A Bitter Wind, page 4
“What does an American pilot have to do with wireless interception?” I asked.
“That concerns another aspect of our work,” Conan Doyle said. “It will save time if I show you tomorrow at the base. For right now, do you understand the basics of wireless interception?”
“Listening in to German frequencies,” I said. “From the little I know, it requires a knowledge of Morse code, the enemy’s language, and the network of frequencies they broadcast on.”
“Close enough,” Conan Doyle said. “Our people are trained in Morse code and become wireless telegraphy operators. The next step is plain-language intercepts for the radio telegraphy operators. Then the work moves into the intricacies of obtaining line bearings for use in direction-finding units, which is vital for guiding our bombers into Germany.”
“Diana, what’s your role?” I asked. I knew she spoke French as well as perfect Italian, but German wasn’t one of her languages. I caught Squadron Officer Conan Doyle’s nod in Diana’s direction, giving her permission to answer.
“My stated assignment is to monitor communications from Mussolini’s government in northern Italy,” she said. After the Italian Grand Council had ousted Benito Mussolini as the leader of fascist Italy, he’d been rescued by the Germans and set up in the town of Salò on Lake Garda. He ran a bit of northern Italy and had enough armed troops to be dangerous. But basically, the Nazis called the shots. It was officially the Italian Social Republic, but everyone referred to it as the republic of Salò, after its location. Sort of like Vichy France had been.
“Do they have anything worth listening to?” I asked.
“The Italian Social Republic, as they call it, has very little power,” Diana said. “But they do receive instructions from the Germans, and often pass those on to their formations in uncoded language. They also maintain communications with Hungary, the German puppet state in Croatia, and commercial concerns in Switzerland.”
“We often pick up information from careless talk,” Conan Doyle said. “Except from the transmissions to Switzerland. They’re careful when it comes to their Swiss bank accounts.”
“The Swiss have low standards when it comes to bank customers,” I said. No standards at all, really, if they could make a dime or two. “Diana, you described this as your stated assignment. So what’s the real deal?” Diana looked to Conan Doyle, an unspoken question passing between them.
“We’ve had some concerns about other areas of our work,” Conan Doyle answered. “I asked the Air Ministry for a new staff member well versed in Italian and intelligent enough to assess our security. Undercover work of a sort, you see. Somehow that got to Sir Richard, and he telephoned me the same day. I took his suggestion with a grain of salt, accounting for fatherly pride. But when I checked in with Vera Atkins, she spoke quite highly of Diana. She referred to you as well, Captain Boyle, in a not entirely unsatisfactory manner.”
Vera Atkins headed the SOE’s French Section. We got along okay, and she was fiercely loyal to the women who worked for her. Those who survived and those who died. Diana had nearly joined the latter group during a recent mission, and I wondered if Vera had given her this post to keep her from another run-in with the Gestapo. The same went for Sir Richard, who knew what strings to pull when it came to navigating the various British intelligence services. We’d both been concerned about what the SOE might dream up next for Diana, and working at an RAF base seemed a safe bet.
Except for a murderer on the loose.
“Okay, I get the playbook,” I said. “What security breaches is Diana looking into?”
“Missing documents, for the most part,” Conan Doyle said.
“Wiring diagrams, similar to what you found on the body,” Diana said. “Along with a few pieces of hardware. It may all just add up to things getting lost or misplaced. I haven’t found anything suspicious, not yet. But I’ve only been at it a few days. So obviously, this killing and what you found on the body are worrisome.”
“All right. I look forward to learning what Jostle and Jackal are all about, but right now we should get over to Doctor Yates and see what he’s come up with,” I said.
“I’m sure by now word of your involvement has spread far and wide,” Conan Doyle said as she gathered her papers and stood. “Our position is that you are assisting the local authorities given the victim was American, but we are saying nothing further. When you are finished with the coroner, come see me at the base. Quarters have been arranged for you, Captain Boyle. Good luck.”
