Young Lions Roar (7 page)

Aurora laughed. “What do you mean ‘you forbid it’, Papa?”

“Well,” Mendoza fumbled and stumbled, “I’m your father and I expressly forbid it and that’s my last word on the matter.”

“You forbid me to have any male friends, Papa?”

“No, my little butterfly.” Mendoza was confused. “Of course I don’t forbid you to have any male friends - in fact you must have male friends…” ...to defend
you against other males who want to become your boyfriend. Oh, why didn’t Aurora have any big brothers to protect her?

“But that’s all Alan is, Papa,” Aurora explained. “A friend.” For now, Aurora thought to herself.

“Alan?” Mendoza practised pronouncing the name. “So he’s not your boyfriend, he’s just a friend?”

“I never said that he was my boyfriend, Papa. I said that he was my friend and that’s all.” Aurora looped her arm through her father’s once more and patted his hand.
“Besides, I’m only fifteen, Papa. As you said, I’m far too young to have a boyfriend.”

“Well, in that case of course you can have a boy friend, I mean a boy who is a friend… a friend who is a boy…”

Aurora patted her father’s hand again. “It’s all right, Papa. I know exactly what you mean.”

With that misunderstanding successfully straightened out, the happy pair continued on their way.

“So tell me about this male friend of yours, Aurora. Alan, is it? Perhaps we should invite him around for lunch some day?”

“Oh, Papa! That would be wonderful!” Aurora hugged her father and jumped up and planted a big kiss on his cheek. “You won’t regret it! I promise!”

Mendoza was so relieved that he and Aurora had managed to clear up the confusion that he did not notice that someone was watching.

Scharführer Lothar Kophamel apologised profusely for his clumsiness as the attractive waitress knelt down to pick up the pieces of the broken pint glass. “I’m
sorry for my butterfingers, fräulein,” Kophamel said as the bartender approached with a mop and bucket. He put some more money on the pub counter and then walked outside to double-check
what he had seen. Yes, Kophamel nodded, it was definitely him.

Kophamel was so shaken that as he walked off to report the news, he did not notice that he was being followed.

“Are you sure, Lothar? Are you one hundred percent sure that it was him that you saw?” Hauptsturmführer Manfred von Stein asked.

“I am one hundred percent sure, sir,” Kophamel replied. “How could I forget? His face is the first thing that I see in the morning and the last thing that I see at
night.” Kophamel tapped his temples three times. “I… I still have nightmares, sir.”

“It’s all right, my old friend. So do I,” von Stein admitted as he rubbed his forehead. “What have you found out about him?”

Kophamel consulted his notebook. “I found out that his name is indeed Juan Mendoza, sir, of the Spanish Foreign Legión, but he is now a major now, sir, not a captain. Mendoza is the
Spanish Military Attaché based at the new Spanish Consulate here in Hereward.”

“Mein Gott!” Von Stein slammed a fist into his other hand. “That’s just our damned luck!”

Kophamel’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand, sir. You still want to kill him?”

“Of course I still want to kill him, Lothar!” von Stein exploded. “After what he did, I want to kill him, his wife, his children, his parents and everyone who knows him! I even
want to kill his dog if he has one! Mendoza deserves to die a thousand deaths!” he continued furiously. “The problem is that the Spanish must never suspect that it was Germans that
killed him. The Führer wants Franco to give permission for German forces to cross Spain to attack Gibraltar, and if they have even the slightest suspicion that Germans murdered their Military
Attaché in Hereward then there will be absolutely no way that they will give permission, and that will also sink any chance of Spain entering the war on our side,” von Stein explained.
“We will have to be very careful.”

“We could make it look like the Resistance murdered him, sir,” Kophamel suggested with raised eyebrows.

“Excellent idea, Lothar!” Von Stein slammed his fist into his hand. “We can kill two birds with one stone! Franco will be absolutely furious! He may well declare war on
Churchill and the Free North there and then!” von Stein continued with a twinkle in his eye. He was practically frothing at the mouth in his enthusiasm. “At the very least he will give
permission for our troops to cross Spain to attack the British and he may very well join in the attack with Spanish troops!” Von Stein stared off into the distance as if he could see the
events unfold in the future as he had foreseen, planned and predicted.

Kophamel paused before he spoke again. “Sir, there’s something else. The icing on the cake, so to speak.”

