by Vic Robbie
She felt guilty for her uncharitable thoughts. If they had not taken refuge here, they would be dead. At first, it was ironic to be exiled on the remotest spot in Britain, six hundred miles from London and on the same latitude as Norway and Alaska. Yet it was perhaps the most secure piece of real estate in the British Isles. After Germany’s occupation of Norway in 1939, the Nazis could have invaded and used the islands as a launchpad for an attack on the mainland. And as a deterrent, more than twenty thousand servicemen were billeted on Shetland.
The school bus would be picking up Freddie from the croft she had left earlier to walk the twenty minutes down to the harbour. Her usual spot afforded an unimpeded view of the St Clair’s arrival. It had become a ritual. Necessary while they remained. She carried a Thermos flask of strong coffee in her bag along with her passport and money. The locals were used to her sitting on a wall at this time of the morning as she searched through her binoculars. And they accepted her explanation that she was birdwatching the myriad species populating the island. Especially the northern gannets, diving into the sea like missiles from over a hundred feet at almost sixty miles per hour, their white bodies rigid and wings tipped in black.
The sky grew darker, and she pulled her coat closer and cursed the frozen North. Some summer days could be spectacular with the big sky dominating all and the sun ducking below the horizon for only a few hours. The breathtaking scenery could erase the memories of winter nights huddled around a glowing peat fire in their croft that sang and creaked in the wind sweeping across Clickminin Loch in the lee of Staney Hill. Like the Norwegians, who fled here from the Nazis, she was a refugee. They returned home after the war, as did most servicemen, while she remained. A prisoner.
The St Clair ploughed through Bressay Sound, smoke from its funnel billowing and changing direction, escorted by a phalanx of the ubiquitous seagull. Its wake silver in the occasional flashes of sunlight that breached the canopy of cloud. Although the ferry appeared to be within minutes of docking, she knew from experience there would be an interminable delay before the passengers disembarked. She had time for a cigarette and a cup of her black coffee.
Since the end of hostilities, she had enacted this ritual too often to remember, searching for that person to step ashore. One she did not know but would recognise. And each time feeling relief when they failed to arrive. Perhaps she was mistaken. It was over, and they were forgotten as though fading into the mists of time. Yet she could not convince herself of that.
Their pursuers could come onto Shetland in several ways. This was the most innocuous. During the war, no one could gain entry or leave without the express permission of the authorities. Now, the door was open again. They might have flown into Sumburgh on the southernmost tip and driven to Lerwick along the new tarred road laid by the forces. Air passengers attracted more scrutiny; this would be how they would come. Studying the approaching St Clair, which had acted as a rescue ship in wartime, she wished she could walk away. Break this habit and live her life. Like an addict, the fears of what might happen if she did, defeated her. The uncertainty was the worst. How often would she do this? Surely not for the rest of her days? It was the helplessness she hated, the lack of control, waiting for something to happen, which would be on their terms. This would be her last act of surveillance. Tomorrow, they would leave and travel to London.
She finished the cup of coffee and upended the dregs on the ground before replacing it in her bag. Stamping out the cigarette, she tucked an errant wisp of blonde hair under her hat and, picking up the binoculars, took up position on the wall. The early morning fog that was prevalent on the east coast had blown away, and she enjoyed a clear view.
The overnight voyage across the North Sea was not for the faint-hearted and observing the passengers disembark always amused her. There were three distinct types. Those who staggered off, white-faced and ill; the relaxed, fortunate ones after enjoying the comforts of a cabin; and the rumpled and unshaven following a night of drinking. Some disembarked at an eager run, heading for a business meeting or an illicit encounter. Others were more composed, getting off with a look of determination as though they intended to complete a mission. Those concerned her, and she studied them. One such man alighted and looked around before glancing at his watch. A military man for sure. He walked some way towards the terminal and stopped again and glanced back at a fellow passenger perhaps thirty yards behind. They appeared to catch each other’s eye and share an almost imperceptible nod. A coldness flowed through her. She had seen that arrogant swagger before, those expressionless faces with their angular lines.
