by Dick Hardman
***
Peter stopped at the doctor’s house, she came out with all she needed in two bags and climbed in the back of the very small car, with Caplin. They drove to a street of bombed out houses and parked, while the doctor examined her patient. The thick overcoat and jacket had taken most of the shrapnel, consisting mainly of wood splinters from the lockup doors. Not all the blood soaking his coat was Caplin’s, most of it came from his men who took the full blast.
The doctor only spoke to Peter outside the car, to advise him what was required of Caplin.
Although in a lot of pain, Caplin removed his upper clothing and let the doctor do what was necessary, plucking out the splinters, bits of clothing and cleaning the gashes. Most of the cuts could be dressed, a few needed stitches.
Dosed up on penicillin, John Caplin was pronounced out of danger, as far as an external examination would show. The doctor also said the agent was likely to have suffered a severe concussion and he should go to hospital for observation and treatment.
“How much do I owe you for his treatment?”
“Exactly £200 in genuine currency please.”
“Can I pay you tomorrow?”
“It is not what we agreed, but if you ever need my services again, you will pay on time.”
“It seems ironic that I should pay to save this man’s life for a few hours, when it turns out that he would have lasted that long untreated.”
“Ironic it might be, but you are both trying to do your jobs and the unnecessary suffering of a fellow human being is not your way, is it.”
It was a fair point, Peter conceded, even though he loathed Caplin. The man had killed Andrzej, although that was accidental and the agent was prepared to shoot him if the van didn’t stop. The doctor was right, everyone was just doing their best for their own side, but the same could be said for the bombers on either side as they dropped their deadly cargo. In that sense, Peter’s mission to improve the V-1 accuracy could save countless innocent lives, as only strategic targets would be destroyed, compared to indiscriminate slaughter.
If this fool Caplin and his superiors could leave him to complete his mission, England would be spared a great deal of misery.
It was now 10 am, Peter dropped the doctor off near her home and drove to a nearby phone box, to call the MI5 headquarters.
“Good morning, can I help you?” announced the friendly but routine voice of the telephonist.
“Hello, I am calling on behalf of John Caplin, I want to speak to the person in charge in his absence. The matter is most urgent” There was a short delay and a man spoke.
“Hello, who is calling?”
“You know me as Karl Strom, I have John nearby, but you cannot speak to him. He was badly injured when his team opened up a booby trapped lockup. I have patched him up as best I can, but if you don’t release my man Henryk Robak immediately from Camp 020, then John will surely die.”
“But we don’t have your man! He murdered the interrogator and escaped. We never caught him. John Caplin knows this, because he was here when your man escaped.”
Peter was now flummoxed and he had no cards left to play, if they were telling the truth.
“What about the girl in my team, I want her released as well.”
“Caplin knows we don’t have any girl to hand back to you. I don’t think you have Caplin at all, or he is dead and you have hidden the body. I think you are just bluffing, so bugger off, we are going to find you and when we do, there will be nothing left to hang.” The phone went dead.
As he spoke, Peter had been watching the blanket covered heap in the back of the car, making sure Caplin did not make a run for it. There was just no way of bringing Caplin to the phone as proof he was being held captive. A blood soaked man with a bag over his head, being dragged into a phone box in broad daylight, was not going to be ignored.
Peter swore as rage and frustration engulfed him.
He dashed back to the car.
“I don’t think you are liked by the people you work with John, your colleagues believe you are dead. Unless you have any good ideas on how to convince your people you are alive, I may as well kill you and your family now!”
That should produce some reaction, thought Peter, even if it prompted a flaming row. Even a row would give him some relief from the frustration he was suffering.
However, there was no reply from the man with a bag over his head, only silence.
MI5 in turmoil. Early morning. 23rd December 1943
Moments after Peter’s 10 am call to MI5, all hell broke loose there. Staff were called into a meeting to discuss how to find John Caplin, alive or dead, and how they could trap the elusive spy, Karl Strom.
Sir Philip Stern chaired the meeting, and he was like a bear with its stuffing ripped out. He took the possibility of John’s death very badly, with hardly the energy to be his usual overbearing and irascible self. Neither was he offering any constructive input, from the chair.
Tempers were running high because they had lost one of Strom’s team twice, and 15 or possibly 16 agents had lost their lives to-boot! Henryk Robak was now long gone and the trail was stone cold. The spy had outrun the security men and their dogs, and vanished into the night. The dogs lost the scent when they reached the road, so he had probably been picked up by car, but how could anyone have known where he would be? Perhaps he waved someone down and stole their car, with them in it. He might also have jumped onto a passing lorry, a more likely possibility.
It was no real consolation to know that Andrzej Trocki the first man they had captured, was now dead. Police found his body on the road, when they pursued the black van believed to contain Strom and John Caplin. Trocki had been shot, that was certain, but by whom? Most likely it was by Caplin, the bullet they recovered from the corpse was of the right calibre.
Everyone argued and pontificated for a good hour and finally, the aggression subsided into acceptance that if John were still alive, Strom would phone again and let John speak to them.
Now everyone waited anxiously for further news.