“What is it, Lothar?” Von Stein’s ears pricked up like a cat’s.

“Remember that you said that you wanted to kill Mendoza, his family and everyone who knew him?”

“Yes,” von Stein replied. “What of it?”

Kophamel’s mouth widened like a jackal to reveal a set of gum-lined teeth.

“Mendoza has a daughter, sir…”

“Are you sure, Francisco? Are you one hundred per cent sure that it was him that you saw?” Major Mendoza asked.

“I am one hundred percent sure, sir.” Sergeant Francisco Borghese answered. “How could I forget? I still remember the sick and twisted expression on his face when he tortured
that Red prisoner for fun.” Borghese shook his head in disgust as he remembered. “A look of pure sadistic delight. Besides, how could I forget such a face? That scar that stretches from
his mouth to his ear is unmistakable.”

Mendoza nodded his head as he agreed. “What I don’t understand is how did the bastard survive?” He shook his head in amazement. “We must have fired a whole magazine at
them.”

“Luck of the devil, sir,” Borghese answered. “The question is: did anyone else survive? There was an oberleutnant in command with Scar Face, sir, and he probably was in charge
of about ten men…”

“A standard infantry squad,” Mendoza interrupted.

“Yes, sir,” Borghese agreed. “Although he may have lost a few men in the fighting before the murder.”

“So there may well have been a dozen Nazis in total, but certainly no more than that.” Mendoza was thinking aloud.

“Yes, sir.”

“But how many survivors, Francisco? Two? Three? Perhaps more.”

“I would say certainly no more than three, sir. Surely our shooting can’t be that bad? After all, we shot them at point-blank range.”

Mendoza shook his head in disgust. “Apparently our marksmanship is not all that it’s cracked up to be.” He drummed his fingers on his desk as he spoke. “We need to spend
more time on the firing range.”

Borghese came to a position of attention. “Your orders, sir?”

“Kill Scar Face and every one he comes into regular contact with. Let’s finish off these Nazi murderers once and for all.”

“But why did you want to meet me specifically, Aurora?” Alan asked as they walked through the park,

“Because of the way that you looked at me.”

“I don’t understand,” Alan was perplexed. “I’m sure that you’ve noticed that your arrival has stirred up a hornet’s nest. Boys are hovering around you
like bees around honey.”

Aurora laughed. “How very gallant, Alan! Yes, of course, I’ve noticed. But you are different; your eyes are different.”

“What do you mean, Aurora?”

“Your eyes have seen things that your average fifteen year old boy hasn’t,” Aurora explained.

Alan stopped walking as if he had rammed into a brick wall. “Aurora… you have no idea,” Alan searched for words. “I have seen things… I have done things which
would give you nightmares. If I told you about the things that I have done you would run a mile and you would never talk to me again. You would not want to know me.”

Aurora tenderly took both of Alan’s hands in her own. “Trust me, Alan. Let me help you fight your demons.”

“There he is, Carlos,” Sergeant Borghese said under his breath. “Let’s go.”

Borghese flicked his cigarette on to the pavement and ground it out with the heel of his boot. He didn’t want Scar Face to be able to spot the telltale light of the lit cigarette.

“Where do you think he’s going, Jefe?” Corporal Carlos Ramirez asked him, “the pub?”

Borghese nodded “Probably the ‘Chicken and Egg’, which is the SS pub, or if the Virgin Mary is smiling on us he’ll head for the ‘King Alfred
Hotel’.”

“Why is the King Alfred Hotel better?”

“Because the King Alfred is neutral territory,” Borghese answered. “The SS, the Army, the Luftwaffe and even Navy officers and NCOs use it if any of them happen to be in town.
It has dozens of bedrooms and many Germans use it for dirty weekends with their British girlfriends.”

Ramirez gave an appreciative wolf whistle. “But how does that help us, Jefe?”

“Because it’s also open to Government of National Unity personnel, British Union of Fascists members, and, crucially for us: friendly governments.”

“Ah, I see,” Ramirez smiled cunningly. “So no one should bat an eyelid when we turn up. “

“I certainly hope not, because we are probably the least Aryan-looking people in the entire town, if not the whole of England.”

Ramirez laughed at Borghese’s dark humour as he looked at his own short-sleeved arm, that had been tanned the colour of mahogany by years under the Moroccan sun.

“Let’s just hope that our Identification Cards don’t let us down…” Borghese thought aloud.

