Operation Afterlight, page 17
But Stahl wasn’t feeling generous.
“Pay for my drink.” Mugleston raised the pint glass to his lips. “Or I’ll kick your fucking teeth out.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Norfolk, 23 March
Durban felt a touch of surprise when he didn’t find Stahl in the bar. It seemed like a good night to get drunk, but for now, he and Lane kept themselves to a single gin and tonic before resuming their search.
The German wasn’t in his bedroom or the Mess Hall, either. Durban stuck his head through the doorway to the snooker room next, where Kittens and his navigator were inexpertly playing billiards. “Have either of you seen Stahl?”
“No, sir,” Kittens said. “Not for at least an hour.”
“Where? Here?”
“The Mess Hall. He was with Johnny.”
“Johnny Grant?”
“Yes, sir. I think they were planning to go for a drive.”
Durban frowned. “Ok. Thanks. That’s odd,” he said to Lane. “Grant doesn’t even have a car. Follow me.” He walked into the office of the Mess steward, apologised for the intrusion, lifted the telephone and dialled the guardroom.
“Hello, it’s Wing Commander Durban. Has anyone left the base tonight?”
“Not since yourself, sir.” He didn’t recognise the voice, just another of the many corporals who checked his ID periodically.
“What?”
“Wait one,” the corporal said. “I have the log here, sir. Eighteen-fifteen. Silver Alvis, driver in civilian clothing, Black officer in passenger seat.”
“Why didn’t you stop them? I gave orders no one was to be allowed to leave the base.”
“We thought it was you and Grant, sir.”
“Well, you thought wrong,” Durban snapped. Hanging up, he looked at his watch. “They could be halfway to London by now.”
“I doubt it,” Lane said, her voice somewhere between soothing concern and wry amusement. “Johnny is a smart boy.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about.”
“Hello, sir!” Flight Lieutenant Wright came striding down the corridor. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Not now, Bony,” Durban said. “I’m a little busy.”
“Sorry, sir. There is a woman on the telephone for you. She says it’s urgent.”
Durban stopped with his hand in the air, frozen in the act of brushing Bony away. He only knew one woman who might call him at Charney Breach, and she stood next to him. “Where?”
“My office, sir.”
Almost at a sprint, Durban ran to the phone, lifted it, and listened in silence, feeling the blood draining from his face.
“I’ll be right there.” He dropped the phone. “Bony, get the SWO. Quickly.”
“Andy?” Any amusement had gone from Lane’s voice now. “What is it?”
“That was the landlady from the pub in Staverton,” he said. “Stahl and Grant have been in a fight.”
“My God. Are they ok?”
Durban nodded. “But others aren’t. The police are on their way.”
“If they arrest Stahl…”
“We need to get there before they do. And Stahl stole my car.”
“We’ll take mine. But I need to make a phone call first.”
She began dialling, while another clatter of shoes announced the return of Bony Wright with the Station Warrant Officer.
“Thanks for coming, Mister Davis,” Durban greeted him. “Who have you got sitting around who is good in a fight?”
“Other than me, sir?” WO Graham Davis didn’t seem perturbed at all by the question. Shorter than Durban but heavier, with the build of an English bulldog and the voice of an executioner, he had a reputation for being a lovely man when he wasn’t ruling by fear. “Let’s see. Scouse Harbon is Duty NCO at the front gate. He’s never found a face he didn’t want to punch.”
“Perfect. Call him and tell him to be ready. We’ll pick him up in two minutes.”
“Right you are, sir.”
Durban smiled, despite the seething anger and growing horror that churned his guts. “Don’t you even want to know where we’re going?”
“I presume you’ll tell me when we get there, sir.”
“I couldn’t get hold of Major Anders,” Lane said, emerging from the office with her car keys in hand. “I left a message.”
“He wouldn’t get here in time, anyway,” Durban said. “Are you happy to drive?”
