by Vic Robbie
The collision slowed its flight, and the male passenger clambered forward to grab the reins and bring the animal to a walk. As he applied the brake and the carriage came to rest, concerned bystanders gathered round, and there was a uniform sigh as, with a grateful smile, the child’s mother lifted her daughter and kissed her.
Natalie saw Ben lying like a misshapen bundle, his head covered by the leaves of a bush. There was no movement, and she feared the worst. She battled through the crowd and crossed the asphalt and, as she neared his body, she thought he stirred.
At first, he had memories of Martinique again with Natalie’s exquisite face before him and her eyes searching anxiously and her long hair tumbling and brushing his cheek.
‘Oh, cheri, are you okay?’ she asked but got no answer. He felt nothing but pain. Where it started, he couldn’t tell, and there was no end. It was excruciating, and he feared his body was breaking apart.
‘Ben, Ben are you alive?’ He was looking at Natalie, but her lips were not moving. It was Alena, and her voice rose in mounting hysteria. ‘Oh, my God, I can’t find Freddie.’
Dressed in a hugging, pale blue suit, she moved towards him with a casual stride on beautiful, long-thighed legs like a cat prowling its territory. From his vantage point, Pickering enjoyed observing her walk across the park and climbing the slope to where he sat under a tree. Besides admiring her figure while he clutched a bag of sandwiches and a beer, looking like any office worker at lunch, he also tried to keep tabs on Natalie in front of the Tavern on The Green. His colleagues from French Intelligence had been spot-on. They had not exaggerated. She exceeded even their enthusiastic descriptions and when she smiled at him his defences melted.
‘What’s happening there?’ She pointed in the direction of the restaurant.
‘All quiet on the Western front, old girl.’ He put down the beer and sandwiches on the grass before pulling out his pipe. While he inserted a wad of tobacco and tamped it as if creating a work of art, she waited for a report. ‘Followed them out of the hotel and up Broadway. Went into Stardust for breakfast – can recommend it – then headed up here to the park and took a carriage ride. Natalie arrived at the Tavern some time ago and is waiting for them.’
The sharp sunlight made her screw up her eyes. ‘What do you think Natalie did this morning?’ Even when serious, her soft voice sounded like water tinkling in a stream.
‘No idea, old girl.’ He didn’t appreciate questions he could not answer and snorted with indignation. ‘I can’t be in two places at once.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, watching the commotion on the road.
‘Sorry, old… But I’d like to know what Natalie has planned. We need more boots on the ground.’
‘Our people are in position in Buenos Aires. And we must get by here with the local help.’ She turned back. ‘What’s new with our friends?’
‘Nazis?’
She nodded.
‘No sign, but as we say in London, you’re never more than a few feet away from a rat.’
‘They may have alerted their American network, but I doubt it,’ she said. ‘They work on a need-to-know basis. Only Klein knows the end game, and they can’t afford to let too many into their secrets.’
Movement in front of the Tavern caught her attention, and she gestured with her head. ‘What’s that?’
He peered down at the road. ‘Something’s going on, but I can’t tell what. Too many gathered around. Someone appears to be hurt.’ He averted his gaze. ‘So what’s Natalie been up to?’
She pushed an errant hair from her eyes that tipped upwards at the corners as if in surprise. It would have been better to handle this without Pickering, but the British had insisted that one of their operatives be involved. ‘She met a man earlier.’ And elaborated before he could interrupt. ‘Not that kind of meeting. He was very much older.’
Pickering leant forward with a leer. ‘You know what they say about old fiddles.’
Her hard look made him cough and, suitably cowed, he asked: ‘Any idea who he was?’
‘No, and we couldn’t get close enough to hear the conversation.’ Her shoulders slumped in frustration. ‘But it wasn’t friendly.’
Taking a long pull on his pipe, he shook his head. ‘Don’t like the sound of that.’
For a moment she stared at him. ‘I’ve worked with her, and I don’t trust her either.’
‘What’s she up to?’ he mused, working his beard. ‘Saves the boy from the Jerries in London. Accompanies them here. She’s planning something.’
‘Perhaps just helping them find somewhere to hide.’
