Deathwatch: Inspirational WWII Suspense

by V. B. Tenery

  She said a quick prayer that she could hit the cabin without killing one of the agents with a ricocheted round. Rain splattered her goggles. She snatched them off, steadied her arm on the boat’s rail, and squeezed the Luger’s trigger twice. She heard the ping as the shots hit metal. A long breath left her lungs when none of the MI6 crew fell.

  Boyd turned to Grace and slapped her on the back, almost knocking her over. “Nice shootin’ laddie.”

  ***

  Grey counted heads as the Germans moved up the stairs to the deck, ten men total. The count included two officers, Becke, and seven sailors. With the two guards they overpowered when they boarded, that made twelve. There should have been thirteen total.

  One man was missing.

  Two shots pinged against the ship’s metal hull just below the bridge. Grey flashed a startled glance towards the cruiser. Why would someone from his boat fire at them? Movement just above where the shells landed caught his eye. Years of training kicked in. He dropped to the deck, rolled, and fired two shots so fast they sounded like one.

  The missing sailor pitched forward and hit the deck five feet in front him.

  Becke used the distraction to pull a knife from his boot, and lunged at the agent closest to him. Before the knife struck home, Grey fired two more rounds, the first hit Becke in the gut. The second round shattered his left leg. The spy pitched backward onto the deck. Grey’s team went into action and hastily cuffed the remainder of the crew and hustled them below deck.

  Grey knelt beside the wounded spy. His eyes locked on Becke while the MI6 medic on his team tried to stop the bleeding. “I shall ask you some questions. I advise you not to lie to me. I’ll know if you do and things can get rough. No one would question a man being lost at sea in this weather.” It was a bluff, but Becke didn’t know that.

  The rules of interrogation were simple. Start with questions you already knew the answers to . . . see if the subject is lying.

  Becke grimaced in agony and spoke through gritted teeth. “Why should I tell you anything?”

  “You mean besides to stop me from tossing you overboard?” Grey nodded at the medic. “My friend here has a syringe filled with morphine. It’s yours if you answer my questions. But only if you answer them truthfully.”

  Becke moaned then spit at Grey, hitting him on the cheek. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

  Grey pulled his handkerchief and wiped away the spittle. “It’s your choice.”

  The spy clutched his stomach and screamed. “Wait . . . don’t leave. What do you want to know?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Geoffrey Whitman.”

  Grey shook his head. Becke’s color had gone gray, and he was beginning to shake. He was going into shock—his body was shutting down to stop the pain. “I told you not to lie to me.” He started to stand.

  The German clutched his hand. “It’s Becke, Gunter Becke. Please, give me the shot.”

  “Not just yet. What did Jacky Vidal tell you about her work at Bletchley Park?”

  Becke cursed in German. “Nothing. She told me nothing. Jacky was an idiot. All she wanted to do was drink and party. We . . . planned to pick up another one of your people . . . take them back to France for interrogation.” His head moved from side to side, his eyes rolled back, then he refocused on Grey.

  Grey nodded to the medic and he administered the morphine. “Is that why you killed her? Because she wouldn’t talk?”

  A bitter laugh slipped from Becke’s lips just before he lost consciousness.

  Rain pelted the E-boat as it docked. Grey stayed on board with Becke and walked beside the spy as four MI6 agents carried the litter down the gangplank. Becke was still alive but it didn’t look good. The medic had packed the wounds to stanch the blood but the injuries were critical.

  ***

  Aubrey met the litter as they stepped onto the dock and pulled Grey aside. He nodded at the spy. “Think he’ll make it?”

  Grey shook his head. “I don’t think so. I had no choice. If I hadn’t fired the shots, he would have killed one of my men. I’d hoped for time to interrogate him, but he may not make it to the hospital. I wasn’t sure he’d survive until we reached the dock. With a little pressure, he did tell me he learned nothing from Jacky.” Grey nodded towards the other Germans. “Military Intelligence will take these men into custody.”

