Authors: Robert Ryan
‘Thank you. What’s it mean?’
‘Ask the doctor here,’ said Watson. ‘Goodbye, Harry. Stay safe.’
‘You too, sir.’
Steigler watched in silence as Watson threw his kitbag and walking stick into the truck and, refusing any help, climbed up into the truck. The two Germans followed suit and Steigler walked
across to help push up the wooden tailgate and bolt it in place. ‘Have a good journey,’ Steigler said. ‘Give my regards to Holland.’
‘I know what you are now, Herr Doctor. Does Kügel?’
Steigler kept his voice low, nonchalantly brushing snow from his shoulders as he spoke. ‘The commandant is happy as long as his bank balance is kept healthy. His interest in the three dead
men was . . . atypical. Is that the word? Quite unusual. I assured him you would solve the problem . . .’
‘But thinking I wouldn’t?’
Steigler gave a smile. ‘Yes. And I was correct, wasn’t I? You haven’t solved anything, Major Watson. Not a thing. I have heard about your wild speculations that we trap escaped
prisoners en route. Nothing could be further from the truth.’ He began to chortle to himself, a horrible sound to Watson’s ears. ‘You haven’t got a damned thing.’
He banged on the side of the truck, the driver engaged first gear and Watson watched Steigler shrink to a small figure at the gate, waving occasionally as if seeing a relative off on holiday at
the station. Watson glanced at the two German guards, wondering if he was about to suffer the same fate as Sayer on some lonely stretch of forest road.
‘We will be some hours,’ said Gunther, as if reading his mind. ‘Make comfortable. We were told you are special property this time.’
The younger German rolled a cigarette and offered it to Watson, who shook his head. The lad shrugged and lit it for himself. The other guard took out his pipe and ignited that. Watson closed his
eyes, feigning sleep, and let his mind race away up blind alleys and dead ends.
Outside, the grainy light of late afternoon was coalescing into darkness. After forty minutes of being tossed around, as they were still descending, but beyond the blasted and treeless zone, he
said, ‘I need to go.’
‘Go?’ asked the old man.
‘
Mach wasser
,’ Watson said, with a little mime thrown in for good measure.
The young German said something along the lines of he should have gone before they set off. The other said something about an old man’s
Blase
, which made Fingerless laugh. Bladder,
Watson assumed. The young man worked his way to the front of the lorry and hammered on the dividing wall with the cab. The engine changed pitch, the gearbox whined and the Horch came to a trembling
halt. Watson could see the twin regiments of snow-covered pine trees that lined either side of the road. It looked like the spot where Sayer was killed. But then, so did every kilometre of that
particular stretch of road.
‘Be quick,’ said the old man.
Watson followed the younger guard down onto the icy road surface and, leaning on his cane, headed off for the trees.
‘Here!’ the guard said. Watson glared at him and carried on to the treeline. ‘Halt.’
Watson did another mime, this time pointing to his backside and squatting. The younger man laughed. Watson carried on trudging into the privacy of the woods, with the German bringing up the
rear.
‘Now!’ Fingerless shouted, when the white silence had enveloped them. Watson pointed to a thick trunk with his stick and indicated he would go around the other side. The German
nodded.
Once there he undid two things, his trousers, and the ferrule from the walking stick. Then he waited, watching his breath smoke in the still air.
‘Finish?’ the guard asked.
Watson gave a grunt.
‘Finish. Now.’
Watson half-emerged, one hand on the trunk of the pine, breathing hard. He groaned and held his stomach. He shook his head to show he couldn’t move.
‘No. Come.’ Fingerless sounded panicked.
The guard stepped in close. That was when Watson used the carefully sharpened end of his walking stick – a point, created by the Dräger scalpel, carefully hidden under the brass
ferrule – to drive the pointed wood into flesh and bone.
Snow had begun to swirl from the black sky once more and Gunther was taking shelter, contemplating his pipe when he saw Watson’s face appear at the rear of the truck. He
held out a hand to pull him up. Watson responded with a Mauser rifle aimed at the man’s chest and a finger pressed briefly to his lips.
The guard’s eyes darted to the trees, hoping that his young companion would be on hand to club Watson to the ground. Then he appreciated where the rifle must have come from.
‘
Tot?
’ he asked.
Was the lad dead? Watson dodged the question.
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ he said in a low voice, even though he was certain the driver couldn’t hear him over the thud and rattle of the idling engine.
