The '44 Vintage

by Anthony Price

  “What brigadier? What officers?” Audley stared at the hole.

  “Dunno their names, sir—except Captain Spicer wot brought me up from the ‘ospital to the place in Paris. Just officers—except they weren’t real officers, of course—“ Hewett gave Audley a meaningful look, half confiding and half doubting that Audley himself qualified for the courtesy.

  “What d’you mean—not real officers?”

  “Well… doctors, of course—like Captain Spicer. I mean, ‘e was an officer, but ‘e didn’t know one end of a gun from the other. ‘E was a doctor—RAMC—‘Rob All My Comrades.’ Not real officers.”

  “Oh my God!” whispered Audley.

  “Doctors?” said Sergeant Winston. “Doctors?”

  Audley looked at him. “It was an ambulance, Sergeant. That’s what doctors use—ambulances. Give me your cigarette lighter—and keep an eye on that man.” He pointed at Sergeant Purvis.

  Butler watched him climb into the hole, to drop with a crunch into the darkness. The lighter flared, went out, then flared again.

  “I only built the wall, sir,” said Driver Hewett plaintively. “It was half built when we got here—the builders had all scarpered. ‘Fact, everyone had scarpered—cleared orf. It was a wonder we got away, come to that … after the bleeding ambulance packed up. Got out of Bordeaux we did, the last boat. Took us ten days to get there … But I only built the wall, that’s all I did.”

  “And a very good wall too,” Dr. de Courcy spoke soothingly from just beside Butler. “A most professional wall.”

  “Well, it ought to be,” said Hewett, becoming talkative with fright “Bricklayer I was, before I joined up in ‘38. An’ it was all ‘ere ready— the sand and the cement, and the stone too, ready dressed. T’other wall was up and they’d part done this ‘un—up beyond drainage channels.” He pointed to the small gratings at the foot of the wall. “It weren’t but a two or three hour job, really.”

  “But still a good wall,” said De Courcy encouragingly. “And the … the place in Paris—where was that?”

  “Bloody ‘ell, I dunno, mister. Captain Spicer, ‘e knew where to go … turn left, turn right—an’ when we get there, ‘Stay in the cab, Hewett, ready to drive off quick’ ‘e says. Which wasn’t surprising seeing as ‘ow the jerries were already in Paris when we drove out—I know that for a fact, because the brigadier said so to Captain Spicer, an’ everyone else ‘ad already scarpered except ‘im and me—we’d been ordered to stay be’ind. An’ I didn’t reckon we’d ‘ave got out neither, except the captain ‘e knew Paris like the back of ‘is ‘and, ‘aving studied there before the war an’ spoke the lingo.” He shook his head. “But where it was—there you’ve got me.”

  “But you remembered what it was like,” De Courcy persisted.

  Hewett shrugged. “Well … it wasn’t a hospital—leastways there weren’t no patients I seen … though there was a young chap in a white coat went by… . But it was a big place, with a brass plate on the front, an’ double doors. You drive through into a courtyard—I ‘ad to back up against another pair of doors—that’s when the captain tells me to stay in the cab an’ mind my own business.” He thought for a moment, his wrinkled monkey face screwed up with the effort. “I remember as we drove out there was this little bit of a park right opposite, with a green statue looking at you.”

  “A green statue?”

  “Well, not green exactly—sort of greeny-blue, an’ streaky like someone ‘ad tipped a tin of paint over it. Yes—an’ I remember thinking it looked funny too because ‘e was holding ‘is ‘and up and reading from a book—the statue—but ‘e wasn’t a parson because ‘e ‘ad a French army hat on, like their officers wear, an’ medals on ‘is chest.”

  De Courcy stiffened, and Butler heard him draw in his breath.

  “Zeller,” whispered the Doctor.

  “Who, sir?” asked Butler.

  “Zeller,” said the doctor aloud, staring right through Butler. “Henri Auguste Zeller. The Saviour of Hanoi.”

  There was an expression on his face that suddenly frightened Butler. “A general, sir?”

  De Courcy focussed on him. “A general? Yes—a general.” He glanced at Driver Hewett. “But not a real general.”

