Fred waited, half expectantly, but also somewhat irritated. Maybe it was the boy’s recent military experience, when he had been forced to listen to other people’s stupidities in obedient subaltern silence, which now invariably tempted him to hear his own voice saying clever things. But whatever the reason, if he were to remain a useful member of TRR-2 in the dummy4
future, he would have to learn to hide his bright light more prudently.
‘I got it wrong first, actually – ’ Audley steered the little car regardlessly across a succession of potholes in the track which had succeeded the road surface ‘ – not understanding about Greece, of course.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes.’ The mockery bounced off Audley’s arrogance.
‘I thought . . . “cushy billet, those Jerries have got for themselves – pottering round the ruins of all the old German cities . . . Roman cities, rather: Confluentes, Moguntiacum, Colonla Claudia Ara Agrippinensis . . .
picking up this and that after the fires had cooled down, and after their ARP people had carted off the bodies, and long after the jolly old RAF had departed –
a real cushy billet!’ He pulled the car to a halt off the track under a stand of great beech trees through which a bright green meadow was visible, falling away on their right. ‘Very German of course, all the same. Great scholarship as well as great military prowess – too damn great military prowess for my liking . . . But great scholars too, they are. And they’ve always been fascinated with classical history – hence all the famous stuff in their museums. And hence that Roman fort we were billeted in, and the one the Kaiser rebuilt on the same line . . . and that bloody great statue in the woods not far from here . . . So it was a damn good cover, as dummy4
well as a cushy billet –but cover for what, eh?’ Audley stared at him for an instant, then began to unwind himself out of his seat.
Fred followed suit, staring through the trees as he stretched his legs. Not far ahead there seemed to be a great grey cliff rising up from the grass of a wide forest clearing.
‘ Nazis, I thought – ’ Audley towered over the car ‘ –
bloody Nazis taking cover in a nice, respectable job, hoping that we wouldn’t look for them in Roman Germany, dressed in scholars’ gowns. At least, that would be their second line of defence, anyway, if we did trace them. Because it was pretty clear they’d all dispersed and gone to ground long before we appeared on the scene. Which meant they knew they had something to hide.’ Audley pointed towards the cliff.
‘Shall we walk? The RV is just down the track from here, by the rocks – ’ He looked at his watch ‘ – but we’re still in good time.’
Fred fell into slow step beside him.
‘But then we started to uncover facts as well as names and dates. And then it didn’t seem to work so well, my theory. Because some of them really were pretty distinguished scholars and not Nazis at all. Like old Professor Schmidt, for example. And Langer, who was at Oxford. Although he wasn’t a classicist, or an archaeologist. He was a very smart scientist, so I dummy4
discovered – quite by accident . . . And Enno von Mitzlaff – he was an archaeologist, young and up-and-coming. And then he was a damn good soldier, until he lost his arm in the desert. But he wasn’t a Nazi – he certainly wasn’t a Nazi, by God!’
Audley was looking at the cliff now. And yet, it wasn’t a cliff: it was an extraordinary limestone outcrop ... or, rather, a series of outcrops, some rising up like great blunt fingers into the grey morning sky above the forest.
‘But, then it looked like none of them were Nazis. And they’d been on the job for years, some of them. In fact, it all really started before the war, as a sort of Romano-German encyclopaedia, and the bomb-damage rescue and recovery part of it was almost an after-thought, even though it became their main work eventually.’
Audley continued to stare at the rocks. ‘You know that this was a place of pilgrimage in medieval times?
Some bright religious entrepreneur had a replica of the Holy Places in Jerusalem carved into the caves at the bottom. And he may even have hired a Byzantine sculptor to do the job –possibly a PoW from the Crusades. Or a local man who’d been out east, maybe.
Because it isn’t straight Romanesque carving . . . And then he fleeced the pilgrims, I expect . . . But Caesar Augustus says it goes back a long way before that as a holy place – all the way to the pagan times of his dummy4
Cherusci, Chauci and Chattii – who worshipped rocks and trees. And he may actually be right, because my old Latin master, who is a proper old pagan . . . only he doesn’t worship rocks and trees, it’s Plato and rugger with him . . . he says it’s an old Christian trick to set up shop on other gods’ shrines –’
‘They weren’t Nazis?’ He still wasn’t sure whether Audley digressed deliberately or out of habit. ‘So what were they?’
