by Vic Robbie
She collapsed on the bed and contemplated the smoke drifting up to the ceiling. ‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Succeed, and you live. Anything goes wrong, we’ll find you wherever you are. If you refuse, we’ll have to make other arrangements.’
She had no doubts what Klein meant as he ran a hand down the length of the stiletto, pricking a finger on the point. And blood dripped on the floor.
18
‘I have decided what we must do,’ Ben said as Alena entered the kitchen. He had cleaned up after Pickering, who had slept on the couch and left before he awakened. He was eating a breakfast of a slice of toast washed down with coffee and smiled at her rumpled appearance with her hair mussed up. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Best sleep for longer than I care to remember.’ She yawned. ‘For the first time, I felt safe. Freddie’s still out to the world.’
‘Coffee?’
She smiled, and he made the drink.
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
I do. But he nodded.
‘So, what’s your decision?’
‘We should go to the States; the longer you stay here, the greater the danger.’
‘But?’ The unlit cigarette hung from her bottom lip. ‘Papers and tickets are hard to get.’
‘There’s one advantage of knowing someone at British Intelligence,’ he said with a sly look. ‘After you’d gone to bed, Pickering and I talked about it because he has the contacts.’
‘But my passport–’
‘You left it on the table, and I gave it to Pickering, who realises it’s important to move fast. Okay?’
Lighting her cigarette, she blew smoke up to the ceiling and looked bemused. ‘I’m so edgy. Every time there’s a sound; I believe it’s them. And if I don’t hear a thing, I think they’re listening.’
‘It’s all under control, leave it to me,’ he said and muttered to himself. If only that were true. ‘As soon as Pickering sorts the paperwork, we’re off to New York.’
‘I’m a sitting duck, waiting to be shot,’ she said as her shoulders sagged and her hair covered her face.
He ran a hand over his eyes wiping away the sleep. ‘Let’s go out.’
She looked surprised. ‘But won’t it be dangerous?’
‘No more than sitting here.’
‘But where?’
‘I want to show you something. Freddie, especially.’
She tried to wheedle it out of him, but he refused to surrender. ‘You’ll see,’ was all he would tell her.
The lock-up was in a mews half a mile from his apartment. As he lived in London, he had no need of the car on a day-to-day basis but would keep it for the foreseeable future. If for nothing else, as a reminder of what he had endured in France. When sitting in the car, those days returned, like watching a newsreel, with Alena alongside and hearing her voice and laughter. After seven years’ separation, it was as though they had never been apart.
The surprise intrigued Freddie, and he pestered him asking questions to which the answer was a resolute no.
When they reached the mews, they walked thirty yards to a green-painted door, and he fished in his pocket for the key.
‘Freddie,’ he said, turning with a smile. ‘Close your eyes.’
Freddie put a hand over his eyes. But one was open as Ben swung the door back. It took time to get accustomed to the dark, but there it was just as when he first saw it in the underground garage of the Banque de France. The green Derby Bentley reclining like a great beast in its lair, more organic than mechanical. Its cluster of five headlamps glared at them with a baleful look as if it might pounce at any moment.
Alena gasped and put a hand to her mouth, and her knees gave.
Freddie shrieked in excitement. ‘It’s the Bentley; I don’t believe it.’ He laid his head on the bonnet as if welcoming home the family dog.
Alena muttered something in French and leant on Ben, letting him take her weight. ‘How did you…’ Her words trailed off as her mouth opened wide in wonderment.
‘Pickering helped me retrieve it.’
‘But it’s not…’
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘Had some work done and it’s very nearly back to prime condition.’
She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard on the lips only for Freddie to pull them apart.
‘Can we go for a ride,’ he squealed. ‘Please, Ben, please?’
She walked over to the car and ran a hand over its bodywork, and he wanted to carry on kissing her.
‘Okay, let’s take her for a spin, Freddie, she’s been waiting a long time for you.’
With the first rumble of the engine, Freddie shouted with excitement and jumped up and down in his seat. ‘Faster, Ben, go faster,’ he exhorted, and Ben did as instructed.
From time to time, he stole a glance at Alena, and she had a tear in her eyes, but also a smile on her lips, and it pleased him that she remembered. It was as if nothing had changed. His gaze lingered, and she returned it with a shy smile and leant over, and her kiss brushed his cheek, and he almost lost control. ‘Keep your attention on the road,’ she giggled as she pulled back, but she left her hand resting on his thigh.
