Chapter Sixty-Six
Where was Bill now? Was he alive? Had he fallen into a trap? Those were the thoughts that obsessed Ingrid as she worked at her bench. She hardly heard her name being called until Gwen reached over and touched her arm. Looking up, she saw the manager emerge from the canteen carrying three magnums of champagne.
‘I believe,’ he announced solemnly, as he switched on the radio, ‘we are about to hear history being made.’
For a moment there was only the noise of static. He swore and fiddled with the tuning dial.
Gwen whispered to Ingrid: ‘It’s the invasion! It must be the invasion! It’s happened!’
A girl behind them whispered: ‘The troops moved out of our area two days ago.’
‘And from mine,’ another girl said. The fools! Ingrid knew for sure that the invasion wouldn’t take place for another ten days.
At last they heard the announcer’s voice: . . . this morning, at ten a.m., General Eisenhower’s headquarters informed the world that the long-awaited invasion of Europe has begun: Allied naval forces, supported by a strong airforce, began landing our armies on the northern coast of France. No place names were given, but a German broadcast, picked up by the BBC, stated that the landings were made in Normandy at about twelve places stretching along more than a hundred miles of coast from West of Cherbourg to Le Havre. Ingrid listened, dazed and shocked, her mind in a turmoil. What was happening? How could this be true? The landings were to be in Calais.
The invasion seems to have caught the Germans unprepared. The strongest German defences are at Calais, and a powerful armoured force in this area has not yet been transferred . . .
When the news broadcast was over, the manager switched off the radio. There was a brief silence, then some of the girls cheered. Another began to sing Rule Britannia, others laughed, feeling embarrassed by the force of their emotions. Ingrid stood rooted in shock while she was hugged by her friends.
‘This is what we’ve all been working for,’ the manager said. His unexpected smile, seldom seen, revealed discoloured teeth. ‘A toast to each and every one of you, and to our brave boys fighting over there.’
Suddenly the bottles popped open, glasses were filled, champagne frothed and the girls were shrieking with excitement.
Ingrid lifted a glass to her frozen lips without tasting the wine. Why had Bill’s letters and papers pin-pointed Calais? Even on the map . . . yes, there had definitely been a map and she had photographed it. Think! What exactly had she photographed? Letters, memos, instructions, infallible proof that the invasion would start at Calais on June 13. And what had the announcer said? The Germans were holding their main defences at Calais. Why? Why? Her mind was in a turmoil. She’d been used. Tricked. By Bill. That was the cruellest part of all.
For how long had Bill been fooling her? If she’d been discovered, why hadn’t they arrested her . . . because they wanted to use her? And when they had no more use for her, would they arrest and execute her?
An even worse fear struck home, leaving her trembling and faint. Would Hugo and Paddy think she was a double agent? If they did it would save the British a bullet, because Paddy would surely kill her.
She began to feel really ill. Nausea welled up in her throat . . . her knees turned to rubber. She lurched forward and managed to reach a chair. She felt strangely light-headed, with buzzing in her ears and her fingers full of pins and needles.
A heavy submissiveness settled over her like a shroud. She was not in control of her life. She was only a pawn, moved by unseen hands in a deadly game. ‘God help me,’ she muttered.
*
Louis was wielding an axe against the slender base of a conifer tree. Each time he struck it the branches shivered and shook and pine needles spiralled around him. He worked with ferocious strength. He knew that the Russians thought he was mad because he worked harder, and for longer hours than he had to, and God knows the daily target was punishing enough. He worked to offset the terrible longing for Andrea and the strength of his despair.
He paused for a moment in his attack on a tree. A Russian, shaped like an egg, with a face like a moon, tramped past him, his hand on his rifle. His breath left a scent of cheap wine drifting provocatively in his wake, his mouth framed the words of a song.
They were great singers, these Russians. They sang of romance, of patriotism, of hunger, of their love of the land, and their tears flowed with the words. They were very simple people. Louis had learned to like them during his time here. He liked them in the same way that he might like a pet gorilla, with caution and respect. Today their behaviour was unlike anything he had ever seen. Why?