‘Ah ... no, they weren’t Nazis. But I still had this strange feeling that it was a cover of some sort.’ The boy gave him an uncharacteristically shy sidelong look.
‘It was really the old Croc who put me straight, in what passes for one of his more civilized moments . . .
accidentally, of course ... if I’m right, that is – ?’
‘Go on, David.’
‘Yes . . . Well, it was when he was rabbiting on about his favourite subject one night – the Germans, and what we’re doing to them . . . and what we should be doing to them, and all that. And someone – the Alligator most likely – because he likes baiting the Croc – he said that it was no more difficult than sorting apples: you kept the good ones and threw away the bad ones. And the Croc says, quick as a flash, “Och – but what is a guid Geairr-man?’” Audley grinned hugely as he exaggerated McCorquodale’s slight burr. ‘“It’s nae guid simply saying it’s those that fought with us dummy4
against the wee man Hitlerrr. Because there’s many a guid decent man that disliked the both – an’ the more so when yon bluidy bastard in the Kremlin comes into the picture, as he was bound to do soonerrr or laterrr!”‘
The smile vanished. ’And he’s right, of course.‘
Right, of course! And so Major McCorquodale seemed then to be Brigadier Clinton’s man to the life, too. But Major McCorquodale was on the Brigadier’s list, too!
‘And I was right also, in a way . . . even when I was wrong –’ The look on Fred’s face halted Audley ‘ –
wasn’t I? Am I – ?’
Fred controlled his disquiet. ‘Right about what?’
‘They were taking cover. Only not just from us – but also from the Nazis – ’ The boy lifted his hand ‘ – from both of us, is what I mean, Fred – ’
‘Why?’ The boy wasn’t just clever: he was too damn clever. ‘Why did they have to hide?’
Audley stared at him. ‘They weren’t nonentities. Old Schmidt was a very well-respected academic. And von Mellenthin was a biologist, or a bio-chemist, or something – in the Croc’s field. Which includes his celebrated anthrax trials. And Langer would have been a top man in poison gases . . . And the word is that the Yanks have found some bloody-terrifying new gas the Germans were making, down south somewhere – tons of it.’ He shivered. ‘And . . . these chaps . . . they didn’t dummy4
want to help Hitler brew the stuff up, to use on us. But they also didn’t want to help us ... to maybe brew it up ourselves, and then serve it back on their own people, if things came to the crunch – if all Hitler’s other secret weapons started to bite – ’ He looked at Fred questioningly ‘ – am I right?’
‘So why did they run, at the last?’ He had to find out how much else the boy had worked out. ‘After we’d won?’
‘It wasn’t at the last.’ Audley blinked. ‘That threw me for a bit. But then I found out all about Colonel von Mitzlaff – he was mine because he was a Panzer specialist. And also not a scientist: just a poor damned would-be archaeologist who was put into a tank, like I’m a poor damned would-be historian who suffered the same fate – ’ Now a grimace ‘ – only
his tanks had better guns and better armour than mine did, Fred.’
‘But you were a lot luckier, in the end.’ The memory of what Audley had said about von Mitzlaff’s fate after the Hitler bomb-plot harshened his voice.
‘Not luckier. Just braver.’ A muscle moved in Audley’s cheek. ‘But . . . unlucky, too – yes. But he also broke the rules, too–I think.’
‘What rules?’
‘What rules?’ Audley looked past him towards the vehicles on the brow of the track behind them, at dummy4
Devenish and Hewitt. ‘Should I get those two under cover somewhere, do you think?’
Softly now! thought Fred. ‘It wasn’t in their orders this time, was it?’
‘No.’ Audley turned his attention to the rocks again, then to a wide lake out of which the furthest of them rose precipitately, and finally across the broad meadow to the dark, encircling woods. ‘But I don’t like this place. I never have.’
