Love is the death of me

by Dick Hardman

  “I don’t have anyone working with me.” If Sundown was genuine, he would know about his team, he arranged for them to get ashore, but then so would MI5.

  “Well, you had three, how the hell could you lose three. You had a girl and two chaps, where are they now?

  “Doctor Betty Marsh came to help the girl at my behest, I know from Betty she was not at death’s door. She had a nasty case of thrush and nappy rash, if I recall.”

  Peter was now reasonably convinced this was the real Sundown. If he were MI5, he would not know Anna’s medical condition or need to hide his identity, though that could be a confidence building trick. If Sundown was not genuine, he might let something slip if Peter appeared to trust him.

  Peter told him all that had happened, including the saga surrounding Caplin’s death.

  “Jolly bad luck with Caplin. You lost a strong bargaining position when he died. I am not surprised they would not believe you had him, alive at any rate, if they could not speak to him.

  “I know from my sources, the man was not up to the job, but he was a lucky son-of a-gun, supported by Sir Philip Stern. Without him, Caplin would have still been the office boy.”

  Peter stiffened at the name of Sir Philip Stern. Whoever this man was, behind him, he could be useful just by knowing the man.

  “Have you met Stern?”

  “If I have, that would narrow down your list of possibilities as to my identity. You’re my kind of chap, but I am not happy telling you too much on our first date.”

  Smart bastard, thought Peter, he had not considered that as an answer. The man was highly intelligent and his spy craft was exemplary. Even his speech pattern showed he was playing down his social status. It would be unsurprising if the real Sundown was well connected and probably, like Peter’s parents and many others, hedging their bets in case Germany won the war.

  The bizarre idea of The Scarlet Pimpernel flashed through Peter’s mind, though this man would never present himself as a fop or dandy, to throw off suspicion.

  “Look here Mr Glass, we could mess about all day and in the end, you would be none the wiser. Let’s move on to the more important issues, I am here to help if you want it. It is a simple yes or no. If you want me to help, I will do as much as I can, behind the scenes. I don’t intend to be exposed at this late stage.”

  “Yes, I need your help!”

  “OK, now we are getting somewhere.”

  Sundown thrust a piece of paper into Peter’s hand and before he could comprehend, the fire escape door slammed shut. Sundown had vanished.

  ***

  Peter looked at the paper. It listed the times and phone numbers where Sundown (or Bill Marshal as he suggested) could be called, and dead drops. The numbers would be phone boxes in isolated places, hard to sneak up on if MI5 got the list.

  Peter picked up his Luger and trudged back to his car. He felt pretty stupid allowing Sundown to get the drop on him the way he did, but he was relieved to know he had the man’s help.

  The beacon test in three days’ time was his next priority and with the aid of a city map, he visited various targets. The beacon had to be planted on a strategically sensitive target, one that would shatter public confidence, if indeed the beacon was still in working order.

  The test beacon. Late afternoon 26th December 1943

  In the winter gloom, at 5 o’clock that afternoon, Peter topped up the Morris 8 car with the remaining petrol in the garage. The Morris was essential to his plan. The number plate would be hard to read in the dark should the police still be looking for it, and running out of petrol would not be an option.

  John Caplin was starting to smell a bit like a soiled nappy under the blanket. Still, it would not matter for much longer.

  Peter’s destination was Becton Gasworks. It supplied most of the gas for London and would present a crippling loss to the city if destroyed. It would also light the way for accompanying bombers to better target other strategic sites. As an engineer, he was familiar with the construction and workings of the gas holders, and knew that everything necessary to make the beacon work would be found at this target.

  ***

  The Morris 8 was parked a short walk from the perimeter fence of the gasworks storage yard. Peter checked off the things he needed to take with him. A serviced and functioning beacon, a long coil of table lamp flex, hand tools for setting up and tuning, wire cutters for the fence, a torch, his Luger, silencer and four clips of ammunition. He also had a pepper pot topped up to the brim, taken from his hotel. This was all packed in a particular order in his kit bag.

  From the shadows, Peter watched and listened for the patrolling guards and their dogs. Wearing his dark balaclava, black leather gloves and crepe soled shoes, he moved soundlessly towards the mesh perimeter fence, and snipped a small opening in the wire. After climbing through, he fixed the mesh together again with paperclips. If he had to run for it, he could easily barge through the weak fixings.

  He shook a quantity of pepper around the opening and behind him as he walked towards an inner gas holder. He hoped that if this holder exploded, it would set off some of the others as well.

  Stealthily he climbed the steel stairway around the holder, to the top.

  He had to locate the electrical junction box that provided power to the service lighting inside the holder itself. Once he found the cable that sagged in a loop from the fixed support columns to the movable holder, he opened it up. In the feeble pinprick of light from the torch, he tied off the flex, connecting the free end to the mains supply. The other end of the flex had a plug to fit the beacon.

  Pulling the cable behind him, he climbed onto the top of the holder treading only on welded seams, where supports ran underneath, so the metal did not bend and make a loud booming noise. He carefully placed the beacon a good way in from the edge of the roof, so he could work on it in more torch light without being seen.

