Frankie's Letter (4 page)

The yard was very dark. Anthony crouched by the side of the gate, trying to steady his breathing. In the alley outside were running footsteps and shouts of command. Despite himself, he couldn't help grinning as the Oberstleutnant's dilemma became clear. He had evidently worked out that his quarry could be hiding in any of the yards which lined the alleyway but, on the other hand, he could be getting clean away.

Feet crunched past him on the other side of the gate. Two . . . no, three men. The feet stopped about twenty yards away. That would be the corner of the alley.

‘Stay here,' snapped the Oberstleutnant. There was the snap of boots as the soldiers came to attention, then all was quiet.

How many men had the Oberstleutnant left on guard? Anthony felt for the bolt on the back of the gate and tried to draw it back, but it was stiff in its socket. He put his hands on the top of the wall and eased himself to the top, lying along the length of the wall.

In the dim light he saw two soldiers, standing at either end of the alley. Diagonally across from him was another alley, leading, he remembered, into the yard of a small brewery. If he could get through the yard, then all he had to do was climb over the brewery gates and he would be on a main road. He blessed the instinct which had urged him to explore every back street in Kiel.

There was a bunch of keys in his pocket. He wouldn't need those again. Drawing them out carefully, he weighed them in his hand and sent them skimming over the head of the soldier standing at the end of the alley. They clattered on the cobbles. The soldier whirled, bringing his rifle to the ready.

‘What is it, Kupper?' called the soldier at the top of the alley.

‘I heard something,' answered Kupper. He stooped to pick up the bunch of keys. ‘He's here! He's dropped these!'

‘Hold on!' The second soldier ran down the alley. As soon as he had gone past, Anthony dropped to the ground and raced for the dark opening of the brewery yard, flattening himself into a doorway against the brick wall.

So far, so good. He could hear the voices of the two soldiers and the crunch of feet as one started to return. He willed himself to look away as the soldier went past, knowing his face would catch the light. Then he was gone and Anthony breathed a sigh of relief.

The back gates of the brewery stood in front of him. They were an easy climb, but he made more noise than he wanted to. He paused for a moment on top of the gate, fearing the bark of a dog or the tread of feet, but there was nothing.

He dropped down into the yard. Hugging the deep shadows beside the wall, he crept through the yard, past the stables of the brewery horses, finding the stable smells and the sound of a soft whinny an inexpressibly comforting sensation.

He edged his way to the front of the building, where two great wooden gates, big enough to take the brewery wagons, barred the way to the road. A wicket gate was set into them, bolted on the inside. Presumably that meant there was a night watchman somewhere. This was the danger point. To get through the gates he had to come out of the shadows. He listened intently. Silence.

It took far less than a minute to open the wicket gate and step through onto the main road, but it was one of the longest minutes Anthony had ever known.

As he stepped through onto the road, he saw a black Mercedes with an Imperial Eagle on the bonnet parked a little way down the street, its hood pulled up against the rain. He couldn't be sure but he thought there was a driver in the car. He swallowed hard. He had to make this look natural. He turned back to the gate, pulling it shut behind him.

‘Goodnight!' he called to an imaginary companion.
They're looking for one man, not two . . .

He'd walked a few steps away from the Mercedes when he heard a shout from the car. It was the driver. The man was leaning out, pointing towards the gate. ‘Hang on, mate,' he called. ‘The gate's swung open.'

With a sinking feeling, Anthony half-turned. He couldn't ignore the driver but he dreaded him seeing him properly.

‘You want to be careful,' said the driver chattily, getting out of the car. ‘You never know who . . .' He stopped, and Anthony could see him looking at his filthy, once respectable clothes, so unlike anything a watchman would wear. ‘Who are you?' he said in a different voice. ‘Let me see your papers.'

Anthony didn't have any choice. His fist shot out, catching the driver underneath his left ear, a wicked knockout punch to the carotid artery. The driver groaned and fell, his knees crumpling beneath him.

Anthony's first instinct was to run but the sight of the driver's cap made him pause. His wretched clothes were a signal to every searcher. Why not take the driver's coat and cap? Come to that, he thought with a grin, he could make a proper job of it and take the Mercedes as well.

