Betrayal

by J. Robert Janes

  Mary shrugged but wouldn’t turn. ‘We didn’t talk of it, Major. There simply wasn’t time.’

  Connor drove her home, having tied the bicycle to the back of the car, she silent, lost in thought, and wondering what to do. ‘It’s a fine state we find ourselves in, now isn’t it?’ he said. ‘If this gets out, I’m finished. The Brits will have me shot.’

  ‘Me too, but it’s already finished for me.’

  ‘Sure and I can imagine what the major must have said, but will the Nazis take you with them?’

  ‘I hope so. You see, I’m carrying Erich Kramer’s child.’

  ‘You’re not!’ Why hadn’t Nolan told him? ‘That does put another spin on things, now doesn’t it?’

  ‘Listen, we haven’t much time unless I were to ask you in. There’s no whiskey, but … now wait, there is some brandy.’

  ‘Is Liam Nolan aware of your condition?’

  ‘They dragged that out of me weeks ago. Look, tell them not to come anywhere near the house.’

  ‘Sure and they must already know that.’

  ‘Tell them to look for my bike in Ballylurgen. They can leave a message in the carrier basket. I’ll … I’ll come as soon as I can.’

  ‘They’ll want to know what transpired between you and that Huber fellow.’

  ‘I’ll tell them myself. Look, I’m sorry, but it’s best you know only what is necessary.’

  And she sounding like a regular little cadre herself!

  They went in at the drive and coasted to a stop before the house. Mary listened for Robbie, only to remind herself of what had happened. ‘Please leave your bag in the foyer and go in to see Mrs. Haney, Doctor. Keep her busy while I go upstairs.’

  ‘For what?’ he asked, alarmed.

  She would have to tell him. ‘For some of the dynamite you’ll be carrying in to Tralane.’

  ‘Lord have mercy on us, who the hell is it you’re wanting to work for?’

  ‘Myself. I’ve had enough of being pushed around. You can tell Nolan that, too, if you like. The prisoners will have to wire the dynamite up themselves, so I’ll give you some of the blasting caps and fuse.’

  ‘I can’t take much.’

  ‘You’ll take everything I give you and you’ll spill ether in your bag to dampen the smell if you have to, and you’ll come back for more using the excuse of the cut on my forehead. Now let’s get at it, shall we?’

  The late news over the wireless from the BBC London was particularly grim. Mary wished she’d not switched it on but had felt desperately alone—not brave or tough as she’d been with Dr. Connor, just damned scared. The British aircraft carrier Ark Royal had been torpedoed off Gibraltar. In Russia, a railhead near Leningrad had been taken by the Germans, tightening their hold about the city. Allied shipping losses for October had been among the worst. The U-boat threat was a menace everyone would hate. Her hands had shaken at the thought.

  The dry cell battery and its leads lay nestled in cotton wool, well separated from the metal of the shortbread tin. There’d be no stray electrical currents, no shorts she couldn’t afford. The six sticks of gelignite lay diagonally across the tin with the battery to one side, she having used one of them as the primer and, finding the gelignite surprisingly soft, had pushed the blasting cap in and tied the wires around the stick so as to secure them.

  One lead ran from the blasting cap to the battery—she’d not wired that up yet, nor had she done the others, the links from the battery to the watch and from its crystal to the blasting cap.

  The second hand swept around, the minute hand moved. Men would be killed during the prison break—there wasn’t much she could do about it, though she’d try if opportunity arose, assuming that she would be made exactly aware of where the charges were to be placed and the time of their detonation.

  Somehow she’d have to find out. There were so many things to do, so many questions still. Answers … she’d have to have answers ready.

  The bomb was complete—Nolan wouldn’t know of it and neither would Fay Darcy or Trant or Erich or any of them. She’d keep it all to herself, but they must be made to take her with them.

  Terms agreed. Fix rendezvous 0100 hours 23 November. Kill Heidi.

  Once Erich was out from Huber’s command, her life wouldn’t be worth much, so she would have to hold something back, have to make certain of this.

