Here Be Monsters

by Anthony Price

If the Colonel was close to anything, he was too close, decided Elizabeth. ‘The Rangers landed elsewhere, did they?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Colonel was only slightly diverted from his suspicions. ‘There were two battalions of them.’

  ‘Yes?’ Elizabeth could see professional memories weakening him.

  ‘They took heavy casualties. Fifty per cent or more in some companies.’ He drew a breath. ‘Lack of specialized armour, that was largely due to … and a predilection for frontal attacks on strong points—not the way to use elite troops. They should have been infiltrated through the weak points.’ He caught himself again. ‘The main force was supposed to swing west, and link up with their comrades on the Pointe du Hoc, you see, Miss Loftus.’

  ‘Hah!’ exclaimed Major Birkenshawe. ‘Now that was a strong-point, guns or no guns!’ Then he shook his head. ‘She doesn’t understand, y’know!’

  ‘That was the correct use of Rangers, actually.’ Colonel Sharpe watched Elizabeth, and ignored the Major. ‘Only the best troops could have got up there—and then caused all the trouble they did. I was attached to that American division, and we were expecting a strong counter-attack that first evening—or the next morning. The Germans had a good division in that sector—better than the one our chaps had to deal with on the British beaches, actually. Though of course their tanks were closer to us. If there’d been armour close to Omaha on D-Day as well, God only knows what would have happened … Anyway, we’d been arguing about the position of that good division before D-Day, but we didn’t get confirmation until far too late. And there were several battalions in reserve—so, with the way things were on the beaches, we were expecting to get hit any moment. But there weren’t any tanks. And the Americans had made a pretty amazing recovery, actually.’

  The Major started to cough politely, but inadvertently took in too much of his own bonfire, and choked frighteningly for the best part of a minute, to everyone’s embarrassment.

  ‘Sorry about that, Liza.’ He wiped his face with what appeared to be a square of torn sheet. ‘But do you understand a word of all that?’ He cocked a huge eyebrow at her. ‘Divisions and battalions—all that stuff?’

  ‘Yes, Major.’ For one fraction of a second Elizabeth began to hit back, irritated alike by his pipe and his assumptions, and sickened by the torn sheeting; but then she remembered that she actually loved the Major, who had always treated her with courtesy and who had now unearthed Colonel Sharpe for her, when everyone else had failed her. ‘Yes, I think I do, that is.’ She smiled at him, then at the Colonel, as though she was stretching her knowledge to its limits. ‘So what did these Rangers do on the Pointe du Hoc—or whatever it’s called?’

  ‘Hah! I rather suspect they did what they were originally recruited and formed to do, Miss Loftus. Which happened far too rarely with the American Rangers—and with other elite formations I could mention.’

  Elizabeth waited. When a man wanted to give distilled wisdom to the world, it was better to let him have his way without side-tracking him with too many intelligent unwomanly questions.

  ‘Half the time they were squandered on conventional warfare. They threw away a whole Ranger battalion after the Anzio landing.’ The Colonel drew a reminiscent breath, and gave the Major a nod. In another moment he’d be fairly launched.

  ‘Huh!’ This could have been the right moment for the Major to cough usefully. But instead he nodded back wisely. ‘Half the time they should never have been formed in the first place.’ He blinked at Elizabeth, as though surprised that he had formulated a complete sentence. ‘Stripped the rest of the army of good men—ours as well as the Yanks. Never enough good line NCOs—off swanning around on hair-brained schemes in private armies. Could tell you a tale or two about that!’

  ‘Yes.’ The Major’s threat concentrated the Colonel’s mind wonderfully, so that he refocused on Elizabeth. ‘Pointe du Hoc—as I was saying … When they’d finished their business there, there weren’t many of them left. But then, being Rangers, I rather suspect they got up to all sorts of mischief, which probably pulled the Germans away from the right flank of Omaha. God knows what they did—we certainly didn’t know exactly, in the Command Post, even though they sent a staff officer off, to try and find out. But I never saw him again—they probably shot him, because the Rangers hated staff officers.’ He smiled at Elizabeth. ‘But then I had to go back to report to Monty -I was his spy, you see.’

  The Deputy-Director sat up, one podgy hand still fumbling in the wreckage of his chocolate box. ‘How’s that again, Miss Loftus—Elizabeth?’

