Hands of the Traitor

by Christopher Wright

  A young woman came slowly out of the largest hut, obviously aware of the reaction she caused amongst the soldiers as she walked. Even at this distance she looked gorgeous. What would a beautiful blonde be doing on a German site? He smiled to himself. The answer was rather obvious when he came to think of it.

  The Storch's engine rose in pitch and the plane rolled forward. It lifted slowly over the high security fence, banked sharply to the right, and disappeared behind the plantation of fir trees on the low hill beyond the camp. Alec Rider turned his attention to the reeds. It wouldn't do to attract attention by standing still, although his worker's pass was up to date -- or so Major Jackson had assured him. Even his clothes were supposed to be genuine French. At the far end of the reed bed he'd hidden his kitbag containing clothing, six grenades, and a Sten Mk IV. The guards might look dozy but from his training he knew they were as sharp as the knife in his hands -- the chef's knife of surgical steel. Sharp. Razor sharp.

  *

  "THIS IS Fraulein Bernay."

  Colonel Röhm introduced the French girl to the Americans as though she was some priceless work of art, his voice almost hushed.

  Sophie heard the Colonel talking in English, and although she couldn't speak the language well, she guessed she was being offered as a play object.

  The older one with the pointed beard was obviously a leader, a big man who had all his wits about him. She'd met men like this before. They were iron, totally without feeling. Her Uncle Jacques had been like that. Her mother had said it was because of the trenches in the Great War. Her father had fought in the same war, and he'd been a warm, affectionate man. It was nothing to do with trenches. Uncle Jacques was just a hard, cold stone.

  The younger man looked less attractive; a lanky garçon who was trying to grow some sort of moustache. He kept looking around as though scared out of his head. Everyone knew that American soldiers were working their way up from the south, along with the English. An American caught working for the Germans would surely face the firing squad.

  She looked at the boy and winked. It was required of her. Whatever the tall young American had in that black case must be important -- if it was vital to the German war effort. A chain connected the case to his wrist. Perhaps it contained a bomb for Hitler!

  "Sophie, you will be sitting next to Herr Heinman's son this evening. Later you will entertain him while I speak to his father. I am sure you know what to do." The Colonel spoke quietly, but laughed loudly. His French was excellent.

  The older Heinman produced a key and said something to his son in English. The attaché case was released from young Frank's wrist and placed on the end of the long table where everyone could see it while they ate. Sophie stared at it. The Port of Calais would fall soon, and the English would surely pay handsomely for the contents of that case. By changing sides again, she could continue to ensure her safety.

  "As you say, Herr Colonel, I know exactly what to do."

  *

  AS THE SUN disappeared behind a bank of black clouds on the horizon, Alec Rider decided it was time to put his knife away. No Frenchman would be cutting reeds later than this.

  The blonde girl started to walk towards the perimeter fence where he was standing. The bouncy spirit that glowed through her eyes fascinated him. He'd been married for ten years, had a nine-year-old son, but there could be no harm in just looking.

  "Bonjour," she called through the wire. The girl smiled as she spoke, and wet her lips with her tongue. She must be a born flirt.

  He just nodded. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to trust his French without giving his nationality away. Nevertheless his training on observation paid off. The links in the high fencing had been carelessly mended in the corner. Perhaps it was the result of bomb damage from one of the many raids on these weapons sites. The hasty repair was pathetic. A Boy Scout could get through there in the dark.

  "Comment ça va?"

  He smiled in response to the French girl's inquiry but said nothing. A vicious dark-haired Alsatian, and a sentry with an MP38, were watching from the base of the guard tower, but it was unlikely he'd raised any suspicions.

  "My name is Sophie," she said in French. "Who are you?"

  Dark clouds moving in from the coast were bringing the daylight to an abrupt end. He shook his head and smiled again, still keeping his mouth firmly closed. Then he returned to the cover of the reeds.

  He had two overwhelming memories. The black case on the young man's wrist, and the girl with the blonde hair. The case might contain priceless secrets on Hitler's missile program. And because Sophie was French, not German, she might be persuaded to part with vital military information. A double source of top secret information could be within his grasp.