  A heavy woollen pullover went into the rucksack she’d brought from the mudroom. Hamish and she had spent days hiking in the Highlands. It had pleased him to see her so well prepared. Good hiking boots, knee socks, trousers and flannel shirts, even binoculars.

  Mary added two pairs of heavy socks, putting these on either side of the tin, then a spare pair of trousers and another pullover. Making room for the rucksack, she squeezed it down into the cedar chest and laid a couple of blankets over it before spreading more mothballs.

  There was a calendar hanging from a nail in the study. It was now the night of Tuesday, 11 November 1941. The twenty-third fell on a Sunday. There were twelve days left, then, in which to contact Berlin, fix the rendezvous, break the prisoners out, and cross into Donegal before finding their way to Inishtrahull.

  She was certain Kevin would use that island. Deep down inside him, he was still of his family and roots. He’d want somewhere hidden and out of the way, would want to choose a place he knew and this last would probably govern everything else.

  Inishtrahull, it had that ring to it. Hamish had maps, but when she’d located the island, Mary found herself sick with dread. It sat right out in the shipping lane that led to the North Channel, was right under Londonderry’s thumb and subject to the RAF bases there and to its coastal patrols. It also had its own lighthouse, so wasn’t completely uninhabited or undefended either.

  Nolan stepped from behind the forge at the old Darcy place. Caught in the half-light, Mary glanced past him to the corner where the shafts of the pony trap stood on end. ‘Where’s Fay?’ she asked.

  Still he did not move. ‘Look, it’s crazy of us to meet here. Jimmy Allanby knows it far too well. He’ll …’

  ‘Have followed you, is that it?”

  ‘I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you’re thinking. I did exactly as your note said. I left my bike outside the shop in Ballylurgen, went through to the back to hitch a ride in Joe Kivelehan’s lorry, then walked in from the road, walked right up that lane, or what’s left of it. I … I seem always to be meeting you people in ruins of some kind.’

  She’d not moved a muscle, still stood beneath that gap in the slates knowing now, though, that the fond slash of morning would touch those dark brown, velvet eyes of hers and the turned-up collar of a camel-hair overcoat. ‘How is the captain these days, Allanby that is?’

  ‘I’ve hardly spoken to him of late. Look, I don’t like him. I never have. He had our Robbie killed.’

  ‘And the major, what of him, then?’

  Quickly Mary told him where things stood. ‘I’ve arranged with Dr. Connor to move the rest of the dynamite into the castle. Huber said to tell you Berlin have agreed to your terms. You’re to fix the rendezvous for zero one hundred hours on the twenty-third and to relay everything back through me.’

  She still hadn’t moved. ‘Made yourself essential to us, have you?’

  He had come to stand in front of her. ‘Please don’t touch me.’

  Unbuttoning the top of her coat, Nolan brushed the lapels as a tailor might before using the soft yellow mohair scarf as a halter. ‘I’ll touch if I want.’

  ‘Kevin won’t like it.’

  ‘Still fancying him, are you?’ He wished that Fay had come inside. Fay would have made sure they pried the truth out of the woman, but Fay was still pissed off about what had happened at O’Shane’s farm and was watching out for Allanby.

  ‘Got the bullets to that lover of yours, did you?’ he asked.

 
There was no laughter in him now, no mischief, not even suspicion, just an emptiness that frightened because she could not know what it might mean for her. ‘You killed those women.’

  ‘That what the major and the colonel said?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  ‘Then maybe they should have told you that the mother didn’t just save me from the pump standard in their stable yard but took me to her bed. She was a stupid cow with talcum powder all over her—I used to dust her down after the bath. She got what she deserved.’

  ‘And the daughter?’

  She’d been shocked all right. ‘The daughter was the punishment. After all, I was only seven when the mother first made me put my head between those dusty bags of hers. The rest came later when I was ten and twelve and she found she enjoyed my tongue and other things.’

  And shocked again. ‘Didn’t the daughter love you?’ he heard her ask, innocence itself.

