back. Fix a flight for the morning. Should be room on the post run. Take them away and lock them up overnight. Separate cells.”
He turned to me. “Goodbye, McRae. I won’t pretend it’s been a pleasure.”
He stood with his hands behind his back. No last handshake for me. We left under heavy escort and were deposited in the cells used for military prisoners. Vic had the decency to stop at the Tiergarten mess and pick up my suitcase and spare clothes. A WAAF was sent out to get some army-issue underwear and a skirt and blouse for Eve. At the cells – the largely unscathed civilian nick in the centre – we were given a chance to wash, and I had a shave. Funny how hot water and a smooth chin can perk up your day. I suppose it was reaction to the last few days, but I crashed on to the bare board of my cell, drew the rough blanket round me, and was asleep before lights out.
I jolted awake to the sound of a rifle butt banging on my cell door. I cowered under my blanket waiting for the dogs to be let loose. The SS trained their giant Alsatians and Rottweilers well. The guards would pick a prisoner – usually wearing the pink triangle of a queer – and string him up naked by his hands three feet off the ground. When the hounds learnt to rip off the poor bastard’s balls they were showered with praise. The dogs learnt fast.
“C’mon, McRae. Wakey, wakey.”
I blinked and woke properly. Daylight was filtering through the dirty window into my cell. It was five o’clock and already warm. By six I’d cleaned up, dressed, and stowed away some eggs, bacon and sweet tea.
I met up with Eve in the back of the waiting truck. She looked as though she hadn’t slept much. We exchanged tired smiles. Vic saw us off. His parting act was to slip a pair of handcuffs on my left wrist and Eve’s right. Not quite how I hoped to be hitched to her.
“Is this necessary?” I asked.
“Boss’s orders. My balls or yours.”
“Fair enough. And Vic – thanks for everything. Sorry about the car.”
He avoided my eyes. “Yeah. Right. See you, Danny.”
By eight we were sitting in the front seats of the Avro York at Templehof airfield. Apart from the crew and our honour guard of Redcaps sitting behind us, the plane was empty. Two of the huge propellers started up, then the other two, and we taxied out on to the runway. I wouldn’t be sad to see the back of Berlin.
It had been a madcap few days in a city of nightmares. The dark alleys of Hallesches Tor with its Nazi slogans still on the walls left me chilled to the marrow. We might have destroyed the Fascist infestation but I wondered if we’d really pulled out the roots.
On the other hand I didn’t relish our return to Blighty. I couldn’t imagine this was what Cassells had in mind when he sent me over. And Wilson would be waiting.
He’d like nothing more than a second round with me in one of his cells. Eve seemed more upbeat. Her face had some colour without the hectic hue of the past few days. She was on a mission.
“I’ll get word to Jim Hutcheson when we land. He’ll come to visit. I can still get the message out.”
It was no good talking her down. Her enthusiasm and the conviction that she could reverse the negative news pouring out across the world was keeping her aloft. But I wasn’t so sanguine about the reception she’d get. It’s hard to c
hange an image, and the poor bloody Jew has had a bad press since Shakespeare.
I grew aware that we were taking our time getting airborne. Air traffic on a go-slow. But there were agitated noises in the cockpit. I leaned out into the passage and tried to see what was happening. There was a lot of squawking between the pilot and the control tower. Suddenly the pilot unbuckled his straps, stood up and came back to us. The Redcap police behind us got up to hear him above the sound of the engines.
“We have a problem,” said the RAF bloke. “Someone doesn’t want us to leave.” He stood aside to let the Redcap see through the windscreen in the cockpit.
“Christ! Ruskies?”
The pilot nodded. I hauled myself up alongside them straining on the cuffs that bound me to Eve. I now had a view of the runway. Facing us, with gun barrels aimed straight at our nose, were two Russian tanks with a squadron of infantry on their wings. We weren’t going anywhere any time soon. And neither was Eve’s message to the world.