“Let’s go, boss,” I said to Diana as we got into the jeep.
“Behave yourself, Billy, or I’ll tell Jean you prefer Agatha Christie to her father,” she said.
Lieutenant Walters had waited to lead us to the coroner, while the rest of the escort went off with the squadron officer. He started up his BSA M20 motorcycle and we followed. It was cold, even under the canvas top, and getting colder as the sun neared the horizon.
“I’ll be good as long as we get some food,” I said as we threaded our way through the narrow streets.
“I’m hungry as well,” Diana answered. “I just hope I still am after the autopsy.”
Lieutenant Walters led us down a side road, past a post office, and pulled over in front of the doctor’s surgery. It was a small two-story house of solid brick with a sign pointing to a side door. Walters said he’d make sure the guards at the gate knew to expect me and roared off on his motorcycle. We were close to the Channel and the chill wind whipped against our coats, the tang of salt spray in the air.
I knocked at the door and entered. The waiting room was empty, but the door to the right was partly open. Doctor Yates, dressed in a lab coat that once was white, stepped halfway into the room and beckoned us to enter.
“Sallow told me to expect you both,” Yates said. “If either of you are queasy around the dead, you may wait out here.”
“Not necessary, Doctor,” I said as we followed him into the small room that served as a temporary morgue. I was relieved to see a sheet covering Brockman. There was no sign of internal organs having been pulled out or his last meal set out in a bowl.
“Thank you for attending to this so quickly, Doctor Yates,” Diana said. I could tell she liked that he’d addressed both of us with his warning and made no remarks about delicate female constitutions.
“Slow day for sickness makes a good day for the dead,” Yates said as we gathered around the table. “His clothing and effects are on the counter behind you.”
“Let’s start with what you found,” I said. “Anything unusual?”
“There are no wounds or marks upon the body other than the one at the base of his skull,” Yates said. He pulled the sheet back and revealed Brockman’s head and shoulders. “Which was sufficient to kill him, and quickly, at that.”
The doctor turned Brockman’s head to show where he’d been struck. Low and behind the right ear. Bone jutted out from torn and heavily bruised skin.
“Was death instantaneous?” Diana asked. She leaned in to study the wound, then straightened up, shaking her head.
“Unconsciousness, certainly,” Yates said. “Death would have followed within minutes. He suffered a severe basilar skull fracture. The force of impact drove bone fragments into his brain, disturbing the vital functioning of the midbrain and the brain stem.”
“Someone knew right where to hit him, then?” I asked.
“Perhaps. Or it may have had more to do with being struck from behind,” the doctor said. “His assailant might have wished to stun him, but swinging a heavy object from behind, if they were of roughly equal stature, would cause the blow to land there. A right-handed fellow, I’d venture to guess.”
“Not a woman?” Diana asked.
“It would be unusual, but not impossible,” Yates granted her. “A blow struck in anger might suffice, given the weight of the object.”
“Any notion as to what kind of object?” I asked.
“Nothing very specific. Possibly blunt and rounded. There is no cut to the skin to suggest an edged weapon. I did find something in the wound, though,” Yates said as he reached for a slip of paper. It held a smear of blood and a fleck of a yellowish substance. “Grease. It’s likely the murder weapon had a trace of grease on it.”
“It’s not blackened,” I said. “Recently applied, maybe?”
“I’ll leave that to you, Captain,” Yates said. “All I can do is report what I’ve found. There was also a bit of that grease under his thumbnail. Right hand.”
Diana lifted the hand and we both squinted at the specks under Brockman’s fingernail.
“You took a sample?” Diana asked.
“Of course,” the doctor said. “It will all be in my report.”
“I can see it matches the sample you took from the wound, Doctor. Brockman must have handled the weapon before it was used on him,” I said.
“That is one interpretation,” Yates said. He pulled the sheet back over Brockman’s face. “Or he could have encountered a different object with grease on it earlier in the day.”