‘No?’
‘No. Just do as I say.’ Watson, resting the weighty Mauser on the floor of the lorry, but keeping his finger on the trigger, made a series of signs. The guard nodded. He handed over
his rifle and the Luger pistol he had in a holster at his belt. Then Watson snapped his fingers and mimed turning a key. The guard understood. He handed over a bunch and, without further
instruction, snapped his right hand into one of the dangling shackles.
Watson placed the two rifles on the ground and examined the Luger. There was a small lever with the word
gesichert
next to it.
Sicher
meant safe, so he assumed this indicated
‘safety on’ or something similar. He moved the lever and a red dot appeared.
That was when he heard the sound of the approaching vehicle, coming down the road behind them.
He pointed the barrel of the Luger at the guard and put a finger to his lips. Gunther nodded again at the implicit threat. Then, holding his loose trousers up with his left hand Watson skirted
around the truck so he was on the tree side of the vehicle. There was a door mirror there, but it was cracked and covered in a light dusting of snow. The chances of being spotted by the driver were
slim.
The newcomer was a car, not a lorry full of troops, of that he was sure, for it had a lively engine with a pleasingly high note compared to the old thumper in the truck. The driver could reach a
decent speed on the ice and Watson surmised he would be in no mood to stop.
Sure enough, the whining increased in volume until the vehicle was level and then thrummed by. Watson had let out a breath of relief when he heard the brakes engage and the shush of tyres
slithering on snow. The saloon had stopped. The gears crunched into reverse and the wheels spun for a second before finding grip.
Watson ducked under the truck. Crouching down, he could see the wheels and the panting exhaust. ‘
Etwas falsch?
’ shouted the car’s driver.
There came the squeak of the lorry’s window being pulled down. ‘
Bitte?
’
‘
Was falsch ist?
’ the other repeated. ‘
Sie Hilfe benötigen?
’
‘
Nein. Toilettenpause
,’ the driver said. Toilet break. ‘
Danke.
’
‘
Vorsichtig sein, von dem Hügel in Thürgin. Es wird sehr eisig.
’
‘Ich werde. Danke
.’
Something about an icy hill ahead, Watson half-translated. Just a concerned fellow traveller. Sure enough, the car moved off, slowly at first and, once the tyres had bite, speeded up, the engine
note climbing and descending with each gear change.
Watson opened the passenger door and, as sprightly as he could manage, climbed in next to the driver, gun held steady. The driver’s eyes widened and his hands went up. He was not the
walnut-faced man who had brought him to Harzgrund. This was another, barely into his twenties.
Watson reached over and took the cigarette that was stuck to his lower lip.
‘
Tun Sie was ich sage, und du wirst leben. Verstehen Sie?
’ he said. Do what I say, and you will live.
The lad had turned quite pale at the threat and he nodded more vigorously than was necessary. His nerves were audible when he spoke. ‘
Was soll ich tun möchte?
’
‘What I want you to do is turn the lorry around.’
‘Huh?’
Watson raised the gun to eye level so the driver was staring down the barrel. ‘
Wenden Sie das Fahrzeug
.’
‘OK. OK.
Sie sind der Chef. Aber warum?
’
‘
Wir gehen zurück zum Lager
.’
We’re going back to the camp.
‘We have nothing to offer now,’ said Mrs Gregson, staring at the two bodies in the bedroom. Buller was sprawled on the bed, his throat cut, having leaked so much
blood it was difficult for her to ascertain whether her theory about the methods Miss Pillbody had used to lure him in close were correct. No matter. She had managed to get Buller in within
striking range, near enough to grab him and slice through skin, cartilage and blood vessels. The cut-down shotgun he favoured lay next to him.
Victor Farleigh was lying outstretched by the door. He had been killed with a piece of cutlery. Exactly what it was – spoon, fork or knife – wasn’t clear because only the
handle was protruding from the eye socket. But it had been driven in with considerable force.
‘He’s been shot as well,’ said Nathan, pointing to a burned patch on his jacket. He flipped the coat open to reveal a leather harness that would have held a pistol. ‘So
now she has a gun.’
‘How did she manage it? I was so careful. We were so careful.’
He shrugged. ‘Does it matter now? You are right, we have nothing to offer.’
‘What do we do?’
Nathan stood and straightened his clothes. ‘I telegram Mycroft. He can get someone to clean up this mess—’
‘No, Nathan. What do we do about the exchange?’
