Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day (12 page)

Just thinking about sleep made Paul yawn, but he’d bonded with Henderson that evening and didn’t want to go. ‘I’ll wait up here in case anything goes wrong with the radio.’

Henderson poured some coffee and studied the sunset for a few moments. They only had a single cup that screwed on top of the flask, and when he turned to ask Paul if he wanted some he saw the boy sprawled over the blanket with his eyes closed. He thought Paul was asleep, but one eye came open as Henderson settled on the blanket beside him.

‘I think PT’s basically a good guy,’ Paul said. ‘Don’t you?’

Henderson sighed deeply. ‘I don’t think he was planning to snitch, but he knows all our business. It’s my fault: I should have been more careful about what was said around PT, but he was getting on so well with Marc, and he’s got a crush on your sister. I never thought he’d try doing a runner like that, not for a second.’

‘don’t kill him,’ Paul said.
Please

Henderson rested a hand on Paul’s chest and stared down at the patterned squares on the blanket. ‘I’ve done a lot of bad things in my time,’ Henderson said softly.

‘You can’t avoid them when you work as a spy. I don’t want to kill him, Paul. But the question is, what do we do with PT if I don’t?’

Nobody slept much in the pink house that night. Rosie was up with the sun and walked a few hundred metres to a batty old neighbour who supplemented her pension by keeping chickens. She thought about stopping by the shed on the way back to give PT more water, but Henderson’s bedroom overlooked the garden and his curtains were already open.

Yellow light streamed through the kitchen windows and Paul sat at the dining table, licking jam off a knife, as she placed the basket of eggs on the countertop.

‘You’ll turn into bread and jam one of these days,’ Rosie said with a smile. ‘How’d it go last night?’

‘Good,’ Paul answered coyly, before tearing another bite from his slice of bread. ‘The radio worked. We got a response.’

‘What time did you get to bed?’

‘It was gone two by the time we’d lugged that blasted set down the hill, but I did doze off for a while between transmissions.’

Rosie was expecting more information. She folded her arms and scowled. ‘Have I got to drag it out of you? What did their message say?’

Paul shook his head, reluctantly. He didn’t like holding things back from his sister, partly out of loyalty and partly because she was inclined to thump him if he pissed her off.

‘Henderson told me not to discuss the message with anyone until he’d dealt with PT.’

Rosie sighed. ‘Well, was the message good news or bad news?’

Paul enjoyed knowing something his sister didn’t. ‘You’re not gonna wheedle it out of me. And it’s not really good or bad. Just interesting.’

‘You want scrambled eggs on toast?’ Rosie asked. ‘Or are you full of bread and jam? You’ve pigged half a jar since yesterday.’

‘Yeah, I could go for some eggs,’ Paul said.

Rosie looked into the basket and tried working out how many eggs she needed to cook. ‘Who else is around?’

‘Marc’s up and about and I heard Henderson running the shower.’

‘Maxine?’

Paul shook his head. ‘She stayed at her own place. I think they had a row.’

‘She certainly wasn’t happy with the way he treated PT,’ Rosie said. ‘I heard them upstairs yelling before dinner.’

Marc came in with wet hair and a bare chest. ‘Morning,’ he said, before spotting the basket. ‘Oooh, eggies!’

Paul looked horrified as Marc cracked an eggshell on the countertop, flipped his head back and drained raw egg into his mouth.

‘That’s so gross!’ Rosie said.

Marc poked out his tongue, which was covered in strands of yolk. ‘Give us a kiss, darling!’

She picked a wooden spoon off the worktop and whacked Marc hard on the elbow. ‘One step closer and you see what you get.’

‘You and whose army?’ Marc teased, as he lunged at her.

Rosie screamed, but the fun ended abruptly as a length of metal chain clanked down on the table behind them.

‘Good morning,’ Henderson said firmly. ‘You all doing OK?’

‘You want eggs on toast?’ Rosie asked, as the two boys shrugged.

‘I surely could,’ Henderson said. ‘Make some for PT too. I expect he’ll be hungry.’

Marc smiled. ‘Are you letting him off?’

Henderson rattled the chain. ‘If he behaves himself, I’ve got a couple of options for him. Marc, I want you to go cut PT loose and bring him up here. Let him know that I’ve got my eye out and I’ll shoot if he tries to run.’

