The Nazi Spy

by Alan Hardy

  “It’s just that you’re not doing that thing with your left wrist anymore,” he explained. “You know, rubbing it like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that myself recently…” said Fiona distractedly.

  “Fiona,” said Matthew, giving a final glance, and shudder, towards Mary’s inert body, “do you have any cyanide capsules?”

  “I think they did give me some the last time I was in Germany, just before the war.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  “I flushed them down the toilet.”

  Matthew laughed.

  “It’s not my intention to kill myself,” added Fiona, nestling up to Matthew again, and pushing her lower torso into his groin, and entwining her legs around his. “It’s my aim to survive this war, and maintain my social position and standing—and that of my child—and certainly not sacrifice myself for somebody else’s grand, deluded Cause.”

  So saying, she glanced down at Mary’s grotesquely-twisted and chillingly wax-like corpse.

  “I feel exactly the same, my darling,” whispered Matthew, holding her tight, and kissing her tenderly on the forehead. “My priority is my survival.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Fiona, kissing his sweet lips three or four times, “but you’ve definitely nailed your colours to Britain’s mast, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose I have,” he murmured, “but, then, haven’t you?”

  Fiona didn’t answer.

  They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts.

  “Matthew,” said Fiona eventually, lifting her head from resting on Matthew’s shoulder, and latching wet, dreamy eyes upon him, “it’s quite clear to me that you didn’t sleep with Mary. But what about Paula and Belinda? Did you sleep with them?”

  She backed away slightly, and raised her left hand to wipe away tears—imagined or not—from her left eye.

  “That little nervous tic with your left hand and your cheek, you haven’t stopped with that one, have you?” observed Matthew, with a cheeky smile.

  “As long as I have breath, and you’re in my mind and by my side, Matthew, I’ll never lose that one,” answered Fiona. “It’s too much part of me.”

  He held her tight in his arms.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Well?” he echoed.

  “Did you sleep with Paula and Belinda?”

  Now it was Matthew’s turn not to answer.

  32

  It was just gone ten o’ clock, and Fiona was out in The Mansion’s spacious grounds. She could hardly breathe. She felt she was about to faint. She had never felt such trepidation and anguish.

  She walked far out into the landscape’s soft undulating expanse, until she came to the highest of its gentle rises. She stood there in her black coat—holding it tight around her neck and collar on this chilliest of May mornings—and gazed into the distance in the direction of the airfield, where 287 Squadron’s Spitfires were no doubt lined up ready for take-off.

  She was wearing that coat because it was the coat which maddened Matthew. Whenever she wore it, his blue eyes would fasten upon her like a predator eyeing its prey, or the hapless prey itself transfixed by its tormentor. He was on tempestuous fire at the same time as he was her pathetic, abject prisoner.

  She’d put it on this morning because the Spitfires would be taking off to do combat with the German formations heading for Scapa Flow. As Acting Squadron Leader, Matthew would be leading them into battle; he would have to dive into the Junker 88s and the Heinkel 111s, and keep an eye open for marauding Messerschmitt 109s.

  It was a stupid game which they were playing. Matthew had told her they expected up to a hundred German planes to be involved, counting bombers, dive-bombers and covering fighters. By calling up all pilots with some connection to 287 Squadron, they might get their number up to about twenty.

  Fiona didn’t like the odds.

  But they had to play the game until the end.

  If the British had put up a hundred Spitfires and Hurricanes, or even five hundred, they would have given the game away. The Germans would have known two things: first, that it was Fiona who had passed on to them the day and time of the flotilla setting sail; and, secondly, that the British had been waiting for them. The British would have downed hordes of German planes, but her cover would have been blown, and any long-term good she could have done the British would have been squandered.

  No, for the British to consider the day’s events to be a success, it required the Germans to believe they had launched a surprise attack, hit a fair number of ships, and caused serious casualties. The covering British fighters would be considered the normal force earmarked for such convoy protection.

