Operation Afterlight, page 8
“We know who you are,” the Brigadier said, jumping from his seat and shaking the newcomer’s hand. “Jolly good show in Norway, and congratulations on your MC. Well deserved.”
“Thank you, sir,” Anders said, clearly not even slightly surprised at the praise.
“If the Army is quite finished being star-struck,” Lord Wolmer said to a chorus of chuckles, “perhaps we can resume our meeting? Take a seat, Major.”
Anders lowered himself gracefully into a chair. So completely had he absorbed her attention, and that of the entire room, that Lane had forgotten his companion. Still enjoying the Brigadier’s obvious embarrassment, her gaze fell on the newcomer.
Recognition struck her as hard as a blow.
The air seemed to be torn from her lungs. Her hands shook in the sudden onset of violent, unreasoning terror. Waves of brutal cold seemed to run down her skin, her blood choking up in her veins as if might stop altogether. She felt her lips tremble, her mouth dry and her tongue swollen as bile and nausea bubbled in the back of her throat.
Anders announced the newcomer’s name. Lane didn’t hear it over her own pulse. She didn’t need to. She had read it in a hundred reports, heard it from the lips of a dozen agents. Over and over, she had seen the name next to a picture of a dead agent, among the stark, unemotional words that sought to describe their last hours of freedom. Of life.
His photograph hung on her office wall.
For two years, his face had haunted her dreams.
The man took a seat next to Anders. Opposite her. Pressing her lips together to stop any sound escaping, she fought the unreasoning pressure to empty her bladder on the seat and the expensive carpet below. She tried to force herself back in her chair. To shrink.
Like Anders, the man exuded predatory danger, but that was where the resemblance ended. Where Anders had the size, power and grace of a big cat, this one was something else entirely. A snake, perhaps. Slim. Wiry. Deadly.
Lane stared, and now the man seemed to notice her. With deep-set eyes of infinite coldness, he regarded her without emotion. Then the corner of his mouth quirked in the slightest hint of a smile.
He recognised her, too.
Her resolve snapped.
For two years, she had fallen asleep every night in the near-certain knowledge that one day, SS Obersturmbannführer Jan Stahl would come for her. The way he had come for her agents in Berlin, in Copenhagen, in Kiel and Vienna and Salzburg. The way he had come for her that spring day in Paris, when she had escaped while so many others hadn’t.
But he wouldn’t take her. Not like this.
Snatching the silver pen from Dennison’s sweating hand, she launched herself across the table.
She almost got him. The pen arced in the light as it descended, its point glistening with a single drop of ink. Aiming for one reptilian eye, the way the SOE instructors had shown her when they taught her to fight dirty. Through the eye socket, into the brain. Except Stahl was already moving. He shifted his weight back so that the point missed his eye, brushed his cheek as her momentum failed her, drove its point into the meat of his thigh instead. Stahl’s brow twitched, and the smile grew.
Then the room exploded into confused pandemonium while grasping hands seized her and pulled her back into her chair.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” The Minister was on his feet, cheeks red. She suspected his anger was less about the disruption, more that it was one of his people who was the cause.
“He’s a murderer,” she near-screamed. “He killed my people. Hunted them down!”
“For God’s sake, be silent, woman. Dennison?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dennison stammered as the soldier from outside rushed in, his pistol drawn and eyes wide at the sight. “The pressure of the job—”
“Damn the pressure, you fool,” Lord Wolmer roared. “Get her out of here!”
Dennison nodded and grabbed her arm, hard. The Naval officer took the other side, looking horrified to be asked to play any role in this. Together, they lifted her up out of her chair.
“Have a care, chaps,” Sir David Leslie said. “Be gentle. As for you,” he added towards the young guard, “put that silly pistol away, please.”
“I’ve seen nothing like it in all my days,” the Minister roared. “Someone is losing their career over this, you hear me?”
Pushing the chair aside, the two men handed her over to the guard. Holstering his pistol, he looked at her in confusion. He probably had no clue what had happened, Lane thought. She could barely explain it herself. Three years of ceaseless work to get to this point. So many late nights. So many tears, when no one was there to see and when the faces of her agents were all that filled her vision.
