Angel rising, p.8
Angel Rising, page 8
part #6 of Anna Fehrbach Series
‘You mean you are only now getting around to learning to drive?’ He remembered that in Washington, five years ago, as he had told Belinda, she had been embarrassed by the lack of that simple skill.
‘I’ve been a little pushed for time, from time to time.’
‘I imagine you have been. So where is you sister now?’
‘I suspect she’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘She was captured by the Russians. They thought she was me. So they took her off, and, well, they wouldn’t have had any reason to hang on to her once they realized their mistake. Will I have the opportunity to get my licence when we reach the States?’
He wondered if she was as cold-blooded as she pretended. No doubt the life she had been forced to live for seven years – eight if this last year was included – had inured her to sudden death . . . even perhaps her own. Or, more sympathetically, she had found it necessary to develop that apparently impervious outer skin in order to survive, certainly mentally. But either way, she remained the most entrancing creature he had ever known.
He had first seen her, from a distance, at the Cheltenham Race Meeting in England, in the spring of 1939. Then the beautiful the Honourable Mrs Ballantine Bordman had been the current toast of English society, although so far as anyone, himself included, knew she had been a German heiress, and also the object of interest as no one could understand why someone so glamorously attractive and so apparently wealthy should have tied herself to a fat slob like Ballantine Bordman who was obviously as thick as two short planks. No one in those so-innocent pre-war days had imagined that it could be possible she was a German spy. That had again included himself. As for the fact that only a fortnight before he had seen her she had been strapped naked to a table being tortured by her employers, or that as a result of that mistreatment she had allowed herself to be turned by his old acquaintance and sometime colleague Clive Bartley . . . back in 1939 beautiful, elegant, cultured ladies did not have skeletons like that in their closets.
By the time he had next seen her, and actually met her, at a reception at the German Embassy in Moscow at Christmas 1940, the scandal had long broken. But still he had only known the official story, that just hours before she was to be arrested by the Special Branch she had managed to escape England, no one quite knew how, and regain the Fatherland. And there she was, as coldly beautiful as ever.
As he was in the business himself, even if disguised as an official at the American Embassy, he had immediately been alert to the fact that someone with the Countess von Widerstand’s talents and track record would surely not be employed as a simple secretary in a foreign embassy. Partly because of that, and partly because he had been unable to resist the temptation, he had dated her and found that she actually had a warm and most delightful personality.
But he had still considered her only as a spy, a gatherer of information for the Reich. He had had not the slightest suspicion that her true profession was far more sinister, or that she was actually a double agent. He had only discovered that when she had virtually been condemned to death by Heydrich – who had given her the task of eliminating Premier Stalin on the eve of the German invasion, no matter what the cost to herself – and, in the absence of any other means, had turned to him to get a message to his old acquaintance Clive Bartley about what was going to happen. Even then he had not really understood what was going on, but Clive had also enlisted his help, following her arrest before she could complete her mission, to get her out of the Lubianka, if that could be possible. Well, he had done it, by means of pulling a gigantic bluff, and seen her in action for the first time when the guards in the Women’s Section had refused to obey immediately Beria’s directive. He had never seen anything like it in his life before, and while she was as compulsively attractive as ever he had been happy to hand her over to her British controller, assuming that he would never see her again.
But only a few months later she had turned up in Washington, more glamorous than ever. And this time seeking him out. If her brief had officially been for the Germans, as he had known she was actually MI6, they had been able to meet as friends, when he had discovered that she was prepared to repay him, in her own fashion, for having saved her life.
As he had told her, that had been the outstanding afternoon of his life, accentuated soon afterwards by a course of events that had left her working for the American Secret Service as well as the British, with him as her US controller. Even if he had never got her back to bed that had remained a dream until it had all gone sour, and his superiors, at that time anxious not to antagonize the Russians, had determined that she had to be eliminated. He had been appalled, had protested, and been overruled.
Once again he had assumed he would not see her again, and here he was, standing beside her on an American ship, having again watched her in action, even more devastatingly than on that day in Moscow. And more desirable than ever. But, after all that had happened, and her continued suspicion of him as a true friend, he did not know how far he dared attempt to restore their earlier relationship.
Neither of them had said much on the drive down to Rosyth; there had been too much on their minds. And once on board the ship, she had been the toast of the officers. They knew nothing of her, of course; even the captain had only been told that it was his business to transport the Countess von Widerstand to America as rapidly and as secretly as possible. But he, and his men, had been delighted at the prospect of sharing several days with so gorgeous a woman.
In those circumstances, he had thought it best to keep a low profile. Anna had been allotted a single cabin of her own, and he suspected that the Navy would not be happy to see him emerging from it. But as he had spent this morning on the radio to Washington they had a great deal to discuss, and at last he had managed to get her alone; the ship was very crowded. So he said, ‘I don’t think there is going to be time for that. Anna, we have to talk.’
‘Damnation,’ she said again. ‘So near and yet so far. Ah, well, maybe there’ll be another time. So talk.’
He drew a deep breath. ‘You understand that at this moment you are officially dead.’