Marc got a sharp knife from a drawer and jogged down to the shed. Rosie checked that the hotplate over the wood-fired oven was up to temperature before starting to crack the eggs into a saucepan.

‘Paul tells me you got a reply last night,’ Rosie said, still bursting to know. ‘Was it good news?’

‘I’m not going through the whole thing six times,’ Henderson said. ‘I’m going to deal with PT. Then we’ll deal with the message and our new plans.’

‘So what’s the deal with the chain?’ Paul asked.

Henderson had a sly way of not answering awkward questions when he didn’t want to. He ignored Paul and wandered over to see if there was any hot water on the stove. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ he said, as he peered out towards the shed, making sure that Marc was OK.

PT came in a minute later and sat at the table. The shed was stuffy and he’d not washed since his tussle with Paul on the driveway. Dry blood caked his shirt, his head-wound had dried up into an unsightly scab and the smell of his sweat was stronger than eggs or coffee.

‘Manna from heaven,’ PT said, tucking in greedily as Rosie put a plate in front of him.

Marc and Paul brought their plates over to the table, but Henderson told them to eat standing up by the cabinet with Rosie.

‘I kill you,’ Henderson said to PT. ‘Letting an untrustworthy worm like you live is a risk that could lead to the slow painful death of everyone in this room – but you’re not much more than a kid.’
should

PT glanced up from his eggs, but after his ordeal he resented Henderson and refused to show any sign of being grateful.

Henderson pointed at Paul, Rosie and Marc. ‘I thought they were your friends, PT.’

PT shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing against any of you, just no appetite to go around spying on Nazis.’

‘Two options,’ Henderson said dramatically, as he raised one end of the coiled chain. ‘This chain is the first. I can’t let you split from us until we’re a day or so ahead of you. So I’ll put you upstairs, chain you to a bed and give you a knock-out pill. I’ll leave some food, some water and a file.

‘You’ll come around after eighteen to twenty-four hours, and I reckon it’ll take you another eight to ten to file your way through the wooden bedpost. By the time you set yourself free, we’ll be at least a couple of hundred miles away. I’ll leave you your money. You won’t have the gold you might need to get into Spain, but you’ve got experience working on boats. If you’re alone you’ll be better off getting a job on a steamer heading for the Mediterranean and jumping ship.’

‘I’m right off boats after the sank under me,’ PT sighed. ‘I like the idea of crossing a land border.’
Cardiff Bay

Henderson scratched his head and thought for a second. ‘How about if I sell you two gold ingots for six hundred dollars? The trouble is, I hear it’s a nightmare getting into Spain at the moment. There’s tens of thousands of refugees. The official border’s closed and if you’re lucky enough to find a guide to take you through the mountains there’s every chance that they’ll escort you up to some remote spot, steal anything worth having and push you off a cliff. Especially if you’re travelling alone.’

‘Sounds like a bag of laughs,’ PT said, burying his face in his hands. ‘Where do I sign up?’

‘Must be better than me putting a bullet through the back of your head,’ Henderson observed.

‘What’s my other option?’

‘We all make bad decisions,’ Henderson said. ‘Especially when we’re fifteen years old and on the run. I’m prepared to wipe the slate clean. You can come with us.’

‘Come where?’ PT asked.

‘I have a very important job to do before we can leave France,’ Henderson said. ‘I’m not going to pretend that it doesn’t involve significant danger to all of us, but at the end of the operation we’ll be in an ideal position to travel back to Britain. I can’t tell you any more than that without compromising the security of the plan.’

‘It’s not much to go on,’ PT said, smiling awkwardly.

‘Everything in life comes down to trust,’ Henderson said. ‘If you travel with us, I’m trusting you not to run off again. have to trust that I’ll look after your best interests.’
You’ll

‘Which option would prefer?’ PT asked.
you

Henderson shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t mind, although I guarantee you won’t be alive to get a third chance if you betray my trust again.’

Rosie stared at PT. ‘You should stick with us,’ she said. ‘We all look out for each other. What’s so great about being off on your own?’

Marc nodded in agreement. ‘I travelled to Paris alone before I met Henderson. I wouldn’t recommend it. Everywhere you go there’s people trying to rob you or rip you off.’

PT allowed himself to smile. He’d tried getting away because he’d baulked at the idea of Henderson being a spy. If anything, the beating and a night tied up in the shed had made him more hostile towards Henderson, but the way Rosie and Marc had sneaked out food showed that he’d made two real friends.