  ‘How’s … what?’ He waved the hand vaguely—insultingly—as though he hadn’t really been listening, but then she had said something of unexpected interest, against the odds. ‘This fellow you talked to—?’

  She had to reel back. What she had just said had come just before Colonel Sharpe had discoursed at length on Field Marshal Montgomery, and then on the use (and misuse) of elite soldiers, which had ranged all the way from the Rangers on the Pointe du Hoc, forward to the Green Berets in Vietnam (and the Paras in the Falklands), and back to the Spartans at Thermopylae, almost two-and-a-half thousand years earlier.

  ‘Well … I think he was attached to the Americans so that he could report back to the British—‘

  ‘Who?’ He was concentrating on her.

  ‘Colonel Sharpe. The man I told you about—who told me about the Pointe du Hoc.’

  ‘Yes, yes—‘ He waved away the obvious fact that he hadn’t been listening, quite unembarrassed ‘—but how was it that you got on to him—tell me again—?’

  Cool it, Elizabeth! ‘You told me not to consult the records, or anyone in the department.’ Paul would have given her all this in ten seconds flat, even though he was a 1914 -18 man. ‘Or the Americans.’ The nice young CIA man at Grosvenor Square, who was ex-US Navy and knew all about Father’s war record, would have done the same, only better, over an agreeable lunch. ‘So … there’s this friend of my father’s, who had this friend who was on the planning staff before D-Day, and was seconded to the American army as an observer. But he wasn’t really an observer. Or … I mean, he was … but his real job—‘

  ‘What’s his name?’ snapped Latimer. ‘Name, Elizabeth—name—?’

  ‘Sharpe.’ Elizabeth floundered. ‘Colonel Sharpe—with an “e”. I don’t know his Christian name. But his family had an electrical firm in Hampshire, near Portsmouth. And they went into electronics—computers, I think.’

  Latimer punched the keys of his machine, while Elizabeth tried to conscript any other morsel Major Birkenshawe had let slip. ‘I think they had a new factory just near Havant.’

  Latimer fed Havant into the Beast. ‘Next time, Elizabeth, if you talk to anyone, get his full name and address. What is the name of the firm at Havant?’

  And his Credit Rating? And his next-of-kin? And the Beast wasn’t helping her, she could see that reflected on the Deputy-Director’s face. ‘I don’t know, Mr Latimer.’ Damn them both—the Beast and the Deputy-Director! ‘He’s—he must be nearly seventy years old.’

  ‘Yes.’ He prodded the Beast again, but only received another dusty answer, probably Search continuing, if not Insufficient data; to track down the Colonel, it would have to talk to other beasts, and such linkages took time. ‘Yes.’ He looked up at last. ‘If he was on D-Day planning then he would be, wouldn’t he?’

  He was saying Don’t be silly, Miss Loftus. And, most annoyingly, with some justification.

  ‘But never mind him, for the moment. Continue, Elizabeth.’

  Continue? But after two slaps she was not about to invite a third. It hadn’t been Colonel Sharpe he had been after, when he’d suddenly stopped pigging his chocolates. So she hadn’t reeled back quite far enough.

  ‘The Americans sent a staff officer to find out what was happening—?’ She repeated the words tentatively.

  ‘Yes?’ He found the last of his chocolates. ‘Name?’

  She had half-feared as much. ‘I don’t k
now, sir.’ It was no good pretending. ‘Colonel Sharpe didn’t say. And I didn’t think to ask.’ All the same, it wasn’t quite fair. ‘I didn’t think it was important. But then, I didn’t know what was—or is—important.’ The truth was that Paul, or any of the others, might well have done better on this job. But she couldn’t bring herself to suggest that. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to be.’ He popped the last chocolate into his mouth and examined his finger-ends. ‘Not bad at all.’

  He looked positively smug. But he must be referring to the chocolates.

  ‘Colonel Sharpe didn’t know what came of that, because he had to report back to General—‘ Elizabeth frowned. Had it been ‘General’ or ‘Field Marshal’ then? ‘—to Montgomery. But in fact they broke through from Omaha to the Pointe du Hoc within the next thirty-six hours.’

  ‘Parker.’ He finished chomping and swallowed. ‘Major Thaddeus E. Parker.’

  Elizabeth stared at him in genuine and unfeigned astonishment.

