A New Kind of War dda-17

by Anthony Price

  ‘What the blazes – ?’ Fred didn’t need to act any part.

  ‘Merely a precaution.’ De Souza raised a soothing hand. ‘You can rely on the RSM to be as civil as the circumstances permit. He has his orders. And young dummy4

  David is used to obeying him . . . And there’ll be a gun on him now if he isn’t quite what we’ve taken him to be, all these months.’

  Fred stared at the RSM’s fast-receding ramrod back.

  Typically, the RSM carried an issue-Sten, rather than the more exotic foreign weapon.

  ‘I hope I’m wrong, Major Fattorini. But if I’m not . . .

  then it has to be someone inside the unit,’ murmured de Souza. ‘I’ve known something wasn’t right . . . oh, for a long time, I suppose.’ He sighed. ‘But ... it goes against the grain, rather. Because they are all Clinton’s picked men, after all.’

  The cold hand inside Fred squeezed even harder. If Audley was right about Amos de Souza . . . then things were going wrong before they had a chance to do so in a way Clinton had intended them to do, and in a manner which neither of them had foreseen. But he still couldn’t be sure of that, so he must still play the game.

  ‘All except Audley.’ He turned deliberately back to de Souza.

  ‘All except Audley.’ But de Souza echoed him without nodding. ‘Except that I don’t think he’s our man, actually. Even though he fits well enough – and he’s a smart boy, I would agree.’

  ‘He fits ... well enough?’ Watching de Souza was more important than watching the boy’s humiliation. ‘All the dummy4

  way from Greece, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. And he’s a bit too thick with the man Schild, who is really a most equivocal character.’ De Souza’s voice tightened. ‘And whose whereabouts I do not at this precise moment know, as it happens.’

  ‘But . . . isn’t Otto Schild the Colonel’s man?’ A faint echo of Schild’s Teutoburg song came nastily to mind.

  ‘In a sense – yes. But he’s also not what he seems, the RSM says.’

  ‘I thought he was ... a butcher – a civilian butcher – ?’

  ‘A butcher, maybe. But Mr Levin thinks not a civilian one.’

  Colbourne, thought Fred. And this was his place – the Externsteine! ‘Where is the Colonel this morning?’

  De Souza’s lip curled slightly. ‘He’s seeing a man about a plane – an RAF spotter-plane, at Gutersloh – to try and spot Roman marching camps east and south-east of here. Which I gather was your idea, major?’

  The lip tightened. ‘I lent him my driver, as a matter of fact. Just to make sure.’

  Everything was going wrong – one way or the other.

  ‘And . . . the other officers – M’Corquodale?

  Kenworthy – ?’ De Souza looked past him suddenly, up the tracks again. ‘Don’t worry, major. The RSM has this place well staked-out, by arrangement with the Military Police and our local Fusilier battalion. So your dummy4

  civilians have got in easily enough. But they won’t get out unless you are accompanying them, believe me – ’

  He straightened up perceptibly. ‘And now here they are, anyway. So I take it you’d rather I withdrew somewhat, while you have your little chat? Would that make you feel more at ease?’

  Not de Souza? Fred could no longer make his mind up there; only, although he experienced a certain amount of satisfaction about that, it was instantly swallowed up by the realization that, if he was innocent, then Amos had nevertheless very likely ruined Clinton’s plans with his over-intelligent innocence, by scaring off whoever wasn’t innocent with his unscheduled precautions.

  ‘That might be advisable, Amos.’ His mind raced ahead, trying to predict how their unknown traitor might adjust to this new situation. In such a last resort, all that was left was an ambush on the way back to Schwartzenburg Castle – which had always been a dangerous possibility in the back of Clinton’s mind.

  ‘The sooner we’re away from here, the better.’

  Amos de Souza nodded. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ He glanced around quickly. ‘This is a damn stupid spot for a meeting. I don’t know what’s got into the Brigadier today – it isn’t like him . . .’ He came back to Fred.

  And nodded again. ‘But don’t worry. Because Mr Levin and I will watch your backs here as best we can.

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  And Mr Levin has arranged a sufficient escort to pick you up just down the road to take Number 16 back safely after that.’