TWENTY THREE
The Russian tanks were soon encircled by a contingent of American and British armour and troops. They could have held their own mini-war out there on the patched-up runway. We got reports second-hand from the control tower. Seems the Reds got wind of our departure and threw away the protocol handbook on how to stay pals with your allies. Those boys were mad. Mulder was an important guy.
They wanted our skins, and had been prepared to invade our sector to get their hands on us.
On more than one occasion we heard an exchange between the tower and our friendly RAF guys which made it clear that handing us over was being seriously considered. I couldn’t blame them; I would have chucked us over the side in a flash. I just hoped our team had more scruples. Besides, the enormity of the Russian invasion of the airfield would get through to the top brass. How could they let the Reds win this one? Regardless of how expendable we were, they couldn’t lose face. Give the Red Army an inch and they’d take Poland.
The pilot shut the engines down and we waited. Eve fell into a despairing silence. Her chances of rebalancing the press reports were at rock bottom. The standoff continued all morning. Almost on the stroke of noon we felt the nudge of the wooden stairs being placed against the hull. We’d long since opened the door to let some air in and smoke out. We heard steps on the ladder, then a head appeared. It was round and red and sported an American cap with three stars on it. The rest of the general’s body eased its way through the door and filled the tight space between us and the cabin. The Redcaps struggled to get to their feet and get a salute in, and the pilot and navigator came down to the deck.
“Easy, boys,” the general drawled. “No time for that.” He looked straight at me with fierce blue eyes that could strip paint off a door.
“You McRae?”
“Sir.”
“And I guess we know who you are, miss.”
“And who might you be, major?” asked Eve with all the tact of a turd in a punch bowl. I waited for the explosion. Instead he smiled. It wasn’t a pretty smile.
It wasn’t a gentle smile.
“Why, excuse my lack of politesse, ma’am. I’m General Willard J Stonecroft. And I’m minded to hand you and your boyfriend over to the Ruskies out there. Is that your preference?”
Eve eased back in her chair and didn’t reply. Partly because I had a grip on her index finger that signalled I would break it if she said another word. I coughed.
“Sir, we’d rather you didn’t do that, if it’s all the same to you. We’d rather face the music in England,” I said.
General Stonecroft stuck his thumbs in his belt that ran round his massive girth like the hoop of a barrel.
“Thought that might be your choice. But you know what? I don’t give a squirrel’s nuts what you think. We got a bigger thing going on here. Lieutenant?” He turned to the RAF blokes and spoke to the pilot. “We can’t have these guys thinking they can bust into our aerodrome any time they feel like it, now can we?”
The pilot looked as though he didn’t care one way or the other.
“So, you’re going to taxi all the way back to the end of this here runway. Far as you can go. Then you’re going to put the foot on the gas and get this tin can in the air. Preferably before you hit the tanks.”
The RAF men looked at each other. They knew they were dealing with a madman.
“General, there isn’t enough run-up.”
“Sure there is. You don’t think I got these from flying a desk?” He pointed at the set of wings on his chest. “I reckon there’s plenty of room. If you get the revs up.”
He waited while the pilot stuck his head out the door, conferred with his colleague and sized up the problem.
“General, is this an order?”
“If you like.”
“What if the tanks shoot?”
“That’s my job. I’m gonna tell those Red guys if they shoot you down, they get it too. We’ll blast them to pieces.”
“Well, that’s all right then, sir,” said the pilot. “Fair’s fair is what I say.”
The general looked at him suspiciously but grunted and slid back down the ladder. The flyers shrugged at us and slid back into their seats. We heard the general’s jeep racing away from us. A little later air traffic control told us to start up and taxi to the end of the runway.
We rolled away from the mкlйe on the runway, and when we ran out of tarmac we swivelled on the spot and aimed back down the long strip. The RAF team had switched into professional mode, their voices calm and unforced through the check routine. The noise grew from the big Merlin engines and the vibrations rose through the fuselage until the plane felt as if it would implode. We heard a last good luck from the tower and the brakes were released. Then we catapulted forward and the engines strained up through the revs.