A pain gnawed at her gut and made her want to retch. She knew who they were. They had arrived.
3
Alena studied the two men intently and didn’t see Shona Ronaldson disembark from the ferry. While the Nazis swaggered onto the island, concentrating on their assignment, Shona skipped ashore and trotted to the queue of taxis at the end of the quay. She had told Magnus that her trip to Aberdeen was to visit relatives, but the real reason was more important. Years of struggling to start a family had been fruitless. The war and London’s insistence on protecting Alena and Freddie played a part. Once their guests returned to the mainland, they would be free to raise the children both craved. The specialist at the maternity hospital said everything looked normal, and her husband would be first to know. An exciting new life was about to begin, and she climbed into a vacant taxi, finding it hard to suppress a self-satisfied smile.
Alena was certain they were Nazis if only by their arrogance. They wanted Freddie, and they would kill her if she got in the way.
The moment she had dreaded had come, and she broke into a run. In some perverse way, she welcomed it. Instead of living her life in limbo, she would make the decisions and act on them. To hide would only prolong the danger. Once in London, British Intelligence could decide the next move.
Magnus and Shona would be at risk, too, and no match for SS killers and she experienced a twinge of guilt. At least, Shona was out of harm’s way. First, she must find Freddie. Before looking for Magnus, she would go to the school. The Nazis obviously knew where they lived and would make that their first port of call. Getting into her stride, she gained strength from knowing what she must do.
As she neared the school, the bell rang, summoning pupils to class. Freddie hung back fooling around with his friends, and his mother, running into the playground red-faced and sweating, startled him.
‘Maman, what are you doing here?’ He was embarrassed he’d spoken in French in front of them.
There was no time to explain, and her breath rasped, raising clouds of steam in the morning air. ‘Come with me.’
He glanced at the door to the building where a teacher beckoned to him. ‘I’m supposed to be in school.’
‘Come on.’ As she grabbed his hand, the others laughed. At first, he resisted, but her insistence filled him with a deepening dread, and he remembered times when they ran for reasons he didn’t understand.
Her eyes were red and wild. ‘We must go now.’
Seven years on Shetland had buried many memories, but like an old wound, it opened again. And he followed without argument.
They dare not risk going back to the croft, and when the Nazis failed to find them, a visit to the school would be next.
‘Where’s Magnus?’ She prayed he wasn’t out on the boat.
‘At the boatyard.’ Freddie smiled, remembering the times he helped mend the nets.
‘You sure? We can’t waste time looking.’
‘Yes, come on.’ And he set off at pace, forcing her to catch up.
A bear of a man with a full speckled beard and curly hair that sprouted in every direction, Magnus rose to his feet when they ran into the yard. The moment they had been expecting had arrived. She doubted if anyone could suspect this man dressed in a brown jumper, black trousers and outsize fishermen’s boots of being a British agent. How much he knew, she couldn’t tell, but she was sure he reckoned she was the targe
t, not Freddie.
‘They’re here,’ she blurted out.
He stood, digesting the news, then his head shook in frustration. ‘Ma boat’s jiggered. We couldn’t get it out of the harbour. The gear’s broken.’ As if to emphasise it, he picked up an engine part covered in oil.
‘Your friends?’
He raised his hands in frustration. ‘Out fishin’, left hours ago. We should go to the polis. They’ll protect you.’
Explaining their story to the local police would be impossible and also put them in danger. The intruders would kill them without a thought.
‘We must get away.’
‘Wait.’ He rubbed his beard. ‘Ma cousin Callum’s gotta boat. Doesn’t use it much these days, just potterin’ about, you ken. But it’s still seaworthy. Over in Scalloway. He’ll help.’
‘You sure?’
‘If you knew Callum, he’s always up for a wee adventure.’
It was their only chance.
