Ulterior Objectives: A Lillian Saxton Thriller

by Scott Dennis Parker

  And Henry knew that with the upswing of the war imminent, it was only a matter of time before they introduced him to other members of the Nazi spy ring, perhaps even taking him back to Germany where some real intelligence might be gathered. It had been the thing Ludlow and his ilk had wanted from Henry.

  All that planning, all that time, all those words Henry was forced to utter had amounted to nothing. Henry tried hard to keep his emotions under control. He failed.

  He lashed out. The plate of unfinished food sailed off the table and smashed into the far wall. Moments later, a policeman stuck his head through the open door.

  “Everything okay, sir?”

  Henry stood. His chair toppled backwards. “I dropped the plate. Get someone to clean it up.” He stormed out of the room, bumping shoulders with the befuddled officer.

  If there was one thing that could cheer him up, it was a drink. He needed an anonymous bar. The police station was across town from the antique shop so any of them around here would do the trick. He walked four blocks, passing the first few, knowing they’d be full of coppers and folks who liked coppers.

  He recognized a car parked in front of a pub. He opened the door and saw the driver hunched over the bar. The driver looked up, saw Henry, and motioned him inside. Henry walked in and took the stool next to Ludlow.

  The bartender asked, “What will it be?”

  “Same as him.” Henry gestured to the four glasses in front of the spy chief. Three were empty. The last contained something brown. Something wonderful.

  Within moments, four empty shot glasses were lined up in front of Henry. The bartender took a bottle of Scotch and filled the four glasses. Henry downed the first one before the bartender had even filled the fourth. He tapped the first glass to indicate it needed to be filled again. The bartender complied then melted away.

  “This is bollocks,” Henry muttered. “All that time I spent undercover, all that work, and some Yank comes in and blows it to hell.”

  “It’s part of war,” Ludlow demurred. “Sometimes, the best laid plans fall flat and get blown to hell. For you, my boy, this is one of those times.”

  Henry drank the first glass again, then turned it over on the bar. “But why this mission? Why not just send me back in? I’m so close. And with Otto dead, Klein will be in the wind. I can contact Berlin and get in. I can be their top man here in Liverpool. Imagine the intelligence I can get for us. Imagine the counterintelligence I can generate. It’s a win for us all.”

  Ludlow pursed his lips and nodded. This late in the night, his hair, graying throughout, had lost some of its shape. “You’re right.”

  “Then why not try? We can concoct any story we want. They’ll bring me in, maybe even reveal who the primary is here in Britain. That’s something we need to know before Hitler starts up again.”

  “On that note, no word from Berlin about when that might be?”

  Henry shook his head. He downed the second glass and turned it over. “No. It’s all just reports over and over again. Daily reports by five. They will already be alerted that something’s happened here when we haven’t reported in. We can still salvage this operation.”

  Ludlow stared into the middle distance. “It was a good plan, your going undercover. You gave us lots to work with.” He sipped half of the Scotch in the last glass. He swirled the liquid. “But this codebook opportunity trumps it.”

  Henry slammed his palm on the bar. The glasses jingled. Some of the Scotch from glass number three sloshed onto the bar. The eyes of the other patrons caromed their way. The bartender looked over, eyebrows raised. Henry shook them all off. He emptied glass number three into his gut and turned over the glass.

  “Why a lady?” he muttered. “Why’d it have to be a woman?”

  Ludlow shrugged. “She’s quite attractive.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “How’d you do against her today?”

  Henry grew reflective. He shrugged. “It was close quarters. I could have taken her.”

  Ludlow smiled. “When I arrived, I remember you were the one bleeding.”

  “Luck.”

  “Or skill. Nevins tells me she’s quite the fighter. She’s one of the best the Americans have.”

  “I’d just like one more go at her.”

  “Why? You’re both on the same mission now.”

  “Maybe,” Henry snarled. “But the mission will end sometime.” He wheeled at Ludlow and held up a finger. “So help me, if I think she’s failing in the mission, I’m taking her out. You understand me?”