  It would be dark soon. Tonight he would go back for the case -- and back for the girl.

  Chapter 7

  ALEC RIDER crouched in the shelter of the reeds and tried to absorb every detail in the German compound. V1 bombs. Fieseler 103s to give them their correct name. The details of the airborne craft had been drilled into him during seven days of intensive training. Doodlebugs. Buzz bomb was another popular term back home. The giveaway sign was the metal ramp on slender legs facing the south east coast of England.

  He realized that the German military were in a no-win position. If they lit the compound at night they'd draw attention to the site from the air, but total darkness invited a commando attack from the ground. On balance, darkness was probably the safer option. Any sort of lighting would break the essential blackout requirements, and British and American bombers were roaming the skies more freely now that German troops were being rushed south to the defense of Normandy.

  Presumably there were some Fieseler doodlebugs on this site, although the long catapult ramp was empty. Alec stood up slowly, trying not to make a sound. The concrete store, heavy with camouflage netting, must be the bunker that held Hitler's terror weapons. The only sound of life on the site came from the large wooden hut by the flag pole. People seemed to be eating in there, and occasionally a flash of light shone from the door as a guard or possibly a servant entered.

  A frog croaked in the wide drainage ditch. Another replied from close by. One of the guard dogs barked, and Alec could hear a murmur of voices as the door to the main hut opened again. Two sentries started to laugh in their high tower as they shared a joke. He buried his face in his hands. It had been easy to make decisions on training exercises. You didn't end up dead when you got it wrong.

  The door of the large hut opened for longer now, and enough light escaped from the smoky room to reveal the blonde girl slipping out arm in arm with the young man who'd arrived in the Storch. He still carried that black case. They made their way to one of the smaller huts. Alec wondered if the man would keep the case chained to his wrist while....

  A light snapped on in the window, bathing a large part of the compound in a blaze of yellow.

  One of the guards shouted something in German and a hand reached up quickly from inside the hut to pull the blackout blind shut. The dogs barked for a couple of minutes. Then the site became silent.

  Alec Rider fingered his heavy knife. The girl might not want to be liberated; not all French people were ready to receive the British and American troops with joy. Some were doing very nicely, thank you, with the Germans. But at least the girl had not informed on him. She must have been suspicious, the way he'd held back from speaking to her.

  He waited and watched for an hour before moving forward to find the weak spot he'd noticed earlier in the wire link fencing. A sound inside the compound. Perhaps a guard, or one of those damn Alsatians.

  Then silence again.

  The clouds began to thin slightly to show a clear outline of the huts against the horizon. According to his luminous watch it was only just after three a.m.. Surely it wasn't getting light already. The massive doors to the concrete bunker were open, and he could see two men working on a V1 bomb. Maybe the Germans were preparing for an early-morning launch.


  As Alec squeezed under the high wire fence, he froze as he saw a faint silhouette of someone coming his way. It looked like the French girl. He stayed, crouched tight against the wire, his chef's knife at the ready. As he reached for the Sten, the so-called Woolworth gun, he realized the shots would attract far too much attention. She might be gorgeous -- but he could kill her with the knife if necessary. The reeds had done little to take the edge off the blade. He increased his grip and the weapon felt reassuring in his hand.

  The girl stopped short of the wire, bent down, and began scratching in the earth. The light on the horizon caused a glint from an implement in her hands. A stone rolled from under his foot as he shifted his weight. She stood up and a gasp came from her lips when she saw him.

  "Monsieur, vous êtes français?"

  "Non, je suis anglais." He was taking one hell of a risk by revealing his nationality. The knife would never take the girl by surprise now. One cry from her would bring the guards running -- if they'd not been alerted already.

  The dogs stayed silent.

  The frogs croaked.

  He clutched the chef's knife, ready to silence the girl for ever.

  "You have been spying on me, Englishman?" she asked in French.

  "No, I am spying on the camp." He gasped at his own audacity. Admitting to being a spy while wearing civilian clothes was the act of a fool, but the girl seemed to be willing him into openness.