Several times he readjusted his rearview mirror, and on each occasion, the same grey car was there. It had been following them since they left the mews. Or was he becoming paranoid? His life had become a series of violent escapades, trapped in a web of suspicion and deceit, and with every attempt to escape he pushed himself farther into its centre. Once involved with the intelligence community he was locked in forever. The only way out was to fail or die, probably both. He had not volunteered for this, and he did not want to be involved. He had always thought of himself as an observer of life rather than a participant. There had been no hint of this as a schoolboy in Rochester, New York State. Competent at schoolwork, particularly mathematics, he played baseball for his school, won the state’s mile championship in track and field, and boxed. His scholarship to Harvard made him a fleeting celebrity in the columns of Rochester’s local newspaper, the Democrat & Chronicle. That led to a job with a bank in Wall Street thanks in the main to the influence of his father, Tom, a retired stockbroker. Finance would be his career although he always believed there must be something more. He discovered that when he met Amy Ralston and, during their short and unsuccessful relationship, she opened the door to literature and writers like F Scott Fitzgerald and, in particular, the writings of Ernest Hemingway. He devoured every book she gave him and more, and he realised that writing was what he wanted to do with his life. Without that introduction, he would not have gone to Paris. He didn’t appreciate their evil-smelling cigarettes and the strange things the French did with food. But he wanted to retrace Hemingway’s steps as if sharing his experiences might kick-start a career in writing. His biggest asset was that people liked him, women especially. Someone once said the best way to learn a foreign language was in bed, and he soon became fluent in French. It was his inability to say no to a beautiful woman, and his old Banque de France boss’s powers of persuasion that started him on this path just before the Nazis invaded Paris in 1940. Under his breath, he muttered: ‘Here we go again.’
After an hour of driving and with someone still on his tail, he turned to Alena. ‘Let’s get back.’ He didn’t mention the car following them, not wanting to cause her any more worry than necessary.
19
Today would be one of her bad days, even after taking her medication. Natalie’s feelings were overwhelming her like a black cloud. As much as she tried to will the mood away, it hung over her. At first, it was on the periphery, but as the day progressed, it grew, threatening to devour her. Body and mind, two separate entities. Both working against each other. Involuntary movements, without reason. Difficult to concentrate. Her mind racing away from her like an undisciplined dog. At the outset, it was as though her body had surrendered and she was just a spectator, powerless to stop the destruction. She should stay in bed. Cover her head with a
pillow. Block out the light of the day. And hope for sleep that seldom came. But, fearing suffocation, she could not rest, she must face the day or be buried alive.
It always started with energy. She would meet people with a burst of enthusiasm. Actions quick. Forceful. Voice loud. Emotions excessive. And she would notice the alarm in their eyes. As the day developed, the gnawing fear of approaching doom dragged her down until she wanted to shut everything out and, in particular, the light. And she’d be frightened. Not of outside forces, but of herself. And the fear and loathing would force her to hide somewhere so as not to be a danger.
Today was that kind of day. What Solomon wanted was straightforward, something she had done too many times. Most of her victims had deserved to die. Evil people paying for the great harm they had done to others. Killing a child was different. How could she justify that?
Perhaps by delivering the boy to the Nazis in Buenos Aires, she could save his life. After that, it would no longer be her concern. If she did, Solomon would unleash the dogs on her, and she would at best spend the rest of her days rotting in a cell. But if she pleased Solomon, the Nazis wouldn’t rest until they executed her. Either way, she would pay.
Solomon’s dossier didn’t make good reading although it excluded some events that were best forgotten. Everything was more or less true, apart from her alleged collaborations, including an SS officer in Paris. Her looks had always attracted men and made ensnaring victims simple. She had killed him without remorse. Why did she find killing easy? Did her mental state encourage it? Or was her mental state the result of having killed?
She had decided her course of action and knew she must get out of the room. There must be no delay. She would meet Ben before it dragged her down. Getting out of bed, she washed and applied make-up before phoning him. ‘I have to see you now.’ After instructing him where to meet, she ended the call without giving him the chance to refuse.
For the fourth time that morning, she checked the contents of her purse and pulled out a packet of Passing Clouds and her lighter. And she found the silver stiletto nestling at the bottom and held it up, glinting in the morning light.
When you are alone, any sudden sound can amplify your fears. Ben had gone to meet a contact, Freddie was sleeping, and Alena could hear a scuffling noise and a dull thump as though someone had put their weight against the door. Petrified, she held her breath. A griping pain enveloped her, and her throat was dry and jagged as if she had swallowed broken glass. She stared at the door, sure she had bolted it as Ben instructed.
That noise again. A metal on metal sound. Not a key in the lock, more a knife trying to force it open. She padded over in her bare feet. And heard someone breathing. The knob turned and stopped as if they sensed her presence. She squinted through the peephole, but the corridor seemed empty. Another dull thud as if trying to force it. She glanced back at Freddie’s bedroom. All she needed was for him to wake and call out.
A heavy knock made her take a step backwards as if hit on the chest. Who could it be? What did they want? She wished that Ben had been here to protect them. Putting an ear to the door, she listened. No sound. Again, she peered through the peephole.
Nothing.
She looked left and right.
No one.
Then up and down.
Where were they?
The intruder would be hiding, ready to pounce. For what seemed an age, she held her breath, but all she heard was the thudding of her heart. They were waiting for her to open it. She pictured them lurking out in the corridor. Some force goaded her to explore, but instead, she listened for minutes. Only when convinced no one was there, did she return to the sitting-room to close the drapes, shutting out the sunlight and the watchers.