The street was deserted, but he could hear the sound of marching feet in the distance. He pulled the driver back to the car, rapidly stripped off his coat and put it on. The tramp of regimented boots was no more than a street away, echoing loud in the quiet night. He hurriedly opened the back door and bundled the driver into the gap between the front and back seats. He was about to get back into the car when the footsteps rounded the corner.

As he had thought, it was a group of soldiers with an officer at their head. His heart sank as a gleam from a street light caught the officer's face. It was, predictably, von Hagen.

There was absolutely nowhere to go. His only hope was that von Hagen would carry on his patrol on foot, but that hope was dashed. ‘Report to me at the merchant docks,' rapped out von Hagen to his sergeant. ‘Carry on.'

The sergeant saluted, the soldiers marched off, and von Hagen walked towards the car.

Now at this point, a real driver would have stood to attention before opening the back door for Oberstleutnant von Hagen, saluted smartly – Anthony couldn't credit that any inferior would salute von Hagen anything but smartly – walk round the front of the car, climb into the driver's cab and await orders.

As von Hagen approached, Anthony fantasized for a fraction of a second about doing just that.
‘Unconscious man at your feet, sir? I wonder how he got there? He wasn't there when we set off . . .'
But, granted that von Hagen was not only armed himself but had a platoon of armed men within hearing distance, that wasn't really on the cards.

The only thing in his favour was that his face was shadowed by the peak of the driver's cap. He compromised by saluting. That, at least, he could do without suspicion. ‘There's a problem with the car, sir,' he said in as good an imitation as he could manage of the driver's North German accent.

Von Hagen paused, his mouth tightening in irritation. ‘How soon can you get it going again?'

‘I'm not sure, sir. It's the clutch. I'll have to take it up and that will be at least twenty minutes or so.'

‘Then you'd better get on with it.'

Anthony could hardly believe his luck. He'd fallen for it! He went to the front of the car, stooping down to lift up the bonnet.

Von Hagen walked away, then called back over his shoulder, ‘Report to me at the Merchant Docks as soon as you've finished.'

Anthony looked up. It was pure instinct but he cursed himself for a stupid mistake. He knew immediately he'd been caught. He glanced down almost instantly but for a moment his face was clear in the light. Von Hagen stopped and turned back slowly. He opened his overcoat and unholstered a pistol. ‘Come here.'

Anthony walked towards him. There was nothing else to do.

‘Take off your cap.'

The gun was pointed at his stomach. Anthony took off his cap with a flourish. If he was going to go, he might as well go in style. ‘How d'you do, old man?'

Von Hagen gave a hiss of satisfaction. ‘You!'

He opened his mouth to shout to the departing troops and Anthony hurled himself forward. The gun flew out of von Hagen's hand as Anthony's fist crunched on the point of his jaw. They rolled over in the road in a desperate struggle.

Von Hagen was wiry and tough but Anthony had the advantage of surprise. Whatever happened, he mustn't call out. Anthony clamped his hand over von Hagen's mouth, trying to bring his other hand round to deliver a knockout blow. His fingers grasped the barrel of the gun. He picked it up and smashed the butt end into von Hagen's temple. The Oberstleutnant's eyes widened and his body went limp.

Anthony got up and wearily lent against the car. In the distance he could still hear the sound of marching feet. What now? He'd better get rid of these bodies. He glanced towards the brewery gates. He could leave them in the brewery. That would do it. More marching feet sounded close by and he groaned inwardly. There simply wasn't enough time.

He bent down to von Hagen, untied the scarf from round his neck and gagged him with it. Then, opening the back of the car, he heaved the unconscious Oberstleutnant in beside the driver, shut the door, climbed into the driver's cab and started the engine.

As he drove off, Anthony totted up his chances. The situation was interesting, to say the least. To drive round the home town of the Imperial Fleet as a known and wanted spy in a stolen army staff car with two Germans in the back, one of whom hates your guts – and, to be fair, von Hagen had been scalded with coffee, beaten up and made to look a fool in front of his men – was not an experience Anthony wanted to prolong longer than necessary.