  ‘Yes?’ That was the final irony: Amos had thought everything through, to amend his superior’s defective planning. And not de Souza was certain now, since he would hardly have needed to do as much, even apart from this otherwise risky warning, if he had been the traitor. ‘Well . . . thank you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Amos looked over his shoulder, at the fast-approaching figures of David Audley and the RSM.

  ‘And Audley – ?’

  Audley’s outraged voice arrived before Fred could answer. ‘ Fred –’

  ‘Hold on, David.’ He was simultaneously aware of the two Germans hovering discreetly, and of the RSM

  behind Audley, just as discreetly trying to hide whatever he had used to disarm the boy. And of Audley himself, his ugly features aflame with anger and humiliation.

  ‘ But, Fred– ’ The outrage became almost plaintive.

  ‘Shut up, David.’ At least Audley’s face wasn’t white with fear, as his own might have been: it was ugly with rage! ‘Thank you, Amos – Mr Levin . . . But you stay here, David.’

  ‘Right-o.’ Amos accepted his dismissal with a good dummy4

  grace. ‘Come on, Mr Levin – let’s admire the view for a moment, eh?’

  Audley watched them for another moment, his mouth working. Then he returned to Fred. ‘B-b-Woody Mr L-L- Levin . . . has t-taken my fff – ’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Fred had had just enough warning to nip the stuttering fuse before it became an explosive shout, so that he could turn towards the Germans. ‘Herr Zeitzler – ’ No! That was wrong! ‘ – Professor Zeitzler

  – ’ He felt under-rehearsed in matters of greeting ‘ –

  good morning, sir!’

  Professor Zeitzler was less humiliatingly dressed (or, as he had been, half-dressed, undressed, and then uniformed) than the night before last. But he was still tall and very thin, and even with his spectacles safely on his nose he was still very far from happy.

  ‘Herr Major.’ The eyes behind the spectacles were wide with uncertainty; which was reasonable enough in the circumstances, even if ‘Herr Major’ had been a captain the last time they’d met.

  ‘I’m glad you were able to come, sir.’ Somehow, it wasn’t so hard to be polite to the man: he was, after all,

  ‘a decent chap’ (in Audley’s own words, from long ago); yet it wasn’t just that – or even because, if the man had never been an ally, he had also never truly been an enemy; it was just that he was what he looked like – just another middle-aged academic pacifist in a dummy4

  mad world, fallen among soldiers. And that made it easier to pity him, even as Fred turned at last to the cause of all the trouble. ‘And you, sir.’

  ‘Herr Major.’ The Cause of All the Trouble gave him a formal little bow. But with it there was a look of understanding and resignation which turned Fred’s pity back on himself.

  ‘But . . . there were to be two officers only.’ Professor Zeitzler’s expression was less fearful now, after such politeness. ‘It was promised, sir – only yourself, and the . . . the large young officer.’

  ‘An added precaution.’ Sod you! thought Fred with sudden brutality. You’ve done your job now – it’s only Number 16 that matters now! So he concentrated on Number 16. ‘There are dangers, you understand, sir.’

  ‘I understand.’ Number 16 didn’t nod, but there was a strained greyness in his complexion and a wariness in his eyes which had nothing to do with any of the more recent privations of defeat: Fred had seen such masks before, on the faces of infantrymen who had been too long in
the line.

  ‘But it is not as was arranged – not as was promised.’

  Zeitzler looked at his friend as he emphasized the word before coming back to Fred. ‘A word of honour was given – by a senior British officer. And I – ’

  ‘Hush, Ernst.’ Number 16 cut Zeitzler off softly. ‘If a dummy4

  word was given, then it was given. If it is to be broken . . . then it will be broken. We have already talked of that possibility. And I have made my choice, just as this officer has done.’ As he spoke, he never for one instant took his eyes off Fred; and, although not one of his words was stressed more than another, their challenge was plain enough.

  So here was the first test, thought Fred. And it was as searching as the Brigadier had warned him it would be, by God!

