The Nazi Spy

by Alan Hardy

  He gave her an intense stare.

  “Well, who else? Of course, maybe one of the others, or…” she said, her voice trailing off as the penny dropped. “You mean you? They might try to frame you?”

  “Why not?”

  “And are you? Are you the third spy?”

  “Fiona… What a question to ask me…”

  “And there’s another thing, Matthew,” she said, looking agitated and perturbed. “Why would they think Wentworth was a spy? As far as they know, he was a pilot killed on active service. That’s how you planned it, and made it look. And each spy or cell is ignorant of the other. So, only British Intelligence know he was a spy…”

  “That’s right, Fiona,” he said sombrely. “Only a British agent would know about Wentworth.”

  “So, the third spy is also a British agent. He or she is a double agent, as I’m going to be… Only the other way around. He or she is loyal to Germany.”

  “That’s it, I think. The spy we’re looking for out there is a British agent.”

  “Which, once again, my darling,” she said, staring coolly at him, “could be you. I mean, you are a British agent.”

  He smiled.

  “So, if we find the British agent amongst them, we’ll find the German spy too,” he concluded.

  “If it’s not you, darling, then it must be Paula,” she said with determination. “Whether she’s a proper British agent or not, or just a paid informer, she knows her husband was a spy, knows Freddie is supposedly under suspicion, and, if she’s the remaining German spy, is the one hoping to do the dirty on us. It’s obvious.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why don’t you just ask your superiors if there’s another agent investigating members of the squadron?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did they say?” she enquired curiously.

  “They said there wasn’t.”

  “So, it’s Paula! It’s definite!” she exclaimed excitedly. “She’s not a proper British agent, but she knew of Wentworth anyway.”

  “It could be, but—”

  “But your masters told you you’re the only—”

  “Fiona, they would, wouldn’t they? Can’t you see? If I’m the agent given the job of finding out which pilots of 287 Squadron are the spies—or, at least, blabbed to their wives or friends—then what about me? I’m a pilot in 287 Squadron. They need to have someone who’s checking on me, don’t they? But they’re not going to admit it, are they? They won’t tell me who’s spying on me because, if I am a spy, then I can take steps to deal with it.”

  “I still think it’s Paula, I put money on it,” insisted Fiona.

  “Perhaps, but, if it’s not, it means there’s a German spy out there masquerading as a British agent who’s out to get me, either to frame me, or, as we saw tonight—”

  “To kill you, Matthew,” Fiona broke in, with a shudder, immediately starting to wipe away tears welling up in her eyes.

  17

  It was one of those wonderful April mornings: the sun’s gentle glare, in a near-blue sky kissed here and there by wispy, white clouds, and the occasional low-flying Spitfire out on patrol.

  As winter was being pushed further and further back into distant memory, the brightness of spring was opening up the far mountains to view; the clinging mist was only able to hang on in the earliest morning hours before the sun’s rays, like a magician’s wand, made it vanish into thin air.

  The Mansion looked at its best on such days.

  The stalls were spread out far and wide over the grassy grounds, and hundreds of people were already milling around, and wending their way between them, bulging groups greedily collecting around the favourite stalls, such as the shoot-the-bear or shoot-the-elephant ones.

  The large French windows at the back of the house, which looked out on to the expansive grounds holding the fete, had been flung wide open to welcome in the bright warmth of the morning, and—at a modest price to augment the amount donated to 287 Squadron—any members of the public, in small, guided groups, who would appreciate a tour of the Mansion’s splendid interior.

  The French windows would remain open in the early afternoon to welcome in invited guests to enjoy the luxurious buffet prepared by Molly, the cook, and her helpers.

  Members of the general public would find the Mansion closed to them at that time. The guided tours would resume later. Children would be able to enter free, if accompanied by an adult.

  “Group Captain Jenkins, how wonderful you could come,” remarked Fiona as she did her rounds in the grounds. “You’ll find drinks are available in the drawing-room.”