‘Ah’ll give him a call and make sure he’s there.’
His boots clumping on the concrete, he stomped off to the office, and Alena hugged Freddie tight.
‘Stop it, maman, why are you doing that?’ He struggled, straightening his sweater.
Would he ever be safe to live his life without fear, she wondered.
Magnus returned with a jaunty grin, jangling his car keys. ‘Right, Callum’s ready to sail. He’s fillin’ her up.’
A former Waffen SS sergeant and a corporal paid off the taxi some way from the croft and watched for signs of life at the house. A car stood outside, but no smoke came from the single chimney which suggested no one was home. The bigger man, the sergeant, sat on a low stone dyke while the corporal walked back and forth looking around him, spitting on the ground as if that would ease the tension. ‘Scheisse!’ he complained. ‘There are no trees.’ The corners of his mouth turned down as he sneered at his surroundings.
‘Too much wind,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘Speak English while we are here.’
After fifteen minutes when sure the croft was unoccupied, they walked up the rutted track, prepared for someone to challenge them. Strangers seldom arrived unannounced in Shetland. To their surprise, they found the door unlocked and entered.
Minutes later, Shona climbed out of her cab and paid the driver. She carried two bags of groceries and before reaching the front door looked out over the loch. The calm waters like a deep blue mirror reflected the sunshine that had broken through racing clouds. It could be a bleak place, but on days such as this, its rugged beauty made it unique. It would be perfect for bringing up children. Only Alena’s car stood on the drive so Magnus would be on his boat or at the yard. If Alena were home, she wouldn’t give her the news. He should be the first to know. Again, she rehearsed her speech and smiled, guessing his reaction. She pushed the door open.
‘Alena,’ she called. ‘I’m back.’
She smelled them before she saw them. One sat in her favourite chair with his legs dangling over the arm; the other, who had short cropped blond hair and a brutal face that made her catch her breath, stood just inside.
‘Come in, frau,’ he said in a heavy accent. ‘We have been waiting for you.’
4
London
Ben Peters wondered why Pickering sounded so troubled on the phone as he made his way to meet him at a bar outside Pickering’s usual sphere of comfort. With some misgivings, he realised he wanted to keep their meeting secret. It was a request he could not ignore. Although Pickering had gotten him into scrapes that he should have avoided, he owed his life to him on at least one occasion. He believed he worked for MI6, but his role in the opaque world of intelligence was a mystery. Like an exotic fan dancer who never reveals all at once. What was in store for him this time? When he got the call, he was sure it would lead to something he should refuse.
Situated at the end of a cobblestoned alleyway just off The Embankment, the pub was popular. Listed as a place to visit when in London, drinkers sat outside on wrought-iron chairs at tables under parasols, smoking and watching newcomers arrive. Pickering was not amongst them. It was obvious why he had chosen it for a covert meeting. It didn’t attract regulars. Apart from tourists, who were unlikely to visit again, it was a haunt of commuters and travellers who wanted a quick drink before catching their trains at Charing Cross or crossing the river to Waterloo for their journey to the country.
He adjusted his eyes to the gloom of the room. Pickering was big and took up more than the usual space, but he couldn’t see him or smell the telltale aroma of his pipe. Hunched over their pints of ale and involved in conversations with their acquaintances, the drinkers weren’t interested in him. The interior of the pub was in an L-shape around the bar, and he walked to the back in case Pickering was sitting out of sight.
There was a lone drinker at a table, and he wondered if he had come to the wrong pub. The drinker sported a thick, black beard with a deerstalker pulled down tight and glanced up as though Ben had disturbed him.
As he turned away, the man growled: ‘Sit.’
The drinker pushed a seat back with a foot and gestured to it.
Surprised, he almost laughed out loud. ‘Is it Halloween?’
Pickering put a finger to his lips. ‘Fooled you for a moment.’ He had two beers in front of him and shoved one in Ben’s direction. ‘Take a swig before it goes off.’