All of it, thrown away in a single moment of blind, unreasoning terror.
“Gentlemen,” she heard a voice say. Soft. Barely louder than the continuing grumbling of the audience as they retook their seats. But it silenced the room in an instant.
The guard stopped, allowing her the space to turn, to look back. Not at the speaker, still sat in his chair while everyone else milled on their feet. She wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
The Minister broke the silence first. “You have something to add, Mister Stahl?”
“I do,” Stahl said. He looked at each of them, then turned to regard Lane. The smile was gone. There was no emotion at all in that gaze. She felt all strength draining from her legs and was grateful for the guard’s firm hand still clutching her arm below the elbow to steady her. With his eyes still on her face, Stahl reached down and pulled the pen from his leg. “I would like to request that Sarah Lane remain in the room.”
“Impossible,” the Minister spluttered. “After what she did to you—”
“No harm was done,” Stahl said, rising and sliding the pen across the table to Dennison. A small stain was forming on the German’s thigh. Lane couldn’t tell if it was ink or blood. “And I believe she will be of great value to our discussion.”
Lord Wolmer looked back and forth between the German and Lane, then glanced at the man in the hat, who gave a slight nod. “Very well,” the Minister said, throwing his hands up. “But keep that woman in line, for God’s sake.”
One by one, they took their seats, until only Stahl remained standing.
“Let me tell you,” he said, “about Götterdämmerung.”
Chapter Ten
Norfolk, 14 March
Grant wasn’t sure whose idea it was that sent the aircrews running for their cars. Finny’s, probably. The rat-faced Aussie seemed to be at the heart of everything on the squadron, for better and worse. But the haze and rain sweeping in off the Wash appeared to be missing them, there was no flying planned while the engineers serviced the fifteen Mosquitoes after their night’s exertions, and they were all young men and thus already bored. With no agreed plan or even coordination, they all piled into the assorted Austins, Humbers and others outside, cramped shoulder to shoulder because there weren’t technically enough seats to go around. Few junior pilots and navigators could afford to buy and run a car, and others simply didn’t bother. Those that did made certain to specify what should happen to their vehicle in the all too likely event that their need for it should abruptly and permanently end.
A New Zealander pilot introduced himself as Kittens and offered a space in his ageing Austin Seven. Grant did not know what the man’s real name was, only that he was the acting commander of B Flight. His navigator, Sisterson, and their two other passengers made room with smiles and good grace. The suspension creaked beneath their weight and the exhaust left a greasy pall of smoke hanging in the air when the car loudly set off, but somehow it got them there, dragging its cargo along the narrow, hedge-lined back roads before struggling to keep pace with a convoy of Army lorries on the main road that led into Staverton.
The sign at the edge of the town said Staverton-Saint-Mary, but the aircrews simply called it Stav. It was their preferred off-base drinking place, not that they had much choice. From the air, Grant had already seen that it was the only notable settlement within several miles of Charney Breach, but for tiny clusters of houses and the many isolated farms that dotted the flat landscape stretching from the North Sea in the east to the Fens in the west. From ground-level, it was even more featureless. The town itself seemed nice, though, with stone houses built in the local style. Overlooking a neatly maintained cricket pitch stood a fine church which was likely a few hundred years older than anything he’d set eyes on growing up in the Caribbean or training in Canada.
The other cars had already arrived and stood in various stages of abandonment in the town square. Kittens parked smartly in the shadow of a white Victorian clock tower, and they made their way across the cobbled square as a group. A few locals waved at them, and a couple of children in neat school uniforms threw up mock salutes. Kittens shouted a greeting as he returned it, but the kids were already looking past him, mouths open as they stared. They’ve never seen a Black man before, Grant realised, but the stares seemed full of wonder, not malice. Within seconds, both children grinned and waved to him before running off down a side street.
“Friendly town,” Grant said.