Mrs Gregson felt her eyes sting with tears of frustration. To come this far, to spring a monster from prison, drag her over the North Sea, only to have her . . . win! That was what was so
galling. Somewhere along the way she had outwitted them, secreting tableware about her person. Perhaps she hadn’t used keys to undo her chains – it was possible she had managed to filch
something to pick the lock. The pins and grips perhaps, when Mrs Gregson had done the prisoner’s hair back at the safe house. Had she counted them as she should have? No. Of course, a Sie
Wölfe would be trained in such things as secreting pins about her person and picking locks.
‘Damn it!’ she shouted out loud. Now her witless scheme had cost the lives of three people.
‘We have a choice,’ said Nathan. ‘We can go home. Or we can go to the bridge as mere spectators.’
Something fizzed in Mrs Gregson’s brain, sparking like electricity. She fought off a feeling of light-headedness. She wasn’t going to be overwhelmed by this. She quickly crossed to
the bed and scooped up Buller’s shotgun.
‘It’s no good looking for her,’ said Nathan. ‘The border is a matter of miles away. Miss Pillbody will be in Germany in no time.’
‘I’m not going to look for her.’
‘Then what?’
‘We do have something to exchange for Watson, you know.’
‘What?’ asked Nathan.
Mrs Gregson levelled the shotgun at his stomach. ‘You.’
‘You are certain nothing has come through for me?’ Von Bork asked.
‘Nothing, sir,’ said the communications clerk.
‘Nothing from Kassel?’
‘No.’
It was at Kassel that Watson was to be transferred to a faster, more comfortable vehicle and driven to the crossing point, a drive of about five hours by Adler. He was expecting a telegram to
confirm that the change had been made.
‘Let me know the moment anything does arrive.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Von Bork stepped outside and lit a cigarette, looking at the scruffy collection of former farm buildings around him and the newer concrete structure that dominated them all. He was at the
barracks of the border guards, the
Grenzschutzkompanie
, which consisted mostly of grizzled veterans, with a few battle-damaged front-liners moved to softer duty. There were some young men,
whose parents or benefactors had greased the appropriate palms to keep them away from the trenches or, like the communications clerk, had skills that could not be found among older heads.
‘Von Bork, there you are.’
He turned to see Admiral Hersch, well wrapped against the cold in a new leather coat, striding across to him. ‘Sir. I didn’t expect to see you.’
‘Ach, I thought I’d best come along, keep an eye on the film people. Make sure they don’t get in your way.’
‘Of course,’ said Von Bork, realizing that the admiral wanted to make sure that credit for any propaganda coup would go where he reckoned it was due. To him. Hence the new coat
– he intended to be on camera, recorded at the scene for posterity. Von Bork made a mental note to wear his smartest uniform and his own best topcoat.
‘Your man Watson is here?’
‘He is on his way.’ He knew that much. Kügel had at last telegrammed to confirm the doctor’s departure. But that was some time ago and the message that he had reached the
changeover rendezvous was worryingly late. Perhaps they had broken down? Perhaps he should have insisted on a train to bring him. Or an aeroplane. Ah well, it was too late now.
Hersch checked his watch. ‘So we have, how long? Seventeen hours?’
‘About that.’
‘I have inspected the kitchens and the cellars here. Quite inadequate. I suggest we go into Geldern for a decent dinner. Or we could cross the border into Venlo.’
‘I’d rather stay this side tonight, Admiral.’
‘Of course. Well, we’ll crack open a bottle of Sekt, too, for a little celebration.’
Von Bork knew Holmes wasn’t in the bag yet. With Watson lost on the road somewhere, there was still plenty of opportunity for things to go awry. Surely Hersch was aware of that too?
‘I would rather celebrate after the event, sir.’
The admiral slapped him on the back, the hide of his leather coat creaking as he did so. ‘Forgive me. I’m not prematurely celebrating our bagging of the Great Detective. I have just
heard that one of my Sie Wölfe escaped from Holloway prison. Ilse Brandt. One of the very best. By which I mean, in peacetime even we would probably lock her up and throw away the key. Quite,
quite ruthless. And a damn fine fuck, to boot. The newspaper reports say she is dead, but I’ll take that with a pinch of salt until I have confirmation. If she is at large in England, then
they had best watch out.’ He chortled at the thought. ‘She will cut a swathe through them like a reaping machine.’