Why is English beer always warm and taste of cobwebs, he wondered.
He did as ordered. ‘What in hell’s name are you up to now?’
‘Got to be careful, old man, they may be watching. And you don’t want to be seen with me.’
He stared at Pickering, who was stroking and probing his false beard. ‘Who are they?’ He slumped in the chair and reached for the drink. ‘What’s this cloak and dagger nonsense all about?’
‘It’s not a game.’
‘The war is over, Pickering.’
‘Don’t mention my name.’ He glanced around. ‘Perhaps for some, but not us. If there’s not a war, we’ve got to invent one.’
‘So why am I here?’ He eased back in his chair, not sure if Pickering was serious.
‘Was simpler when we were fighting the Jerries. We knew who the enemy was. Now we don’t. It’s bloody confusing.’
‘Why would anyone be watching us?’ He swallowed his beer, trying to ignore the taste.
‘SIS.’
‘MI6? But that’s your lot.’
A look of helplessness rippled across Pickering’s face as his watery blue eyes scanned the bar again. ‘Unfortunately.’
‘I don’t understand.’ He took another mouthful of his drink. ‘Why are your people checking on you?’
‘Believe me, MI6 are tailing me, watching where I go and, in particular, who I am speaking to.’
‘How can you tell? Presumably, they wouldn’t inform you.’
Pickering shook his head as if he couldn’t understand it either. ‘Course not. My contacts at MI5, Bubble and Squeak, tipped me off.’
‘I’m confused. Tell me about it.’
‘I’ve no idea, old man.’ In frustration, he waved a hand that looked naked without a pipe. ‘Seems we had a mole in the organisation.’
‘Who?’
‘Can’t bring myself to speak his name. But you know who I mean.’
That bastard.
A shiver ran up his spine, and he quelled the memory with another gulp of beer.
‘Something that traitor did years ago. But now the shit appears to be sticking to me.’
‘Ridiculous,’ he said, louder than he meant, and a few drinkers looked up. ‘Surely a hearing could sort this out?’ he mumbled.
Pickering’s rumble of laughter again attracted attention. ‘It doesn’t work in this game. Whispers, asides, people kept in the dark, political manoeuvring, so you never can tell who is for or against you.’ He raised his hands and moved them apart. ‘Then one day, you are gone.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Magic.’
‘Sounds rather far-fe
tched to me.’ He had almost finished his drink and debated whether he should risk another.
‘Can’t trust anyone back at HQ. Need your help, old man. You’re the only person I can turn to.’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘Nothing too onerous. They can’t see us together, or you’d come under suspicion, and you know what happens then.’
He waited for him to elaborate.
‘One day, Special Branch will pick you up on the street. Our boys won’t be involved. They’ll lock you up and go to work on you with their rubber truncheons until they get a confession–’
‘Confession? To what?’
‘Whatever they want. You’ll be locked up in some Godforsaken place. No one will know where you are.’ He lifted a hand to his mouth and frowned when he realised he didn’t have a pipe in it.
’So why haven’t they given you the treatment?’
‘Waiting to see who I’m talking to and if I’m working with a network of traitors.’
‘Thanks,’ he said without feeling and drained the dregs of his glass, convinced it was as bad as ditch water.
‘Were you followed when you came here?’
He looked around him. There was no reason to suspect that.
‘First, I need some clothes and things.’
‘You want me to go to your place and pick them up?’
‘No, no, no.’ Pickering went to slam his hand on the table and stopped. ‘You mustn’t be seen to be helping me.’
‘No problem. I’ll buy the gear and drop it off. Where?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Okay, call me.’
It disappointed Pickering that Ben couldn’t grasp the seriousness of his predicament. ‘They’ll be listening into my, and possibly your, phone.’
The enormity of it was beginning to sink in. ‘Haven’t you got any idea what it’s about?’
‘No, but it happened after I enquired about Alena and Freddie.’