  “Then what—“ the words were dried up in Butler’s mouth by the wild thoughts which were beginning to come together in his mind.

  De Courcy’s eyes turned back to him. “It was the Zeller Institute, Corporal,” he said. “That’s where they went—L’Institut Zeller.”

  There came a sharp, crunching sound from the hole in the wall. “That’s right, sir,” said Audley. “L’Institut Zeller, rue des Cannes—and let’s get to hell out of here on the double!” He began to scramble out through the hole.

  De Courcy pushed past Butler and seized the subaltern’s arm. “David—in God’s name—what is in there?”

  Audley faced him. ‘What do they do in the Institut Zeller, Doctor— you tell me!” He paused. “Medical research, eh?”

  De Courcy clenched his teeth. “It is one of the main centres in France for microparasitical studies, David—“

  “Micro—what the hell is that?” snapped Sergeant Winston.

  “Germs,” said Audley shortly. “Germs, Sergeant.”

  “Bacteriology and virology,” said De Courcy. “Yellow fever and cholera—I know they were working on influenza vaccines and—and la poliomyelite. It was Zeller himself who pioneered the treatment of plague in Hanoi—he was a pupil of Pasteur—David, what is in there?”

  “Plague!” Audley’s lip twisted. “Chandos Force, by God! Someone’s got a very pretty sense of humour, I’ll say that for them—let’s get out of here, then. Come on!”

  Butler looked uncertainly from Audley to the American, who was still watching Sergeant Purvis like a hawk.

  “Tell the man, Lieutenant—and tell me too, for Christ’s sake,” growled Winston out of the corner of his mouth.

  “In there?” Audley pointed into the hole, his voice rising. “In there? You really want to know what’s in there—you really want to know?” His voice cracked insanely.

  Butler heard the sound behind him a thousand years too late.

  “Right then—don’t let me hear one of you breathe!”

  A thousand years too late. And if he lived another thousand years he would never forget that voice.

  Butler held his breath as Audley stared past him.

  “That’s good. Now—put down your weapons slowly.”

  The subaltern’s chin lifted in that characteristically obstinate movement Butler knew so well. “Nobody moves,” he said hoarsely. “Nobody moves.”

  The Sten was sweaty in Butler’s hands and his back crawled.

  There was a scrape of boots behind him.

  “Well, bless my soul!”

  The other voice—the voice which had frozen him once before, under the bank of that sandy island by the Loire.

  Kill him with the others!

  “Bless my soul!” repeated Major O’Conor. “Now … let that be a lesson to you, Sergeant-major—“

  How could they have been so careless, thought Butler brokenly: to stand here gabbing as though they had all the time in the world, so wrapped up in the hole and its contents that they hadn’t even bothered to set someone on watch—how could they have been so careless?

  “—Never underrate a friend when you ask him for a favour!”

  “Sir?” The same neutral sound he had first heard by the stream in the bocage of Normandy.

  Oh God, how could they have been so careless?

  Butler’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Yes … I asked Chris Sykes for a good man, and he gave me one, don’t you see?” The major’s tone was curiously sad. “And a German prisoner into the bargain too. You’ve done well, young Audley—I’ll say that for you. And it took some doing, I shouldn’t wonder, eh?”

  Butler stared at Audley’s blackened face and felt the subaltern’s will weaken.

  “S
ir—“ his own voice came from far away.

  “It’s all right.” Audley swallowed painfully. “We still outnumber you, sir,” he addressed the major.

  “Tck! Tck! Don’t be silly, boy.” The major injected a world of regret into the words. “Your men are facing the wrong direction, and you’ve no idea how competent Sergeant-major Swayne is at close quarters—eh, Sergeant-major?”

  “Sir!” The sergeant-major agreed.

  “But you’ll still lose, sir,” said Audley.

  For a moment Major O’Conor didn’t reply, and Butler had a vision of that dead eye staring fishlike at Audley beside him. Then the real world came into focus: the broad back of the American just ahead of him to his left, and beyond that Sergeant Purvis and Driver Hewett frozen like waxwork figures on the very edge of the pavement with the river behind them.