‘People only forgive if they care about you,’ PT said, finally looking Henderson in the eye. ‘You’ve got nothing to gain by letting me live.’

Henderson smiled. ‘Except a clear conscience – and the fact that Maxine and Rosie would never have spoken to me again.’

‘It’s lonely out there on your own,’ Paul said.

‘Indeed,’ PT replied.

‘So you’re with us?’ Rosie smiled.

PT liked the idea, but he wasn’t ready to commit himself.

‘Don’t rush him,’ Henderson said. ‘PT needs a bath and a few hours’ rest. I’d rather he took his time and made the right decision.’

‘Despite her hopeless military situation, Britain shows no sign of willingness to come to terms. I have decided to prepare, and if necessary to carry out, a sea-based invasion against her.

‘The English Air Force must be reduced morally and physically so that it is unable to deliver any significant attack during the German crossing.

‘Preparations for the landing operation must be completed by the middle of August.’

Adolf Hitler, 16 July 1940.

Natural History Museum, London, UK – Intelligence Ministry wartime HQ

Eileen McAfferty stepped out of the lift and found herself in a shiny-floored basement corridor, barely wide enough for two people to pass. She was thirty-one years old, but dressed like someone older, in cardigans and floral prints. Her shoes, as always, were flat, with their tongues cut open because she was overweight and her feet swelled in the heat.

It felt desperately hot as McAfferty read the room numbers off, door after door. Some were left open to circulate the air, and sounds of chattering typewriters and telephone conversations came from inside. People swooped in and out holding folders or occasionally pushing a trolley piled with files. They all looked so purposeful that McAfferty was afraid to ask for directions.

Finally she spoke to a pencil-thin man in a three-piece suit, her accent heavily Scottish.

‘Room eighty-three is to the left,’ the pencil replied. ‘Double doors. That’s the Minister’s office, you know that?’

You could see on his face that he thought someone like McAfferty had no business going into the Intelligence Minister’s office.

‘I’m late,’ she explained. ‘Signal failure on the Piccadilly line.’

‘Really?’ the man said unsympathetically. ‘I’d hurry up, if you’re late for the Minister. He’s been biting people’s heads off all week.’

Twenty minutes behind schedule, McAfferty found herself in the Intelligence Minister’s office. It was a grim space with oak furnishings, moved from less secure offices in Whitehall. The walls were peeling and the only natural light came through a slot window near the ceiling.

‘Ahh.’ The man behind the desk smiled at her. ‘I’ll have a strong tea and a shortcake. And these gentlemen...’

‘This is Miss McAfferty, your Lordship,’ the Minister’s secretary said. ‘The tea lady will be along shortly.’

‘Oh,’ the Minister stuttered. ‘Terribly sorry. I’m Lord Hawthorne. This is Colonel Jackson, Deputy Director of Army Intelligence and Eric Mews, Deputy Minister from the Department of Economic Warfare.’

McAfferty shook the important hands and swept her skirt beneath her legs before taking a seat. Jackson and Hawthorne were establishment men, with posh accents. Mews was more common stock: a Labour Party man, with a north-east accent and an unlit pipe.

‘I’m new to this intelligence malarkey,’ Mews said bluntly. ‘My job is to set up a new organisation known as the Special Operations Executive. I’ll have to be honest with you, ducks. I’ve not even heard of your Espionage Research Unit and nor have quite a few people who’ve been in this game for a lot longer than I have.’

McAfferty nodded. ‘I believe the ERU dates back to a rivalry between the Army and the Navy during the last war. The Army had a small espionage unit that concentrated on German military technology. When the Navy found out, they set up their own equivalent. The ERU had a few dozen operatives at its peak in 1918, but has rather withered on the vine since then.’

‘The plan is for all branches of the intelligence service to come under a single command structure for the duration of the war,’ Lord Hawthorne explained.

‘That sounds sensible.’ McAfferty nodded.

‘So what manpower does the ERU have?’

‘There’s me and Betty at the office in Greenwich,’ McAfferty explained. ‘Then there are three operatives. Mr Gant was injured on an operation in Norway last summer. Then there’s Mr Moon who’s based in Gibraltar and Mr Henderson.’

‘And you run this organisation?’ Colonel Jackson asked.