  Aubrey nodded. “That’s good news. The ambulance should be here shortly for Becke.” He waved his constables over and strolled back to where the four agents held Becke’s litter. “We’ll take it from here.”

  Despite the cold, beads of sweat covered Becke’s pasty white brow. His eyes flew open and he stared at the Inspector, then widened in recognition. “Don’t touch me, you filthy Jew.” Specks of blood dotted Becke’s lips as his voice faded. Wild eyes flicked around the group of constables. “We have dossiers on everyone. You didn’t know your inspector was a Jew?” Coughs wracked his body and his voice was almost inaudible. “Adopted . . .”

  The ambulance slid to the curb and the back doors flew open. The bobbies didn’t move, seemingly frozen into inaction.

  “Don’t stand there. Get the man inside before we add pneumonia to his other wounds,” Aubrey ordered.

  The sullen expression on the constables’ faces didn’t sit well with Grey. Long term, Becke’s disclosure would mean trouble for Aubrey.

  CHAPTER 15

  Bristol Arms Apartments

  London, England

  Grey awoke disoriented, unsure where he was for a moment before shadows in the darkened room fell into place. He was in his bedroom in Grace’s flat. He glanced at the bedside clock. Ten a.m.

  It had been in the early morning hours when they left the docks for home. The adrenaline rush had drained from his body like air seeping from a balloon, leaving him weary and mentally drained. Once home, they’d gone into their respective bedrooms and he assumed she had collapsed, as he had.

  He slid one arm behind his head and focused on the ceiling. The Vidal case had drawn to a satisfactory conclusion. Some of the credit went to Grace. Her shots alerted him to the presence of the shooter above them and prevented the injury or possible death of an agent.

  There was no doubt her actions averted a disaster. He might have noticed the shooter but then again he might not have. He knew one man was missing, but her early warning prevented the gunman from getting off a shot.

  He smiled. She was a little warrior and he would miss having her around.

  The killer was in custody, perhaps dead. There had been no security breach of Ultra and they had prevented the possible kidnapping of one of Bletchley Park’s cryptanalysts. Becke must have had inside information about Jacky. People in and around Buckinghamshire thought Bletchley Park was a shoe factory. Security for the Park staff would have to be tightened while they were on leave.

  Now he and Grace could get back to their normal lives, if you could call what they did normal. He would contact C first thing this morning to bring him up to date and get his next assignment. Grace would do the same with Commander Dennison.

  Grey threw his legs over the side of the bed, grabbed his robe, and punched his arms into the sleeves. He opened the bedroom door quietly then headed for the kitchen, stopping at the sink for a glass of water and stared out the window. Smoke from an early air raid mixed with the fog and limited the distant view of the Thames. As the cold liquid quenched his thirst, the telephone rang. He grabbed the receiver, hoping to catch it before it woke Grace. “Commander Hamilton.”

  “Grey, thank God the telephones work.” It was C. “I need you and Grace to return to the Park today. The mission with the Yanks is imminent.”

  Bletchley Park Mansion

  Buckinghamshire, England

  Grey made the drive under swollen dark clouds and heavy winds. The journey was quiet with he and Grace lost in their thoughts. Neither of them knew what plans their chiefs had in mind for them once they arrived at the Mansion.

  He stopped at the ent
rance. “I’ll park and meet you inside.”

  She nodded, exited, and hurried up the steps as he drove away.

  Ten minutes later, they met at C’s office and his secretary motioned them inside. C stood when they entered. He shook their hand and motioned them to two chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat and I’ll ask Janice to bring in tea.”

  The DG took a seat behind his desk, brought his steepled fingers to his chin, and listened thoughtfully as Grey delivered his report of last evenings events. C nodded when he finished. “Good job, both of you. By the way, the Home Office rang earlier today. Becke died shortly after he reached the hospital.

  “Too bad. I’d hoped Inspector Milford would get an opportunity to interrogate him,” Grey said.