“Both the victim and the killer could have done that,” Diana offered. “And transferred grease onto the weapon.”
“Ah, Captain Seaton, you understand how a coroner thinks,” Yates said with a smile. “We are often called upon to conjecture when all we can do is state the facts in front of us. There is evidence of grease in two locations upon the corpse. That is certain. How they came to be there? That is not certain, and it is up to those with detecting skills to discover.”
“I’ve heard this speech before, back in Boston,” I said. “And right you are.”
“Constable Sallow said you were a policeman before the war, so I thought the coroner’s lament would make you feel at home. Go through his belongings while I clean up, why don’t you?” Yates said.
There really wasn’t much. Dog tags that gave his serial number, hometown, religion, and blood type. Lansing, Michigan. Jewish. O-positive. An army-issue watch. A thin billfold with some pound notes and the stub of a theater ticket. A lot of guys didn’t carry much in the way of a civilian wallet. Personal items weren’t supposed to go on missions, and leaving a stuffed wallet behind was an invitation to pilfering. Maybe we’d find something more personal in his footlocker.
“No train ticket, Billy,” Diana said, after turning out all the pockets.
“Let’s hope Sallow came up with something at the train station,” I said. “We don’t even know where Major Brockman was stationed, do we?”
“No. I asked Jean, and she told me to go ahead and see what we could find out and that she’ll tell us tomorrow,” Diana said.
“Is she always so secretive?” I asked.
“It’s a way of life in the intelligence service, isn’t it? You learn to keep things close until they must be shared,” she said.
“Like Major Brockman and his top secret diagrams? He kept them close to his chest and look what happened to him.”
We left the shrouded body behind. As we stepped outside, we faced the setting sun and harsh winds rising from the cliffs. The sky was streaked with color, and I wondered if Brockman had seen the sunset last night. His last, not that he ever could have known.
What do we ever know about the future? All I knew right then was how Diana’s hand felt in mine. Warm with life.
Chapter Seven
AS WE DROVE up Dover Hill Road, we spotted a pub with a grand view of the Channel and decided it was as good a place as any to eat. The Valiant Sailor overlooked a gun emplacement on the cliffs, where cannons still guarded the approaches to southeastern England. Calais, across the water in France, was only thirty miles distant. At the start of the war, the threat of invasion hung over Britain, especially along this vulnerable coastline. The Germans used their big guns to shell the area, forcing the evacuation of thousands from their homes. As Ruxton said, people were only now making their way back, those whose homes hadn’t been destroyed.
We picked up our pints of ale at the bar and made our way through the locals, RAF personnel, and a few army types engaged in a darts match.
“Cheers,” I said as soon as we settled at a table near the fireplace. We clinked glasses and drank, the ale refreshing and cool. Diana smacked her lips, and we laughed at the unladylike noise. It was nice to be doing something, anything, normal after this day’s events.
“Dead bodies aside, how’s the new posting?” I asked Diana.
“It’s interesting,” she said as she set down her glass. “Jean is smart as a whip, and it’s fascinating to work with the other girls.”
“They all speak German?” I asked, my voice a whisper.
“Not here,” Diana said. “Nothing about what we do is spoken about outside the base. You’ll get the tour tomorrow and it all will be explained. But I can say it’s a bit strange coming in with this rank. The others are mostly sergeants, so they were a bit standoffish at first.”
“It’s better now?”
“Much. I told them to chalk it up to military incompetence,” Diana said. “They all understood that well enough after years in uniform. Then I let it drop that I was engaged and I wouldn’t be competition for them when it came to all the handsome pilots hanging about.”
“Engaged?”
“Oh, Billy, you should see your face!” Diana covered her mouth to smother a laugh. “Sorry. It was just a story. I overheard one of them saying I’d have my pick of Yank officers, so I commented an hour later on my daring and handsome fiancé. He’s a fighter pilot. How am I ever going to explain you? A jilted suitor, perhaps?”