The old couple. 23rd December 1943
Henryk had reached a road junction not far from Camp 020 and was winded from running. He stopped to catch his breath, close to panic as the clamour of baying dogs got ever closer. The sound of a car, as it slowed to a walking pace to take the turn in the pitch dark, gave him hope. The dim pools of light headed his way and he crouched low as the vehicle accelerated slowly past. The faint light from the dashboard dials through the car windows, showed the lone elderly male driver and gave the car form, as Henryk made a dash for the rear bumper. He leapt on as light as a cat and gripped the spare wheel cover to hang on. The car was going agonisingly slow and the dogs were nearly on him. Any moment now he expected their teeth to rip off his crouched backside.
The driver heard the baying dogs and accelerated slowly to avoid driving over any of them. Why they were there was not clear to him, but he was safe inside his car and that was all that mattered. He changed into third gear and his speed continued to increase, leaving the noisy animals behind.
Wherever the driver was going, thought Henryk, it was away from east London.
An hour later, the car pulled into the driveway of an isolated house and stopped. Henryk was numb to the bone, and could hardly walk as he stepped off the thin projecting bumper onto the concrete driveway, heading for cover outside the entrance.
The car door opened and the interior light came on. An elderly man eased himself out and locked the car door by the light of his torch. He headed to the house and entered by the front door, letting a brief glow of warm yellow light flood towards him. Henryk knew that inside there was the certainty of warmth and food. What should he do?
He ran silently across the front lawn and barged open the closing door. The old man was startled and opened his mouth to protest, but Henryk held his hand over it, reducing his words to an unintelligible mumble. The frail old man presented no physical threat, but was he alone?
“Is that you David? Are you all right, I heard the front door bang.”
The old lady was as ancient and frail as David, judging by her thin reedy voice.
Henryk pointed upstairs and eased his hand off David’s mouth.
“I am fine Alice, tripped over the mat and fell against the door. No harm done. Sorry to wake you. I will be down here for a while, go back to sleep.”
David was very frightened. What was this rude and violent man going to do to him and his wife?
Henryk ushered David down the hall and into the kitchen. There was a light snack consisting of a strawberry jam sandwich, and a slice of homemade sponge cake, with the empty teapot waiting for David on the kitchen table.
“What do you want with us?” David asked in the firmest voice he could muster, as he squared up to Henryk.
“I need food and shelter for a day or so, then I will leave. It would be easier for me to break your scraggy necks, but if you give your word you will not attempt to attack me or escape, then you will not be harmed, I promise you.”
“You will get no trouble from us, take what you need and go.”
“All in good time. Do you have a telephone?”
“No, sorry! There is a phone box in the village though, a mile away, I can drive you there.” David was being helpful and cooperative in the fervent hope the intruder would go to the village and leave them alone. He had missed the point of the question, Henryk did not need a phone he just didn’t want David or Alice using it to inform on him.
“While I eat your delicious sandwich and cake, put the kettle on. We will sit down and have a cup of tea together. You can tell me all about yourself and where we are, a map would help, if you have one.”
“I’ll get the water on and bring you the map.” David mumbled as he filled the kettle and lit the gas. Henryk did not really listen, he was busy devouring the food and considering his options.
It would have been easier to snap their necks than attempt to sleep with one eye open. He was so tired, it would be impossible to watch the two of them.
Devastated.
It was 10.05 am, just after Peter’s call bargaining unsuccessfully with some idiot at MI5. Peter felt a wave of fury sweep over him at John Caplin’s silence in the back of the Morris 8. At the very least the man should want to find a way to freedom.
Peter leaned back and smacked the man smartly on the side of his hooded face. There was no response. Peter felt Caplin’s neck for a pulse.
John Caplin was dead!
Peter eased off the bag and turned the man’s head, to see his face. It was contorted and bloated, with the look of asphyxiation, a slow and painful death. An allergic reaction to penicillin, brain haemorrhage or stroke, who knows?
Peter’s anger turned to dread. His only bargaining piece had gone, now he would never get Henryk and Anna back safe with him. Having lost Andrzej as well, he was truly alone. With Germany depending on him and with so much to do, he was beaten. He might as well give up now and go back to Helga.
There was nothing left worth struggling for. He had failed the German Army and its people. In his mind these were not just empty words but living, breathing feeling and loving individuals, it was these individuals he had failed.
He thought about Helga again, he could imagine her face as he walked into her office. Her look of astonishment would change to joy as she leapt up and rushed into his open arms.
But no! Her expression turned to one of loathing. Loathing for the defeatist that he had become. How could she face being with a coward and deserter?
Peter took one last look at the corpse, shrugged and drove off to see if there were any messages for him in the newsagent’s window. It was the place his team would use if they were split up. Sundown had specified this shop as their common link in an emergency and his team knew the shop.
Imposter? 23rd December 1943
It was now 10.20 am. Peter parked the Morris 8 at the kerb, near the shop.
His heart lurched, there was a new advert. The card bore the mark of a tea or coffee cup ring, as though it had been used as a coaster. The faint brown ring fitted exactly in the top right corner and not near the centre. Someone wanted to buy a set of encyclopaedia. It had today’s date and a telephone number.