  287 Squadron had squeezed out as many pilots —including Freddie and Granville—as it could reasonably do without raising suspicions. Instead of twelve planes, it would send up twenty. Not enough to defeat the Germans, but enough not to make the day a disastrous tragedy for the flotilla. Enough to keep the Germans happy—and reinforce their faith in Fiona—without letting them kill an unacceptable number of unsuspecting British and Americans.

  She knew Matthew’s rather calculated, and hardly heroic attitude to dogfights. He’d explained his technique—one could hardly call it tactics—to her more than one time. Once they were in the mêlée of a dog-fight—with all its careering confusion and incidental terrors—Matthew’s aim was purely one of survival. Open fire when a target presented itself, but, basically, keep out of trouble. If there were any clouds to hide in or behind, well and good. Then, when, as if by magic, the mass of criss-crossing planes had vanished, he would emerge from his secret den, and, if there were any unsuspecting rich pickings around, he would take them.

  The sky was slightly overcast, but she could hear the distant roar of Spitfires taking to the air—like the rumble of thunder—and heading off towards the open sea. When she strained really hard, she pictured she could see their low-level, slender silhouettes snaking along the horizon, as the emerging sun, like a hammer on an anvil, caused golden glints to spark off their frames.

  She couldn’t bear it. She stayed on the top of that rise for what seemed an eternity. She heard—or she imagined she heard—the sound of 20 mm cannon fire, burst upon burst of staccato drumbeats. Each burst wracked her body, made it shudder like a foretaste of its moment of death.

  She prayed and prayed that everything would turn out right, in this silly game they had to play.

  She prayed and prayed that, when it was all over, Matthew would return safe to her, and Freddie wouldn’t.

  She ran like mad along the undulating land, breathlessly clambering up the rises, and stumbling down the falls, oblivious to the possibility of tumbling down or, missing a step, hurtling along the ground.

  She’d been stupid. She’d lingered too long in the grounds. Maybe there was news. A phone-call. How stupid she had been! She ran and ran, as if there were no point to her existence beyond this demonic, obsessive headlong rush to The Mansion.

  As she neared the house, she saw a RAF car approaching, moving languidly along the winding road leading up to the driveway.

  What could this mean?

  She ran and ran, despite herself, despite her paralysing fear, her nauseous presentiment that life might soon not be worth living.

  She was running along the gravel, kicking it up, and sliding, and stumbling. She brought herself to a halt as she saw the fat, moustachioed figure of that buffoon, Group Captain Jenkins, emerge awkwardly from his car.

  “My dear lady…” he mouthed, as she approached.

  She could hardly breathe. If he said what she feared he would say, she would gouge out his eyes from his ugly face, and devour them in a second.

  Speak, you stupid fool, speak.

  “My dear lady, I have bad news for you…” he said, moving towards her, showing in his face something he assumed conjured up concern.

  “What…is…it?” she mouthed, unable to breathe, not understanding how she could live a
nd not breathe.

  “I’m so sorry, but your husband, dear Freddie, has been lost in action today,” said the old fool in comically sonorous tones. “He gave his life for—”

  “Thank God! Thank God!” screamed an almost deranged Fiona, spitting out saliva, which clung to her lips, as she spoke. “That’s wonderful! Thank you so much!”

  The Group Captain looked at her in appalled amazement.

  “B-But, my dear, I know… I know your marriage with poor Freddie hasn’t been the happiest… And I do know of the…how shall I say…irregular…arrangement you have with Flight Lieutenant Manfred, but there are standards of decency and decorum, y’know, my—”

  “Acting Squadron Leader Manfred,” Fiona corrected him quite savagely.

  “What? Oh, yes, of course…”

  “And how is he?” asked Fiona tentatively. “I mean, Matthew? Has he come through safely—”

  “Oh, he’s fine,” stated the Group Captain blandly. “He just seems to have a knack of coming through these things unscathed…”

  Fiona was elated. She felt like screaming out with joy, but just managed to hold herself back, as another thought hit her.