  "Me, I hate the Germans, monsieur. I want to be friends with the English." For a moment she paused, just an outline against the sky. "Take me away from here, Tommy," she begged.

  "First you must help me." He spoke in no more than a whisper. One of the guards could be passing at any moment. The frogs had suddenly gone quiet.

  "You want the secret of the Americans?"

  "Americans?"

  The girl calling herself Sophie sounded surprised. "I thought you had come to watch the two men in the airplane. They are Americans with a special secret."

  He tried to remain calm. "You know the secret?"

  "I have stolen it, Tommy, and buried it here for my friends in the Resistance. Look, I will dig it up for you, and we can run away together to England."

  Loud voices called to each other on the far side of the compound. Someone blew long blasts on a whistle, a piercing sound of danger, and then a klaxon sounded its urgent warning.

  Sophie ran forward and held his arm tightly. "It is too late, Tommy. The treasure will have to stay hidden. Take me with you now."

  Lights snapped on in several of the small huts. The whole camp must be waking up. The girl had been found out, and now the soldiers were coming for her. Alec dragged her to the ground and they lay together on the gritty soil, partly hidden by the long grass that grew along the fence. Suddenly more lights blazed around the compound. Bright floodlights that made them raise their hands to shield their eyes.

  "We are finis, Tommy. It is the end. We must run!"

  Alec held her down with a firm arm. "Restez, mademoiselle," he warned in his halting French. "They do not know we are here. Do not move or they will see us."

  A lorry started up. A group of soldiers shouted at each other as they ran towards the heavy doors of the concrete bunker. But as they began to close them, a distant aircraft engine broke into the general background noise of panic. Alec looked through the tall grass in amazement as the soldiers ran to the center of the compound with large torches, waving them into the air. And the doors to the bunker were still open. Did they have a death wish at this site?

  "I am frightened, Tommy."

  He looked at the girl and noticed a small gold pendant catching the lights from the compound, swinging gently on the pale skin above her white blouse. It was a crucifix, bearing the traditional figure of the crucified Christ. "I am frightened, too. You have another name as well as Sophie?"

  "I am Sophie Bernay. What is your name?"

  "Je m'appelle..." Should he use his real name? Perhaps not. "Je m'appelle ... Tommy."

  Sophie giggled. "All you English soldiers are called Tommy. Give me a little kiss, Tommy, because I am frightened." And she put her lips on his.

  He had other things on his mind. "Listen to the plane. It is coming closer."

  "It is, I think German, coming here to land."

  The girl was bright. No wonder the Germans were waving torches.

  "I will find out what is happening," she said. "And then I will come back and you will take me away to England."

  Could he trust a girl who worked with the Germans on a top security site?

  "Where is the treasure, Sophie?"

  "It is hidden in the ground." She pointed to the spot where she'd been bending down. "Gold candles from the Americans' case."

  "Do you know the Americans' names?" Any scrap of information might help.

  "They are called Heinman." She made a deliberate attempt to sound the H, as though it was an important part of her briefing. "They are father and son."

  "Where are they from?"

  "America, but that is all I know." Then she moved quickly into the shadows.

  The Storch drifted in like a giant toy, the leading edges of its wings glittering in the harsh floodlights on the base as it settled to the ground in a cloud of dust.

  Alec felt trapped. Five or six feet away he could see freshly dug earth. The bright perimeter lights glared down on him ready to reveal the slightest movement. Small gold containers were what he'd come to find, and over there in the ground were what the French girl called gold candles. He watched her hurry across to the main hut where she began to talk to one of the officers.

  The pilot of the Storch kept the engine racing, the large propeller spinning at speed. Two Germans hurried the older American towards the plane. It looked as though an emergency evacuation was taking place. The young Heinman ran from his hut holding his attaché case. He stormed over to where Sophie was talking with the Colonel, flung the lid open and pointed inside.

