Collaborator, p.41
Collaborator, page 41
‘What time was this?’
‘As soon as I opened, at eight this morning.’
‘What’s the van’s registration number?’
‘KWO 96.’ Charlies shrugged in embarrassment. ‘Look, Mr Potticary, I didn’t know he was a wrong ‘un. I’ll tell you what, though, I don’t reckon that van will get as far as London. Proper knackered, it is.’
‘For your sake, Charlie, you’d better pray it doesn’t get there.’
Matty Cordington stood outside the only green phone box in London, listening to martial music blaring from the loudspeaker on the lamp post nearby. Two Feldgendarmerie were eyeing him suspiciously. Security was tight on the Victoria Embankment, less than half a mile from the cordon now encircling Westminster Abbey. Matty stole a glance at his watch - his call was due in three minutes. Mills had drummed into him the dangers of arriving early for a rendezvous, but Matty had ignored that in his haste - and now could have paid the price.
The Germans stepped over to him. ‘Papers.’
Matty pulled out a single folded sheet of heavy paper and opened it up in front of them.
‘Go away,’ he said coldly.
The two Germans paled. Matty smiled at their retreating backs, congratulating himself on having ensured he was untouchable. It hadn’t been easy . . .
The first-class restaurant car stood by itself alongside an inspection platform in the furthest reaches of the vast marshalling yard outside Southampton docks, a soft light shining through its curtained windows. Nearby an imposing 4-6-0 King class locomotive was taking on water, wisps of steam rising from its funnel to disappear in the night air. In the distance, under a battery of arc lamps, busy little shunting engines were fussing to put together a long train of empty trucks for return to the mines in South Wales; their previous load of steam coal already on its way to the Ruhr. Matty Cordington climbed out of his shooting brake, stiff after the long drive. He heard the clunk of buffer on buffer and smelt the salt tang of the sea in the damp wind before stepping into the warmth.
‘You are late.’ Professor Dr Six picked his teeth with the nail of his little finger.
‘I was held up at a Militia checkpoint.’
Dr Six pointed to the seat opposite him, as a white-coated steward stepped forward to take away the remains of a pork chop.
‘Well, where exactly is this Resistance meeting being held?’ Six poured the last of a bottle of Julienas into his glass and snapped his fingers for another.
‘I don’t know yet. As I’ve told you, Mills is not going to reveal the location of the safe house until the day itself.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I promise you that it’s true. You know how obsessive Mills is about security. He’s going to tell only a handful of escort officers literally hours before the conference. The officers will then meet each Resistance leader individually as he arrives in London, make sure no-one’s being tailed by the Gestapo, then take each one to the safe house. I’m one of those escort officers. I’ll call you as soon as all the leaders are safely inside.’
‘No, you will tell me as soon as you know where the meeting’s being held. Fetch him a glass,’ Six instructed the steward, who brought the new bottle of Julienas.
‘How am I going to phone you without arousing suspicion? Others will be watching us all the time. That’s the whole point of the operation.’ Matty Cordington leaned forward into the pool of light cast by the table lamp. ‘Even if I could slip away to call you, you still wouldn’t know when all they were all assembled. And don’t even think of trying to put the safe house itself under surveillance. Mills is so paranoid about security, he’ll have teams of watchers and look-outs all around. I swear he has a nose for the Gestapo, and at the slightest hint of something wrong, he’ll call the whole thing off.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Remember, their meeting will go on all evening, maybe all night. You’ll have all the time you need.’
‘And how do you propose to tell us they’re all assembled?’
‘It’ll be no problem at that stage. I’ll volunteer to go out on look-out patrol. That way I can easily duck away and contact you.’
Six weighed up the proposal. ‘I still don’t know . . .’
‘It has to be done my way, or it won’t work.’ Matty Cordington insisted. ‘And I want some kind of special pass to get me through the London checkpoints.’
‘I rather assumed the Resistance would give you a forged pass,’ said Six sarcastically.