“Yes,” Kittens agreed. “The locals don’t seem to mind too much when we get rowdy. Well, they rarely call the police, at least.”
“That’s sweet of them.”
“I suppose some of the younger men resent that the local girls love a man in uniform.”
“Do you have a girlfriend, Kittens?”
“A nurse.” A wistful look passed over the New Zealander’s face. “Not a local, though. A few of the lads have girlfriends in town, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Why not?”
“Well,” Kittens said, looking a lot older than his twenty-two years, “it’s a very small town. There have been a lot of boys pass through 465 Squadron, and only a few local girls. Even if you are lucky enough to attract the eye of one of the pretty ones, you may not be the first to do so. And marrying one is a big no-no.”
“Why?”
“Because every time the rest of us come down here for a drink, we’ll have to see another widow.”
Grant stumbled, but Kittens didn’t seem to notice and led the way towards the pub. Peals of laughter drifted out from inside. The sign hanging above the door said The King’s Refuge. It showed a bearded man with a lopsided crown cowering in the shadows while a black-hooded figure with an axe lurked behind.
“Charles the First,” Kittens said, following Grant’s gaze. “Legend says he spent a night here before he went into hiding at Downham Market. After the Battle of Naseby,” he added, seeing Grant’s confusion. “Don’t they teach you Caribbean boys about the English Civil War?”
“Funnily enough, no.”
“I’m teasing you, Johnny,” the New Zealander laughed. “I only know about it from books, and I doubt our Aussie colleagues know even that much. They consider reading a form of devil worship. Let’s just say hiding out didn’t help old Charles much. Come on, the beer’s getting warm.”
A well-natured cheer went up as they entered. Grant was certain they meant it for Kittens, not him. A couple of pilots made unflattering remarks about the Austin Seven, expressing surprise it had made it. Grant saw a gap at the bar and waited until a middle-aged woman with blueish-grey hair bustled up to him, wiping her palms on her apron.
“Hello, love,” she said. “My name’s May, and this is my place. Welcome to RAF Charney Breach. Not too cold for you, is it?”
“It’s always too cold, May,” he said. “You don’t seem surprised to see someone like me.”
“We’ve had all sorts here, love,” she said. “Black, Czech, Polish, a few Indian boys, even a charming French gentleman. Though he only came once, God rest his soul. What can I get you?”
“Five pints, please.”
“The good stuff?”
“I’m sure it’s all good, May,” Grant said.
“Well, aren’t you a sweetheart?” She winked and began filling the first pint mug from a tap that seemed to require substantial pumping. Kittens gave him a thumbs up.
“Here you go,” May said, pushing five sloshing glasses towards him and taking his money. “Thanks, love. Enjoy yourself. And do me a favour, will you?”
“What’s that, May?”
“Promise you’ll come and have a drink with us the day the war ends, yes?”
“Of course.” He sipped his beer. It was terrible, like every other pint he’d had in Britain.
May ran her eyes over the assembled aircrew. “You hear that, lads?” She had a very loud voice, Grant noted admiringly. She would have done brilliantly on a drill square. “I want to see all of you in here when the war is over, yes? That includes you, Finny. You tell that Barto to stop working you all so hard.”
“Barto’s not in charge anymore,” Finny said.
“What? Which silly sod made that decision? You give me a name. I’ll sort him out.” Laughter filled the air, and a couple of pilots clapped. May’s smile faded. “I’m serious. All of you.”
“Don’t worry,” Kittens said, “it won’t be long now.”
“That’s what they say, love.” May gave Grant his change and, spotting a glowering local at the other end of the bar, hurried off to serve him.
Kittens took his pint from Grant with a grateful smile. “May’s a star,” he said, nodding his head in the landlady’s direction. “Like a mother hen sometimes. God knows what she’ll make of the new boss. Might peck his eyes out, I fear.”
“Let’s hope,” Finny said, jostling Grant’s shoulder as he joined their conversation. “What’s it like flying with the knob, Grant?”