‘Unfortunately, there seem to be too many people around who do not understand that.’
‘The Russians can have nothing more than suspicions. And we aren’t going to say anything.’
‘That is very reassuring. It also means that you can dispose of me whenever you think fit.’
‘That is not going to happen, Anna. You are too valuable. The point is, we can have no known relationship with a wanted Nazi war criminal, alive or dead. Therefore you will not clear immigration or customs when we reach Norfolk. You will be smuggled ashore, and placed in a secure and secret location while you are fitted out with a new wardrobe and equipped with everything that is necessary for your assignment.’
‘I have been hibernating in a so-called secret location for the past year.’
‘It was criminal of Bartley to leave you on your own up there. We’re not going to make that mistake.’
‘And you can, if necessary, operate outside the law in your own country. MI6 doesn’t have that facility, at least in times of peace.’
‘If you mean that we are allowed to protect our own, that’s quite true. But it won’t come to that, ever. You’ll be staying with my mother.’
‘Your . . .?’ Anna remembered the utterly charming woman with whom she had spent a week in 1941, hiding from the possible repercussions of her shoot-out with the Russians in Washington. Never had she felt so secure, and so restful. Of course, it had helped that Clive had been able to share three of those days with her. That had been before it had all gone wrong, at least on the American side. But now . . . ‘Will she want to receive me?’
‘She knows nothing more than she did the last time you met, that you are the Countess von Widerstand and that you are very important to us. So you have nothing to worry about.’
‘I’m not complaining. And the sound of a new wardrobe sounds good. Do I get a fur?’
‘Do you want a fur? Do you need a fur, to go to South America?’
‘The Nazis gave me a fur, and I was seldom seen without it, except maybe in high summer. It can get chilly in the bottom half of South America, and if I do happen to be looked up by any of my old friends, they’ll expect one.’
He sighed. ‘OK, one mink coat.’
‘A sable,’ Anna said.
‘What?’
‘I always wore a sable. It shows off my hair.’
‘Jesus! All right, one sable.’
‘With a matching hat.’
‘And a matching Rolls-Royce?’
‘I haven’t had a Rolls,’ Anna said, ignoring the sarcasm, ‘since leaving Bally; the Germans went in for Mercs. Anyway, it wouldn’t do me much good, would it, if I’m not being allowed to take a driving test.’
He could never be sure when she was taking the mickey. He knew that she possessed a wicked Irish sense of humour, which presumably had been as necessary as a thick skin for someone in her profession, if she intended to remain sane. ‘Maybe, when you come back, we can sort something out.’
‘I’m glad you put it that way. I’ve always preferred the word ‘when’ to ‘if’.’
‘That’s what I want to talk about. What happens after you get to South America.’
‘Where I suddenly come alive again.’
‘Well, not too obviously. But we must expect that both the Russians and the Brits will pick up on the reappearance of the Countess von Widerstand.’
‘That prospect makes me very happy.’
‘We intend to look after you.’
‘How?’
‘How would you like to have a lover?’
Anna stuck out her tongue.
‘I’m serious. Someone like the Countess von Widerstand would have a lover. Don’t you think?’
‘And you are elected?’
‘Would that be so very repugnant to you?’
‘Joe, I don’t want to be rude, but when I am in bed with a man, I like it to be just him and me, with nothing on our minds but sex.’
‘I remember,’ he said fervently.
‘And believe it or not, despite my reputation, I have never tried three in a bed. And Lars Johannsson was rather a large man.’
‘So I have to carry that millstone round my neck for the rest of my life.’
‘We shall have to see how this turns out. But right now, it’s there.’
‘I’ll accept that. Actually, my new boss feels that I may be a bit past field work.’
‘I’d agree with him.’
‘Because I didn’t fire a shot? You told me not to fire until they actually got into the house. I had no idea you were going to take over on that scale.’
‘Taking over on that scale, as you put it, is the only way to survive that kind of situation. So if you’re not actually lining up for the job, who is?’
‘A guy called Jerry Smitten.’
‘You have got to be pulling my leg.’
‘Jerry is one of our very best men. I’m not going to claim that he’s in your league, but I can assure you that he’s in a higher league than any heavy likely to be thrown at you by either the MGB or MI6. And that includes Clive.’
‘Sounds like fun. What exactly is our relationship?’
‘Jerry has already been posted to Rio.’
‘Isn’t that a little bit obvious?’
‘Oh, he’s not one of us, officially. He’s with a real estate agency which we happen to control. You and he are going to meet, accidentally – it’s all arranged – and he will be, smitten.’
‘You are making my day. I hope he is reasonably attractive.’
‘The girls in the office say that he’s a knock-out.’
‘Which undoubtedly means that he’s an arrogant bastard. Why Rio? I thought the choice of location was to be mine?’
‘The department has opted for Rio. Their information is that you are more likely to make contact there.’
‘I see. How much will this Smitten character know about me?’
‘He’s been given the file to read.’
‘I see. And how will I actually know him, supposing I don’t swoon at the sight of him?’
‘The word is Georgia girl.’