  Somewhere behind him and to the left were the Frenchman and the German, but they didn’t come into it. Because before he could swing halfway through the full circle the sergeant-major would cut him down, and the American—aye, and probably Purvis and Hewett too, which was a fear already stamped on their faces. And if Second lieutenant Audley thought that would slow the sergeant-major down he was backing a bloody loser, he decided bitterly.

  “Because of your French friends beyond the gate, do you mean?” the major said. “You’ve never seen my lads in action, young man—they’ll go through that rabble like a dose of salts, believe me. If you’re relying on them then I’m afraid you’re going to be awfully disappointed.”

  Judging by the performance of the Communist partisans in the ambush it would be the major who was disappointed, thought Butler. But that would be too late for them. If they moved they were dead and if they surrendered they were dead, he had no doubt about that: the major had gone too far to leave any of them alive behind him. The only surprising thing was that they were still alive.

  Audley shook his head. “I don’t mean that, sir”—he pointed to the hole in the wall—“I mean that,” he said thickly.

  Again there was a slight pause.

  “The payroll, you mean?” There was something different in the major’s voice: it was hard to interpret the nuances of meaning in a man’s voice when one couldn’t see his face.

  The payroll—?

  “The what?” Audley’s mouth opened.

  “You haven’t had time to look, then?” The major chuckled, and Butler knew what he had missed: the smile of triumph—the winner’s smirk.

  “But then of course the late lamented Colonel Clinton was rather security-conscious, I must admit—strictly classified to field rank and above, his little secret.” Major O’Conor savoured the thought like a sugarplum. “But don’t tell me you weren’t curious, young Audley— didn’t you lie awake wondering about it? Of course you did, eh!”

  “The payroll?” Audley still gaped at him.

  “The sinews of war, my dear boy—and of peace too, by God! The last big payroll of the old British Expeditionary Force, no less … and as poor Clinton really doesn’t need it any more, the sergeant-major and I—and the good Purvis there—we are going to draw it in lieu of back pay and allowances and demobilisation gratuities. Five years’ devoted service in conditions of extreme discomfort and danger—you can look on it as payment in full for a job well done, or you can look at it as a winner-takes-all lottery.” The major’s tone sharpened. “Last time I was a loser. This time I’m a winner, that’s the sum of it, boy.”

  “No—“ Audley began. “No—“

  “Yes. What did you think it was, eh? Objets d’art of some sort? Or a secret weapon? I’m sorry, my boy … just filthy lucre, that’s all. Not worth missing Cambridge for—and certainly not worth dying for. So do be a sensible young fellow and tell your heroes to put down their weapons quietly. We don’t want any shooting—once it starts it’s apt to become infectious—“

  That was why, Butler realised suddenly: gunfire from within the chateau might spark off the confrontation at the main gate! The major’s kindly concern for their survival was as false as his glass eye.

  “—but if the sergeant-major has to shoot, believe me young Audley— he will shoot.” The threat at the last was as naked as a Windmill girl. “And that will be just ten seconds from now, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Lieutenant—“ Winston tensed up. “Lieutenant—“

  “No, wait!” Audley’s voice cracked with strain. “He lied to you, Major—Colonel Clinton lied to you”—he pointed into the hole wildly— “there’s no money in there. There never was any money in there—“

  “What?”

  “He lied to you—it was just a cover story—as Bullsblood was a cover for Chandos.” Audley’s face twitched uncontrollably at the name. “Chandos!” he repeated bitterly.

  “Hold it, Sergeant-major,” snapped O’Conor. “What d’you mean, boy—a cover? What d’you mean?”

  Audley blinked. “It wasn’t—money, sir. There’s no money.”

  “You’re lying, damn you—he told me …” The major’s voice trailed off. “He told me …” He choked on the words “He told me… .”

  It was no longer the voice of triumph: it was an old man with ashes in his mouth. Ashes which dried up his words.

  “How do you know it isn’t money, sir?” The sergeant-major’s bark cut through the silence.

  Audley’s glance shifted. “Because I’ve been in there, Sergeant-major. And I’ve seen what’s in there.”