Call me a masochist, but I wanted to see. I jammed my face to the porthole and peered forward as best I could. Ahead was the growing blob of machines and men.
It looked very much like we’d plough straight through them. We used to play chicken on the swings up at the park. We’d make them swing faster and higher, and see how high we could go before we jumped off. Sometimes we’d work them up above the horizontal before making the great leap. One of my boyhood pals – Archie, who died over Dresden – broke his leg that way. This was one monstrous game of chicken. With more than a broken leg at stake.
As we hurtled towards the mass of armour, I saw some of the troops throwing themselves to ground. A few others scampered to the side. The two Russian tanks kept guns trained straight at us, while on their flanks the American and British took point blank aim at them. This was going to be some fireworks display. I couldn’t look any more and sank back in the chair alongside Eve. There was no sound from the Redcaps behind us. Too busy with their rosaries, I suppose. I smiled at Eve and gripped her hand. And waited for either the tank shell or the tank itself to shatter our flimsy frame.
Suddenly the engines screamed louder and higher and the nose tipped up. We braced ourselves for the impact. Then the thunder beneath our wings dropped away. We were airborne, but were we high enough? I peered through the screen again and wished I hadn’t. The tanks were rushing towards us. They were still holding fire, but we weren’t going to make it. We couldn’t make it. Up in the cockpit the pilot was heaving at his sticks for all he was worth. Slowly, slowly, we eased up and I saw faces flash beneath us, distorted in horror.
There was a big bump like you get when you land, and a double “Fuck!” from the MPs. Then we were up and away. We kept climbing, and the undercarriage came up with a thump and a groan of steel. The noise of the machine straining to stow the wheels continued then stopped. It started again then whined to a halt. It didn’t feel good. But at least we were airborne. Eve had a line of perspiration on her top lip and her face was deathly. Mine must have looked as drained. The navigator came back to us. He had his professional smile on.
“All right back here?”
“Couldn’t be better, Flight,�
� I answered. “Bloody well done.”
He nodded. “Well, we got up. But not so sure about getting down. We hit something and the undercarriage is jammed. Bit of a nuisance, really. Cuts our speed and could be a bit bumpy at the other end.”
Flyboy’s understatement meant we were probably going to crash-land. Frankly I was past caring. My nerves would only stretch so far. I was past hysteria and into stupor. I felt slugged. And I wasn’t getting much support from my pal next to me.
You would think that sharing a pair of handcuffs would draw folk together, but we were miles apart. It didn’t help to have two goons breathing down our necks, though they seemed more interested in the bars they planned to hit on their one night in England before the return trip in the morning. They were over-ambitious by half, but I envied them their youth and bravado.
The endless flight gave me plenty of time to think. To try to get some perspective on the last few days, few years. I realised I wasn’t where I thought I’d be. Not that I had a crystal clear picture of my future ten years ago. None of us ever gave it much thought, or spoke about it. It was too personal, something only girls talked about. But there was an assumption and unspoken expectation that we’d get married and have kids. Like our folks. It’s what you did. It’s what everybody did. It was the path of least resistance. But now it seemed as likely as a squadron of pink pigs doing a flypast for the King.
I realised that at some stage – before she disappeared – I’d been harbouring thoughts of a future with Eve. Like what she’d think of Kilpatrick. Or more interestingly, what Kilpatrick would think of her. She’d meet my mother, and I’d watch as these two women circled each other, wondering what each expected of the man standing between them. I’d take her walking through the town parks. Or we’d hop on a bus and go to Largs for the day and eat ice-creams at Nardini’s, and paddle in the freezing sea. I’d show her Arran and the bump of granite called Ailsa Craig, and the low-slung hulk of the Mull of Kintyre. But it wouldn’t happen now. We’d come too far, seen too much. And instead of pulling us closer, our sojourn in Berlin had ripped us apart.
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