by Dick Hardman
“Well, he will be receiving a visitor later today.
“The other good news is that I have found the person posing as me. He reports directly to Sir Philip Stern, one of the chiefs at MI5.”
Peter stiffened with surprise.
“Ah! You know him. Well I suppose you should, because he is the one suspected of raping your sister.”
“Do you think you can ensure your Sundown imposter can be at Sir Philip Stern’s house at 23.45 on the 10th January at the very latest?”
“That will be tricky Mr Glass, there will be a lot of factors in play and the unknowns are impossible to predict. I will try though.”
“I might also need your help with another matter there Mr Marshal, so be prepared to step up at a moment’s notice.”
“I will do whatever I can, you know that” assured Sundown. “I will be in touch very soon Mr Glass. Goodbye for now.” Sundown made his way back up the alley to the street and merged with other passing pedestrians.
A warning to others. 5th January 1944
It was late evening when a thick set man, wearing a dark greatcoat and fedora, walked up the garden path towards the police constable. The policeman had been huddled in the corner of the porch trying to keep warm, but his heavy cape failed him on this bitter winter night. He stepped forward from the shadows and challenged the visitor.
“What is your business here sir?”
“I have come to speak with Mr Stockley about a small building project. I need an estimate.” The man kept walking and was now very close to the officer.
“I suggest you telephone him and make an appoint...
“Argh!” The single silenced shot came out of nowhere and burned agonisingly in the policeman’s heart. He sank quickly to the ground. Another shot passed through the back of his head as the man walked past.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The heavy door knocker made it clear the caller had urgent business there, and was determined to be heard.
Moments later Dan Stockley opened the door and assumed the stranger was from MI5, until he noticed the dark heap laid out on the path.
His worst fears were confirmed when the still smoking silencer punched into his forehead, jerking him backwards.
Relentlessly the gunman followed him in, and motioned him to lead the way down the hall.
“Who is it Dan?” a woman’s voice called from the kitchen.
The gunman gestured with his gun for Dan to go to the voice.
Mrs Stockley gave a stifled scream when she saw the gunman, and knew these would be her last moments alive.
With his free hand, the gunman pulled from his pocket a long length of thin cord, with a noose formed at the end. He offered it to Dan Stockley.
“Put the noose around your neck.”
Anticipating his protestations, he aimed the gun at the woman’s face and Mr Stockley quickly slipped the rope over his head.
Circling past the couple to the table, the man pulled out a sturdy kitchen chair and ushered them both into the hallway, by the stairs. Mrs Stockley picked up the trailing cord and followed her husband. She didn’t want the end to snag and choke her husband.
“Dan, I want you to stand on the chair. Mrs Stockley, take the rope up the stairs and tie it tight to the handrail on the landing.”
Obeying, she climbed the stairs. Dan Stockley stood quietly on the chair. He was prepared to play along with the gunman, just for now.
“Make sure you pull the rope tight, before you tie it off,” he commanded, and the rope tightened causing Dan to stretch up and stand on tiptoe.
The gunman edged past Dan and looked up the stairs to check the cord was tied.
“Come down here Mrs Stockley.” She hurried down in the belief that her cooperation would somehow change the outcome.
“Kick the chair away Mrs Stockley.”
She started to protest and so did a white faced Dan Stockley, he knew in his heart this was real and final, but clung to the hope that it was just a warning. It had not fully sunk in that he was seconds away from strangling to death.
The man shoved the woman hard, she fell against the chair and it skidded sideways. Dan Stockley clutched at the cord around his neck as he tried to regain support from the chair, inches from his thrashing feet.
Mrs Stockley grabbed at the chair and tried to replace it, but was dragged away and held by the neck of her dress with the gun pressed to her temple. All she could do was watch, horrified, as her husband’s face turned purple, his mouth opened and closed calling silently for help and his legs thrashed with decreasing vigour.
The swinging body stopped thrashing, the swollen tongue stuck out from the open mouth and the bloodshot, bulging eyes stared sightlessly ahead. A final shudder and kick, followed by a slight rumbling sound like a wet fart and finally, a rapidly expanding wet patch spread over the crotch of his dark blue boiler suit.
Dan Stockley was dead.
The gunman walked quietly away from the house, leaving the wife shuddering and sobbing with shock.
“Mummy, why are you crying?” came the frightened voice of a little girl from her bedroom.
***
As the assassin drove away, he contemplated whether he should charge for killing the policeman, an unexpected complication, but on reflection it was a pleasure.
The target. 10th January 1944
As the last rays of the setting sun vanished behind surrounding buildings, Peter glided silently into the ink black icy water. Using the wetsuit and rebreather from his lockup, he swam underwater into the London Dock area and stealthily climbed aboard a moored oil tanker. The Plimsoll line indicated it was full of fuel oil, and so it would cause considerable damage when ignited.
He lay still in the shadows of the gunwale, recovering from the bone numbingly cold water. He watched and timed the security patrol, as he thought over the possibilities ahead of him.
There would be an external power outlet, but connection would be tricky, little more than bare wires jammed into the plug socket. He would need to provide adaptors in future, he thought, and mentally added it to the training list.