  “But…but…” she said rather unsurely. “How certain is the news about Freddie? I do remember the last time you came to offer me commiserations for Freddie’s death… Well, it turned out to be a little premature. I do hope there’s no chance of him rising from the dead this time?”

  “My dear lady…” murmured a shocked Group Captain. “No, no, it’s quite confirmed…”

  He almost gave vent to a little chuckle, as a thought struck him. He remembered the situation, gave a deep cough, and reassumed his usual pompous, half-witted demeanour.

  “What is it, Group Captain?”

  “No, no…”

  “C’mon! What is it?”

  “Well,” said the Group Captain, “I shouldn’t really say, y’know, probably Classified and all that, but there’s a fishing vessel that’s positioned just outside Scapa Flow, y’know, well, it’s not really a fishing-vessel, it’s got radar and tracking material and all that, it’s to keep an eye out for marauding German planes, not to be repeated to anybody, y’know, confidential information and all that, but—”

  “Get on with it, man!”

  “Sorry… Well, where was I? Well, that fishing-vessel swears blind…rather, the people on board, they swear blind that Freddie’s Spitfire—we know it was him—was flying low over the water when a plane sneaked up behind him, and let him have it, sent him cartwheeling into the sea…”

  “Well, that’s war, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but you see, just like last time, the chaps on board swear blind it was another Spitfire…y’know, friendly fire and all that…”

  Fiona smiled. Thank you, Matthew, she told herself. He had promised he would deal with Freddie. And he had. Thank you, Matthew. He would deny it, of course… But she made a mental note that tonight, when he was inside her, she would give him a few extra pelvic thrusts.

  “Rum business, isn’t it?” ruminated the old fool of a Group Captain, rousing Fiona from her train of thought. “Mind you, the chaps are claiming to have downed forty-odd of the Hun aeroplanes, and damaged many more, but they always over-claim. It’s normal, y’know, in the confusion of battle. Often three or four chaps claim the same downed plane. Fog of war, y’know. Twenty is probably nearer the mark.”

  “And were there any other losses on our side, apart from Freddie?”

  “Four, I’m told. Flying Officer Jones, I’m afraid. And Sergeant Pilot Whistle. Oh, and Flight Lieutenant Granville. You knew him from the old days, didn’t you?”

  Well, well, Matthew, thought Fiona to herself, you’ve been really, really busy today, haven’t you?

  “Oh, dear, that is sad news…” she said.

  “Any chance of a quick gin and tonic, Mrs MacIntosh?” asked Group Captain Jenkins. “Absolutely parched at the moment.”

  “Of course,” replied Fiona graciously. “Come into the drawing-room. Perhaps you can give me more details on the fishing-vessel.”

  “The fishing-vessel?”

  “You know, the spy-vessel just outside Scapa Flow. Do you know its exact position?”

  “Its exact position?” repeated Jenkins, looking bemused. “Well, just a few miles out, I suppose. I could find out.”

  “And its tonnage? Do you know its tonnage?”

  “Its tonnage?”

  “You know, its size. Tonnage, isn’t, with ships? I’m really interested in such matters. Naval matters. Ships, and all that.”

  “Oh, of course, always happy to oblige the fair sex,” he said, beaming. “I’ll find out for you. Mind you, best to keep it secret, and all that. Classified Information, y’know.”

  “Oh, of course, I understand.”

  Life was wonderful.

  When Matthew returned that day, they celebrated long through the rest of the day, and even longer through the night.

  Everything was coming up roses.

  “We’ll wait a respectable few weeks, in mourning for poor Freddie,” she told Matthew, in between pelvic thrusts, “but not so long that a certain something becomes too obvious,” here giving a tap on her belly, “and then we’ll get married.”

  Matthew said nothing.

  “Are you happy, darling?” she asked, turning to watch Matthew as he got out of bed and wandered over to the bay windows. “You’re not saying much. What do you think? You’ll be living here full-time. It’s near enough to the airfield, isn’t it?”

  Matthew looked down at the grounds sweeping up into the far distance.