‘Georgia girl. Sounds like a movie.’ She looked past him ‘Good morning, Commander Norstrum.’
‘And to you, Countess. I reckon Mr Andrews has had you long enough. And it’s time for lunch.’
Sisters
‘Countess!’ Eleanor Andrews held Anna’s hands.
‘Anna, please.’
‘And I’m Eleanor, remember?’ Like her son, she was tall, and somewhat angular, with a long face and pointed features. Anna supposed that she had never been beautiful, or even pretty, but she exuded a warmth that was irresistible. ‘How good to see you again. How long has it been?’
‘Getting on for five years,’ Anna said.
‘My! And do you know, you have not changed a bit.’
‘You always were a flatterer,’ Anna said.
‘I always tell the truth, you mean. Now, I have put you in the same room you had the last time you were here. I hope that will be all right?’
‘That will be perfect.’
Eleanor escorted her up the stairs. ‘Whatever happened to that pretty little maid of yours?’
‘I’m afraid she has moved on.’ Presumably to Hell.
‘Oh, well,’ Eleanor said sympathetically. ‘Nothing lasts forever. Here we are.’
Anna followed her into the room, went to the window to look out. ‘This place always makes me think of Heaven.’
The apartment in Berlin she had been given by the SD and which had eventually been bombed to rubble by the RAF, had been the last word in luxury, but had merely looked out on to the street and the buildings opposite. This place . . . she understood that the estate had shrunk considerably from the old Andrews’ holding, which before the Civil War had been surrounded for miles in every direction by cotton fields, but it still overlooked gardens, lawns and little woods, even if the roar of a freeway could be heard in the distance. No bomb had ever been dropped here, and while she supposed there might once have been the tramp of Union soldiers on the drive, that was over eighty years ago. The air was clean.
‘Well,’ Eleanor said. ‘You just make yourself at home and relax. I think Joseph would like a word.’
She left the room and was replaced by her son, who carried a small parcel. ‘Happy?’
‘I think I have been happier here than anywhere else in the world.’
‘Well, then, when this is done . . .’
Anna shook her head. ‘No, Joe. I have never been in the business of looking too far ahead; at least emotionally: it has always been too painful. Besides . . .’ She gave one of her roguish smiles. ‘Would you have me stand up the Smitten?’
He sighed. ‘OK, business.’ From his pocket he took a passport.
Anna opened it, slowly. ‘I already have a passport, remember?’
‘A British passport, in the name of Anna Fitzjohn.’
‘Which you felt should be replaced with a German one in my real name. This is not a German passport.’
‘Our superiors feel that you should have an American passport. If you get into trouble, we will find it easier to get you out, if you are an American citizen.’
‘I see.’ She turned a page. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. You can’t be serious.’
‘Don’t you like it? A photographer will be in today.’
‘Anna O’Flaherty? What refugee from the Keystone Cops dreamed that up?’
‘It’s a good old Irish name.’
‘And how do I stop myself from laughing every time I’m so addressed. Oh, all right. What next?’
‘The dressmakers will be in tomorrow morning. They work for us, and while they don’t know who you are or what you’re doing, they know that you require certain specialties.’
‘Do I?’
‘That howitzer of yours . . .’
‘I’m not giving up my Luger, Joe. Clive wanted me to do that when he installed me in that ‘safe’ house. If I’d gone along with that idea, we’d both be dead.’
‘Point accepted. All we want you to do is modify your approach. You carry the Luger in that shoulder bag that you’re never without, right? It’s too big and heavy to be carried anywhere else, save in a holster, and you have to agree that ladies simply don’t walk down the street, at least in this country in peace time, with a pistol holster on their belts. Now, normally, there wouldn’t be a problem, at least in this climate. All women carry bags. That yours is slightly larger than the average is your choice. But in Brazil, not only do people wear far less clothing but they don’t as a rule carry shoulder bags, except perhaps when shopping. There is also the point that these guys we are hoping are going to come out of the woodwork are people who know you and your methods, and will be keeping an eye out for that famous bag.’
‘I presume you are going to tell me what this is all about, some time before Christmas.’
‘We think you’d be better off with this.’
He held out the parcel. Anna took it, carefully unwrapped the paper, regarded the box inside with disfavour, as she had a pretty good idea what it contained. She released the catch and flipped up the lid, contemplated the little pistol, complete with its holster and attached to a thin leather belt, embedded in the setting with even more disfavour. ‘This is a Walther Polizei Pistole Kriminal.’
‘A PPK. Ten out of ten.’
‘It is intended for policemen on the beat.’
‘Again correct. Have you ever used one?’
‘The first two men I killed were with a Walther.’ The memory of that poor, agonized man running across the target range in front of her, knowing he was about to die just so that she could prove to her trainers that she could kill, would be with her to her grave, she knew. Just as the memory of poor Gottfried Friedmann sitting on her settee, with her arm round his shoulders, unaware that her pistol was within an inch of his ear and that he had been condemned to death by Heydrich for discovering too much about her was a recurring nightmare. ‘But the circumstances were unusual. It is not really lethal.’
