The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  “Son of a bitch,” Thorn hissed.

  He sprinted the fifteen feet to Bright and lunged, taking her to the ground and landing on top of her. The breath rushed from her lungs as two gunshots rang out, followed by the sound of the sedan’s tires squealing as it swerved back into the left lane, missing the skidding truck’s front end by inches.

  “Bright . . . Bright, are you okay?” Thorn asked, putting his hand on her cheek. As he lay on top of her, he was hit again by the scent of lavender and could hear her struggle to fill her lungs with air. He began to pat her down, searching for a gunshot wound. His hands slid across her chest. He felt her firm breasts through her coat and lingered too long. Just then, she shoved him off her and onto the sidewalk.

  “Had enough?” Bright asked, her voice raspy and starved for air. She rolled onto her side toward Thorn, who was on his back now, looking up at the night sky.

  “Sorry, I was just—”

  “I know . . . I know, just playing doctor. I get it. But what just happened?”

  “That was an out-and-out murder attempt. And it certainly wasn’t random,” he said.

  Bright began to stand, but she wobbled on weak legs.

  The driver of the delivery truck ran toward them. He wore a bloodstained apron over a dark wool coat. “My Lord, are you both all right? Should I get some help? That crazy arsehole almost done us all in!”

  Thorn stood and helped Bright to her feet. He noted that the side of the truck was painted with the name Borden’s Fine Meats.

  “Thank you, sir. We’re fine,” Bright said.

  “Were those gunshots I heard?” asked the driver as he wiped his forehead with the bottom of his bloody apron.

  “Oh no, I don’t think so. I guess you could say we were . . . caught off guard,” Thorn said ruefully. “But I do think that Rover needs a tune-up.” The explanation appeared to satisfy the rattled driver, and he returned to his truck, muttering to himself.

  “How do you know that it was a Rover?” Bright said as she brushed off her coat, her voice having reclaimed its strength.

  “That was the same car that was parked in front of the Savoy when we came out.”

  “There are plenty of Rovers in this city—”

  “The Rover in front of the Savoy had a bad cylinder; it was misfiring,” Thorn insisted. “You could hear it a mile away. The car that just tried to mow us down had the same exact problem.”

  “You could actually hear a bad cylinder? I—”

  “Trust me. I’m good with engines.”

  They resumed their walk and soon found themselves staring up at the Hungerford Bridge.

  “Bright, you OK?”

  “Recovering, I’d say. I’ll be fine. And . . . thank you.”

  “For what?” Thorn asked, smoothing back his windblown hair.

  “I think you saved my life.”

  He turned to face her and looked at her face intently. He waited several moments, then turned away and looked down the embankment. “Well, whoever that was, he was after the both of us—not just you. And I couldn’t be happier,” Thorn said, smiling broadly.

  “Are you a madman? A minute ago, someone tried to kill us. Right out in the open.” She beat off some leaves that clung stubbornly to her coat. The thumping sound reverberated in the night air.

  “Think about it,” Thorn said. “If we weren’t getting close, no one would want us dead.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  2200 Hours, Thursday, October 8, 1942

  Trafalgar Square, London

  The newspaper-strewn train car was nearly empty. Four seats away from him, a couple was engaged in a tight embrace, tonguing each other sloppily. Yet another couple, living for the moment, he thought with disgust. Fortunately, Stoker was minutes away from ending the third leg of his serpentine trip from Broadway to Trafalgar Square. One stop from Saint James Park to Westminster on the District Line, followed by a brisk walk, with two stops along the way to look over the moonlit Thames, ensuring that no one was tailing him; to the Charing Cross Underground Station’s Bakerloo Line for the train to Piccadilly Square, purposely bypassing the stop for Trafalgar Square. All very tiresome but necessary.

  He exited the train and walked down the platform, toward the stairs that led to the surface. The train he left, now on its way to Tottenham Court, picked up speed as it passed him. Inside the train, he glimpsed the couple still tightly stuck to one another. Once the breeze created by the passing train lessened, he smelled the sharp, foul odor of the chemical toilets at the far end of the platform that had been put in place during the Blitz. There were still areas where bedding belonging to escaping and homeless Londoners was laid out. Since the threat of German air raids had subsided, only an occasional person lay sleeping, their shoes standing at attention close by, worn socks and stockings sticking out from threadbare blankets.