He stepped back and gazed at the deep V-indentation in the tree. Another two blows and it might fall. He looked around and saw a group of Russians standing to his left. He went over to them and mimed that they should look out. He moved back with them, shooing them like geese. They were half-drunk. One of them had a hip flask which he pulled out and offered to Louis.
‘Your beloved Germans are finished. You joined the wrong side, my friend. D’you know what we’re celebrating today? D-Day! The Allies have landed in Europe. It’s only a matter of time before we wipe out the Germans,’ he laughed.
Louis hung around listening. He heard them say that several Siberian regiments were leaving Ukhta, fifty miles away, to join the front line somewhere in Poland. The guards were longing to go with them. Well, so was he, come to that. He went back to his tree and sent it crashing down.
How long had he been here? Over a year but it seemed more like ten. After the Stalingrad surrender, the Russians had herded the Germans into a vast camp and left them there. Without food, fuel or shelter, and only melted snow to drink, hundreds of thousands of them had died. Eventually, the Russians had sifted out those Czechs and Hungarians still alive and sent them north to Siberia. Louis had claimed he was a Volksdeutsche Czech, conscripted into the German punishment corps, and in a way he was. Then followed a nightmare three-week train journey across Siberia. Out of the thousand men who had been herded on to the train at Stalingrad, scarcely two hundred had survived the journey, most of them dead from hypothermia. Louis had been grateful that he was one of the few survivors. Later, when he stood in a frozen line and heard the commandant’s sentence – a lifetime in Siberia, separated from the woman he loved, Louis felt that it would have been better if he had died. Since then he had learned to speak some Russian and consequently he had been put in charge of a team of loggers.
The guards were toasting each other, embracing and singing raucously as they became increasingly maudlin. Eventually they were replaced by new guards who staggered from the army camp, even more drunk than their colleagues. It would be easy to escape, but what was the point? Louis asked himself. There was nowhere to go. Only a fool would try. He knew he was separated from the Polish border by two thousand miles of swamps and icy tundra.
But why not go anyway? It would be a long time before the Russians were as drunk as this again. And even longer before a troop train would be leaving this area. In other words, there would never be another chance like this. And if they caught him and shot him? Well, that might be better than a lifetime spent in this hellhole.
In the midnight twilight, when the prisoners were marched back to the camp, Louis simply stood still. That was all. He stood in a pool of shadow under a thick spruce tree with low branches and watched the guards dismiss the prisoners without their customary roll-call. There was no point in waiting. It was not going to get any darker. He had a plan of sorts. He would get into the training camp, where he hoped they were all as drunk as his guards and steal a uniform, and possibly papers, if he was lucky. After that, he would try to board the train to the border. His life was in the lap of the Gods.
Half an hour later, Louis was running westwards through the forest.
*
Paddy was in the back of the shop making his filthy tea. Ingrid could smell that it was ages since he had cleaned out his rabbit hutches. He turned and star
ed at her. For a moment she felt paralysed by the menace in his eyes.
‘You’re a brave girl to come here,’ he said. ‘You’re just in time for a cup of tea.’
She shuddered as she took the dirty cup and drank out of it.
‘I don’t know what went wrong,’ she said softly. ‘Help me, please. I was never a double-agent. Is it possible that they suspect me? Or could it be Bill whom they suspect? Bill’s been so strange lately, drinking a lot. He seemed to be under tension. He said there was a mole at the office. What d’you think I should do? Can you get me out . . . back to Germany? I’m so afraid . . .’
She went on for a long time . . . pleading, arguing, putting her life in Paddy’s hands.
When she’d finished, Paddy put one hand on her shoulder and pressed his fingers into her flesh. ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if Fernando will, but I do. We’ll have to find out whether or not they suspect you. You’re not the only agent to come up with that Calais story. They were putting it out to everyone, perhaps all of Bill’s department. And as for you . . . you’ll have to prove yourself to us. Find out where Bill’s gone.’
‘I have a suspicion . . .’