Peter made a call to the number, from a phone box a short distance away.
“Hello, Mr Marshal speaking, can I help you?” said the voice at the other end of the phone.
“Good morning Mr Marshal, I have just noticed your advertisement. I see you want to buy a set of encyclopaedia. What sort of price are you willing to pay?” Peter deliberately omitted mention of the brand.
“19 pounds 4 shillings and threepence is as high as I will go.” The answer would always contain the current year if the person at the other end was genuine.
“My name is Glass. I have just the set you need, can I meet you straight away?”
“Yes please Mr Glass, I will meet you outside the newsagents at 11 o’clock precisely. It can only be then, I will be otherwise engaged until Sundown!”
Peter’s blood ran cold; this was an imposter with the emergency code. MI5 had even penetrated this far, he thought, this imposter was as good as dead.
With 40 minutes to go, Peter decided to use his Jaguar and put the Morris 8 car in the garage. It was a certainty that the police had spotted the van on the forecourt, contacted the car sales owner and would now be looking for the stolen car.
The Jaguar purred into life at the second turn of the starter motor, the 4 cylinder engine was still new and tight, and ran with an oily smoothness, free from rattle or clatter. Just for a moment, Peter savoured the dark safe haven of the car, he breathed in slowly to enjoy the sumptuous aroma of the supple brown leather, thick carpet and an aromatic mixture of exhaust fumes and leaded petrol. As an engineer, he appreciated the elegant design and construction of this coach built supercar.
He expertly reversed the Jaguar into the street, drove the cramped and underpowered Morris into the garage, and closed the doors on the disaster within. Now he headed back to the newsagent’s shop. Whilst driving, he rechecked the ammunition in the clip of his Luger, and wondered how he would be able to hide its bulk with the silencer attached. He decided to take them as two parts, the pistol tucked in the back of his waistband, covered by the hang of his jacket and the heavy silencer in his jacket pocket.
As he drove he also tried to predict the course of the meeting. The imposter would lure him to a place where other agents could grab him. He was known to be armed and dangerous, so a shootout in public would be avoided. This implied a short walk to a building where the others would lay hidden, ready to pounce. They would not drive him anywhere, because the slow traffic would allow him to shoot the imposter if he was exposed. Any resulting crash would be minor. He could escape on foot into the crowd before the other agents could arrest him. Again, the danger of a public shoot out ruled out that scenario.
Peter found a place to park, well away from the meeting place. He could come back to the car much later, when it was safe. A few minutes and he was in sight of the shop. He could see no one loitering; everyone was out shopping with their loved ones, children clutching their rag toys, made by a member of the family as a comforter. In a great many cases, it was probably the only toy. One little girl had an old wooden spoon with a face painted on it, and nothing would part her from this treasure.
***
He decide to bring on whatever was coming and force their hand. He was still depressed and, contrary to good sense, was taking a big chance. Win or die, he’d had enough of all this cat and mouse spy business!
Peter stood outside the shop entrance and scrutinised the people in the street for signs of a threat. Shop customers and an old woman pushed past him to go in. In an instant, the heavy scent of mothballs and lavender behind him accompanied the deft removal of the Luger from his waistband, as another pistol jabbed his spine.
“Shit!” exclaimed Peter.
“Possibly, but save it for later,”
sniggered the old woman, with a young man’s voice. ‘She’ jabbed him persuasively and tugged him to the left as they walked up the street.
“Please allow me to introduce myself Mr Glass. I am the recently deceased Sundown and I can assure you, my death was long overdue.
“Whatever you do, do not attempt to turn round or look at me. Even though I am disguised, I have not survived this long by being careless, like you.
“I also have a knife, so you will feel a thing, if I have to kill you. The gun is for emergencies only. “
“What have you to tell me Sundown, it must be very important to risk being exposed?”
Sundown guided Peter down a gloomy alley to their left, stopping adjacent an open fire escape door, and placed the luger on the ground behind Peter.
“Please indulge me Mr Glass, pull out your shirt and expose the right side of your back.”
Assisted by Sundown, Peter revealed the mass of vivid scars above his waist band. Sundown felt up his back for others.
“Tuck yourself in Mr Glass, or we will be arrested as poofs.”
Peter hastily tidied himself up and Sundown spoke.
“Germany has told you I am dead and that is how it is to remain. From now on, you can call me Bill Marshal.
“I understand you are in a bit of a spot, old chap. All your communications are being read, by the person planted by MI5 to replace me. You are most likely seeing everything Germany is sending you, so you don’t become suspicious; they are probably sending the original message to Germany for the same reason. You have no one to help you here, yet you still have a mission to complete.
“How many of your team do you still have available?”
Peter wondered what he should say. If this was an MI5 trap, they were taking their time. Of course, he would be smart enough to try and gain his confidence by pretending to be Sundown, working on his side. He would also know that one man, Andrzej, was dead, also that Henryk had escaped, but was unlikely to still be free, probably dead as well, and Anna was a big mystery. MI5 didn’t seem to have her and she had failed to contact him.