“Fernando used to be a forger before he joined the Legión, Jefe,” Ramirez replied confidently. “He’s world class.”

Borghese guffawed. “Fernando can’t be that world class, Carlos, or he wouldn’t have joined the Legión to escape from the Police. And I notice that he didn’t travel
up with the rest of you from London.”

“Major de Rivera couldn’t spare any more men, Sergeant,” Ramirez explained. “He said that it would have left him with too few Legiónaries to defend the Embassy
against an attack by the Reds.” Old habits died hard with Ramirez. As far as he was concerned, any enemies of Spain were dirty, stinking Communist vermin, whatever their nationality. Ramirez
straightened up. “Fernando won’t let us down,” he said resolutely.

“Fernando better not, Carlos, or we’ll be chopped up like sliced chorizo before you can say seafood paella,” Borghese joked grimly.

Borghese and Ramirez reached the King Alfred Hotel shortly after Scharführer Kophamel and his three comrades. About a dozen assorted Germans with their British girlfriends
separated the Spaniards from their target. Borghese casually glanced behind him, and was reassured to see two more members of his hit team join the queue. About a dozen people also separated the
other two assassins from Borghese. The queue was lengthening rapidly. Borghese looked to the front and paid close attention to the sentries guarding the entrance; the guards consisted of a squad of
Army Military Policemen led by a Sergeant Major. Borghese was relieved to notice that the MPs were giving the Identification Cards no more than the most cursory of inspections. Borghese guessed
that such was the length of the quickly growing queue that the Hauptwachtmeister had ordered his MPs to process as many thirsty military personnel and their girlfriends as quickly as possible.

Borghese reached the front of the queue.

“Identification Card, please, sir,” The MP Sergeant-Major requested.

Borghese realised that since he was wearing civilian clothes the MP Hauptwachtmeister had no idea what rank he was. The German had obviously decided that it was more diplomatic to play it safe
by referring to everyone in mufti as “Sir” rather than run the risk of offending someone important. Borghese handed over his ID card.

“Bolivian eh, sir?” the MP asked as he examined the ID card. “Como estas, señor?” the Sergeant Major asked with a South American Spanish accent.

“Ah… muy bien, gracias.” Borghese was momentarily taken by surprise.

“You speak Spanish, Hauptwachtmeister?” he asked in Spanish.

The MP laughed. “I certainly do, sir!” he continued in Bolivian Spanish. “I immigrated to Bolivia after the War when I saw an advertisement for military advisers. After the
War, Germany was a complete and utter mess and you couldn’t get a job for love of money. So I spent nearly twenty years in Bolivia and I only returned to Germany when this war started.
Happiest years of my life, sir! I fully intend to return when this blasted war is over. My wife and kids are still over there. I must say that it’s a surprise to meet a fellow Bolivian here.
What brings you to Hereward, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m… I’m with the consulate…” Borghese thought quickly on his feet.

“The consulate?” The Sergeant Major was confused. “I didn’t know that Bolivia had a consulate here.”

“Ah no, Hauptwachtmeister, you’re correct.” A thin film of sweat broke out on Borghese’s forehead. “We don’t have a consulate here… Bolivia is too
small a country. But we do have a Representative at the Spanish Consulate. Yours truly.”

“I see.” The MP smiled.

Borghese breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“And how is La Paz, sir? Have they finished restoring the Cathedral yet?”

“Well, La Paz is… La Paz,” Borghese said with a weak smile. “And as for the Cathedral? I’m afraid that I don’t know. It’s been many years since
I’ve visited La Paz, or Bolivia for that matter…”

“And your accent, sir. You don’t have a Bolivian accent. You speak more like a Spaniard than a Bolivian…”

“As I said, Hauptwachtmeister, I’ve spent many years abroad in the Diplomatic Service,” Borghese said with a false smile fixed on his face. “Listen, I don’t mean to
be rude. I’ve enjoyed talking with a fellow Bolivian…”

The MP laughed.

“But my compadre and I have been looking forward to this drink for a long time, and…”

“Of course, sir! My humble apologies. I didn’t mean to detain you.” The Sergeant Major stood aside and waved them through.

“Nice to meet you, Hauptwachtmeister…?”

The Sergeant Major came to a position of attention. “Hauptwachtmeister Bratge, sir. Jakob Bratge.” He clicked his heels and bowed. “At your service, sir.”