‘Not suspicions, Ingrid. We want the facts. Bring me the proof. Our friend wants to know. When you’ve done that, I’ll try to help you.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, ‘I’ll do what I can.’ She walked out in a daze, her mouth dry, her throat constricted with tension. She felt like a leaf blown aimlessly in the wind. Could she find Bill’s phrase book and his notes? She was sure he’d been dropped into Prague. Would that help her to survive? But what about the British? They could pick her up whenever they wished. ‘Think, Ingrid . . .’ she murmured. ‘Think! You’ve always been a survivor.’
*
It was one in the morning when Ingrid unlocked the front door of Bill’s boarding house quietly and tiptoed downstairs to his basement flat. It was still and empty, yet there was a lingering sense of Bill around. Behind the door were several boxes and a pile of sacks filled with rubbish. A five pound note lay on the table by the door, pinned to a piece of paper: Dear Mrs Thornton. Please dispose of the contents of the sacks. Someone from the office will fetch the boxes and post the letters. My colleague will move in before the end of the week. Thanks for everything. Sincerely, B. Roth.
A lump came into her throat at the sight of Bill’s familiar handwriting. She was missing him badly. She began to search the rubbish sacks carefully. There was nothing of any interest there other than a well-worn map of Prague and the surrounding area. She laid it over the kitchen table, where the light was better and saw some pencilled marks in places. Then she opened the letters which were waiting to be posted. They were to friends in America, but the last one was addressed to Bill’s uncle. Not much of a letter, she thought, skimming through it, for it was mainly instructions to his uncle on how to deal with his estate, in case Bill didn’t return. With a jolt she noticed the date – June 4 – and realised that Bill had written the letter after he had said goodbye to her. Then she read: I’ve been seeing a great deal of Ingrid Mignon von Graetz. She’s a princess, by the way, and a cousin of Marie, whom you’ve heard about, in fact, they were brought up as sisters. Ingrid is a sad person and life has dealt her a raw deal. She’s gotten herself involved with a heap of trouble. Maybe she’ll survive the war. I hope so. When this is over would you please contact Major Stephen Schofield, my boss, and find out where Ingrid is. She’ll need help. Take her into your home and your hearts and make sure she has a second start. Do this for me. I was once very fond of her . . .
Ingrid threw herself on Bill’s bed, and burst into tears. Eventually she fell asleep clutching the letter.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Hours later Ingrid was startled by the sound of the door being opened. Her stomach lurched as she pushed Bill’s letter into her pocket. She clapped her hand over her mouth and tried to stifle a scream, knowing that it was too late to hide.
In horror she watched Fernando close the door and walk across the room to the bed. When he bent over her she almost passed out, but managed to force herself to sit up and glare at him.
‘I hear you went whining round to Paddy. Getting scared, Ingrid?’
At the sound of his high-pitched, insidious voice, her fear diminished and anger gave her the strength to stand up.
‘You little fool,’ he said. ‘Paddy says you’re innocent. Well, I’m not so sure.’
She took a deep breath. God, how she hated and feared Fernando. She never took her eyes off him as he turned away and began to rifle the drawers of Bill’s desk. It didn’t take him long to realise that everything was in the sacks and cartons. To her annoyance, he tipped the first sack on the floor and began to rummage through the papers and discarded items. There was a razor, aftershave, some clothes . . . She hated his slug-like fingers touching Bill’s possessions.
‘Ah-ha. What have we here?’
He was thumbing through the pages of a book. ‘Interesting! Our friend was studying the latest developments in missile research and rocket fuel. And look at this . . . Roth was learning Czech. Rather strange . . . for a man about to drop into Calais, wouldn’t you say?’
How could Bill have been such a fool as to leave that evidence around? And why hadn’t she found it first? ‘I came to fetch that for Paddy,’ she began sullenly. ‘I’ve seen it before . . . I told him. Then I got tired . . .’
Fernando wasn’t listening. He was studying a photograph intently. She walked across the room and peered over his shoulder. He was looking at a snap taken of her and Bill standing arm-in-arm outside a restaurant in Hampstead, wreathed in happy smiles.