  ‘Janet Gilmore? Christ, the girl was a slut. She knew I was poling the mother and wanted a bit for herself, so I obliged the two of them. I had to, didn’t I?’

  ‘That’s still no reason to have murdered them.’

  ‘Worried, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t much like the truth, then, do you, but that was the way of it. My da would have lost his job had I not done what those two wanted of me. His lordship knew it, of course, and thought it a riot, since it freed him up with the housemaids.’

  Nolan let go of the scarf. Now his arms hung loosely at his sides. ‘If you harm me, the Germans will kill you.’

  ‘That what Huber said to pass on?’

  When she didn’t answer, he came quickly to a decision, but was it one he didn’t like?

  ‘Tell the Nazis the break is for the night of the eighteenth. That’ll give us five days to reach the rendezvous.’

  The eighteenth. ‘What time of night?’

  Interested, was she? Fifteen minutes past midnight. We’ll use the north gate—it’s been bricked up—but they’re to set all but two of the charges under the barbican and the main gatehouse to make it look as if the break is to be there.’

  Had he really decided to trust her, or would he simply give the correct information to Dr. Connor?

  ‘I’ll need three dozen sticks of that gelignite of yours, two hundred and fifty feet of the safety fuse and sixteen blasting caps—eight of the electrical ones, the same of the others. Set those aside for me. See that Connor gets the rest into the castle as soon as possible—we’ll make sure that he has something else to carry in as well so as to make the job easier. We may have to move the date up, though, if the major gets wind of things.’

  ‘Huber wants to know where the rendezvous is. He’s insisting that you tell me.’

  Ah, and was he now? ‘Tell him he’ll know soon enough. Just say there’s a meeting place he won’t forget.’

  Tucking her scarf back in, he chucked her under the chin, then said, ‘Remember we’ve means and ways if you spill it all to Trant.’

  She jerked her head away. ‘I won’t. I’m coming with you. I … I don’t want to hang.’

  So they’d put it to her right enough, the major and the colonel and she was smart enough to know they’d do it even if she did tell them everything. ‘Just keep that motorcar of yours in readiness.’

  ‘But … but they’ll know it’s my husband’s?’

  She was so tense, so wanting to have him say she’d be allowed to go with them. ‘It’ll be dark. It’ll be all right. We’ll ditch the motor where they’ll never find it.’

  The car … Had Nolan lied to her? Unsettled by the thought, Mary leaned the bike against the arbour. The pony would still be out in the paddock. She could go into the stable to get the halter—that would be excuse enough should Jimmy and the men be watching, as they would be, but they’d not see her walk over to the car.

  Nolan wasn’t going to let her come with them. She had had that feeling ever since leaving him, had it now as she took the halter down.

  Setting it on the bonnet, she crouched to peer beneath the car, located the drive shaft, transmission casing, brake cables and exhaust pipe, then the muffler at the back and the fuel line which ran from here to there.

  Opening the bonnet, she ran her eyes uncertainly over the engine, didn’t know the first thing about it, would be lost—entirely lost.

  When she reached the pony, Mary slipped the halter on him but didn’t cinch it too tightly. ‘We’ll take the trap down to Lough Loughie,’ she said, giving him a hug. ‘I need time to think things out. I wish, though, that Hamish was here to tell me what to do, but am glad he isn’t.’

  Nolan was going to kill her and she had the thought then that she knew exactly how he’d do it.

  Hitching the pony to the trap hadn’t been easy—memories of Orillia had had to be dredged, things she hadn’t thought of in ages, things like the barn after a Sunday’s dinner, the house asleep, and Frank Thomas. Frank who was to become a young lawyer, but who had been killed in North Africa just like the colonel’s sons. Frank fondling her breasts and pushing her underwear down in spite of her objections, the blood pounding in her head, the door deliberately locked, she trying to get it open. Frank and herself in the backseat of a brand-new Chev that had been parked in that barn not far from where the horse had stood patiently in its stall, the new and the old side by side just as they were in Ireland. Would her last flash of thought be one of what had happened, of sex, or merely the smell of new upholstery?