‘And what if one of your men spots it as a forgery? If I get arrested then, that’s the end of the whole operation.’ He took a large gulp of wine. ‘You were the one who told me how success in intelligence work comes from an obsession with detail. I’m just trying to think of everything that could go wrong.’
‘Let me worry about things like that.’
‘You don't know what it’s like out there,’ exclaimed the Englishman, raising his voice. ‘Every time I come upon a checkpoint, I worry about being arrested and questioned, especially by those Militia thugs. Look at this.’ He pointed to a purple bruise on his forehead. ‘This came from a Militia gun butt, and where were you then? It would be ironic if I was arrested by your colleagues in London as I was going to meet a resistance leader.’
‘I’ll give you a pass,’ reassured Six. ‘One that will get you everywhere.’
‘Once I’ve made that phone call, that’s it, you understand?’
‘Of course. Just phone us with that address and then use your pass to get through the inner cordon to my office in Great Scotland Yard,’ replied Six smoothly.
He rose to head down the dining car, to where a Gestapo officer sat behind a typewriter. Six dictated a short order, then signed it with a flourish. He handed the sheet of heavy embossed paper to Cordington.
‘Here, direct from the office of the SS Oberführer des Reichsicherheitshauptamt England. If anyone challenges you, show them this.’
‘And you’re sure this will get me everywhere?’
‘This will even get you into Westminster Abbey, if you want to watch the Coronation.’
Matty remembered Six’s words as a laughing party of high-ranking Luftwaffe officers appeared from the river entrance of the Savoy Hotel, all clutching their Coronation invitations. He checked his watch and slipped into the telephone box.
He was staring down at the receiver, willing it to ring when the door opened behind him and he felt a tap on his shoulder. Matty nearly leapt in the air.
‘Glad you could make it,’ said Mills.
‘I was expecting you to phone,’ gasped Matty.
‘I came in person. Follow me.’ Mills led the way across the Embankment to Cleopatra’s Needle. ‘There’s something very strange going on,’ he said to Matty. ‘The Germans have set up road blocks all around London, hunting for a young couple.’
‘Is that going to affect our plans?’
‘Inevitably, but I hope we’ve built in enough time to allow everyone to assemble before the end of the coronation.’ Mills halted alongside a Thames pleasure steamer, decorated from bow to stern in swastika flags. ‘The Maidstone Castle.’
‘This is the meeting place?’ exclaimed Matty. ‘I was expecting it to be somewhere miles away.’
‘That’s the point,’ smiled Mills. ‘We’ll be setting off downstream as soon as everyone’s on board.’
‘Brilliant.’
Mills, who Matty now noticed was wearing a naval uniform under his raincoat, marched straight up the gang plank, past a sign Nur für ranghöre Offiziere der Kriegsmarine - Only for senior officers of the German Navy. Two sentries in sailors’ uniform saluted him briskly.
Down in the saloon, Mills handed Matty a timetable detailing the arrival of each of his Resistance leaders. His first rendezvous was due with the Welsh Valleys leader Brynmor Powell at Paddington station; the last would be with Hereward at Waterloo.
‘I’ve been hearing stories of a pitched battle and massacre at Merricombe,’ said Matty. ‘It happened after I’d left, and I know Hereward survived but is Nick Penny all right?’
‘Absolutely. He was responsible for the deaths of all those Militiamen,’ said Mills. ‘I’ll tell you more later, but now I need you to speak to another old friend.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Coral Kennedy’s due to call that same phone box where I met you at ten minutes past twelve, to confirm that Frisch has left the country safely. Maybe Penny will be with her.’
Matty Cordington hurried back to the phone as Mills prepared to intercept the next briefing officer. Matty looked forward to speaking to Coral, perhaps Nick would be with her - but the phone remained silent. At twelve minutes past twelve Matty even lifted the receiver, to make sure it was still working.
By 12.20 Matty was wondering anxiously what to do. If he stayed much longer he would be late in meeting Powell’s train. His dilemma was solved by a man tapping on the glass.