Quick as a snake, Fernando spun round and hit her. As she fell back across the bed, she felt his hand in her pocket. Moments later he was smoothing out the crumpled letter to Bill’s uncle. ‘It’s not important,’ she said, rubbing her cheek. ‘I was taking it to Paddy.’
‘You’re wrong. It’s vital. Bill’s on a suicide mission, or so we suspect and this proves it. This letter is one long goodbye. His last will and testament, you might say. And look at this . . . Look after Ingrid . . . How touching!’ He thrust the letter into his inside pocket.
Her hands were sweating, her lips were cracking, her mouth felt as dry as an oven. What did he mean . . . suicide mission?
What did he know? She must find out without inviting Fernando’s suspicions.
‘If you told me what we’re looking for I might be more helpful,’ she said in a brisk voice as she sat up and smoothed her hair.
‘We suspect that Roth has parachuted into Prague in order to infiltrate Theresienstadt concentration camp. He’s planning to sabotage certain top secret installations, or so we believe. He knows he won’t survive, since he’s no fool. I wanted some sort of proof. I’m afraid you missed your chance for glory, Ingrid. Never mind! This picture will identify Bill to the camp authorities. They want him alive. A major in British Intelligence would be worth having, or don’t you think so?’
A vivid image of Bill’s well-loved body, lying mangled and bloody, flashed through her mind. She thought: I must stop shaking.
‘You look pale. Was poor little Ingrid hoping to escape by marrying the millionaire, Roth? Tough luck!’
Poor little Ingrid. Those hateful, well-remembered words hit her on the raw. Her blood began pounding in her chest. She clenched her fists and dug her nails hard into her palms.
‘So what else do you want?’ she asked curtly.
‘A better photograph of Roth . . . More letters giving signs that he was putting his affairs in order . . . evidence that he was going into Czechoslovakia. This is maybe enough,’ he patted his pocket, ‘but let’s take the place apart.’
Far stronger than her rejection, her anger, and her fear of death, was a voice shrieking in her head: ‘Hugo must never get his hands on Bill.’ She had to protect Bill with every atom of strength and cunning she possessed.
As Fernando bent over the sacks, she walked int
o the kitchen. She picked up Bill’s razor sharp kitchen knife and thrust it up her sleeve.
‘Here’s a map of Prague,’ she called. ‘The drop is clearly marked. I think this calls for a bonus, don’t you?’
‘Greedy bitch.’
‘Come and look.’
Fernando stood in the doorway, one eyebrow cocked, a picture of menace. Ingrid was shuddering, her knees trembling. He turned his back on her as he bent over the kitchen table. She moved closer. ‘That cross is near Sokol Castle,’ she said, pointing at the map.
He bent to look more closely at the mark. She took a deep breath, pulled back her arm and thrust the knife into his muscled back, using all the strength she could find. It went in easily, right up to the shaft.
Fernando screamed hoarsely and fell forward over the table. He groaned. Then he pushed his arms under him, levered himself up and turned round. His face drained of colour, his eyes wide with shock and pain, his mouth twisted into a grimace. He took two steps towards her, reaching for her as she backed away.
He gasped something unintelligible, then he fell forward, the knife an exclamation mark on his prone body.
So much blood! Who would have thought a human body contained so much blood? She rushed along the passage to the toilet where she threw up and knelt there retching in dry spasms. Eventually she crept out, wiping her wet forehead on her sleeve. Forcing her feet towards the kitchen, step by terrible step, she reached the doorway and peered round the corner. He was still there, face forward, legs buckled under him, lying in a pool of blood which had congealed around his face and matted in his hair.
She felt sick again. Keeping her eyes averted, she stepped over the corpse and thrust a kitchen towel under the tap. Wringing it out, she pressed the towel over her face.
Was Bill safe? What if Paddy found this evidence when he came looking for Fernando? She stood staring at the corpse for a long time before she found the courage to bend down and retrieve the papers and photographs from his pocket. She burned them in the grate, together with the letter. Then she lay on the bed, overcome with waves of dizziness.
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