Redfalcon, page 3
‘You might say,’ Stannix suggested, ‘that this assignment gives you the chance to finally mop them up for good.’
I sat back and drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair, all too aware of the heavy responsibility I was taking on. ‘Look, all that stuff you’ve read about me makes me sound a lot more capable than I am. I had allies back in those days: Peter Pienaar, Sandy Clanroyden, Blenkiron – all of them gone now.’
‘Of course I don’t expect you to take on all this by yourself. I’ve already activated your team.’
I gave him a quizzical stare, wondering who on earth he could be talking about. ‘My team? I’m afraid I don’t follow you. What team is that?’
‘Why, those Scottish chaps, of course.’
‘You mean the Gorbals Die-Hards?’
‘If that’s what they call themselves, yes. Two of them are already on Malta ready to support you when you get there. The other two will catch up with you as soon as they can.’
Those four young men had their origins in the rougher parts of Glasgow, but they had been adopted by a retired grocer named McCunn who had financed their education and set them on course for a future that would otherwise have been denied them. They had done courageous service during the affair of the thirty-one kings and had actually saved me from a watery grave. I felt faintly encouraged to know that I would have them by my side, though it was news to me that those in Stannix’s circle regarded them as my team.
‘Until they show up,’ I said, ‘I had better get on the trail right away. You say that this Professor Owen is a don at Oxford. Is that where I’ll find him?’
‘Not any more. He retired some years ago to pursue his own private research. He’s been in a wheelchair for the past three years following a dreadful fall while climbing in the Alps. He has a cottage in the village of Chaffly Fields in Devon where he lives with his housekeeper. Here’s the address.’
He slid a slip of paper towards me. I gave it a quick glance and placed it in my pocket. ‘I’ll take a train first thing in the morning.’
Rather than hail a cab or take the Tube, I decided that a long walk home would give me time to absorb all the information I had received from Stannix and contemplate what lay ahead. In a world where anyone’s days might be numbered, the fact that this mission might take me to Malta and give me the chance to embrace my son once more was all the encouragement I needed to see the matter through.
I remembered how my heart had lurched when we were informed that Peter John’s Spitfire had been brought down over Kent by a Messerschmitt 109. Crash-landing in a ploughed field, he had mercifully survived with only a broken leg and a fractured wrist.
When I visited him in hospital he gave me a crooked grin and brandished a tattered copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress. It had been bequeathed to me by my old South African friend Peter Pienar, who was also a pilot, and after whom we had named our son. The book had brought me luck during my dangerous journey through France, and I had passed it on to Peter John in the hope that it would bring him the same good fortune.
‘I’m pretty sure you’re right about the luck, Dad,’ he said. ‘The fact that I had this little volume stuffed inside my flying jacket kept my ribs from snapping. All praise to good old John Bunyan!’
‘It’s a fine book,’ I said, sitting on the bedside and clapping him affectionately on the shoulder.
‘To be perfectly honest, I haven’t read a word of it,’ he confessed. ‘I just like to have it with me because it makes me feel as if you and old Peter are right at my side when I’m up there.’
As soon as he had recovered from his injuries, Peter John was back in the air, helping to complete the task of thwarting Hitler’s plans for invasion. Now he and his comrades were in Malta, defending that island with the same dedication and courage they had displayed in the skies over England.
Such were my reflections as I walked down the blacked-out streets, thick clouds shrouding the stars as though they were playing their own part in concealing the great city against aerial attack. I had left behind those areas where clubs, cinemas and public houses drew people in to well-lit interiors where they could dance and revel and forget for a while the ghastliness and austerity of the war. The streets I now found myself on were lined with shuttered businesses and banks, so there was little reason for anyone to be abroad in these parts.