  She had been confused, uncertain—thinking all those things a girl would at such a time—but he had just wanted to have fun, had been handsome, well-to-do. ‘A lush,’ some had said, ‘a rake’—small towns were always like that, and yes, she had ignored those whispers, had thought they might really have been in love.

  He’d been with another girl in the boathouse at the Thomas cottage on Lake Couchiching when she’d found them like that, herself six months pregnant and coming home from Trinity College in Toronto to tell him they’d best get married.

  She hadn’t said a thing, hadn’t stuck around, had gone off to Montreal, hadn’t written, hadn’t let anyone know, least of all Frank, had taught herself French, if Parisian French, and found a job teaching in a Catholic day school after Louise had been born. Louise … but then word had got out and the job had ended. An unmarried girl with a child was no example to anyone, and now here she was with another child, another horse—well, just a pony—and another car. A last ride, the turn of the ignition key? Was that how it was to be? Death in milliseconds at the hand of the Mad Bomber of London?

  Louise had been three years old—long enough for them to have come to love each other entirely. ‘I betrayed her. I know I did. If I could make it right, I would.’

  The light had almost gone as she rubbed the pony down. The rain had started up again and she could hear it on the roof.

  Nolan wanted 250 feet of safety fuse. She would have to get it for him now. Four more coils, then, each of fifty feet. To the sack, she knew where the fuse was kept. Reaching for the wooden pitchfork William had left up in the loft, she dug it into the hay, would not go near the sacks yet, would do what she should first, lest someone come looking.

  Pitching the hay down brought back its memories—laughing, exploring, doing all those things young girls will in barns and stables, but was life one round of things? Was it always like this before one’s death? Being pregnant and unmarried had been the greatest of sins, never mind who the father, or that Frank had been no good and wouldn’t have cared a damn had he known.

  The coils of safety fuse came on fifty-foot spools, two to a packet and tightly wrapped in waxed brown paper to which white labels with black lettering had been attached. Jimmy would have made a tally of things but that would have been done right after she had told them of the cache, yet if he should check, what then? He’d discover what she’d done, would
find that nearly all of the dynamite was missing.

  Lies, lies and more of them. Threading a length of cord through each of the four coils, she tied them tightly around her waist beneath her overcoat, had reached the floor below, had just turned from the ladder when Jimmy stepped in out of the rain.

  For a moment she clung to the ladder, and he caught sight of her, wondering what she’d been up to.

  Without a word, Mary dug the pitchfork into the hay, was glad she had had the presence of mind to have thrown so much down. He let her fork it into the pony’s stall and watched as she spread it around, and she knew then that he must think or know she had met with Nolan this morning, yet had waited until now to confront her.

  Rainwater dripped from the camouflaged slicker he wore and from the glossy black peak of his cap.

  ‘What were you doing up in the loft?’

  His voice made her start. Momentarily the pitchfork stopped, then she threw more hay into the stall. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Mary, put that thing down and open your coat.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because I ask it of you.’

  ‘Orders, Jimmy? Is that how it’s to be?’

  Leaning the pitchfork against the wall, she waited for him to say she’d met with Nolan, and when he didn’t, said, ‘Am I to be strip-searched again, Captain? Does the thought excite you?’

  The rain hammered on the roof, the pony tossed its tail. Allanby knew she was hiding something. ‘Just open your bloody coat.’

  He was perhaps ten feet from her, would see the coils of fuse, would take her to Tralane. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said, giving him a fleeting smile that was, she knew, both cruel and introspective. ‘Erich’s child, Jimmy. The bastard of a Nazi U-boat captain. It’s … unfortunately it’s beginning to show.’

  She brushed hands down over her front, stood waiting for the storm that was in him, but it never came. ‘Does he know?’ he asked.

  Mary fingered the shaft of the pitchfork. ‘Of course he doesn’t. Nor does Hamish, and I’d ask that if you really did once feel anything for me, you will keep it to yourself. Erich and I are finished. It … it could never have amounted to anything.’