  “With that ordeal behind us, I’ll get right to the point. Grace, Commander Dennison is sending you to Cairo to work with a team trying to break the Italian Naval codes. Your language skills are badly needed there.”

  Grey laid his hand over hers and leaned forward in his chair. “Won’t she be in danger there, sir?”

  “I should think she’ll be safer there than here in London. We pushed the Italian Army out of Egypt last year and we have a large military presence in Cairo. If the situation changes we will, of course, evacuate our people on the first flights out.”

  “That doesn’t sound very reassuring, sir.”

  “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

  Grace gave Grey’s hand a squeeze. “It’s okay. When do I leave?”

  “This evening around seven by plane.” He glanced at Grey. “You and I have a meeting at two this afternoon with the Americans. Why don’t you two get lunch. Then Grey can meet me back here. We’ll go to the meeting together.”

  He and Grace settled at a table in the canteen with the meal-of-the-day: potato soup and corned beef sandwiches. He’d learned to eat when food was available, but C’s sending Grace to Cairo put off his appetite. He spooned a bite of soup into his mouth, frowned, and set the spoon aside. “I hadn’t expected C to send you away from here. I’m concerned. Egypt is a hot spot right now. The Italians couldn’t hold it, but Rommel is stronger and more determined. I’m not sure we have the forces there to hold him off. You could refuse to go.”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment, then her blue gazed settled on him. “No, I can’t. Not if they need me. And I’m sure they wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  She was right, but he still didn’t like it. He slammed his fist on the table. “Bloody hell. They shouldn’t expect women to fight this war.”

  People around them glanced their way then slowly returned to their meals.

  He ignored their stares, but wished he chosen a more private place for this discussion.

  She clasped her tea cup with both hands and watched him over the rim. “Why shouldn’t women do their part? We have as much or more to lose if the Nazis win. We will all have to make sacrifices to stop Hitler. What about you? Do you have any idea where you’re headed? Will it be dangerous?”

  “Probably, but don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

  She gave one of her cheeky grins. “I do worry. You’re the only husband I have. And, I won’t be there to warn you of hidden gunmen, or to patch you up if you’re injured.”

  “It’s good to know I’m your only husband.” He exhaled tiredly and grinned. “We have a medic with each team. However, he doesn’t have your bedside manner.”

  She pushed away her plate of untouched food. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you can let me know how things are going.”

  “Not likely.” He placed the napkin on the table by his plate. “Don’t get on that plane until I’m out of my briefing. Pull a gun on the pilot if you have to. That’s an order. You do still have the Luger?”

  The corner of her mouth quirked and she patted her handbag. “Aye, aye, Commander. I’ll keep it with me at all times.”

  “Be sure you do.”

  ***

  William “Wild Bill” Donovan arrived early in the conference room that had been set aside for his briefing with the MI6 chief and his agent. Donovan and Mack Hanson flew in late last evening, accompanied by Bill Stephenson, Britain’s top spy stationed in Washington.

  The Brits had become his best allies in his new position as American spymaster. They were more cooperative than his colleagues in Capitol.

  J. Edgar Hoover was threatened by the fledgling Office of Strategic Services or OSS, America’s new clandestine agency, a counterpart to England’s MI6. The FBI director tried to sabotage his progress at every turn.

  Donovan needed the Brits in this operation. His agents had just begun to infiltrate behind enemy lines. England was miles ahead in that regard. MI6 had placed agents in hot spots since the last war.

  He and Mack hung arial photographs around the room in preparation for the meeting. A secretary brought in a tray with water and glasses, and placed them on the conference table. C and a tall handsome fellow with military bearing followed her in. Donovan and C were old friends, but he’d never met this young man. Mack had pointed him out over lunch in the canteen. He’d dined with a striking young woman. Mack identified them as Commander Grey Hamilton and his new bride.

  This was the agent C told him about. The DG considered the impressive young man his best agent. A naval commander, he had survived the Scapa Flow disaster. He had the tight muscular frame of a warrior, and Donovan knew warriors. The agent moved with complete awareness of his surroundings. Not proud. Confident. It was with a deep sadness Donovan stepped forward to greet the newcomers. The lovely face of the commander’s wife flashed across his mind. This mission just might make her a widow.