  ‘The name of the American staff officer.’ He attended to the last remnants of the chocolate in his mouth. ‘His name was Major Thaddeus E. Parker.’

  Elizabeth thought, first, that she had been quite incredibly lucky—thanks to Paul. Indeed, doubly and even trebly lucky: because, thanks to Paul and dear old Major Birkenshawe and Colonel Sharpe, she had actually touched upon the man in whom the Deputy-Director was interested, and was now aware of him, however belatedly and inadequately. Or even quadruply lucky—because she had accidentally left the Deputy-Director scope to demonstrate his superior knowledge, the exercise of which pleased him as much as his chocolates.

  But then, when she thought about the possible uses of her luck, she remembered that he had quite justifiably slapped her down twice, and she had been close to admitting that inadequacy. So, if she wanted to hold on to a possible chance of field-work, she had better assert herself quickly now.

  ‘”E” for “Edward”, of course.’ she nodded. It was a guess, but it was a fair extrapolation from what Paul had said. All she had to be careful of was not to admit the special knowledge of ‘Ed’ which Paul had given her.

  ‘What?’ His frown cancelled out the first slap. ‘Edward-?

  Now for the second slip—with acknowledgement to Dr Paul Mitchell, that she owed him a favour. The late Major Thaddeus E-for-Edward Parker, sir.’ But she had better cover the guess, just in case. ‘Presumably.’

  ‘Presumably?’ All his earlier patronizing smugness ,was instantly consumed by the anger of the Deputy-Director, red in tooth and claw. ‘Just what the hell have you been playing at, Miss Loftus?’

  The anger frightened her. ‘Nothing, sir—‘

  ‘You were specifically limited to 1944.’ The anger became cold, and all the more frightening. ‘You were specifically instructed not to question the computer.’ He flashed the frown at the Beast’s blank screen, and then shook his head, half at the Beast, and then half at her, in incomprehension; and she knew exactly what that meant—that he had already debarred her from anything the Beast knew about Parker, Thaddeus E., Major, United States Army, if not also Hoc, Pointe du, and American Rangers, and even D-Day itself; and then, if she’d even tried to get any of them thereafter, the treacherous Beast would have signalled her attempt to him. ‘Nor talk to anyone in the department.’ The frown became accusing. ‘But you’ve talked to Audley, Miss Loftus, haven’t you?’

  So that was why she’d been kept out of the building! ‘No, Mr Latimer. I have not talked to Dr Audley. I haven’t even set eyes on him for—for at least a month.’ The truth of that lent outrage to it, even while she was preparing herself for what might be the next accusation -because Paul would be his next victim.

  ‘No?’ The Deputy-Director was just not quite so confident with recalcitrant women as he might have been with men, and that gave her the extra half-second she needed, to protect herself and Paul, by defending them both with a counter-attack.

  ‘I was only guessing.’ She had to get the mix exactly right, to make this cake rise. ‘I don’t think … I don’t seem to recall … that I was specifically forbidden to read the newspapers, was I?’

  ‘What newspapers?’

  He hadn’t seen Paul’s cutting. So someone had blundered, somewhere. But her half-truth—and total lie -was alive, and unquestionable.

  ‘It was an item in the Daily Telegraph that I saw.’ That, at least, was the absolute truth—even if the item had been culled from among Paul’s credit cards. But she mustn’t give him time to ask when. An Edward Parker fell to his death from the cliffs of the Pointe du Hoc just recently.’

  He stabbed the Beast’s keys angrily. ‘Damn!’ And then, almost as though it was David Audley addressing the Beast, ‘Bloody thing!’

  Brothers under the skin! thought Elizabeth. Because, in the end, they both mistrusted it.

  Oliver St John Latimer abandoned the computer, and snatched up the telephone, which lay hidden behind it, and punched numbers into it.

  ‘Records?’ He looked at Elizabeth quickly. ‘Which day was it in?’

  She had had enough time. I’m not quite sure.’ He would be a Times and Guardian reader. So neither of them had found space for this unimportant filler. ‘The past few days—I’ve been away from my flat, so I bought the Times … there was a pile of Telegraphs on the mat, when I got back—‘

  ‘Telegraph cuttings—the last week—Parker and Pointe du Hoc.’ Latimer addressed the receiver. ‘What d’you mean, you’re short-handed?’