‘Message from Mills,’ said the stranger. ‘Don’t wait any longer. The Germans have cut all phone lines into London.’
‘We’re going to have to find a phone box soon,’ urged Angel. ‘Mills is expecting a call from me at exactly ten past twelve. The news will be a terrible shock to him. Mills really liked Matty.’
‘And you’ll find out where this meeting’s going to be held?’
‘I know that already.’
‘But you told me Mills wasn’t going to announce the safe house until this morning.’
Angel grinned. ‘That’s what Matty, and everyone else, believes. In fact, Mills and I selected the place a month ago.’
‘Why did you lie to me?’
‘What would have happened if we’d been captured and tortured?’
‘You think I’ll talk and you wouldn’t?’
Angel scooped a small pendant on a silver chain from under her blouse. The front of the locket opened to reveal a rubber coated capsule. ‘Cyanide,’ she explained briefly, closing the locket. ‘Now you see why I didn’t tell you.’
I placed my hand over hers and squeezed.
‘One day, Nick, this will all be over.’
‘Do you think we’ll be together then?’
‘That’ll be nice,’ she murmured. ‘Although I’m never going to trust you to buy a car by yourself again.’
I opened my mouth to reply when, from nowhere, a big Armstrong-Siddeley suddenly filled the rear view mirror.
‘Get down out of sight,’ I hissed at Angel.
There was only one sort of person who drove such a vehicle - Gestapo. The car roared up behind us, then slowed to stay on our tail. I was getting really nervous as it pulled out and accelerated to drive alongside us. I held my breath as the men inside it gave me the evil eye. Then the driver put his foot down and off they sped.
Slowly Angel rose from the floor.
A mile or two on, I stopped at a telephone box at a country crossroads. Angel hurried over, clutching a handful of coppers and threepenny bits. She piled up the coins, lifted the receiver and began speaking to the operator. A frown grew on her face. By the time she returned to the van, she was looking very worried.
‘All the lines to London are down,’ she announced.
‘Did they say when they’ll be working again?’
‘No, all she said was, “It’s not up to us”.’
‘Have the Germans cut the lines?’
‘I don’t know but we’re going to have to get up to London to warn Mills now.’ Her brow furrowed in thought. ‘The first arrivals are due around one o’clock, and the last of them around three. We’ve just got to get there by then. If we’re forced to split up, make for a steamer called The Maidstone Castle moored near Cleopatra’s Needle.’
‘Is that where they’re meeting?’
‘Yes.’
I was just about to pull away, my foot lifting off the clutch, when the same black Armstrong-Siddeley came hurtling back around a bend towards us. At the last minute it slewed sidewards to block the road ahead.
‘Shit!’
There were still the side roads so I heaved the steering wheel around and bumped over the grass verge to swing into the lane leading off on our left.
‘Why did they come back?’
I concentrated on coaxing every last bit of power from the clapped-out old Ford. We could not hope to win a race with the Armstrong-Siddeley but if I could just get sufficiently ahead for a moment, I hoped I might be able to lose them in the cobweb of lanes.
Some hope. The big saloon had closed up on us before I reached the first bend.
The Armstrong-Siddeley rammed us, sending our frail vehicle careering across the lane and almost into the ditch on the other side. The lane was growing narrower between tall hedges, scarcely wide enough to allow two cars to pass.
Angel worked free her pistol and slid down her side window.
The black saloon rammed us again.
The lane ahead swung sharply to the left.
‘I’ll get a shot at them as we take the bend,’ gasped Angel.
‘No, don’t let them know we’re armed. See that gateway into that field ahead - I’ll try to get us in there. Hang on tight. Here we go.’
I hit the brake and wrenched the wheel round. The van clipped the gatepost, then we were bouncing across the field. We leapt out and ran back towards the gateway. The saloon had overshot the opening. The driver was reversing back, tyres spinning on the mud in the lane.
‘I’ll take the driver,’ said Angel as we crouched ready behind the wall, guns poised.
The black car leapt forward into the field and stuck fast in the narrow gateway. Angel and I rose.