She was more than happy to drive, he soon realised. She was far better at it than him. Her Humber wasn’t a fast car, especially with the two heavies looming silently in the back seat, and its skinny wheels squealed in protest at every corner. Nevertheless, despite the darkness and the narrow lanes, it seemed only a few minutes before they screeched to a halt outside the King’s Ransom.
Durban threw open his door. “We’re too late.”
Two police cars, their lights flashing, stood outside the entrance. A crowd had gathered outside, perhaps twenty strong. One constable was pacing in front of them, warning them to stay back, but it seemed a wasted effort to Durban. No one looked like they wanted to go inside. Instead, they stared transfixed at the doorway as if afraid of what might come out. Three more constables stood near to the door itself, one of them holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose, another breathing hoarsely with a hand clutching his ribs.
Nearby, trying to comfort two girls with tear-streaked faces, stood the navigator.
“Grant!” Durban pushed his way through the crowd, the others following. “What the hell is going on?”
“He knocked out Phil,” one girl shrieked, fresh tears coursing down her face.
“Not me, sir,” Grant said quickly. “Stahl.”
Lane reached out to touch Grant’s cheek, then pulled her hand back, looking at her fingertips. “You’ve got blood on you.”
“It’s not mine,” Grant said. “Some local boys were causing trouble. Telling us to buy them drinks, poking fun at us. One started making threats.”
“That’s not how it happened,” the girl whimpered.
“Yes, it is,” her friend said. “Go on, Johnny.”
“I don’t know what happened, sir,” Grant continued. “I mean, it was all so quick. Before I knew it, the first lad was on the floor spitting out teeth and broken glass. Then a couple of his mates had a go at Stahl. He was just so fast. It was like watching a ground lizard. I couldn’t keep up. I punched one—”
“Best you keep that to yourself, sir,” the SWO interjected.
“—but only because he took a swing at me first. By then, the others were all down and hurt. I told Stahl we should run, but he said he wasn’t going anywhere, and he had the car keys.” He froze. “We took your car, sir.”
“I noticed,” Durban said between gritted teeth. “We’ll be having a long talk about that later. Did he kill anyone?”
Grant shook his head. “I don’t think so. They are all still in there. If you listen carefully, you can hear them groaning. He wouldn’t let the doctor near them, though. When the police arrived, he attacked them, too. That’s when I thought I should probably come outside and wait for you.”
“You should have done that before he punched the first man,” Durban said.
“Glassed,” the second girl corrected him. “He glassed him. Shoved his pint glass into his face. Made a horrible mess, didn’t it?”
The first girl wailed.
“Enough,” Durban said. “Get over there, Grant. Keep an eye on the young ladies for me and stay out of trouble. I’m going to speak to Stahl.”
“Yes, sir. Come on, girls.” He walked away, one arm around each set of thin shoulders.
Scouse Harbon, balding and wearing glasses that looked like he had repaired them a dozen times, started unbuttoning his jacket. Durban motioned him to stop. “Stay out here. You too, Mister Davis. If I need you, I’ll call you.” Checking on the policemen, who made no effort to talk him out of his plan, he picked his way to the front doors. He felt someone close behind him. “You too, Sarah.”
“You’re not my boss, Andy,” she said.
“I’m asking you to stay out here. Please.”
After a long pause, she nodded. “But if you start screaming, I’m coming in.”
“I should hope so.” He winked at her and stepped over the threshold.
The smell hit him first. Spilled beer, and the coppery tang of blood. A man lay on the floor at his feet, whimpering. His face was a ravaged mess below the nose, his head lolling back in a puddle of blood and scattered white pieces that could only be fragments of teeth. Each breath sent little gobbets of pink spit bubbling down his ruined cheeks.
A woman stood behind the counter. Grey-haired. Regarding him with cool detachment. “I suppose you’re the new CO of 465 Squadron, then?”
“That’s right. You must be May. You should step outside with the others.”
“No one makes me leave my pub, Wing Commander. Especially not your friend there.”