  He plugged in the beacon and watched the faint glow of the power neon bulb dim as the system warmed up. Having reached a stable temperature, he could make other critical adjustments. He fitted the stiff tubular transmitting aerial, which had been designed not to flex in a strong wind, because this would wobble the frequency of the signal.

  Using a glass tool like a screwdriver, he turned it this way and that, until another neon tube turned a peculiar blue colour. The transmitter was now tuned and emitting the carrier wave. Hopefully, it was at the right frequency. Using the tool again in another hole, he rotated it anti-clockwise fully and clockwise three clicks, for the specific identification tone to be superimposed on the carrier wave.

  It was now time to return to the relative safety of the Morris 8.

  Way below him, Peter heard the dogs sneezing profusely and as they left the area, he slipped back through the wire fence, securing it again. After sliding behind the steering wheel, and making himself comfortable, he waited.

  He had no idea of the actual time when the strike would be, just sometime between 18.00 and 02.00 hours. He checked his watch, 17.58 hours, so he wound down his window and listened in the bitter night air for the sound of an approaching V-1.

  At midnight, his ears picked up the sound of a motorbike, but it was approaching from the east, high up in the night sky. Frozen stiff with the numbing cold, he struggled to sit upright, and checked again. Yes, the V-1 was very close. Now the sirens were sounding and London was in a state of panic as this new threat was being assessed.

  Peter started the car, drove away and then turned onto the approach road to the gas works. It was a straight section and ahead of him was a set of heavy gates.

  He tied the steering wheel in place with string, and a bag filled with damp earth held down the accelerator pedal; the car slowly gathered speed from 15 miles per hour. Peter jumped out and the Morris 8 smashed through the gates, careening on until it drove into the side of a building.

  Guards rushed to the wrecked car as the first V-1 struck precisely on target right through the gas holder top, and exploded insid
e.

  The detonation shattered the metal holder, allowing the massive ball of gas to escape and mix with the oxygen in the air. An immense fireball exploded and blew Peter to the ground. He was being scorched alive with the brilliant radiant heat and could only lay there covering his exposed skin till it eased. He got up and ran for his life.

  Shrapnel and metal debris rained down causing the adjacent gas holders to leak and ignite. The layout of the site had been done in such a way that bomb damage to one holder should not set off all the others, and those fires would soon be extinguished. However, a wave of bombers was approaching and the fires provided good targets to aim for.

  Above the noise of the fire alarms and bomb explosions, there followed another buzzing sound like a motorbike in the sky. The next V-1 was on the right heading, but without the beacon, it would fly until it ran out of fuel and drop from the sky, god knows where. The same would apply to any others, without guidance.

  Peter knew this was the last place on earth to be at the moment, and made his way on foot, then by taxi back to his hotel. Peter could not face staying at the house, it would be horrible there on his own, without Andrzej.

  London in shock. 27th December 1943

  Sir Philip Stern was frantically fielding telephone calls from many levels and departments of government. They all wanted his head on a pike outside the Tower of London. He had failed to capture the German spies and now this new weapon had been used against England, with devastating effect. It was not lost on the Government that it had struck a strategic target on the first pass. MI5 had even known the date and time of the test, from an intercepted message.

  Experts also realised other missiles had dropped along a dead straight line, confirming a targeting system of incredible accuracy. A trial with perfect results first time was a terrifying prospect, and it was all connected with the team of German agents roaming free in the city.

  MI5 were reeling from the news themselves, and also the discovery of John Caplin’s charred remains, in the stolen Morris 8. There were recriminations within the department about the phone call from Strom. If only they had believed he had John, the man might still be with them.

  The section chief had the terrible job of informing Margaret Caplin of her loss, but made no mention of their refusal to negotiate with Strom. That and many other facts, would be buried in the records for eternity.

  Anna reads the news. 27th December 1943

  Anna picked up the Financial Times newspaper and glanced at the front page headlines. The blood froze in her veins and her hair stood up with the shock.

  Becton Gasworks bombed!

  Germany’s new weapon failed to work, only one of ten missiles actually exploded damaging one gas holder, and causing a number of small fires that were quickly extinguished.

  Little more was mentioned, but she knew that Peter had succeeded in planting at least one beacon and where better than the gas works supplying the city. She also knew it was not Germany’s objective to draw attention to the accuracy of the missile’s guidance system at this stage. Britain would know soon enough in the New Year.

  She felt sick inside. Until she had seen the headlines, she had been the happiest woman alive, and now her future was in grave doubt. She didn’t need to be a strategist to understand that Germany could fire as many missiles as they wished, from the safety of Calais, and hit every target with certainty. The war was as good as over and in a few months’ time, when the English were on their knees and begging for surrender, she would be married to a prime target of Hitler’s wrath. In due course, she would be exposed as a deserter and face the ultimate penalty.

  Death!