“Fine.” He thought of the practice flight, of his body being hurled against the straps while he fumbled for the map. Durban’s voice. Calm. Ruthless. Then he thought of that same voice, praising him after the night’s raid. “I mean, he’s distant. He is the boss, after all.” He saw Finny’s expression darken at that. The Australian’s obvious annoyance pleased him. “He’s good, though. He knows his stuff.”
“We all know our stuff,” Finny said. “That’s why it’s an elite squadron. Or was, anyway.” Still grumbling under his breath, he wandered off to join another group.
Kittens watched him go. “What’s his problem? Apart from being an Aussie, I mean?”
“I don’t understand, Kittens,” Grant said. “Aren’t Aussies and Kiwis the same thing?”
“I’d call that fighting talk,” Kittens said, “if you hadn’t just bought me a pint. Cheers.” They clinked glasses.
The pub door swung open and in walked Barton, with three other crewmen behind him. “Nice of you lot to wait for me,” he roared. He pointed at Finny. “Especially you, you little rodent. Next time we’re over Germany, I’m letting you walk back.”
“You couldn’t find your way home without me, boss,” Finny laughed. “Besides, I bought you a pint, didn’t I?”
“I should bloody think so. Where is it?”
“I drank it. You were late, weren’t you?”
As the glowering Barton walked past, Kittens tapped him on the arm. “Don?”
“Don’t touch the uniform. It’s impossible to get Kiwi out of this material.” Barton smiled. “What’s on your mind, mate?”
“Have you heard anything about Broadley and Jeffries?”
“No.”
“Nothing from any of the other stations?”
“I’ve tried them all,” Barton said wearily. “Of course, they could have diverted somewhere further north, or dropped into one of the forward airfields in France, but it’s impossible to get hold of them. It’s only been twelve hours. Be patient. Jeffries is your mate, isn’t he, Grant? Are you doing alright?”
An image of Dougie’s smiling face flashed across Grant’s mind. Two years they had been friends, since the first day of flight training in Canada. It hadn’t been easy for any of them, but as one of only half a dozen Caribbean lads on his course intake, and the only one who made it onto Mosquitoes, it had been harder on Grant than most. There had been times he had thought about giving up, but Dougie had always been there to cheer him up and cheer him on.
“I’m fine, sir,” he lied.
“Good,” Barton said. “Now get out of the way so I can reach the bar before Finny drinks my next pint, too.”
One pint soon became four while a massive Rhodesian called Hick banged out a tune on the piano in the corner. At least half of the drivers probably weren’t in a suitable state for driving by the time they headed back to the airfield. Kittens was fine, his car being simply too slow to crash, but one pilot arrived outside the accommodation block to hoots of derision and with a suspicious quantity of torn grass in his front bumper.
Barton leapt out of his Hillman Minx. Grant had seen him drink at least six pints, with no apparent effect. “What’s for dinner?”
“Nothing good,” someone said.
“The usual, then.”
A car horn sounded, and the assembled aircrew scrambled out of the road, laughing like naughty schoolchildren. Grant saw a staff car drive past them and pull up in front of the HQ. Immediately, like he’d been waiting, Durban emerged from the building and walked out to meet the new arrivals.
Four people emerged from the vehicle, three men and a woman. Grant didn’t recognise any of them, though he recognised the woman’s uniform as WAAF. One man wore a civilian suit, a little ill-fitting. Another carried a briefcase and wore a green beret above an Army uniform. Grant couldn’t quite identify the rank of the last, the oldest, but he had more lace on his RAF uniformed shoulders and more “scrambled egg” gold braid on his hat than Grant had ever seen.
“Who is that?”
Kittens leaned closer. “That’s bad news. AVM Embry. Air Officer Commanding, Two Group.”
“The big boss,” Barton said, seeing Grant’s blank stare. “Not a bad bloke for a Pom. Smart, too. Married an Aussie girl.”
Durban saluted and shook hands with each visitor.
“Why is he here, Kittens?”
“Well, now, that’s the bad news, Johnny. We haven’t seen Embry since the Aarhus raid, back in October.” Kittens sniffed. “He could be here for an inspection, I suppose.”