‘Doubt it. Ben is from New York State and knows this neck of the woods. Shouldn’t need any help. I wonder what it is.’
Her eyebrows rose, demanding an answer.
‘They were close once,’ he said.
‘Can’t believe that.’ She spat out the words and flushed.
‘Closer than you might think.’ Realising the angst he was causing, he grinned.
‘Must be more to it.’ Her foot drew a line in the dirt, and she crossed her arms
They had almost forgotten the drama on the road as he turned square on to her. ‘This whole operation is a worry.’
‘Why?’ Her forehead furrowed.
‘Just don’t like the tactics.’
The subterfuge he hadn’t minded. A means to an end. This was different. When he had walked into Bartley’s office, he could see something was afoot by the evil smile on his boss’s face. Bartley delighted in handing unpleasant tasks to his staff. Her presence troubled him because he found working with women difficult. Two MI5 officers of his acquaintance also took part in the discussion, and whenever MI5 got involved, it left a nasty taste. The senior man he nicknamed Squeak. Small with a high-pitched delivery, he wore a hat at all times, even indoors, as though ashamed of a head of black curls. Squeak’s partner, a tall man with a face used to disappointment, had a stare that could make the innocent plead guilty. Pickering believed that although MI5 and SIS could be together in the same bed, they would never be lovers. Back in 1941, he first met them when liaising between the two agencies and reporting to the War Cabinet. While these days he was on a slow slide to the exit, Bubble and Squeak were climbing the ladder. That was the way of the world, he supposed. One moment you dined out on an expense account; the next you paid for it yourself.
She evaluated him before raising her shoulders and insisting. ‘You have your orders. Carry them out.’
Irritated, he had little option but to accept. ‘Still doesn’t make it right.’ He bit his lip. ‘Just not cricket.’
Ronnie glared at him, wondering what he meant.
‘The operation in England was okay. This feels dirty. Not something I’m happy about.’
‘It really worries you?’
‘Damn right it does. If anything–’
‘Nothing will go wrong.’
‘Can you be sure?’
‘Well, yes.’ But it was a hesitant affirmation.
‘It’ll be on my conscience, if not yours, for the rest of my days.’
Her laugh was dismissive. ‘I thought you MI6 people were cynical old bastards?’
‘Some people deserve to pay, but not…’
‘You surprise me, M’sieu Pickering, you have hidden depths.’ A raised eyebrow was followed by a giggle, and he blushed. ‘Nothing bad will happen, I promise.’
‘But they can harm him.’
‘We need to take risks and make sacrifices.’ Tilting her head, she continued: ‘Consider the greater danger. From their base near Buenos Aires, these Nazis control a worldwide network. Yes, we won the war, but that doesn’t mean they’ve gone away. We have to locate their base, and with your help, we could.’
He winced and knocked his pipe out on a rock. ‘Don’t–’
‘Müller and Mengele are there. If we find them, we can cut off the head of this snake.’
With a sigh of resignation, he climbed to his feet. ‘How, they�
�re safe there, hiding behind the skirts of the Argentinian government?’
A determined gleam shone from her eyes. ‘We are not going to play by the book. As you know, we have a strong team in the area. Once we find out where Müller and his people are, we’ll take care of business.’
Pickering looked towards the restaurant and wheeled. ‘Dammit! I can’t see Freddie, he’s disappeared.’
The skyscrapers of Manhattan reached for the clouds like long, grey fingers and he felt dizzy looking up at them and almost lost his balance. The sights of Central Park made his head swirl, but always his gaze returned to those buildings. People moved around him in a blur, their sounds jumbled in a discordant backdrop as he wandered, uncertain of his destination. New sensations came with each step, and he embraced them. Every breath filled him with the tastes and smells of this alien world. He felt an exhilarating emancipation. The people seemed different and exciting. Mysterious. Bigger. Hurrying to interesting places. The smiles kept on coming as he enjoyed the thrill of escape. The farther he wandered, the more he became immersed as though sucked into a vortex.