  “Won’t you be happy here, Matthew?” she repeated, looking curiously at him.

  “Oh, I think I could get used to it,” he remarked with a wry smile, glancing through the windows one more time at the immense grounds, and then sweeping his eyes around the master bedroom, replete with sumptuous chandelier and an array of ornate furniture.

  “And, don’t forget, Matthew, I want two children by the time I’m forty.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  “Come back to bed,” she implored him, holding out her arms. “Let’s enjoy this time. Everything’s gone our way.”

  “And are you truly happy, darling?” he asked, as he came over, and leant down on the bed, and over her, giving her a kiss.

  “Ecstatically, Matthew,” she answered, running her fingers through his hair. “I’ve got everything I ever wanted. A beautiful young man, and I’m finally pregnant. What more could I want?”

  “There is the small question of a war to get through, Fiona.”

  “Oh, we’ll manage that. We’ll get to the end of it, and we’ll be here in The Mansion, alongside our two children. We’ll be here long after all this madness has ended. Don’t worry.”

  “Fiona,” said Matthew, biting her ear, “I know how important it is for you to maintain your position here, your social standing and all that. What if, one day, you had to choose between it and me… Which would you choose?”

  “What a silly question,” she countered, grabbing his shoulders, pushing him back, and getting on top of him. “Why should there ever be such a choice? I can’t ever imagine such a situation.”

  “You never know…”

  “That’s enough talking for now, darling…”

  Fiona knew she would never have to make that choice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room, basking in her new-found happiness. The total realization of all her dreams.

  She had—or would soon have—a proper family. Husband and two children. No making do with her sisters’ children. Life would be idyllic. It already was.

  And The Mansion would always be theirs. Hers, Matthew’s, and the children’s. The war didn’t matter. When Germany won, she would be considered a heroine of the Fatherland. The Germans wouldn’t take anything away from her. And, as the war ran its course up to that inevitable German victory, Fiona, as a patriotic double agent, would have nothing to fear from the British.<
br />
  She was convinced Germany would emerge triumphant. Britain had fought back harder and more bravely than Fiona had expected. It had given Germany a bloody nose in 1940. But Germany occupied practically the whole of Europe. In the end, it would overcome Britain. Maybe the Royal Navy, and the RAF, were too strong for Germany to mount a direct invasion of Britain, but Britain would get worn down over the years, and have to capitulate. Maybe sign an ignominious peace treaty, which allowed it to save face. Just about.

  So, she couldn’t envisage any circumstances in which she would be torn over what to do. It was obvious Germany was going to win the war, and Matthew would benefit from any reward she received as a result.

  She could continue as she was now: a double agent who kept both sides happy, but knew there would be only one winner. Germany.

  The only situation she could envisage where she might not know which way to turn at any given moment would be one where the outcome of the war was uncertain. Where Matthew chose to act one way—in support of Britain—and she felt constrained to act in an opposite way. Where it wasn’t certain who was going to win.

  That would be the danger-point, when the odds against a British victory were shortening, and the odds against Germany winning were lengthening. When you couldn’t be sure who would emerge the winner. When everything was up for grabs.

  But it would never happen.

  Because Britain would need help to get to that situation.

  There was no chance of Britain winning on its own, was there?

  And the only two major powers in the world who could possibly tilt the balance were Russia, and America.

  Neither of them would ever enter the war, would they?

  Russia had signed a Non-Aggression Pact with Germany, and would never risk everything by invading Germany, would it? And Hitler wouldn’t be so crazy as to launch an unprovoked attack on Russia, and lay himself open to counterattack by millions of Russian soldiers, would he?

  That would be the only situation where she would be torn as to which side to take. Britain or Germany? Which side would guarantee that her life would remain untarnished? Which side was going to win, and maintain her in her financial and social position? Those would be the only circumstances where she could be called upon to do something irrevocable, which could never be undone, and which would define her future, and which might be contrary to what Matthew wanted, and would do, or was even doing at that moment. Then she would have to choose between Matthew and The Mansion.