Fred looked at his own watch. They still had plenty of time. ‘Why not? You’ve been here before?’
‘Oh yes. It’s one of Caesar Augustus’s favourite spots.
He brought me here a couple of times to help with his measurements.’
Professor Schmidt’s rules could wait for a moment.
‘Measurements for what?’
‘He wants to drain the lake.’ Audley pointed. ‘See how the land falls away? It could be done with the right equipment.’ He gave Fred a lop-sided grin. ‘In my innocence, I did rather think that was why he’d recruited you, before I learnt better: as an officer of engineers, to advise on lake-drainage, you see.’
‘Why does he want to do that?’
‘Oh . . . it’s all to do with “saltus Teutoburgiensis” –
how Tacitus described the Varus disaster . . . “saltus”, meaning “forest pass”, or “glade”, or some such.’
dummy4
‘He thinks the battle was here, you mean?’
‘No, not exactly. Because it wasn’t actually a battle. In any sort of proper battle the Romans would have licked the pants off the Germans. It was more like a series of cumulative ambushes over miles and miles of trackless bloody woods –’ Audley pointed again, but over the lake ‘ – in dozens of hillsides like this, and ravines . . .
More like the way the Afghans cut up the British army in the Khyber Pass, only with dense forest, rather than mountains. But he thinks it might have ended here . . .
the big tribal celebration in a place consecrated to the gods, with the prisoners as sacrificial offerings.
Because, apparently, they didn’t only nail ’em up on trees and burn ‘em in wicker baskets, like in Britain –
they also trod ’em in water under hurdles, and cast ‘em off high places on to sharpened stakes.’ The boy dropped his hand and sighed. ‘Cheers him up no end, the Exernsteine does. But then, as I told you, he’s mad as a hatter. Because I think he may be right. Only . . .
that makes this place pretty nasty, in my reckoning: all those poor bloody Roman PoWs being crucified, and roasted, and drowned, and spiked here – d’you see?’
Fred stared for a moment at the oiled metal-grey sheen on the water of the lake, on which the brooding sky and the grey rocks were reflected. Then he shook his head.
‘Tell me about Professor Schmidt’s rules, David.’
‘Yes.’ Audley roused himself too. ‘Old Schmidt was dummy4
my main job, you see.’
‘Because he was a historian?’
‘That’s right, I guess. But I don’t really know whether he had any rules. Only ... he got these chaps together, all nice and safely, before the war. And the proper scientists among them all had something to contribute to his archaeology, it seems. Like, new methods of dating materials, and soil analysis, and suchlike –
“scientific archaeology” was what he called it – some long German words. And they kept their heads down and did their work, and minded their own business –
always very busy, they were. Like, they were good Germans. But they were always safely in the remote past.
‘But then Enno von Mitzlaff turned up in ’42, invalided out of the Wehrmacht, and looking for work – see?‘
‘Because he was an archaeologist?’
‘He was. And also he was old Schmidt’s godson. So maybe the old man just wanted to save him, too. Only, unfortunately, he wouldn’t stay saved – he probably knew more of what was going on elsewhere.’
So the boy didn’t know everything, then. ‘And he got involved in the plot against Hitler, of course – you said
– ?’
‘Yes. And then the fat was in the fire.’ Audley nodded.
‘Maybe Schmidt or one of the others was also in on it.
dummy4
I don’t somehow think so, but I don’t know yet for sure. Only, it didn’t matter anyway, because the Gestapo was in a vengeful mood by then – I got this from a fairly senior policeman in Bonn, whom we haven’t quite got round to sacking yet . . . But he says that old Schmidt put the police and the Gestapo off as long as he could.’ There was a bleak look in Audley’s eyes. ‘Schmidt was too old and fat to run himself. But he did his best for the others –which is really what has made our job so difficult, I suppose . . . But he was a brave man too, like his godson . . . One of the Crocodile’s “guid decent men”, I’d say.’
It was like receiving a delayed message of a friend’s death in Burma: it had all happened months ago, while he’d still been trudging through Italian mud, so it was too late for tears. ‘And then?’