  “Splendid,” responded the old buffer, twirling his moustache, and making awkward jaw movements, which denoted he was searching for suitable words, but couldn’t find any.

  “We’ll speak later, Group Captain,” she said tersely, sweeping on.

  “I look forward to it,” he murmured. “Ah, Sergeant Wentworth, how are you?”

  He nodded at Paula, who stood respectfully by him.

  Fiona was forced to swivel round and acknowledge her presence, throwing her a forced smile.

  “Mrs MacIntosh,” Paula responded. “What a lovely frock!”

  “Thank you,” said Fiona coldly.

  Condescending whore, thought Fiona. She, Fiona, didn’t need to be complimented on her attire by such a slattern. Paula probably didn’t have half as much money in her bank account—if she had one—as Fiona had expended on just one dress.

  It was a simple enough white frock, with a modicum of frills at the top and running down the sides. It was tight in at the waist, and, as was the fashion, extended out wider and wider to finish with a frilly hem mid-calf.

  What did Paula’s sly grin mean?

  “I haven’t seen Flight Lieutenant Turnbill yet, Mrs Wentworth,” Fiona remarked.

  “He’s got a few days leave. Popped down to London. I’m on duty this week, so…”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Matthew said he would be along soon, though,” commented Paula, almost giggling.

  Fiona gave a brisk nod, and moved on.

  That bitch had to be the German agent she and Matthew were searching for. An insufferable, cosmetic-smeared piece of nastiness. The rope would be too good for her.

  She patted the handbag held in her left hand, sensing the hardness of the Luger’s barrel against her fingers.

  What particularly irritated her, of course, was the foul inference that she, Paula, had close, if not intimate contact with Matthew, and knew his plans and schedule. She only said it to deliberately rile her, she knew that… Unless…

  Since the shock of the attack on them a few days ago, Matthew had sneaked in each evening to spend the night at the Mansion. Mutual security. She had begged him to come, and his objections had been quite easily overcome.

  He thought it inadvisable to be seen together too much during the day, as it might compromise them, not so much because of the return of her prodigal husband, but more in terms of opportunities or insights it might give those wishing them harm. If they were seen as an item, others might be tempted to frame them, or even shoot them, as an item.

  They had to tread carefully, he said.

  British Intelligence mustn’t suspect his motives in any report he might provide about Fiona. Equally they shouldn’t be giving any German spies any unwanted ideas, either.

  Having said that, an unnamed person or persons already viewed them rather unfavourably, namely the other night when he, she or they took pot-shots at them. The instinct to keep together for protection was perfectly natural.

  So, they were in a quandary. Keep close for mutual security, or keep apart to deter rumours and nasty plans?

  They compromised. Keep fairly separated when it was daytime, and, hopefully, safe. Keep together at night, when they would be at their most vulnerable.

  That pleased them both. Especially keeping together at night. In Fiona’s large, soft, luxurious bed. Lying close together, or in ea
ch other’s arms. Waking up to find the other’s head resting on one’s chest. Caressing each other every waking moment. That sweaty itchiness of limbs on limbs.

  Only, last night Matthew hadn’t come. A quick phone-call to say he’d had to fly down to London, and wouldn’t be back until the next day.

  She had hardly slept at all. She lay shaking in bed. Jumping up at every sound. Turning the light on and off. Missing having him by her side. Missing having him inside her.

  Had he really gone to London?

  Or had he been with that tramp, Paula? Her sniggering hint implied it. Keep calm, Fiona told herself. She mustn’t let her imagination run away with her.

  “What a wonderful show you’ve put on, my dear,” commented a doddery old man, sidling up to her.

  “So kind, Lord Mendelson,” she acknowledged, with a respectful bow.

  “Your father would be so proud of you,” he added, a glimmer in his tired, old eyes.

  “Miss Wilkinson,” Fiona murmured to the young lady holding His Lordship’s arm in a considerate, and dutiful fashion.