He had no idea how far he had walked when to his surprise he came upon a lake, an oasis of blue in a sea of green, the waters calm, and the reflections of the buildings rippling on its surface. Amazed this could exist in the centre of such a city, it was like stepping into a secret place of his own. The sounds of birds and the excited calls of boaters on the lake and water lapping blurred the drone of the Manhattan traffic and washed it out of his consciousness. Sunshine sparkled off the surface, and he screwed up his eyes, making them tear, and laughed out loud. Transfixed, he found a bench and watched the brightly painted boats gliding across the benign surface. The peace he craved enveloped him, and for that moment everything in front of him was his whole world. Time seemed to slow, and he reckoned if he could halt it, the rest of the world would sweep past as if he were invisible. He looked up at a few clouds becalmed like yachts in the royal blue sky. More than anything, he wanted to row a boat across the lake, but he doubted they would allow him on the water alone.
‘Looks fun.’ A woman joined him on the bench, and he shifted along to make room for her.
When he didn’t reply, she said again. ‘Would be fun, wouldn’t it?’
He glanced across at her and mumbled: ‘Guess so.’
She was beautiful, like maman and Natalie, but in a different way. Her light brown skin gleamed with an inner vitality and her accent was French but not one he had heard before.
‘I guess so, too.’ She smiled at him.
Is she laughing at me, he wondered and flushed. ‘It’d be nice out there. Away from everything.’ He waved an arm in the air. ‘Away from all these people.’ Embarrassed, he pulled it down.
‘That would be rather good. Are you here all on your own?’
Grabbed by guilt, he stuttered: ‘No, no, with maman.’ And he looked around, wondering where she might be and if she’d be worried.
‘Hope you’re not lost.’
‘No.’ The reply was bold, not wanting her to think he was incapable of looking after himself.
‘Good.’ Another smile flitted across her face. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Freddie,’ he blurted out and wondered if he should talk French to her.
‘That’s a lovely name.’
He couldn’t muster the courage to ask hers, instead replying: ‘Have you been out on the lake?’
‘No, never, but I’d like to. Wouldn’t you?’
He grinned with enthusiasm. ‘Would be great, but–’
‘Your maman wouldn’t approve.’
‘No.’ He glanced down at the ground. ‘Watches everything I do as though I’m not old enough to take care of myself.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Mothers? Always had the same problem with mine, but I guess they know best.’ She stared over her shoulder then patted him on the knee. ‘Stay there, I’ll be back in a minute.’
Suddenly, he was fearful that he had come too far and thought he should return.
‘Freddie,’ he heard the call and turned to see her coming down a slight incline with an ice-cream in each hand. ‘Here. Take yours.’
A worried expression darkened his face. ‘No, no thank you,’ he stammered but wanted it.
‘Oh, go on.’ Her smile coaxed him.
‘Don’t think I’d better. Shouldn’t take gifts from strangers, don’t you know.’ Would she consider him rude? He flushed again, his cheeks burning.
‘Please,’ she insisted. ‘You’d be helping me. Look, it’s melting and dripping everywhere. Please, just hold it, you don’t have to eat it.’
As much as he wanted to, he refused to try a bite, allowing the ice cream to run over his hand as he watched her.
With a wicked smile, she stuck her tongue into the cone, lifting a ball of the cream before licking it over her lips until they turned white. ‘Mmmm,’ she murmured and closed her eyes, ‘that’s delicious.’
Opening one eye, she saw Freddie had given into temptation and was biting into it, desperate to catch as much before it melted.
‘Good, eh?’ she asked.
He agreed. It tasted all the better because he had countermanded his mother’s orders.
When finished, she put a hand on his arm and looked serious, drawing him in. ‘Let’s get a boat? I’d like that.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure.’ Now Freddie wanted to return.
‘Come on; what an adventure. Won’t take long, and then we’ll find maman, and she’ll be so proud.’
It took only a moment’s consideration before he weakened. ‘Let’s go.’ He squealed with delight and jumped up. ‘And I can row. I’ve been watching, and I know what to do.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ the woman said, scanning the area behind them. ‘Will you take my hand and help me down the hill?’