  The receiver squawked back at him, less inhibited than the inhuman Beast: the Librarian was a genuine librarian, of independent character and impeccable provenance, as well as vast experience and devoted loyalty.

  Oliver St John Latimer deflated visibly, overawed by Miss Russell’s reply. ‘Yes—yes, I quite understand—yes, I do appreciate that, Miss Russell—with the holidays … I do see that … But if you can—Parker—yes -Major Thaddeus E. Parker—Pointe du Hoc—?’

  He looked at Elizabeth, and through her, as he waited. And, on her own account, she ran back everything she knew, to extract anything of importance from it.

  They had all been there, in Normandy, for the remembrance D-Day: the Queen, the President of the United States, and the President of France (had he been there? She couldn’t remember! Major Birkenshawe had said ‘the Frogs’, anyway!).

  But Major Thaddeus E-for-Edward Parker hadn’t ‘fallen to his death’ then, when they were there—otherwise it would have been a bigger story, not a filler (that was what they had emphasized on the newspaper course: that circumstances and timing were an integral part of newspaper ‘tasting’; David Audley, himself an inveterate and compulsive scanner of newspapers, and their Fleet Street expert, had said as much; and David in his time had reputedly managed to suppress—or at least to emasculate—certain highly inconvenient items, usually in exchange for leaking more conveniently attractive ones).

  ‘Yes, Miss Russell?’ The Deputy-Director continued to look through her. ‘Edward Parker—Edward! He focused momentarily on Elizabeth. ‘Yes, do that, please.’ Now he was looking at his screen, and she could guess what was on it.

  Anyway … the ‘death fall’ could not have happened during what Major Birkenshawe had dismissed as the ‘junketings’ of June 6th. And, by the same token, it must have been a genuine accident: if there had been any suspicion of foul play it would also have made bigger headlines in more papers—

  ‘Yes, Miss Russell—the same classification. Thank you.’ Latimer replaced the receiver.

  That was the contradiction to all her conclusions: an aged American had accidentally fallen over a French cliff forty years after he had once presumably climbed it, to rate six lines in a British newspaper. But now he rated a Secure classification.

  Elizabeth readied herself for the first service in the second net. And, knowing Latimer even a little, it would be hard and fast—and most likely ‘Why didn’t you mention this before, Miss Loftus?’

  ‘Well, now … ’ His hand
moved towards the chocolate box, but then gestured vaguely at her instead ‘ … what was it you discussed with Dr Mitchell, Elizabeth?’

  Ouch! But she was sufficiently on her toes not only to get behind the question, but also to decide how she was going to return it.

  ‘Dr Mitchell?’ She would demonstrate her innocence by misconstruing his drift. ‘Dr Mitchell is no problem, Mr Latimer.’ That would suggest to him that Dr Mitchell was a problem, and that she had not been entirely honest for the first time. But it would also suggest that the problem was purely personal, and that she had nothing professional to hide. ‘I thought we’d dealt with that. So far as I’m concerned … we have.’ She gave him an Admiral Varney look. ‘And I really don’t see what Dr Mitchell has to do with Edward Parker—or Major Parker—?’

  ‘No—‘ The chocolate-seeking hand retreated ‘—of course … But I didn’t really mean that, Elizabeth, I do assure you -‘

  But she didn’t want him to explain what he had meant. ‘I presume Major Parker and Edward Parker are one and the same?’ She didn’t want to go too far, either. But the further she got away from Paul, the better. ‘But obviously they are.’ She was on the edge of prudence now, but she couldn’t stop herself. ‘In which case … I would like to know what I’ve really been doing. Because it hasn’t made very much sense to me so far.’

  ‘What you’ve been doing?’ He drew in a breath. ‘You have been doing what you were instructed to do, Elizabeth. You have been obeying orders.’

  She had gone too far. Because Oliver St John Latimer didn’t lose his temper, he simply became silkier. And he was very silky now.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She must sound contrite, but not craven. Now that they were far enough away from Paul she must think of her own interests exclusively. ‘I wasn’t questioning that.’

  ‘Of course not!’ He smiled at her suddenly, and scooped up the Thornton’s box, and cast it into his waste-paper basket. And then reached into one of the drawers of his desk, and produced another one. ‘I quite understand how you feel—I’ve felt the same way myself, on occasion.’ He tore off the wrapping of the box like a child with a Christmas present. ‘And it isn’t as though you’re an expert on military history—‘