“You are enjoying this way too much,” I said. “I hope it at least worked.”
“Like a charm. We’re businesslike on duty, but afterward we’re on a first-name basis,” Diana said. “I even gave up my assigned bunk so one of the girls could move in with a friend after Sergeant Miller left us. That endeared me to the remaining holdouts, even though it left me with the coldest room in the barracks.”
“Sounds like someone got transferred out,” I said, then took a drink. “Or did she marry a fighter pilot?”
“Very droll, Billy. No, from the gossip I heard, she was caught in the men’s barracks. According to the girls, it was only the first time she was caught. Her punishment was exile to a small listening post in a windmill on a bluff east of here. Beautiful view, but isolated, with few distractions for fun-loving types.”
“Bad news for her. But you’re an officer,” I said. “Don’t you have privileges?”
“Only for my fiancé, dearest,” Diana said. She shot me a wink as our rabbit pies were brought to the table. I felt as finely fricasseed as the hare before me swimming in gravy, onions, and carrots.
I AWOKE WITH a start in a dark room, a deepening noise drumming in my head. Where was I? I swung out of my bed and rubbed my eyes as the thrumming grew louder.
“Relax, old chap,” Jack Walters said from the other side of the room. “It’s the Lancs coming back from Hanover. Or what’s left of it.”
Right. I was at the air base, bunking with Lieutenant Walters. Those were Lancasters, the big British four-engine bombers returning from a raid. I glanced at the luminous dial on my watch. Three fifteen.
“How much longer?” I asked as the first bomber roared overhead.
“A couple of hours,” Walters said. “The squadron put up forty for this raid. They’ll be coming back in small groups. Don’t worry, you get used to it.”
I didn’t plan to be around long enough to get used to this racket. I smashed the lumpy pillow over my head to drown out the incessant rattling of the glass. It didn’t work. I got up and walked to the window, the wooden floor cold beneath my bare feet. The barracks, a long three-story brick building like much of the base architecture, had a view of the main runway. I pushed back the curtain and watched the procession of Lancasters coming in low and slow, lights on, all four Rolls-Royce Merlin engines snarling.
Three Lancs taxied to hangars in the distance. The low, wide, arched roofs were eerily illuminated by dull lights within. A fourth bomber lumbered toward the runway, losing altitude quickly as flames trailed from one engine. A red flare was fired from the aircraft, a signal that there were wounded aboard, and that the plane was badly shot up. One wingtip lowered and the bomber wobbled as the pilot tried to keep his approach straight on the runway.
I gripped the windowsill, hardly able to breathe as the drama played out before me. Ambulances and a fire truck raced along the road, red lights flashing. The bomber hit hard, bounced, then slewed as one of the wheels collapsed, the left wing scraping the runway until the plane finally ground to a halt. Emergency vehicles surrounded it, floodlights illuminating the smoking wreck.
I could see the figures scrambling out of the damaged bomber. A fire truck sprayed water on the flames spreading along the port wing. Two stretchers carried the wounded to waiting ambulances. It was strange watching this drama play out in the distance, knowing the terror and pain both the aircrew and ground crew must’ve been feeling while I stood in my skivvies, a soft bed within easy reach.
“You don’t really get used to it,” Walters said. He appeared next to me at the window and stared at the scene outside. “Not ever.”
“No, you don’t,” I said, and closed the curtain. It was probably the same in the air, waiting at the base, at sea, or in a foxhole. You might tell yourself a story about how it all rolls off your back, but the weight of it never leaves you.
I was curious and wanted to know why this squadron had come back in dribs and drabs. Flying in squadron formation was important for maintaining maximum defensive fire, and it seemed odd that the forty aircraft deliberately returned in small groups. But this wasn’t the time for curiosity. I went back to the sack and wondered why someone in England had ended Brockman’s life when so many Germans were ready and waiting for their chance.
• • •