Durban nodded. He looked across the prostrate figures, some still, some groaning, to the man who sat against the back wall, his hands closed in front of him in some blood-stained mockery of a prayer. “Hello, Stahl.”
“Your police are unarmed, Andrew Durban,” he said. His shirt hung loose, ripped in two places, smeared with blood. A cut glistened below his right eye. His left was rapidly swelling shut. But the eyes themselves looked straight past Durban, at the men on the floor.
“There are more on the way,” Durban said. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“Why are they not armed? The German police are. The French police are. Why not yours?”
“Our police don’t really enjoy shooting people,” Durban said. “Personally, I approve of that.”
“German police would have shot me the moment they saw what I had done,” Stahl said, his voice barely audible above the pained, wet coughs coming from the pub floor.
“Is that what you want, Stahl?”
No reply.
Durban stepped over a man lying spreadeagled on the floor, kneeling to check the man’s throat. A pulse. Out cold, but alive. “What about Götterdämmerung?”
“What?”
“Let’s assume you find a constable willing to shoot you. Or May does it herself. I wouldn’t blame her, by the way. What then? How do we stop it?”
Stahl sniffed and dabbed at the blood under his eye. “Miss Lane will find a way.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“What does it matter, Durban? I am going to prison tonight. Maybe for a long time.”
“Then I’ll come and visit you,” Durban said. “Not because I like you. Because we need you.”
“You do not know what I have done.”
Durban laughed and looked around the room. “I think it’s clear enough, don’t you?”
“Not this,” Stahl spat. “This is nothing. A few idiots. They will heal. I will not. Even Miss Lane does not know the depth of blood that drowns me.”
“What’s the German for melodrama, Stahl? Look, it’s really very simple. You can come with me and we’ll work this out somehow. Or you can stay here feeling sorry for yourself and let Götterdämmerung go ahead, and spend the rest of your miserable life whining about that, too. What’s it to be?”
Stahl moved. Fast. One moment he was sitting, the next he was a foot in front of Durban, eyes burning with fury. Well, Durban thought, his body tensing in expectation of the blow that had to be coming, leaving Scouse and Davis outside had seemed like such a good idea.
“Go easy on Grant,” Stahl said. “It is not his fault. He is a good man.”
Durban swallowed. Stahl came no closer. Just stared. “Yes, he is.”
“You, I am not so sure.” The German’s mouth twitched, and then he sighed. “Let us go, then.”
Outside, Lane was waiting for them, ignoring the German as she threw her arms around Durban, hugging him quickly before stepping straight back. A tremor ran through the crowd at the sight of Stahl, but no one dared to say a word until a trembling constable had cuffed him. Even then, the threats of retribution rang hollow, and the crowd quickly dissipated, many following the local doctor inside to help the injured. As yet another police car raced into the square, Grant untangled himself from the pawing hands of the two girls and ran over to Stahl. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine, Johnny,” Stahl said. “Sorry I lied to you.”
“It wasn’t all lies.” Grant shrugged. “You do speak English well.” With a sad sigh, he stepped back out of the way to let the police and their captive through.
“You men, stop there,” a voice called. From the newly arrived police car, a man stepped out. Durban didn’t know police uniforms well, but he knew enough to see this was a very senior officer. “Is anyone dead?”
“No, sir,” one of the policemen said. “A lot of hurt people, though.”
“Never mind that. Is there a woman here named Sarah Lane?”
“Here, Chief Inspector,” Lane said.
“Chaps, you might as well unlock his handcuffs,” the officer said. “Well? Hurry,” he snapped as they hesitated. “It appears that you have important friends, Miss Lane. Twenty minutes ago, I received a telephone call at my home. I won’t say who it was from, but calls don’t come from much higher save Buckingham Palace. It appears I am to release your friend, at least for now, on the questionable provision that he remains at RAF Charney Breach. Of course, I asked why.” A sickly expression spread across his face. “They did not appreciate my question. Wing Commander Durban?”