24
Argentina
The orange glow of the late afternoon sun emphasised the deep lines etched in the face of a white-haired man sitting in an easy chair by a bed. One side of his face appeared normal; the other, frozen, with the skin taut over high cheekbones and an eye that did not blink. He looked older than his fifty-eight years, but his slate blue eyes were still sharp as they stared out through the barred window.
The tick of a clock on the wall reminded him how much time he had left. And sometimes the sound dominated his thoughts and went round and round his head. He heard a click but didn’t turn. A door opened and closed, the sound of secure doors.
‘Good afternoon, Herr Doctor,’ he said without looking. ‘Punctual as ever.’
The doctor used the excuse of concentrating on arranging his various instruments for the day’s check-up as a reason for not replying. But this was not the only occasion they checked him. The male nurses appraised him on the hour, taking his blood pressure, temperature, and shining lights in his eyes.
‘Are you not going to ask the prisoner how he is today, Graukwitz?’ he asked, the right side of his face smiling cynically.
Dr Hermann Graukwitz twitched and cleared his throat. He had been a member of the SS Medical Corps, stationed at the concentration camp at Dachau. But dealing with this patient was a more nerve-wracking experience. Even Müller, who was in charge, became subservient in the patient’s presence. A small man in every way, he needed a uniform to bolster his self-esteem. His SS uniform or a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck gave him that. At the first examination of the patient, he had been nervous and dropped his spectacles. And his weakness was noticed.
‘I am sorry,’ the doctor said and turned to face him. ‘But I do not think you are a prisoner.’ He watched his words sink in. ‘And how is the patient today?’ He attempted a tight-lipped smile.
‘The same as every day since Müller imprisoned me.’
Monitored by Graukwitz and three powerful nurses, who were his medical support team, or as he sometimes thought them, his jailers, his world had been this room for almost two years. Apart from the bed and medical apparatus
, there were two easy chairs, a table where he took his meals and could listen to a radio and read newspapers and books. Off his room was a bathroom. When he first arrived, they had allowed him to sit out on the terrace, but Müller stopped that, citing security. Security was the excuse for every restriction placed on him. Even the doctor didn’t refer to him by name, just the ‘patient’. The only other person he saw regularly was Müller, who sometimes sought his advice but never shared his thoughts or plans. Occasionally a stand-in took the doctor’s place when he disappeared for a few weeks. At least Graukwitz was free to do so. Tucked away, the patient’s rooms looked out onto the grounds at the back of the estancia. He sat for hours by the window, counting the changes of the day. An orderly guarded the door to his quarters, always locked. And although he heard voices, he never saw their owners.
The doctor swallowed hard, well used to this accusation and embarrassed because his loyalty was divided between both men. He would have laid down his life for the patient, but Müller was the future. He couldn’t slip up. Back home, his former colleagues, many of whom worked alongside him in the concentration camps, were being sentenced to death for their part in the atrocities. That fate would have been his but for Müller arranging his escape to Argentina. At Dachau, his role was to inspect the prisoners, most of whom were Jews or disabled, as they were dragged off cattle trucks. A pointed finger selected the poor souls to be put to work or gassed. There was just one solution for the ‘useless eaters’. Only those who could labour until they died were allowed to live. The faces of those waiting in line to learn their fate still visited him on sleepless nights, full of fear, defiance, bewilderment, pleading and especially those mocking him. Death was quick and relatively painless for those picked for gassing, he persuaded himself to ease his guilt. Those forced to work faced humiliation and deprivation before an agonising death. They did not spare the young either. He remembered a girl who was a regular in his dreams. She was around eight years old and was supporting her sick mother who pleaded with him to save her daughter. A pretty girl, with her hair tied in a long braid, and spirited, she fought to stay with her mother whom he had directed to the extermination queues. Each time they pulled her back to the workers, she attempted to rejoin her mother with an expression of anger and loathing that disturbed him. After several attempts, he let her go. During those selections, he underwent a torment of emotions but didn’t let it show. And the soldiers joked about old stone-faced Graukwitz. If he had seen this patient at Dachau, he would have sent him to the gas chambers instead of prolonging a useless life. And, sometimes, when he caught the look in the patient’s good eye, he knew he was thinking the same.