  ‘You are free to go, sir. If you wish to do so.’ The enormity of the lie thickened his tongue inside his mouth as he committed himself finally to the acceptance of the truth about himself, which Clinton had apparently known before he did. ‘My superior’s word of honour is the same as mine.’

  Again that terrible hint of pity, almost sardonic now.

  Then I ask your pardon – shall I do that?‘

  Did he know? Or had he mistaken those half-strangled words for honest outrage? Fred questioned himself desperately for an instant. ‘I think you’d do better to remember what happened the night before last, sir.’ He flicked a glance at Zeitzler. ‘I’m sure your friend has told you about that – ?’

  ‘Indeed he has.’ Still the man studied him. ‘The Russians want me, just as you want me. So they do not want you to have me ... even though all these desires dummy4

  are foolish, of course – foolish beyond belief! For I am too much behind the times now. And especially since yesterday’s news – yesterday’s terrible news, Herr Major.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I have heard of what has happened in Japan: it was on the wireless last night.’

  Fred swallowed. ‘That’s not for me to comment on, sir.

  I am here merely to make you an offer. Which you have the right to refuse.’ He submitted to the man’s scrutiny for another long moment. ‘We have no demands to make on you. We merely wish to take you into protective custody for a time.’ The closer he got to something like the truth, the better he felt, and the firmer became the voice – his own voice – that he heard. ‘In due course, when we judge it to be safe, we will arrange for you to be accepted by the university of your choice. Or any other establishment – ’ He had got it exactly right ‘ – in Germany, or in England. But there is another consideration to be made in that choice, it’s only fair to add, sir.’

  ‘Another consideration?’

  ‘It will be easier to protect you in England for the time being. You will be safer with us there, sir.’

  ‘Ach so! Yes . . .’ Number 16 saw clear through that instantly. ‘You have your own nuclear research to think of now that the war is won – of course!’ At last he nodded, but without any hint of a properly cynical smile. ‘But . . . if I told you that my research is now dummy4

  into scientific dating of ancient remains and artefacts, in which I have been engaged these last six years –

  would that be acceptable?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Clinton’s exact forecast of this very question, and his research into its correct answer, kindled Fred’s confidence into flame: ‘ He has no family. Otherwise we’d have got to him much sooner –

  or the Russians would have done. And most of his friends are dead too, now. All except one, you see –

  eh.’ But he musn’t look at Zeitzler yet. ‘We’ve got quite a few of our own old Roman cities which have been . . . cleared by bombing, for archaeology.

  Canterbury – Bath . . . and London, of course – ’ He turned casually to Zeitzler ‘ – and we still have Hadrian’s Wall for you, Professor . . . which is much the same as your “limes” isn’t it?’

  Zeitzler’s mouth opened incredulously.

  ‘And naturally the invitation includes you, Professor Zeitzler.’ He nodded at Corporal Keys. ‘Dr Crawford of our Ordnance Survey has been one of your admirers ever since he published your “limes” articles in Antiquity ten years ago. He will be honoured to arrange for your reception – ’ Back to Number 16 ‘ – and yours too, sir.’

  The two Germans looked at each other, just about as nonplussed as Clinton had said they might be, and he found himself admiring the Brigadier’s cunning.

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  Because, although finding this man had apparently been TRR-2’s long-time original objective, entrusted to Clinton by the War Cabinet itself, Clinton’s own intention had been to build up an intelligence team of his own on which he could absolutely rely in this new kind of war which he –and David Audley, too – had foreseen, even before that bomb had dropped. And Clinton had used the hunt for Number 16 to gather his chosen men, and to test their efficiency in the field, and to establish his reputation for the future with them. But now, to achieve all that, he also had to use Number 16

  as bait to flush out the traitor whom the Russians had infiltrated into TRR-2: now that the bomb had dropped, better a dead Number 16 than a compromised TRR-2!

  ‘There won’t be any problem, sir.’ The saving grace was that although Clinton wanted their traitor, he still also wanted Number 16 as planned. And that was probably why he got on so well with Uncle Luke: unforeseen complications, Uncle Luke always said, always provide matching opportunities for greater profits if you look at them in the right way! ‘You will both be very welcome, I assure you, sir.’ And ... ‘ I want him to come willingly, Fred.’ Clinton had said.