  The unasked question hung in the sunlight. Butler was aware suddenly that Audley was staring past him at a different angle, and staring with a peculiar intensity.

  “You want to know what’s in there, Sergeant-major? You really want to know?” said Audley. “You want me to tell you?”

  That was odd, thought Butler: the meaningless repetition of the question, as though Audley had any possible doubt—

  And then, just as suddenly, Butler knew exactly where the sergeant-major stood on the steps behind him … behind, slightly to the right—slightly to the right, above—

  “You really want me to tell you, Sergeant-major?” said Audley again. He was fighting to take the sergeant-major’s attention, Butler knew. Or at least to take enough of it to give him that tiny fraction of a second’s purchase for what had to be done.

  Don’t you ever point that gun at me again—unless you intend to shoot me with it!

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Sergeant-major—“ Not yet.

  Because whatever Audley was going to say he must have judged that it would be enough to give Corporal Butler at least a chance.

  And at the moment he had no chance.

  “I hope you’ve got a sense of humour, Sergeant-major. Because you’re going to need one—“

  Butler knew he was right now: whatever it was coming, it was designed to hurt.

  “He was right—money’s not worth dying for. Not worth risking men’s lives for either, with all the millions they’ve spent. It always had to be nastier than that—“

  Dad had been a sergeant-major: that was a funny thing to think of at a time like this. Sergeant-major Butler!

  “Not worth dying at all now, really. We’ve won the war—“

  He would never be a sergeant-major. He would be an officer—or a dead corporal.

  “But that’s this war. We haven’t won the next war yet, Sergeant-major. So that’s still worth dying for—the Third World War—“

  The sergeant-major and the major … rather like Sergeant-major Butler and Colonel Chesney—General Chesney. The only two people in the world he loved.

  Except now there was maybe a third—He hadn’t thought of Madeleine Boucard for three whole hours—

  Third?

  Third World War?

  “That’s right, Sergeant-major: the Third World War. Do you know we even guessed at it before we got here? What we didn’t realise is that they’ll have new weapons for the next war—King Tigers’ll be as out of date as longbows next time—“

  Now?

  But he couldn�
�t move. He wanted to know what Audley was going to say next.

  “And longbows are rather appropriate—you know that? Longbows are what Sir John Chandos had back in the 1350s. Killed a lot of Frenchmen with them, by golly—Agincourt, Poitiers—and Spaniards at Najera too. But he wasn’t the top killer of the time, Sergeant-major—he was a real pro, but he wasn’t in the same class as the Black Death, Sergeant-major—“

  Plague.

  Audley pointed into the hole. “The boxes in there have INSTITUT ZELLER stamped on them. And Institut Zeller is where they came from. And I don’t know what the Zeller Institute was playing with in 1940, but I can make a damn good guess, Sergeant-major—“

  Butler stared into the hole in horror. War was one thing, but disease … loathsome and invisible, was a nightmare from the pit—

  “—because we’ve been playing with it too, Sergeant-major. A friend of mine in the Sappers had to wire off the beaches on a Scottish island, Sergeant-major—he said an experiment there had gone wrong. So nothing can live there for a hundred years now. It had sheep on it, but they were all dead—dead and rotting, dozens of them. The Sappers weren’t allowed near them. They weren’t even allowed off the beach.”

  Butler’s flesh crawled. Dead and rotting—

  “Plague?” croaked the major. “Plague.”

  “Maybe not plague. It could be a dozen things. They were working on polio at the Institute—there’s no cure for polio. If they found a virulent strain and a vaccine of some sort… polio or flu or plague … an army that was vaccinated wouldn’t need to fight if they had a weapon like that to clear the way ahead of them, by Christ!”

  The hole yawned in Butler’s imagination, straining to swallow him into its darkness. He wanted only to run away.

  “No wonder they didn’t want the Germans to get it in ‘40—the Zeller research files. And no wonder the Communists wanted it so badly.” Audley paused. “And no wonder Colonel Clinton didn’t tell you what we were really after—no wonder he lied to you, Major!”

  Butler came to himself again. Killing or dying wasn’t even a choice any more. He had to get away from the black hole under the bridge.