Natalie had sounded troubled when she called and, with reluctance, Ben agreed to meet her at the Old Bell Tavern. He took the opportunity of visiting his publishers before walking along Fleet Street past the imposing newspaper offices where the large print presses throbbed with so much power that even the pavements vibrated. Walking into the tavern brought back memories he would rather not revisit.
She rose from behind a table, holding out her arms for an embrace. Laughing at his surprise, her hair tumbled over her shoulders like black silk, her eyes so open and without artifice that had he not known better he might have surrendered.
‘Thanks for coming, cheri,’ she breathed and smiled as the barman brought over a Scotch and water for him.
‘You’ve got a good memory.’
‘Got large ones, didn’t want to waste time.’
‘Why did you pick here to meet?’
‘Nostalgia, I guess.’
‘We haven’t met here before. The first time was Martinique.’
‘How could I forget?’ Blushing, she looked away.
‘What’s so urgent?’
‘I want to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’
She laughed at his worried look before lighting up a Passing Cloud and studying the end of the cigarette as if she would find some meaning there.
She lowered her voice. ‘It concerns Alena and Freddie.’
He didn’t reply, instead tasting his drink.
‘Let’s not play games.’ She placed a hand on his. ‘Their lives are in danger.’
‘I don’t–’
‘Don’t waste my time, Ben. After everything you went through together, you must want to help them. That’s understandable.’
He nodded slowly but kept a careful watch. Natalie was like a cat stalking wounded prey, and he feared for them.
‘It’s been seven years. They could be anywhere. SIS hid them somewhere the Nazis would not find them, and they didn’t tell me where that was. I tried to find them, but it wasn’t allowed.’
In exasperation, she ran a hand through her hair. ‘They’re in London.’
He tried to look surprised. Natalie studied his face as if remembering every bump and scar, and a bead of sweat dropped off her top lip. A range of expressions flitted across her face like the shadows of clouds blown across a field, and her movements were jerky and irrational like a marionette.
‘Where? Probably SIS have hidden them somewhere, but I don’t know.’
‘She’ll contact you.’
‘She hasn’t so far, and I doubt–’ Suspicious, he paused. ‘What’s your interest in this?’
‘I’ve a proposition for Alena,’ she said and hesitated as if it were only for her ears.
‘Go on.’
‘An influential Jewish group in America are offering to help her for her war efforts. They’ll assist in establishing a new life for them under new identities in America.’
‘What are you getting out of this?’
‘Simple. The same deal. I want out. I want to disappear, somewhere I won’t be found. They can do that for me. In return, I must deliver Freddie and Alena to America. And you’ll never hear from me again.’ She tilted her head to hide the lie.
‘Are they the only people you’re working for?’ He smiled, pressing her to confide.
‘I’m disappointed in you. Saved your life once.’
‘Mmm…’ That was open to debate.
‘You should speak to SIS,’ he said. ‘It’d be down to them.’
Natalie blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘That’s the problem. They’d stop her leaving. With your help, we could smuggle her out of the country. My Jewish friends have only her best interests at heart.’
‘Why?’ Not all supposed acts of kindness are for the best reasons.
‘It will ease their guilt.’
‘Guilt for what?’
‘That while safe in America, their brethren in Europe were being slaughtered by the Nazis.’
20
After making several telephone calls, Natalie knew she had only one option. Whatever others might demand, her concern was for her future. Satisfied she had reached a decision, she lit a cigarette as a reward, blowing smoke rings across the room. Reality had little more substance than smoke, she thought as s
he caught some in her hand. Abruptly, she stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. It was time to confront Alena and the boy.
After hammering on the door for some minutes, wide-eyed and flushed she swept into the apartment.
He was surprised because he reckoned he had put her off the scent after the meeting at the Old Bell, but he stepped aside. ‘What do you want now?’
‘They’re coming for the boy, and they’ll kill his mother.’
‘Who?’
‘We must get them to safety.’
‘I don’t know where Alena and Freddie are.’
‘Nonsense, they’re here with you.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I came here yesterday before our meeting. I had the tools to gain access. But the door was bolted. Someone was here.’
‘That’s not–’
Natalie looked past him to see a woman emerge from a bedroom followed by a boy with dark, wavy hair. The subjects of the photographs in Solomon’s files, and she realised why he wanted to help them. But any feelings of compassion were soon snuffed out.
Alena mustered a smile. ‘It’s okay, Ben, they’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Who are you working for this time?’ Ben asked.
She had expected the question, knowing his distrust could ruin all her plans. Ignoring him, she addressed her remarks to Alena and directed a half-smile at Freddie. ‘I mean you no harm. I just want to help.’
Ben’s expression conveyed everything he was thinking. Money or personal gain dictated Natalie’s motives, and she was always available to the highest bidder.
Natalie pushed it to the back of her mind; guilt wasn’t an emotion she could afford.
‘Can you really help?’
Resting her gaze on the boy, she explained: ‘I told you about my Jewish friends. They would make all the arrangements so Alena and Freddie could be safe in America. They care about the victims of the Nazis around the world, and they share a corporate guilt about the slaughter in the concentration camps.’