  Realising her death would not be quick or easy, Anna’s bowels turned to water and she barely managed to reach the toilet. Her guts were in turmoil, she vomited until she was empty and her body ached. The loud buzzing in her spinning head caused her to stagger like a drunk. Her legs buckled under her and she fell to the floor where she clung to the sanitary ware, until the panic attack eased. When she focussed on cleaning herself and the bathroom, she felt better, but it was only temporary.

  Her common sense kicked in. She had a month or two before her status as a deserter would become a matter of record. By that time, she would be married and free to roam as she pleased. She would contact the team, explaining what had happened, and reveal her new position. The secrets she could now uncover for Germany would make her invaluable. She would be safe and protected when the German invasion took place.

  Anna felt confident and her life had turned around again.

  Peter tidies up. 27th December 1943

  Before he could complete his report to Germany, Peter had to find out what happened to all the missiles. He was certain the first one had struck the target, and he had the time of impact. The German scientists could work with that. For research purposes he also needed to pinpoint the other strikes on the map. The library had copies of all the newspapers and he could read bomb damage accounts from those. It was immediately apparent that the V-1s had remained on course, without the beacon, and that was great news for the engineers struggling with the gyroscopic control.

  He coded his report and phoned Sundown, to get it transmitted directly to Germany. Time was of the essence, he could imagine the tension amongst the engineers, scientists, and high ranking officers, especially Hitler, not knowing whether or not the beacon worked.

  Sundown had specified the dead drop where Peter could leave his message. Having collected it, Sundown drove to his favourite spot on the Dover cliffs to transmit.

  With the crucial report was a letter from Peter to Sundown, asking for help in tracking down and killing the people who had betrayed him. First there was the man from Dorset who had taken the team to the safe house. Next on the list was the spy from MI5 who was planted to replace Sundown. Finally he needed any information that would expose Raven on Alderney.

  Still concerned with the whereabouts of Henryk, who might still be on the run and Anna, Peter checked the newsagent’s for messages, but there were none.

  ***

  With the success of the test, he felt free to take on the most daring step so far, his own secret mission. Peter spent several hours shopping for presents, before he returned to his hotel and packed all his belongings. He paid his account and left for his parents’ home in Chelsea, very early the following morning.

  The homecoming. 28th December 1943

  Peter skilfully weaved the powerful car through the London traffic. The early morning was dry, but bitterly cold, and the recirculating heater made no noticeable increase in temperature. However, the thick wool blanket over his aching legs was a blessing. He had walked for hours after leaving Becton Gasworks, before the first taxi came along.

  He hadn’t bothered to phone ahead. His parents, Lord and Lady Stone, seldom left the city which was the hub of high society, and they were part of the innermost circle.

  Parking near his parents’ prestigious terraced mansion, he locked the car and walked up the steps to the front door. It was a very strange and emotional feeling for him. He had not been in contact with his family for 18 months, ever since his sister Cathy became mentally unstable. He and Cathy were very close, even with her illness, or perhaps because of it. Their younger brother Ralph, was loved because he was family, but he was never loveable. He had the same attitude towards people as Cathy did, aloof and indifferent to everyone. Ralph made things worse by also being so very spoiled and arrogant.

  Peter pulled the doorbell and the butler opened the door within a minute. Forbes had been in the employ of the family for 15 years and he struggled to mask his joy at seeing Peter standing there. Peter had always been his favourite; so sensible and normal.

  “Good morning sir, it is indeed a pleasure to see you. Do come in. Lord and Lady Stone are still at breakfast, would you like me to set your place at the table, or would you prefer to wait in the drawing room?”

  “If they don’t mind, I would love to join them. I haven’t eaten and I am rat
her famished.”

  “Of course sir, may I take your hat and coat?” He hung them on the nearby stand.

  “This way, if you please sir, I will take you straight to the dining room.”

  There was the familiar echo of their footsteps, across the polished black and white draughts board tiled floor of the entrance hall. As they approached the closed dining room door of panelled hardwood, he breathed in the welcoming smell of delicious food, merging with the faint fragrance of polish in the warm air. The brief thought flashed through his mind, as to why on earth he had risked his life so many times, when he could have been safe and protected here.

  Like many wealthy families, the war was a disruption to their way of life and things had to be done to ensure it would return to normal, whoever won. Peter was able to hedge their bets.

  As the heavy double doors swung open, the family looked up and exclaimed their delight at the sight of their much loved Peter. Cathy was smiling and even Ralph had the look of interest on his solemn face.

  Peter embraced his mother in a hug that brought tears of joy to her eyes. She was a warm and tactile person, but she seldom had the opportunity to express her emotions. This was a characteristic that Peter and no-one else, had inherited from his mother.

  Lord Stone shook Peter’s hand with all the warmth and sincerity he dare show, he used both hands and smiled momentarily.

  Peter walked over to Cathy, shook her hand and affectionately kissed her forehead. He was quite shocked, she did not smell at all clean.

  Ralph turned away and focussed on eating.

  Forbes pulled out a chair at the table for Peter, and he sat at the place just laid for him.