  Stoker arrived at the surface winded from the climb. He headed down Haymarket, toward Trafalgar Square, cursing the night’s robust moonlight and unseasonably warm weather. On his trek down Haymarket, despite his compromised hearing, he still heard the voices beckoning provocatively from dark doorways and alleys. He checked his watch—it was ten thirty. He was right on schedule.

  #

  It was Toulouse’s first time in Trafalgar Square. He stood at the top of the stairway to the Trafalgar Square Underground Station to get his bearings. The woman’s instructions said to meet at the base of the statue of King George IV. Sitting on a “bloomin’ humongous horse” near the backside of some bomb shelters, she said. Ten thirty, she said. He spotted the statue and trotted toward it. Don’t be late, she said. He was five minutes late.

  The weighty revolver bounced inside his waistband as he trotted, and he began to make out the woman up ahead. She was blond, with short legs. Her calves were large, rounded masses of muscle. She had her head on a swivel—back and forth it went, looking for someone. For him.

  #

  Stoker took a hard left off Haymarket onto Pall Mall and walked another three hundred feet and entered the north side of Trafalgar Square around 10:40. As he passed through the square’s entrance, he walked by a Royal Navy warrant officer who was leaning against a red postbox, a woman was proudly showing him the backs of her legs. Stoker overheard her say that her flat mate drew the seams of her phantom stockings with a black eyebrow pencil. The sailor mumbled his approval.

  He moved deeper into the square, which was eerily quiet for a moonlit and balmy night. As he passed the brick bomb shelters hastily erected aboveground between Nelson’s Column and the National Gallery, he counted five women, all decked out in their showy black-market outfits, conducting business. He stopped and turned his head slightly back toward Pall Mall. If he was being followed, they were good. One woman mistook his glance behind him with an interest in becoming acquainted. He pressed on to the base of Nelson’s Column.

  #

  “You’re late, you bloody Frenchman.”

  “Yes, yes, I am French, what can I say? And you, you look . . . so beautiful, my dear.”

  “Don’t ‘dear’ me. I’m on a tight schedule.”

  “And your poodle, a French poodle. He, she?” Toulouse extended a friendly hand toward the dog, who wasted no time in nipping at it.

  “He’s a he. And keep your hands to yerself. Do you have the money? The six thousand pounds?”

  “Ahh, the money. Yes. How do I begin to explain?”

  “Explain what? You either got the money or you don’t. Either way, I don’t want any bloody explanation.”

  His attempt to befriend her was only serving to unnerve her. “I have the money—”

  “So give it here.”

  “I have four thousand pounds. The rest after I . . . transact some business. I only need—”

  “You only need? Aren’t you the cheeky one? I need the six thousand pounds. So no deal tonight, dearie. Now move on with you. I’ve got appointments.” The woman turned toward Nelson’s Column and gave a thumbs-down signal to a lone man standi
ng near the large monument.

  “Please, madam,” Toulouse said, grabbing her elbow.

  She tugged it from his grasp and turned. A small gun pointed at his gut. “We’ll give you two seconds to turn around and disappear.”

  Toulouse looked back at the monument. The man hadn’t moved. “Or we will do what?”

  She smiled coolly. “Or I’ll start screamin’ me head off. Something about rape.”

  Toulouse gave the man one last look and nodded, held up his hands in surrender, and started to backpedal. The blond spun on her heels and bolted toward Nelson’s Column. He could see her calves wiggle as she marched off. He headed for a small grove of trees that bound the east side of the square and kept his eyes on her as she moved to the east side of Nelson’s Column. The man, a least a foot taller than her, came out of the shadows to meet her. She talked as the man paced.

  Toulouse looked at his watch. Their failed negotiation had taken eight minutes. He waited, not knowing what his next move would be.