  ***

  Grey and C entered the conference room set aside for briefings. Photographs of aircrafts Grey had never seen before covered the walls. Four men stood around the conference table. One Grey recognized from newspaper photographs. William Donovan was rumored to be head of a new American clandestine agency, the OSS, a counterpart to MI6. The head of OSS was a handsome man of medium height in his fifties, impeccably dressed. Beside him stood an Army captain in uniform. Next to him was Bill Stephenson, senior British agent in the U.S. The man on Stephenson’s right was the Royal Navy director of intelligence, Admiral John Godfrey.

  Donovan greeted C like an old friend with a hearty hand-shake, then his intelligent blue eyes studied Grey. “We’ve met C and the others, so I assume you must be Commander Grey Hamilton.” He gripped his hand firmly. “I’ve heard good things about you, Commander. It’s good to finally meet you.”

  They took seats at the table and Grey learned the large rugged captain’s name was Mack Hanson.

  “As you all know,” Donovan said, “we’re not in this war yet. But we expect to be at any time. Our intelligence tells us Hitler is preparing to invade Russia. We’ve tried to tell Uncle Joe, but he doesn’t want to listen. If Hitler follows his usual military tactics, he’ll send the Luftwaffe into Russia to destroy their airfields and munitions factories, then follow up with Panzers and troops. That strategy has been successful so far, so he’ll most likely stick with it. That should give you folks a breather from the air raids since he’ll be fighting on two fronts.”

  “We’ve received the same intelligence, and God knows we can use some relief. Did your informants give you a timeframe?” C asked.

  “Soon,” Donovan said. “Our sources tell us the middle of May. Hitler wants to avoid Napoleon’s mistake.”

  Although Napoleon invaded Russia in the summer, the Russian’s withdrew, burning their crops, leaving no food, and delayed the French advancement into the brutal Russian winter, which finished off the French. The few that didn’t starve or freeze to death limped back to France with their tails between their legs.

  “I personally believe Hitler is mad as a hatter,” C said. “But there’s no denying he’s a brilliant military tactician.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.” Donovan poured a glass of water from the pitcher on
the table. “I guess it’s time to explain our mission.” He waved a hand at the photographs on the walls. “In case you’ve never seen these before, this is something the Krauts are calling Vergeltnungswaffe or flying bomb. Their range is a little over three hundred miles and it will be England’s worst nightmare when it’s operational. They’re currently building launch ramps on the French and Belgian coast to test the first bombs off the assembly line.

  “We have a slim window to bring one of the scientists who worked on this project, Professor Heinrich Bree, out of France. He wants to defect.”

  “Where in France?” Grey asked.

  “He is attending a conference in Calais in fourteen days,” Donovan said.

  It wasn’t unheard of for Germany to use false defectors to lure the Brits into a trap. “How do you know he sincerely wants to defect?”

  Donovan replied. “After the last war, Bree went to America. While there, he met and married a Jewish woman and they came back to Germany. When the Nazis came into power, he read the tea leaves and decided to send his wife back home for her safety. The SS was keeping an eye on him, so the Brees faked getting a divorce to send her back to the States. She informed the State Department of his wishes when she arrived in America.”

  As he digested what Donovan said, Grey watched Sir Menzies. None of this was news to the DG. “It’s almost two hundred kilometers from the Channel to Calais, through the heaviest German troop concentration and armaments in France.”

  The American nodded. “I didn’t say it would be a square dance. This is where you come in. I’m told you know the area and you speak French like one of the natives and a little German.

  “You will pose as Vichy French. You’ll be registered at the hotel where Bree is staying. You are to locate Bree and bring him out to the Resistance and commandos. Captain Hanson will be with you. He’s fluent in German. Once you turn Bree over to the rescue team, we’ll ensure he gets to London and then to America.”