  Ludlow put a calming hand on Henry’s arm. “Not before you get the codebook. Once you have that.” He paused, trying to form the proper words. “Once you have that, well, the codebook becomes the mission. The only mission. Do you understand?”

  A grin creased Henry face. “Yes, sir.” He downed the last glass of Scotch and turned it to match the others. “I’ll contact you if I can. Now,” he slid off the stool, “I have to go pack.”

  “Be careful, my boy,” Ludlow said. “Come back in one piece.”

  “I always do.”

  Henry left the pub and walked a few more blocks. He hailed a cab and directed him to stop two blocks away from the flat he shared with Klein and Fuchs. He paid the cabby and waited until he rounded the corner. Then Henry walked to the apartment building.

  He came in the front door, but quietly. He ascended the stairs and eased the key into the lock of his flat. Opening the door, he stepped inside.

  And smelled something. It was an odor he knew well. It was Klein’s favorite cologne. If Henry smelled that now, it meant Klein was here.

  That thought entered Henry’s mind at the split second a body slammed into him.

  CHAPTER 19

  With a strong hand grabbing Henry’s shirt, Klein slammed Henry into the wall. Henry had heard enough stories about Klein and his methods to know what came next: a knife. Klein always bragged that he came in low and stabbed upward. Henry swung his left arm down and caught the upswing of Klein’s right arm. The blade snagged on Henry’s long sleeves and the trajectory was altered. The tip of the knife scraped across Henry’s forearm. He swore. The voice surprised Klein who paused for only a second.

  That was all the time Henry needed. He grabbed Klein’s left wrist and squeezed hard, digging his fingernails into the soft underside of Klein’s wrist. At the same time, Henry punched Klein in the face with his left hand. Finally, Henry brought up his knee and caught Klein in the crotch. The three counterattacks did the trick. Klein backed up a few steps. His grip on Henry’s shirt loosened. Henry yanked the hand and pushed the German away. Klein stumbled backward, hitting the coffee table with the backs of his knees. He crashed onto the table and it surprisingly held his weight.

  “Klein,” Henry whispered harshly in German, “it’s me. Becker.” He reached over and switched on the light.

  Klein blinked up at Henry. “Becker? Where have you been?”

  Henry’s mind whirled. Klein wasn’t supposed to have returned until tomorrow. That he was here indicated the side mission he had driven up to Glasgow to conduct was already over. Over beers and late-night talks, Klein had regaled Henry and Otto with all the hideous deeds performed for the Führer. The sense of pride he displayed, while admirable, was also disgusting. Nevertheless, Henry had no way of knowing how much Klein knew about the raid on the antique shop. Henry gambled at a plausible story.

  “Avoiding arrest,” Henry muttered. “You heard what happened at the shop?”

  Klein got his balance and stood. The knife didn’t leave his hand, although he kept his arm hanging loosely at his side. “Where’s Otto?”

  “Otto’s dead. Buckley’s in jail.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was a raid. Police surrounded the shop. They stormed in, discovered the back room. Shut it all down.” Henry rearranged his shirt, tucking the tail back into his pants. He walked over to the small sink and filled a glass of water. He had expected to sleep through the night
. He had a good expectation sleep wasn’t going to come soon. The effects of the five Scotch shots, which had evaporated with the adrenaline rush of the fight, now started to reassert themselves. Henry downed one glass, then filled another.

  “Where were you?”

  Henry’s mind concocted a story on the fly. “Out for errands. Getting food. Sending mail. I was in Bill’s butcher shop when the coppers showed up.”

  The look Klein gave Henry served as an early warning sign. Something was wrong. The German cocked his head to the side, the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. “That’s not what he said.”

  “Who?”

  “Bill. I questioned him.” Klein held out his knife arm. The ends of his sleeve were dark red. “I came back. The business up in Glasgow was done. I even brought back a local ale for you, me, and Otto to split. I rode up to the shop and Bill was there. I asked him what happened. He told me. Said Otto was shot, Buckley arrested.” He took a few steps toward the sink. “But he also said you were arrested as well.”