There was a low hum of traffic in the distance and the occasional car rumbled past me, its headlights hooded in accordance with the blackout regulations. Yet I had gradually become aware of steady, cautious footsteps some distance behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I could detect no movement in the all-pervading gloom, but whenever I paused in my stride, those far-off footfalls also came to a halt, waiting for me to resume. I was left in no doubt whatsoever that someone was following me.
4
FOOTSTEPS IN THE DARK
Whoever was trailing me surely meant me no good and I was not prepared to be followed all the way to my own doorstep, wondering when the unseen stranger intended to strike. I determined to take the initiative. Quickening my pace, I rounded a corner and drew myself tightly into the concealment of an estate agent’s doorway, gambling that my pursuer, fearing he had lost contact with me, would hurry to catch up. All I required of him was one moment of carelessness when I might pounce from my hiding place and force him to give an account of himself.
Minutes passed in such silence that I could hear clearly the ticking of my watch, but there was no resumption of the pursuing footsteps. I finally decided that the mysterious stranger had abandoned the hunt and that there was no further purpose in my concealment. The rest of the way home I continued to keep a sharp ear open, but heard nothing more.
Had it just been my imagination? No, my instincts in matters of hunt and pursuit had always been sound. I was quite certain that I had been followed, but for some reason my shadow had now melted back into the darkness and dogged me no longer.
When I got home to our house in Great Charles Street and let myself in, I expected to find the place cold and deserted. Instead I spotted a light filtering into the hallway from the open door of the sitting room. I was immediately on alert, for our housekeeper Mrs Broyles would be long gone, and I was still keyed up over those mysterious footsteps.
I slipped through the doorway and saw a figure seated in the large armchair by the fireplace, an elbow resting on the leather arm, chin cupped in a small palm. My apprehension was replaced at once by a leap of delight, for it was Mary, her eyes closed in slumber. The gentle touch of the lamplight seemed to melt the years away and I saw her again as I had first spied her in the garden of Fosse House.
She was a young girl then in the blue dress and apron of the VAD – the Voluntary Aid Detachment – with the white cap perched upon her hair of spun gold setting off the most beautiful face I had ever beheld. I soon learned that, in addition to her medical duties, she was also a trusted agent of military intelligence and was to act as my contact. I believe I loved her from that very first meeting, though it was only after many adventures that we were finally united for good.
Though my movements were silent, her eyes opened at my approach and a smile touched her lips. ‘Dick! I was wondering if you would ever get home.’
I bent down and kissed her. ‘If I’d known you were here, I would have run all the way. I wasn’t expecting you for at least another week.’
‘Well, we just got back from the Highlands, where the girls were going through commando training,’ Mary explained. ‘Learning how to operate in rough country, living off the land, and how to handle weapons and explosives.’
I gave a low whistle. ‘How are they taking to it?’
‘Better than you might think, especially considering the instructors include some rough types. I’m quite sure one or two of them are jailbirds. Once we got back to Foxton, I insisted everyone get at least one day off before moving on to the next stage of their training. That’s going to be how to withstand interrogation, so they definitely deserve a break. When I left they’d cracked open a bottle of gin and put on some jazz records.’
I sat down on the arm of the chair and took her hand. ‘There are people who would be outraged if they knew we were training women to be saboteurs and assassins.’
‘When we started recruiting, I can assure you that we found no shortage of volunteers ready to risk their lives.’ Mary frowned and rubbed her temple as though to soothe away the beginnings of a headache. ‘This next week will be especially hard on them. They have to learn to stick to their cover stories, even when deprived of sleep, drugged, threatened or beaten. If they can keep up a convincing show of innocence it might just save their necks. One mistake, on the other hand, could mean a prison camp or worse.’
‘It seems to me,’ I said, ‘that you need a break just as much as your girls do.’
Mary nodded sleepily. ‘I’ve got twenty-four hours to myself before I take the train back to Norfolk. Do you suppose we could go on a picnic or something tomorrow and forget about the war for a little while?’