  #

  Nelson’s Column, a monument to the British naval victory at Trafalgar, was 145 feet tall. Stoker approached the monument and chuckled to himself, thinking about the intelligence uncovered the year before that the Nazis had developed plans to transport the monument to Berlin after their planned invasion and occupation of England.

  He stopped and stared at the square base of the column; it was wrapped by a picture of an Avro Lancaster bomber on fire and under attack. A sign beneath proclaimed “The Sky’s the Limit—This Is Wings For Victory Week.” Another effort by the Churchill government to squeeze another few pence out of broke Britons.

  Stoker checked one more time for his lapel knife and Colt. He unbuttoned his overcoat to give himself a bit more freedom of movement. As he did, a small flock of pigeons moved toward him. One pigeon a bit braver than the others jaunted near his feet and pecked at his shoe. Stoker punted the bird ten feet in the air, where it then took flight. The rest of the flock followed suit. It was 10:55. Heeding the instructions he’d been given, he moved to the south side of the base of the column, between two of the Landseer bronze lions, where he was to wait until five minutes after the hour. He was certain someone was going to make sure he was alone. He took a moment to glance toward Cockspur Street for the Sunbeam saloon. It was right where Shapak said it would be, cigarette smoke drifting out of the lowered driver’s side window.

  He checked his watch again; it was 11:05. He eased the semiautomatic Colt from his pocket and pulled the slide back, chambering a round before returning it to his pocket. It was time to move. Stoker walked south about 150 feet, to the site of the exchange—the edge of a bomb crater just north of a statue of Charles I. Wooden barricades were placed haphazardly around the crater, with large gaps between them. A dilapidated truck was parked on the sidewalk near the crater, half-filled with cracked concrete, bricks, and dirt. Several shovels rested in the debris, blades down, looking like the stems of decapitated flowers. Standing alone at the edge of the crater, Stoker looked back at Nelson’s Column. A woman emerged from between the Landseer lions on the east side of the column, and a tallish man, in dark clothing and a wide-brimmed hat, remained behind, leaning against the base. She walked with purpose toward Stoker. His watch said eleven o’clock.

  The strong scent of a perfume preceded the woman by at least two feet. Her black felt jacket was complemented by a matching hat that was perched jauntily at an angle. Stoker was taken aback by the sight of a French poodle sitting snuggly in a cloth shopping bag she was carrying. He took another look at her partner—the man’s features were obscured by shadow.

  “Are you Higgins?” The poodle started to bark the moment Stoker opened his mouth. The blond shoved the dog back down into the bag and zipped it closed. She didn’t appear nervous; she was in her element, dealing one-on-one with a man. Stoker looked again at her partner. She saw the look. The man inched away from the base of the sculpture toward them.

  “Yes. And who is that?” Stoker asked with a quick tilt of his head toward the man. “Wouldn’t be the other half of the act, would it?”

  “Oh, aren’t you the smart one? Cambridge, isn’t it? Well, you’re right, dearie. I’m the messenger and that one, the shy one, he’s the brains . . . if you call what’s inside that melon of his brains. Just tell me that you have the five thousand.”

  Stoker looked back at the “shy one.” He stood about five feet from the base of the sculpture and had pulled his hat down over his face more. Their section of the square was empty except for the three of them.

  “Right down to business. Well, that’s quite all right.” Stoker reached inside his overcoat but stopped. “Why don’t we invite your shy boyfriend over? I’d like to meet him.”

  The woman signaled with her index finger for him to handover the money. “You two wouldn’t get along. Oil and water. Trust me. Just hand it over.”

  Stoker pulled the envelope from inside his overcoat and handed it to her. Her eyes grew wide as she snatched it from his hand. Peering into it, she began counting, whispering the numbers as she flicked through the stack of notes. With the money now in his partner’s hands, the shy one started to back off, inching toward Nelson’s Column again.

  “The package?”

  She reached inside her jacket, then down her blouse, and yanked out an envelope.

  “Here you go, dearie. Have a look. It’s the real thing.”