The windscreen exploded as Angel’s first round struck. She fired again.
I approached within six feet of the Germans’ car and pulled the trigger again and again. By the time we’d finished, the stench of cordite hung in the air and in the front of the Armstrong-Siddeley sprawled the bodies of two very dead Gestapo men.
‘This is Mrs Harper, Standartenführer,’ introduced Abetz.
‘I think they’ve gone for good, sir,’ said Mrs Harper.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Mrs Pendleton’s wedding photograph has gone, sir.’
‘You saw them leaving this morning?’
‘I noticed a grey car parked outside their house real early. A man carried a big suitcase out to the car, then returned to help Joan lead out the old woman. She’s very frail now.’
‘Did you recognize this man?’
‘I’ve never seen him before, sir.’
Abetz cleared his throat. ‘We’ve checked, and the mother’s not in any of the hospitals or nursing homes.’
‘Any idea where they could have gone?’ Stolz turned back to Mrs Harper.
‘They’re not a large family. Mrs Penny’s got an older brother in Swanage but he’s not been well for years. The only other relative I know of is Joan’s late husband’s sister in Wales - near a place called Machynlleth.’
‘How do you know about her?’
‘She came to stay with them just before the war. Gave herself airs and graces, I can tell you. But the whole family’s like that.’
‘Do you know her address?’
‘No, sir. But she’s never married. There can’t be many Pendletons in that part of Wales. She’s probably in the phone book.’
‘What the hell aroused their suspicions?’ I drove away, grasping the steering wheel tight so that my hands did not shake.
‘The Gestapo car had a wireless aerial. They must have picked up a message about us.’
The engine coughed, spluttered and died for a second.
‘What now?’ wailed Angel.
My eyes scanned the instrument panel. ‘We’re out of petrol. They must have holed the tank when they rammed us back there.’
We were approaching a village green with a large pub in need of a coat of paint at one end. The engine finally expired. I coasted to the side of the pub. We sat in silence for a moment.
‘Who’s going to have a car to sell us around here - wherever here is?’
‘I don’t know, but this pub’s as good a place as any to find out. Come on.’
Just then we heard the bell of a police car approaching. A second later it flashed past, heading the way we had come. If the Armstrong-Siddeley - and its dead occupants - had already been discovered, then all hell was about to break loose. We had to get away from the area.
The publican’s name was Stanley Alfred Onions - or that’s what it said above the pub’s locked door. I knocked a few times with no reply, then we walked around to the backyard where a washing line of sheets partly masked a large greenhouse. Chickens clucked around our feet in protest.
‘Hello,’ called out Angel. Through the open back door we could see a scrapbook and a pile of photographs lying on the kitchen table.
A severe-looking woman with steel-grey hair swept back into a bun appeared.
‘Mrs Onions?’
‘What do you want?’ she snapped.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ began Angel.
‘We’re closed.’ Mrs Onions folded her arms.
‘We were wondering if you knew anyone around here with a car or van to sell,’ continued Angel. ‘We need to . . .’
‘I don’t want to know.’ She went to close the door.
‘Are you the slightest bit of a patriot?’ whispered Angel fiercely.
Mrs Onions halted. ‘I’m a true Englishwoman if that’s what you mean.’
‘Then you’ll help another Englishwoman being pursued by the Gestapo.’
‘For the love of God, why didn’t you say so? Come in. Come in.’
I decided it was better if the van was not visible from the road so went off to push it round the back next to the greenhouse. I returned to find Angel holding the scrapbook.
‘Mrs Onions’ elder son is serving on HMS Hood,’ she announced.
‘The Pride of the Navy,’ the older woman proclaimed. ‘Here’s a photo of him and his shipmates being inspected by His Majesty the King. The real king, not that thing in London. The news from Canada last night said there’s been a big naval battle off Iceland. Our lads have sunk the German heavy cruisers Hipper and Sheer, and the French battleship Clemenceau. Other German warships are badly damaged. They’ve taken a real beating.’