  The kitchen in the flat barely earned the name. The area was shaped like an “L” with the sink in the middle of the long side. On the short side was the stove. A few cabinets and drawers lined the long side. The only silverware the three of them possessed was in a drawer next to the sink. Henry knew any move on his part to that drawer would tell Klein all he needed to know. On the other hand, Klein still held his knife at his side. Henry, keeping eye contact with Klein, used his peripheral vision to scan for anything he could use as a weapon.

  “Who are you?” Klein pointed the knife at Henry.

  “Rolf, buddy, I’m one of you.”

  Slowly, Klein shook his head. “I don’t think you are.” He took another step. Now his position blocked Henry from a quick dash to the front door.

  “C’mon, pal,” Henry said. “What do you think’s going on here?”

  Klein raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Me? What do I think is going on here? Let me see. Our base in Liverpool is raided. Buckley’s in jail. Otto’s dead. That just leaves you and me. You tell me you sneaked away. Bill, with his dying words, tells me you were arrested. One of you is lying. I’m willing to believe it wasn’t Bill. You’d be surprised how truthful a person can be at death’s door.”

  He moved one step closer. The area in which Henry could successfully operate or defend himself continued to shrink.

  “But let’s say Bill’s correct and you were arrested. The police would have searched you and found the key to this flat.” Klein looked around, mimicking an actor searching for something. “Where are they? Why aren’t the police storming down this door? Why aren’t they already here?” Another step. “I’ll tell you why. You’re working with them. That, my friend, makes you a traitor.” His lip snarled in derision. “And if there’s one thing I hate most of all, it’s a traitor.”

  Henry had heard enough. This situation was getting ugly fast. He flung the glass at Klein. The German anticipated it and sidestepped. The glass flew through the air, shattering on the floor.

  Klein lunged at Henry. In his only defense, Henry grabbed the dish towel and swung it at the oncoming blade. The sharpened metal pierced the fabric and got snagged. Henry twisted the fabric and further ensnared the knife. Then he pulled with all his might in an effort to dislodge the blade from Klein’s grip.

  That didn’t work, but it made Klein lose his balance. Henry helped by grabbing a handful of Klein’s shirt and flinging them both toward the floor. The German crashed into the kitchen table. Unlike the coffee table, the kitchen table cracked under Klein’s weight. Wood splintered and snapped. A second later, Klein was on the floor, the table falling inward.

  Henry wasted no time. He threw open the drawer with the silverware and grabbed the only cutting knife they owned. The small blade was half the six inches of Klein’s knife, but it would have to do.

  In the time it took Henry to acquire his weapon, Klein was already on his feet. Henry narrowly missed a vicious lash from Klein. Henry ducked the swing and turned. His back now faced the wider part of the room. The spare furniture still afforded him little in the way of a weapon. This was going to be an old-fashioned brawl.

  Bloody hell.

  Klein grinned. Henry hadn’t seen him like that. He imagined this was what Klein looked like when on a job that involved killing.

  “You British intelligence?” Klein mocked.

  Henry didn’t want to talk at all. He wanted to bash Klein against a wall and eliminate him. All those months of undercover work, Klein’s stories and holier-than-thou attitudes about the world had churned enough bile for a lifetime. Now, it all came out.

  Henry picked up one of the couch cushions and threw it at Klein. He knew the German would easily deflect it, but that was the point. Instead of charging Klein, Henry hurried over to the small counter where they kept the food items. It was also where they kept the liquor. He grasped the half-empty bottle of whiskey at the base and smashed the neck.

  Klein barely moved as he knocked the cushion aside. He wasn’t so lucky when the broken bottle hurtled in the air to him. He held up a hand for defense. The jagged top of the bottle caught on a finger, cutting it. The trajectory of the bottle and liquid changed. Not all of it fell on Klein’s body, but most of it did.