  One side of the envelope was moist from her perspiration. Stoker pulled the document out and held it in front of him, so the waning moonlight could fall on its surface. The official-looking document had all the markings and signatures of an original. Satisfied, he placed the envelope in his breast pocket; he saw the woman eagerly stuff the wad of notes into her shopping bag.

  The shy one was now back to leaning against the base of the lion sculpture. Stoker’s next moves had to be quick. He wrapped his left arm around the woman’s head and, with his hand covering her mouth, twisted her body, so her back rested on his chest. His right hand moved for the lapel knife, another swift flick, and the five-inch blade pierced her jacket and blouse, plunging into her heart. He gave the knife a sharp twist and then yanked it out. As her legs gave out, blood gushed through the wound with each heartbeat.

  The blond fell to her knees and started to topple over. He held her up while he rifled through the shopping bag for the money. The dog snapped at his hand. He grabbed its neck and snapped it. A shot hit a cracked slab of concrete five feet from Stoker, the sound echoing into the night. He’d expected some reaction from the shy one, so he was prepared. He shoved the woman into the crater with his foot and turned away; he could hear her roll down the side, smashing into large chunks of concrete. Up ahead, the driver emerged from the Sunbeam, gun drawn. He fired one shot at the shy one, but the man kept advancing. Stoker took up a shooting stance and shot twice. The shy one dropped, his hat falling off and a breeze carrying it several feet away.

  Stoker waved at the driver, then pointed at the body of the man. The driver ran to the lifeless body as Stoker sprinted to the Sunbeam. Another shot echoed in the square—not from Stoker or the driver. Stoker felt wet warmth in his left hand. He looked down. A round had grazed the meaty part of his palm. The driver, who was dragging the man’s body, dropped it and fired off two rounds in Stoker’s direction. Stoker heard the rounds zip past him as they headed for a target behind him. He stopped, turned, and attempted to find the interloper. A body was lying on the ground, but a moment later, the body sprung up and retreated into the night.

  Stoker jumped into the backseat of the Sunbeam as the driver shoved the body of the shy one in the other door, which landed in a heap beside him. The driver put the car in gear and raced out of the square. Stoker wrapped a handkerchief around his hand.

  “He’s alive,” the driver said over his shoulder.

  Stoker turned the man’s face to him. He was breathing unevenly, producing bubbles in the blood trickling from both sides his mouth. Stoker recognized him.


  “Ahh, yes. Leftenant Johannson. That makes so much sense. Obviously a man with no worthy belief system—except for money.” Stoker placed the muzzle of his Colt on Johannson’s chest, which began to heave rapidly. “Such a waste. For that, I’m sorry to say, you forfeit your life, or what’s left of it.” He fired once into his heart.

  The driver jerked around in his seat and swerved into the opposite lane before quickly recovering. The crack of the Colt was near deafening inside the Sunbeam. Soon, the cabin filled with the acrid smell of discharged gunpowder. The driver lowered his window as Stoker shoved the body to the floor of the saloon.

  “We have to dump the body somewhere it won’t be found,” Stoker stated.

  “Leave that to me. The lions in the London Zoo never get enough meat . . . not since the war started, or so I’m told by my friend the night watchman.”

  He struggled to understand the driver’s English; his Russian accent strangled each word. Stoker’s hand started to throb, so he rewrapped it, tighter this time. “Who was the other shooter? And where the hell did he come from?”

  “From the trees on the edge of the square. I missed him by a mile. But . . . he still ran.” The driver snorted. “That man. No conviction.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  0800 Hours, Friday, October 9, 1942

  Ministry of Works and Planning, No. 3 Whitehall Place, London

  “Mr. Longworth is attending Mass at Westminster Cathedral as he does daily and is not expected until fifteen minutes past the hour,” said a sour-faced, fiftyish woman whose gray-streaked hair was pulled into a bun that sat atop her head. “Have a seat and wait.” Thorn’s dislike for the woman was immediate.

  Thorn and Bright had no other place to be, so they sat. The outer office that served as a waiting area was the size of a small hotel lobby. It was furnished with soft armchairs covered in a deep-red felt, which made sliding into and out of them difficult.