  “Yes, Mrs MacIntosh,” said Mary, turning her head to take in the whole panorama, “a truly wonderful fete. Always inspiring to witness the great British public so keen to support our boys.”

  “Yes, and of course a donation is always made to the Widows’ Fund,” said Fiona, not wishing to be outdone in sentiment. “Lord Mendelson,” she continued, “Miss Wilkinson told us of the high esteem she and her family hold you in. I—”

  “My parents owe their success, however modest, to his Lordship,” interrupted Mary.

  “Oh, it was nothing, my dear,” murmured the delighted old gentleman. “Pleased to do what I could. Mary’s mother was a faithful member of my staff for many years, and her father, well, I think I was instrumental in introducing them to each other. He was in my…in my…”

  He broke off, looking confused.

  Interesting, thought Fiona. Quite a lot to tell Matthew. Probably what the old fool was going to say was that Mary’s father had been in a political group or branch organized by Lord Mendelson himself, not a million miles removed, Fiona would guess, from the British Union of Fascists.

  And the closeness of Mary Wilkinson to His Lordship, stuck on his arm like a limpet, intrigued her. She rubbed her hands happily, anticipating her delight in telling all to Matthew.

  Where was Matthew? How she missed him…

  She kept on her rounds, as was her duty, but also with the hope of bumping into more of the small group of suspects she and Matthew had discussed incessantly.

  “Fiona, darling!”

  “Hello, Belinda,” she said, straining forward to return her kiss. “Hubby with you?”

  “He’s out there somewhere,” Belinda said without great interest, waving vaguely to her left. “He’s talking shop, you know how it is. Straight as a dye, my husband. He’ll tell me all about it, though. Always tells me everything’s that happened.”

  “Does he now?” murmured Fiona, intrigued.

  “And your hubby? Still being debriefed?” asked Belinda, with a pointed stare.

  Fiona sighed, ignoring Belinda’s cheekiness.

  “Everything’s starting to close in,” commented Matthew. “The powers-that-be are getting suspicious.”

  “Of who? Me?” asked Fiona, turning towards him as they lay together in her bed, wrapped in luxurious silk sheets.

  “You. Me. Of everything.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They’re tiring of keeping poor Freddie locked up. Some of them think he’s not bright enough to be a spy, you know, the deception, subterfuge, pretence, it’s all beyond him. Others are still unsure, especially with the news of the wireless transmitter.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “What do you expect? Completely baffled. Poor chap doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Yes. Told him I would do what I could to help him.”

  “With friends like you…”

  “I had to tell them of my suspicions of you. Told them I was still undecided, but, if you were a German agent, from my analysis of your character, I thought you could easily be turned. Survival. I told them that was your main concern. They’ve given me some more time.”

  Fiona sat up. She pushed her pillow up against the head-rest. She fiddled with the straps of her silky, blue night-dress, her bosom quivering. She sat back.

  “Are you setting me up for a fall, Matthew?” she asked, giving him a nasty look. “Am I getting too hot to handle? You want to trade me in for a newer model?”

  “Don’t be silly,” he replied, with a sigh. “I’ve got to cover myself. In the end, unless he falls under a bus, Freddie will be cleared. That will leave two spies unaccounted for. Only Wentworth is accounted for. The end-game has to be that you are exposed, not as a spy, but as a double agent prepared to work for us. So, if we can muddy the waters a bit longer, and play for time, we can force the remaining spy to make a mistake. He or she wants to frame someone—anybody—as the third spy, so that he or she is in the clear. Must be getting really desperate. And I don’t want you somewhere in London being interrogated, with me there as one of your interrogators. I want to be here, watching our backs, and nabbing Spy Number Three. And I want us to be in this bed without Freddie knocking on the door.”

  “Is that it? You want to squeeze out a few more days or weeks of sex with me?”

  He grabbed hold of her, climbing on top of her.

  “Is that such a bad idea?”

  “You’re as bad as Freddie,” she said, half-heartedly pushing him away. “All men are disgusting.”