‘There was a big fire in Schmidt’s office, in which all his records were conveniently destroyed – all the names of personnel, as well as the marvellous new scientific techniques they’d pioneered. Which, from an archaeological point of view, was a great tragedy. So Schmidt added a convenient heart attack to it. Not a fatal one, but enough to delay the investigation somewhat. So, by the time this smart Gestapo obergruppenführer finally tumbled to the fact that the fire hadn’t been caused by a British incendiary bomb, and the heart attack wasn’t genuine, all the other birds dummy4
had flown.’
And I was probably on the beach at Vouliagmeni, thought Fred. ‘And Schmidt – ?’
‘He knew the form, when the game was up and the savages were closing in – just like old Varus did. Only swords are out of fashion now, so he shot himself with an old Webley revolver he’d taken off a British officer in his war, in 1917. So no piano wire for him, just like no wicker basket or high rocks for Varus.’ Audley looked at his watch again. ‘But the policeman did also give me more than he gave the obergruppenführer, whom he insists he didn’t like.’ Another shrug. ‘Or maybe he just saw which way the wind was blowing by then ... Or it could even be the Gestapo was too busy shooting ordinary defeatists by then – I don’t know.
But that wasn’t what was really important.’
‘What was that?’
‘He gave us a cross-bearing on where Zeitzler might be holed up – Ernst Zeitzler, alias “Corporal Keys” . . .
Because Zeitzler was another genuine archaeologist.
And his particular specialization was – guess what? –
the study of the Roman frontier . . . which was why we moved down to the unspeakable Kaiserburg, of course . . . Although it was Amos who finally tracked him down, I must admit. So I can’t claim all the credit, even though I deserve most of it.’
Typical Audley! ‘And Zeitzler is Number 16’s best dummy4
friend?’ Now they were very close to the bone, as well as the appointed hour. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this the night before last?’
‘The night before last?’ Audley’s memory seemed momentarily to desert him.
‘Yes.’ There was only one thing remaining. ‘You had your orders, David. You were supposed to tell me what was happening.’
Audley made one of his ugliest faces. ‘I get so many orders. And . . . hell! First, you were late – and then we were pretty damn busy, blundering around in the
dark . . . then superintending the death of some poor-bloody- totally-inoffensive German – or Pole, or Ukrainian DP –I don’t know, damn it!’ The boy’s square chin lifted, and he looked down on Fred from the height of his extra inches, and then looked around as though he really didn’t give a damn.
Good boy! But that didn’t change anything. ‘And – ?’
The chin came down slowly, and Audley relaxed slightly, as though he was reassured by what he had seen. ‘And I didn’t enjoy that very much, actually.’
That wouldn’t do. ‘And I asked you a question, David.
So answer it, please.’
The sharpness of his tone reclaimed Audley’s attention.
And his face did the rest. ‘Christ, Fred! I know we met in Greece that time – and I know old Matthew – ’ The dummy4
wide mouth opened and shut on Matthew, like some great ugly deep-sea fish’s jaws trawling the sea-bed.
And then it opened again and closed obstinately. ‘But we’ve had a lot of bad luck, you know. And I don’t really know you –now do I?’
Good boy! Because that was as eloquent as anything else Audley might have said to prove that his mouth wasn’t always too big. ‘And who the hell was I? When you’ve had all the bad luck you’ve had – all the way from Greece, even?’
Still nothing. So more than that: so Clinton was right about Audley being old for his years when it came to the crunch. So now was the moment for truth.
‘Yes, David – you are quite right.’ He nodded without disengaging Audley’s eyes. ‘There is a traitor in the camp. And if you didn’t know it for sure before, then you know it now.’
Audley studied him for a moment. Then he slowly nodded his acceptance of all those words implied. ‘So you really are the Brigadier’s inside man?’
‘Yes.’ More than Audley’s acceptance, this was his own acceptance of that loyalty for the working day, whatever came after. ‘I am Clinton’s man. And so are you, David –no matter what. Because we have to know who the traitor is. Nothing less will do. So this is a trap, today.’
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