  Alec slid forward on his stomach to remove one of the objects from the shallow hole. They were gold tubes; but too light, far too light to be solid gold. They seemed to have a separate cap. The top could be unscrewed. He sniffed cautiously as he opened one.

  The contents smelt revolting.

  One of the guards twisted Sophie's arm behind her back as the young Heinman remonstrated with the Colonel about the empty attaché case. Alec felt suddenly angered by what he saw. Those Germans had no right too humiliate this French girl in front of the whole camp. Perhaps twenty or thirty men were standing around, watching as the Colonel slapped Sophie violently across the face.

  The engine of the plane rose in pitch and volume to become a roar. The pilot seemed anxious to leave.

  A great rage welled up. Alec snatched the short barreled Sten and fired off a frenzied burst of nine-millimeter ammunition, spraying the soldiers and the Storch. The pilot released the brakes and the momentum in the spinning propeller carried the ungainly aircraft forward. It moved slowly at first, then taxied with increasing speed towards the concrete bunker, its tail bouncing wildly on the uneven ground. He must have hit the pilot with a shot from the Sten.

  The burst of fire from the Sten went unchallenged; the Germans were temporarily stunned. Alec could see Sophie and the two Americans running towards him.

  A cry of alarm went up as the Storch reached the open doors of the bunker. The wings sheared off, leaving the fuselage to enter at speed.

  A flash of brilliance flattened the grass as the explosion rocked the site. Alec remembered little more. The massive blast shook the earth where he stood. It was worse than the shells that had exploded close to his trench on the beach at Dunkirk. The whole site seemed to disintegrate in a ball of fire.

  This was torture. This was hell. He was in hell with the Germans, and they were pounding him with bars of iron. Beating him about the head without mercy. Smashing his brain without stopping to rest.

  As consciousness returned, the beatings with the iron bars started again. Then came the s
weet relief of sleep.

  Hours later, as the periods of consciousness grew longer, he began to understand that the iron bars were inside his head. It had been light for some time, but now the sky turned black. A whole day must have passed. He'd received head injuries and was unable to move. He closed his eyes and let the darkness take over.

  The night passed slowly until the bright morning sky replaced the starlight, burning his eyes with a painful intensity. Suddenly he knew where he was. The high plants that surrounded him were the reed beds by the Nazi base.

  The world had blown up. Bits of memory returned. He'd not received these injuries from the explosion. He had a vague recollection of the French girl, Sophie Bernay, helping him to his feet. And the Americans called Heinman. The older man. There was something else.

  Two gold rings.

  The knife.

  A grenade in the American's mouth.

  The knife had been sharp.

  Anger. Anger against the Germans. Anger against the Americans. Sophie's face. Blood. Screaming. The explosion....

  Then the silence.

  He made his first move since regaining consciousness, cautiously touching his head. He could vaguely remember someone striking him heavily.

  The occasional sound of voices drifted across the reeds. German voices mixed with the pain that wracked his body. He guessed that his mind was beginning to hallucinate. He'd done something terrible with the grenade and the knife. The insanity of his fevered brain was too vivid. The memories were confused and terrifying. Impossible, totally repulsive.

  He rolled onto his side to be sick.

  Chapter 8

  SECURITY LIGHTS shone around the site; temporary bulbs strung up on hastily erected gantries, scarcely penetrating the darkness that blanketed the scene of destruction. Resting had done him good. Alec Rider found he could stand without too much pain.

  Unless he'd totally lost track of time, the MTB would be ready tomorrow night to collect him and his colleagues from Strouanne on the French coast, between Wissant and Cap Blanc-Nez. The long walk would be difficult in the dark, but far less dangerous than crossing hostile territory in daylight. The kitbag was important: it now contained something vital. He couldn't bring himself to loosen the draw cord.

  The main concrete building had disintegrated; the wooden huts blown away like paper. Sophie Bernay had gone. There seemed to be no one left, apart from a group of Wehrmacht soldiers loading lorries with what little remained on this launch site for the Führer's Vergeltungswaffen. The runaway Storch had ripped into the V1 storage bunker, and the resulting explosion had devastated the entire area.