  “We only need our unnamed British agent to realize Freddie is being set up, and he or she will be looking for two other fall guys, as the Americans call them, to be Spy Number Two and Three, and so put him or her in the clear. And we’re the obvious choice. He or she is probably checking up on me now, anyway, and you’re always with me… So, we’re sitting ducks. That’s why I had to throw British Intelligence something, to explain away why I’m often with you. They’ve got to believe I’m investigating you, not colluding with you. You trust me, don’t you?”

  “Yes…” she said unsurely. “Are we any closer to finding the third spy? What about the bits and pieces I picked up during the fete today?”

  “It was useful… Belinda saying her hubby is always spilling the beans to her…”

  “Squadron Leader Jackson might blab to her, and then she blabs to someone else, or she herself is the spy… And quite interesting about sweet-looking Mary Wilkinson, isn’t it? Her father was a fascist, probably, and her relationship with his Lordship…well…”

  He laughed, and ran his hands along her smooth, tingling night-dress. He pressed down on her midriff, massaging her slowly and meticulously.

  “Quite interesting too, isn’t it, that Flight Lieutenant Turnbill is spending a few days in London?” he mentioned.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Fiona, running her opened lips along his chest.

  “Well, Freddie’s in London…”

  “So?”

  “I spoke to George about Freddie, and what a rough time he’s having, holed up in a safe house. I even gave him the address.”

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “Just to see what happens, if anything at all…”

  “Like what?”

  “Probably nothing… But just to see if he kills poor Freddie.”

  18

  Fiona was having a post-breakfast stroll in her lovely gardens.

  The gardens were situated to the left of The Mansion, and she’d just had a brief word with William, the gardener, concerning the progress of the renovation-work in the rock garden.

  It was a beautiful morning again, crisp and energizing. As she drifted along, she dreamt of her Matthew, which provided her with more than enough warmth. It was as if the sun’s rays were cutting through the chill to fondle her body.

  He’d lef
t at the crack of dawn to go back to his quarters, check for messages, and get in touch with HQ. She expected him to be joining her in the gardens at any moment.

  She spent the time fantasizing over what he would be wearing when he would come hurrying into view around the corner of the house, or when she would spot him walking up the drive, his bobbing figure growing bigger and bigger as she watched him approach.

  Would he be wearing his greyish-blue uniform—which Fiona loved to see him in—or would he be wearing what she called his ‘civvies’? Namely, his white shirt, grey, rather threadbare jumper, and black slacks, his black coat wrapped around them, pressed tightly over his gorgeous body? Mind you, that outfit seemed to be about his only ‘civvies’… Either he wore that one ‘civvy’ outfit, or the uniform. That was all he had. A typical young man, disinterested in clothes. She would sort him out later, Fiona told herself. She’d take him in hand.

  She pictured his face. Soft, delicate features. Intense, intoxicating, blue eyes. Long, wavy, brown hair, swept back as was the fashion with the RAF boys. There was that almost feminine beauty to him. She didn’t mind. That was how she liked it. She couldn’t stand those muscular men striding manfully about with their firm chests and square shoulders, thinking they were God’s gift to women. And then, when they got you where they wanted you, slobbering and grunting all over you, they man-handled and abused your body while you could barely stop yourself throwing up…

  Mind you, Matthew had a distinctive character. A dangerous character, even. He was selfish, determined, unforgiving. Ruthless. Vicious, even. That was what attracted her to him even more. She liked that. The survival of the fittest. Triumph of the will, and all that.

  That was what had attracted her to the Nazis. Their ruthlessness. Their unfailing capacity to win. They had swept all before them. The Rhineland. The Sudetenland. Czechoslovakia. Even once the war had been declared, there had been no stopping them. Poland. Norway. Denmark. Belgium. Holland. France.

  But they had stumbled in the summer of 1940. The first reverse. The RAF had given the Luftwaffe a bloody nose, and the Germans had had to shelve their plans to invade Britain. For now. The odds were still on them winning. But it was no longer inevitable.