The beacon could not be inside the ship because of the screening effect of the steel superstructure, and it was unlikely that it could be dangled over the side, unseen. He would have to rely on the dark during the blackout and the general complexity of shapes around the ship, to hide it in plain sight.
He crept around the deck and eventually found a power outlet. He unscrewed the waterproof cover and wearing dry rubber gloves, wedged the naked wires of the power lead in place with matchsticks. As an engineer, this was as taboo as it could get, but next time he would be better prepared.
Peter merged into the shadows as a guard approached. Attacking the guard was never an option, because he would be missed and a search was bound to reveal the beacon.
The guard passed and Peter’s heart rate dropped back to 150 beats per minute, the thumping in his chest and roar of blood in his ears appeared louder than the lap-lap of the water below. His breathing subsided, and his dry mouth would eventually become moist again once he was safely back on land.
There were no indicator lights to show there was power in the beacon. Was it a fault, a poor connection at the socket, or just a lower voltage on the ship?
Using the glass tool, he turned the voltage selector. Joy of joys, the neon bulb lit. Give it a few minutes for the circuit to warm through and stabilise, then he could make final adjustments.
The guard returned and decided to have a smoke, out of sight. The man practically stepped on Peter as he dragged away at the glowing weed.
This was serious. Once powered, the beacon had to be tuned in or it would become unstable after 10 minutes or so. It was a design fault that was never resolved. How long would the guard stay?
The cigarette was quickly consumed. The guard moved off and vanished in the black of the night.
By now, the set would be warmed up, so he fitted the aerial and proceeded to initiate oscillation, indicated by the intense blue of
the ionised gas in the neon bulb. Everything was working.
He only had to set the tone and cover the glowing bulbs with tape to hide them.
A final check and Peter vanished, back the way he had come, to dry land.
***
With his wet suit and rebreather stowed in the car boot, he slipped into warm dry clothes, inside the Jaguar. Next stop, Sir Philip Stern’s home, just a mile away from Sir Matthew Barker’s house and Lady Anna.
It was now 7pm and he needed the next five hours to enter the house, get set up and away, before the V-1 struck. On the face of it there was more than sufficient time, but security around the house would be tight and he had to break in to find power, and connect up the beacon. There were so many unknowns on this mission that he would have to improvise every step of the way.
As he entered the long avenue of trees with the high earth banks on both sides, he realised this was where the newspapers reported Sir Matthew Barker had died in a tragic accident, just two days after his wedding.
First his wife died, then he quickly found a new one in Anna and now he was dead. Anna must have been laughing all the way to the Bank. He wondered if she could have manipulated the situation in which she now found herself, but while she was quite bright, this was way out of her league. It was just a twist of fate.
His thoughts moved on as he crawled along at 15 miles per hour, he could not afford an accident with a boot full of spy ware.
He had heard nothing from Sundown since they met in the alley, so he must have everything in place. The man was a true master spy and Peter admired him.
Entering a void of deeper blackness, there was the smell of charred wood. Deep gouges in the weathered smooth banks and the twinkle of broken glass confirmed to Peter that this was where Barker had died.
Peter was stunned when he read the news several days ago, and somewhat mystified at the limited detail and coverage about a man of such importance to the country. Without him, the aircraft factory was open season for sabotage. News was restricted only when the government wanted to cover something up.
The eeriness passed and five minutes later he was back in the open and getting closer to his perilous mission. Whatever else, he had promised Cathy that Sir Philip Stern would never be seen again.
***
Stern’s house was apparently surrounded by a tall brick wall, with the main entrance through wrought iron gates, and a single solid door in the back wall. There were trees inside the wall to soften the view from the house and areas of open lawn up to them, for security. Apart from numerous flower borders and stone statues, there was no real cover.
Security patrolled with dogs, which made life very difficult. However, as with most things, there were flaws that were only noticed by criminals and spies.
Peter drove past the house and parked on the grass verge, just by the telegraph pole carrying telephone lines to the house. From the boot, he took out a long rope with a lead fishing weight fixed to the end, and threw it over the wires high above him. He tied the other end to the car bumper, and drove off tearing down the wires.
He gathered up the rope and packed it into his knapsack with tools and beacon, and drove the car close to the wall so he could use it to climb over. The sensitive ears of a dog picked up the almost inaudible thump as he dropped to the ground. The animal barked and was racing towards Peter.
As it crashed through the undergrowth, the ‘phut’ and a brief yelp was all the running handler heard. The second ‘phut’ delivered the handler into oblivion.
As other guards and dogs came one by one to investigate, they joined the heap of bodies. Peter had never subscribed to subtlety if it was not needed. If all went well, insufficient flesh would be found to know they had all been shot.
His next task was to enter the house and kill everyone inside. There was something poetic about letting Stern die by the V-1, but the longer he lived, the greater the chance however remote, that he might escape.