I felt a tug in my gut at having to disappoint her. ‘I’m afraid not.’ I laid her hand down in her lap and stood up. ‘I’ve just come from the British Museum of all places, where I had a meeting with a chap named Stannix, who’s pretty high up in the intelligence community. He has a job for me that I have to start on first thing.’
Mary leaned back in her chair and sighed. ‘Does it always have to be you, Dick?’
‘In this case it does,’ I said. ‘You see, there’s a chance the fate of Malta might be at stake.’
At this she sat up abruptly, all trace of fatigue instantly banished. ‘Tell me about it.’
I gave her the details of my discussion with Stannix and she listened closely, as though receiving an agent’s debriefing. When I was done, she stood and nodded emphatically.
‘You have to go, of course. No matter how much of a long shot it might be, anything that might help Peter John get home safely is worth the chance.’
I placed my hands lightly upon her shoulders and drew her near. ‘Once this business starts rolling, you know, there’s no telling where it will lead or how long it will take.’
Mary touched a finger to my lips and spoke softly in my ear. ‘No more talking shop. Let’s go to bed and pretend that tomorrow we’re taking a boat to see the swans at Henley.’
The early train to Devon left little time for me to enjoy any sort of breakfast, so Mary raided Mrs Broyles’s pantry and whipped up some meat paste sandwiches for me to take along. I thanked her with a parting kiss and took a cab to Paddington station. I was soon ensconced in a railway carriage with two tittering girls (I never did discover what they found so amusing), a somnolent clergyman and a chatty young soldier.
Feeling about in my pockets for my pipe, I found Blenkiron’s deck of cards. Drawing them out, I removed the rubber band and leafed through the pack as though it were some arcane book. Silly as it seems, I was struck by the fancy that if I were to fan the cards in the correct way, Blenkiron would magically appear, like a genie from the Arabian Nights, and bless me with sage advice and visions of the future.
When the cards caught the eye of the soldier, he saw a less mystical use for them and soon we were passing the time in a few hands of Twist. By the time we reached the small station at Waynford, he had won five shillings off me.
From the station I took a cab out to Chaffly Fields. On the way there, the driver evidently felt some obligation to fill me in on all the local news, which included an accident at a local tin mine and a visit from one of the more obscure members of the royal family. He was in the middle of an anecdote concerning a prize bull’s frightening rampage at the annual farmers’ show as we approached a narrow bridge leading to Chaffly Fields. All of a sudden, as if from nowhere, a bakery van appeared, rushing across the bridge towards us at high speed. With a vehement curse the cabby swerved sharply to the left just in time to escape a head-on collision. He shook an angry fist at the van as it roared past and disappeared over a hill.
‘Did you see that?’ he exclaimed indignantly, driving on to the bridge. ‘He must think he owns the road, racing down the middle like that. It’s a bloody disgrace!’
He then calmly resumed his narrative and by the time we reached our destination I was fully apprised of all the most fascinating events in the area.
When he dropped me off, I gave him a generous tip in appreciation of his saving us from a nasty accident, and he set off in search of a fresh set of ears for his inexhaustible supply of newsworthy tidbits.
The professor’s two-storey thatched cottage of white stucco was fronted by a vegetable garden and a pair of apple trees. The sign over the door gave the name of the place as Ithaca, further proof, if any were needed, that it was owned by an archaeologist. When I rang the bell the door was opened by a plump lady of middle years whose silver-flecked brown hair was tied up in a tight bun. Her apron bore evidence of recent kitchen activity.
‘I’m here to see Professor Owen,’ I informed her. ‘He should have received a telegram telling him to expect me.’
‘Oh, yes, you’ll be Mr Harrow.’ She smiled pleasantly and ushered me inside.
‘That’s Hannay,’ I corrected her as she closed the door behind us.
She touched a pondering finger to her lower lip. ‘I was sure the professor said Harrow. But there it is, just one more misunderstanding in a troubled world.’