  Henry continued throwing everything on the counter at Klein. In his heart, he knew this was a sissy way to fight, but he wanted the distraction more than style points.

  Klein moved forward.

  Good enough thought Henry. He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He flicked the flint. A yellow flame burst to life. Henry tossed it at Klein.

  The German tried to knock the lighter out of the air. He missed. The lighter and its flame landed on his shirt. The alcohol immediately ignited. The fire spread rapidly up Klein’s shirt and over onto his sleeve. He didn’t yell out.

  Henry pressed his advantage. He took two steps toward Klein. With one backhanded swing, Henry hit the hand with the knife. The blade fell to the floor. Henry followed with a savage kick to the ribs.

  Klein hoofed and grunted.

  Ironically, some of the alcohol-infused fire found a home on Henry’s pant leg. He patted it out. The same was not happening to Klein. The fire now had spread over his left side and arm. Now, he screamed.

  “Enjoy the fire, you bastard. You’re going straight to hell.”

  Henry left the fire to do its work. The screams would bring the attention of the neighbors and, soon, the police. He gave a split second’s thought to rushing into his room to grab his clothes and other things. He decided against it. Those items could be replaced.

  He risked a last glance down at Klein. The German was rolling on the floor, trying to put out the fire. What he also did was spread the flames.

  Henry tore through the front door and closed it behind him. It was then that he saw his neighbors on the third floor all standing in doorways looking in his direction. The fire would consume the dried wood of this building and they’d lose everything.

  Damn, he hated his conscience.

  “Call the fire brigade!” Henry shouted. “There’s a fire in my flat!”

  Just because Henry had a conscience didn’t mean he was going to stand around and help. He ran to the back stairs and took them two at a time to the ground floor. He burst out the back door and ran. He didn’t have time to spare. He glanced up to his third-floor window. The fire from within flickered.

  Henry turned and ran into the night.

  CHAPTER 20

  The place where Lillian Saxton finally lay down to rest turned out to be the room Ludlow had rented. It was a two-room flat, with a common room in the middle. The Victorian furniture and generally old decor reminded her of the Sidney Paget illustrations of Sherlock Holmes in The Strand magazine. Upon entering the room at Ludlow’s behest, the warmth and comfortable nature of the flat made her feel a little better. He had given her a key and sent her away by taxi. He had arrived a couple of hours later smelling like tobacco and Scot
ch.

  They had talked, mainly about things other than the mission. Ludlow, it turned out, was a veteran of the first war. He moved up from a signalman to artillery to intelligence when he single-handedly deceived an entire German platoon into thinking they were going to raid a defenseless French farmhouse only to discover a squad of British soldiers ready to capture them. No shots were fired and Ludlow earned himself a new job.

  In the years since, his devotion to duty manifested itself in moving higher and higher up the ranks of British intelligence. His imaginative genius at coming up with schemes led him to teach others his thought process. Henry was one of his top disciples. There were others, Ludlow had said over brandy as the two of them sat in matching arm chairs, but Henry was probably the best.

  When the subject of her own country arose, they both conceded America needed to be a player. “It was only a matter of time,” Lillian said.

  “I hope it’s as soon as possible.”

  Lillian held her own glass of brandy. “But with Hitler not actively doing anything, it’s going to take a lot to get America in the war.”

  Ludlow sighed. “I just wish he’d move so we could get this blasted war going again.”

  Lillian stood, stretched, and excused herself. She cleaned up in the small bathroom adjoining her room and lay down. The mattress was harder than she preferred but felt like clouds compared to the jailhouse bunk of the previous night. She began to run through the events of the past day and a half, but didn’t get far. All-consuming sleep enveloped her.

  The front door slamming open startled her awake. She checked her watch. She had been asleep for a little more than an hour. She reached over to the bedside table and grabbed her pistol. Standing, she pulled on a robe and opened her door.

  Henry stood in the middle of the room talking with Ludlow. Henry’s sleeve was bloody and his clothes disheveled. She caught a strong odor of alcohol and fire.

  “What’s going on?” Lillian asked.