His only chance of escape lay at the docks. With Terence Cavanaugh dead there was no other agent to turn to and his experience with Lassen showed how dangerous it was to rely on any Dane or German, no matter how friendly they may have been. Both Frau Kappelhoff and the University could give a good description of him and the theft of Herr Kohlmeyer's identity papers would be reported in the morning.

He could try and make a break for it in the Mercedes, but the car would be a dead giveaway in a few hours and he didn't know how much petrol was in the tank. And there was Cavanaugh's message. He had to get that back to England. He couldn't send it, even if he could contact a messenger.
There's a spy in England . . . Seems to know everything . . .
There was no one he could trust.

A groan from behind the seat added an extra spur of urgency to his thoughts. Whatever happened next, he had to deal with those two in the back. With the cranes of the docks visible a few streets away, he turned the car sharply into a side street and drew to a halt.

Holding von Hagen's gun, Anthony opened the back door of the car. The driver, who had started to groan, fell silent as the gun was pressed to his head.

‘Listen to me,' said Anthony as fiercely and as urgently as he could. ‘I'm an English spy.' The man's eyes rounded in fright. ‘One murmur and I'll put a bullet in you. Nod if you understand.' The driver, sprawled across the floor with von Hagen on top of him, nodded. Anthony felt the need of reinforcements, if only imaginary ones. ‘There are other men with me. Understand?' The driver nodded again. ‘Any sound and you're for it.'

There was a handkerchief in the pocket of the driver's coat. Anthony put down the gun and gagged the driver with the handkerchief. Von Hagen's eyes flickered open. He gave Anthony a look of concentrated hatred, but the scarf stopped him from shouting out.

‘Get out of the car,' said Anthony. ‘Remember, I've got the gun.'

The two men slowly climbed out.

‘Von Hagen, take off your clothes.'

The German's eyes gleamed defiance. Anthony's finger tightened on the trigger. ‘I want your clothes,' he said levelly. ‘If I have to get them with a bullet hole in them, I will.'

Anthony was bluffing. He couldn't risk the sound of a shot and he knew he couldn't murder a man in cold blood. However, he hoped that von Hagen wouldn't guess that. ‘Take them off!'

Von Hagen unbuttoned his overcoat and shrugged it off. His eyes measured the distance between them but the gun made him hesitate.

‘And the rest,' said Anthony. ‘Jacket, trousers, boots . . . That's the ticket. Sorry if it's a bit chilly, but that's life.'

Quite what he would have done if von Hagen had shouted, he didn't know. Clubbed him, perhaps, and run for it. Anthony could see von Hagen itching to disobey, but he couldn't risk the gun. Fortunately for Anthony, the German hadn't worked out that he couldn't either. After a few tense minutes von Hagen stood in his underwear with a pile of clothes beside him.

‘Now, gentlemen, step over to the wall. And, von Hagen, old thing, I'd like some privacy. Turn your faces to the wall and don't look round. I will shoot.'

Anthony wanted to tie them up but he didn't have anything to tie them with, apart from the belt of the driver's overcoat, and it wouldn't do for two of them. Besides that, he had a healthy respect for von Hagen's courage. At a distance he could control matters. If he came too close, he was sure the German would attack. No; dangerous as it was, he had to leave the two men as they were.

As quickly as he could, he took off his clothes and scrambled into von Hagen's discarded uniform. He had to put the gun down to get dressed, and that was dangerous. On three separate occasions von Hagen made as if to turn round, and each time Anthony stopped him. ‘Just stay there . . . I've got the gun . . . Watch it! The next time you move, I'll shoot. That's your last warning. Keep your faces to the wall!' The snarl in his voice convinced him; he hoped it convinced von Hagen.

Anthony wasn't proud of what he did next. All he knew was that it was necessary. Holding the gun by the muzzle, he stole up behind the two men and cracked the butt down hard on von Hagen's head. He slumped to the ground. The driver, still gagged, turned wide, frightened eyes to him. ‘Sorry,' said Anthony apologetically, and walloped him, too.

Once on the main road, with the entrance of the merchant docks in sight, Anthony did his best to copy von Hagen's arrogant swagger and strode up to the entrance to the docks, trying to look as if he owned the place.