“Yes?”
“I know where to find him when his day in court becomes due. Until then, I release this man into your custody. I recommend you do a better job of controlling him than you have so far.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Norfolk, 23 March
Stahl felt cold water rush over his hands, knowing that water alone could never remove the blood they bore.
The evidence of the evening’s edification ran away down the sink easy enough, of course. It had barely had time to dry before Durban rushed him back to camp, a passenger in the Alvis this time rather than the driver, not a word exchanged as they raced along the country lanes. Stahl scrubbed between his fingers, wincing only slightly as he found a bloody gouge in the second knuckle of his right hand. With a brush of his left thumb, he dislodged a small sliver of tooth and watched it spin away into the drain.
That was his only real mistake, he thought. He should never have punched the third farmer in the mouth, but the man had rushed him before he had properly dealt with the second. Other than that, he had been as professional and thorough as always. There was satisfaction in that. The most troublesome part had been leaving them alive.
Two mistakes, he corrected himself. The second had been his failure to remember that British police did not carry firearms. Such a shame that Anders had not been there. The Dane would not have hesitated. He never did.
Drying his hands, he walked out into the corridor. Durban was waiting. Sarah Lane stood a few paces away, one hand on the door that led out of the HQ.
“My office,” Durban said. “Now. I’ve sent the others away.”
“I’ll leave you to it, Andy,” Lane said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Miss Lane?”
She stopped, the door ajar, staring at him.
“I would prefer that you stayed,” Stahl said.
He knew her look. He’d seen it a thousand times, infinitely colder than the breeze that raced in from the night through the half-opened door.
Haunted. Hunted. But above all, that burning desire to kill him.
“Please,” he said.
She looked at Durban and let the door slam shut at his nod.
There were only two chairs in Durban’s office. The Wing Commander gave one to Lane and took the other himself, motioning Stahl to stand in front of them. Instead, Stahl rested his back against the cold wall. Keeping the threat to the front of him as always. The war had changed everything else, but not that.
“Talk,” Durban said.
Stahl looked at them.
He could stay silent, he knew.
British Intelligence needed him. The intervention of that senior police officer to have him released was just the latest proof. Durban had earned some respect from him – he was smart and brave, and his men admired him – but he was ultimately just a tool to them, a delivery boy for weapons on target. He had no serious authority. Lane had some influence, but Dennison had made it clear that for all her proven competence, her reputation was suspect. She was a foreigner, a Jew no less, more obsessed with trying to locate her missing agents than doing the proper thing and sweeping SOE’s mess under the carpet. Stahl disagreed. A few more people like Lane in positions of power and the war might have already been over. Still, it changed little. She could do nothing more damaging than hate him.
Stahl saw the look she exchanged with Durban. The faint sigh. The shake of the head. As if his silence was all they had expected.
No. He didn’t have to tell them anything.
But he wanted to.
“I was sixteen years old when I joined the Nazi Party,” he said. He saw the surprise on Durban’s face. Lane’s face gave away nothing. “I was jobless, I was angry, like so many others. My father served on the Western Front at the Somme and Ypres. He raised me to believe we had never lost the war, that communists and Jews betrayed us. The economy lay in ruins while the Weimar socialists sat in Berlin and grew fat. Germany was dead around us, and the French and British feasted on the meat.”
He could still remember the growling of his belly when his mother came home from the shops empty-handed. As a child then, he couldn’t understand how hyper-inflation had doubled the price of a loaf of bread in the time it took her to get there, outstripping their meagre budget. He knew only hunger. He could never forget the look on his father’s face, stripped of pride while he tried to sell his gallantry medals. There were no buyers, of course. Germany had too many men with medals, too few with money.
“I remember the first time I heard Hitler speak. I stood in a crowd with my father and ten thousand others, but it was like he was speaking directly to me. He had all the answers. More than that, he had questions. Was I with him? Was I with Germany? And I was. Completely. Hitler was Germany.”