She led me down the hallway into a spacious study with a set of French windows overlooking the garden. The room was furnished with a number of glass cabinets filled with antique pottery, two leather armchairs and a broad desk covered in scholarly clutter. The walls were decorated with the memorabilia of years spent travelling the world: wooden masks, ceremonial weapons, religious icons and exotic hangings.
Professor Owen was over by a bookcase stuffed with leather volumes. He turned his wheelchair to face us. ‘Thank you, Mrs Withers,’ he said, dismissing the housekeeper. ‘You will be Mr . . . Hannay, is it?’
Between his shaggy mane of grey hair and his long, tapering beard, a pair of sharp, intelligent eyes gazed at me through the thick lenses of his spectacles.
‘That’s right, professor. As the telegram said, I’m here under the auspices of the National Antiquities Council.’
He rolled his wheelchair towards me and I leaned forward so we could shake hands. His grip was firm and friendly but something about him struck me as odd.
‘I know of the council, of course, and the excellent work it does in the fields of archaeology and anthropology. But what do they – what do you want with me?’
‘Actually, professor, it’s a friend of yours we want to talk to. Dr Lasalle.’
‘Lasalle? Armand Lasalle? I haven’t seen him in years, you know.’
‘No, but you have remained in touch with him?’
‘Yes, I receive the odd letter from some far-flung out-post, sometimes occasionally asking me to check through my own research to provide him with some obscure piece of information.’
‘And where was he when you last heard from him?’
The professor stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Let me see now . . . It was some months ago. He was organising a dig in eastern Turkey. Along the shore of the Black Sea, it was.’
‘And do you know what it was he was looking for?’
‘I couldn’t say, but he did ask me for information regarding Trebizondian reliquaries. My primary area of expertise is the history of Greece and Byzantium.’
‘No doubt that is why you named your cottage after the island kingdom of Homer’s Nestor.’
Owen’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses. ‘Just a little joke, you know. I promise you, I don’t really think of myself as a king or a famous warrior.’
‘Could I perhaps see your letters from Dr Lasalle?’
‘Oh no, I don’t keep such things.’ Owen chortled. ‘There’s quite enough clutter around here, as you can see.’
He waved a hand at the books and papers piled high upon his desk.
‘Here, let me pour you a sherry.’ He rolled over to a small table where there was a decanter and a set of crystal glasses. ‘Yes, Turkey would be your best bet if you want to find old Lasalle. I can probably give you some names to contact there.’
He poured the drink and handed it to me. I took one swallow and set the glass aside.
‘There’s just one more thing I’d like to ask you, professor.’
‘And what would that be?’
I stood directly before him and fixed him with a hard gaze. ‘Who you really are.’
‘Mr Hannay, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘A man who’s been pushing himself along in a wheelchair for three years would have developed calluses on his hands by this time, and when we shook hands I could feel that yours palms were quite smooth.’
‘Come, Mr Hannay,’ he objected with an expression of perfect innocence, ‘you surely don’t believe . . .’
‘And then there’s the name of the cottage,’ I pressed on. ‘Ithaca was the kingdom of Odysseus, not Nestor. The real Professor Owen would certainly have corrected my error.’ I seized him by the shoulders and drove him back until the wheelchair slammed up against the wall. ‘So if you’re not Professor Owen, who exactly are you?’
5
A ROGUE FOR HIRE
The impostor’s features blanched and he shrank back fearfully. ‘All right, all right, there’s no call to get rough.’ He tried to push himself up out of the wheelchair, proving beyond any doubt that he was a fake. I shoved him back down, ready to take a swing at him should he try to fight his way out of his predicament.
‘I’ll ask you once more,’ I said through gritted teeth, ‘who are you?’
He raised his open palms to shoulder level to demonstrate his complete surrender. ‘I’m just an actor, I swear it,’ he whined. ‘I wasn’t doing any harm. There’s no crime in pulling an innocent jape.’