Peter eased through the back doorway into a boot room, by the smell of it. No lights were on, because of the blackout laws. Very sensible too, smirked Peter as the weak beam of his torch lit the room. He slipped into the hall, a dim table lamp illuminated the way towards the sound of music and laughter. It was a radio receiver tuned to the BBC. He listened at the door for live voices and then peered in through the keyhole. He senses the presence of someone in there, but could see no-one.
He could just walk in, but there might be a number of personnel in there, distributed across the room, with weapons. He might get lucky and surprise a couple, but one unsilenced shot from his enemy would bring everyone to him.
Peter set off and checked every room, dusting talc on each door knob. Lady Stern was in bed reading a thriller by Dennis Wheatley, when she died. The bullet passed through her left eye, redecorating the wall and headboard in blood red spray.
Her grey cat dashed for cover under the bed. Peter turned out all the room lights and opened the window, to ‘shoo’ it out. He had nothing against the cat, though a noisy dog was quite different.
All the rooms were clear and he went back to the hall. One door knob was shiny, so someone had entered. Peter listened at the door for movement, but heard only the sound of slippered feet behind him.
A cosy night in.
Lady Anna sat in the drawing room reading a leather bound book and drinking sherry, when she rang the bell for the butler.
“Drake, that dreadful reporter Henry Roberts will be calling at 7pm. I have to see him, so please show him into the drawing room.
“As a thank you for all your support during the tragedy we have all been through, please take the night off with the staff. I will see Roberts out when he has finished.
“I am going to bed early. This has been a terrible affair.” Everyone was familiar with her odd way of speaking at times of stress, and hoped the elocution lessons would continue to help.
“Thank you my Lady, if that is your wish.
“I will see you in the morning.”
Tempus Fugit.
The slipper clad feet behind Peter were those of Sir Philip Stern.
“Good evening Mr Strom, I have not had such a quiet but interesting evening for a long time. The telephone seldom stops ringing and I wondered what I must do to silence the infernal thing. The solution was so simple I completely overlooked it.
“Ah! Where are my manners? The gentleman behind me with the gun is my personal bodyguard. Claud has so many medals and awards, he needs a particularly large room to display them all. He is consistently the best shot at Bisely and is a master in several martial arts.
“It would be foolish to attempt any heroics, because it would prove very painful, much more so than the hangman’s noose. Claud has orders not to kill you, just to subdue you if necessary. I expect you have a high pain threshold, but I am confident Claud can rise to the challenge.”
Claud’s Beretta twitched and fired, smashing Peter’s silenced Luger from his grasp, as it dangled from his right hand. Shrapnel entered the white painted door behind Peter, and his hand felt like it had been both walloped with a hammer and electrocuted. He cried out with pain and sank to his knees, cradling his throbbing hand.
The young man was now aiming at centre mass, and using both hands to grip the Beretta. His posture was excellent and he was so rock steady, he could have been a Madame Tussauds wax figure.
“There you are Peter, we understand each other. I can see we will get along famously.
“Pick yourself up now and sit with me in the lounge. You are not bleeding, so feel free to make yourself comfortable in the armchair.
“I feel the need for a De Luze Cognac. I would offer you one, but in your predicament, it would be a waste.
“I have a few questions before I hand you over for official interrogation. I suspect you will be more forthcoming talking to me, once you appreciate what I have in store for you.”
Peter got to his feet and walked meekly to an offered seat in the lounge.
“I a
m in no hurry to end the evening, though I expect police and agents are rushing here as I speak. Your decision to cut the phone lines was a mistake, response time from the police is just 20 minutes. It all takes a bit longer because of the blackout, don’t you know.”
Peter was not actually listening to Stern, he was wondering what the man would do when he discovered his wife was dead upstairs.
There was a loud knock at the front door. Stern looked at his wrist watch and raised his eyebrows.
“Less time than I thought, their response time has improved.”
He got up and swaggered to the front door.
“Good evening Sir Philip, could we talk inside please, perhaps in your lounge?”
An ashen faced Sir Philip Stern walked shakily in, followed by Stan Carter.
Stan spoke. “I am afraid I am the bearer of bad news Sir Philip.
“Oh! You have guests,” he exclaimed, sounding surprised at seeing Claud and Peter in the room.
A bullet plucked the side of Sir Philip’s maroon silk smoking jacket and Claud dropped to the floor, blood pulsing into the Axminster carpet from a fatal body shot.
Peter grabbed the fallen Beretta from Claud’s left hand and shot Stern through his open mouth, as he turned to speak to him. Whatever he had to say, Peter was not interested.
“Well, what brings you out here at this time of night?” Peter asked in a casual dinner party sort of way.
“Unlike you with your private vendetta, I am trying to fight a war against the enemy.
“You have rather spoilt the surprise I laid on for the counterfeit Sundown. The moment he sees the place has been compromised, with no guards on patrol, and no dogs sniffing around, he will run. We were not set up to chase him.” Stan was rather indignant at having his plans ruined.
“I am sorry about that old chap, you didn’t share your plan.”
“And you didn’t share yours either Peter. Whatever you have in mind, is not due to start until 11.45 pm.”
“Point taken Stan, but we ought to leave before the police get here.”