  ‘ One volunteer is worth a hundred pressed men.

  Because, once he’s with us by choice . . . there’ll be physicists from Cambridge to pick his brains, and tempt him back to his old discipline. Because with dummy4

  work as well as women, you only love truly once –

  everything else is a delusion, major. So whatever he believes, he’s still a nuclear physicist, not an archaeologist.’

  ‘Welcome?’ The eyes were not so much pitying now as very tired.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fred continued on what he knew to be closest to the truth. ‘Our people know all about Professor Schmidt, and what he tried to do. There is ...

  a certain sympathy for his intention – at least, among some of our scientists.’ He tried to blot out the rest of what Clinton had said: that with the British just beginning to follow their allies in de-Nazifying dyed-in-the-wool Nazis who were useful, there really wouldn’t be any trouble getting these two into Britain, willing or unwilling. ‘So you will be welcome – and free to continue your archaeology.’

  Number 16 continued to stare at him. But it was Zeitzler who broke the silence. ‘Heinrich . . . glaubst du es ihm.’

  ‘W – ?’ For an instant Fred couldn’t decide whether to pretend he hadn’t understood the German words.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Number 16 held them both for an equal instant. ‘All that matters now, Ernst, is that if it is a lie, then it is a most persuasive one in our present circumstances. For we are undoubtedly caught between the Red Devil and the very deep blue British sea, I fear.

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  But as I said last night, death by drowning is preferable to hellfire.’ The weary eyes softened. ‘Yet, as I also said last night ... I will not impose my fate on you, old friend.’

  Zeitzler’s mouth twitched downwards as he glanced left and right, from his old trusted friend to his new untrusted ersatz British friend. But his eyes glittered behind his spectacles, as though at the enticing prospect of all those built-over Romano-British cities, which had been well-cleared by German bombs to open them up to archaeologists as they had not been open for a thousand years. ‘Do we have a choice?’

  Fred so much hated the truth, which Zeitzler had reached at last, that he turned away from it in distaste, first towards Audley, and then to where Amos de Souza stood apart from them: and Amos, he saw, was directing the RSM’s attention to the menacing woods ar
ound them, and to the lake, and the rocks; while on young Audley’s face there was a mirror-image of his own feelings, uglified and brutalized by the face which God had given to the boy, which he couldn’t help.

  ‘No – you are right, as always!’ Number 16 accepted Number 21’s answer as untainted by self-interest, with heart-rending innocence. ‘Then we accept your offer, Herr Major: we are at your disposal, without any compulsion – we accept the word of a British officer.

  Which is, of course, as strong as that of a German dummy4

  officer.’

  Shit! thought Fred, cutting off Audley’s face from the reckoning. ‘Major de Souza! If you please!’

  Major de Souza disengaged himself from his contemplation of the Exernsteine Rocks. ‘Major Fattorini – ?’

  ‘We’re ready to go now. Would you ask the RSM to alert Sergeant Devenish?’ He worked at the formality of the command: because of de Souza, he no longer knew quite what would happen once they were on the road back to Schwartzenburg Castle, or thereafter. But the game had to be played to the last ball and the final whistle, regardless.

  ‘Mr Levin – !’ De Souza twisted on his heel, so that he was backing away from the woods. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Sah!’ The RSM snapped to even greater attention than before, first stiff as a board in preparation for obedience to orders, and then falling in behind the adjutant, while he attached an extension to his Sten’s barrel in a series of jerky, regimental movements.

  ‘Right.’ De Souza snapped open his webbing holster, lifting his arm high to clear his pistol from it. ‘As of now we assume the worst of all possible worlds until we’re in the clear – ’ his glance passed Audley, to fix on Fred himself‘ – right, major – ?’

  Thump –

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  De Souza jerked forward suddenly, arching his back and dropping his pistol, as his legs buckled beneath him –

  “Steady, now!‘ As the RSM barked the words. De Souza continued forwards and downwards, unbalanced, as though fighting an irresistible blow from behind, until he finally sank on his knees, almost in an attitude of prayer.