Authors: Robert Ryan
Watson shook his head to show it meant nothing to him. ‘How long have we been going?’
‘About three hours. You need a hand, sir?’
‘No,’ said Watson, shuffling towards the rear.
Watson climbed down gingerly from the truck, with some unasked-for assistance from the young guard with the missing digits on his left hand. Watson wondered if the wound had been self-inflicted.
He had seen plenty of those in his time. If so, the man was misjudged: those serious about escaping the war altogether always made sure their trigger finger on the right hand – and the boy
was definitely a right-hander – went. Then again, the injury had gained him this soft posting, so perhaps there was more cunning at work than Watson gave him credit for.
He looked about as he straightened his spine and did a few mild stretching exercises. Sayer was right. It was the middle of nowhere. They had pulled over on the verge of a narrow road, as
straight as a rule, which, a few feet of soil and grass apart, was hemmed in on either side by densely packed pine trees. A plantation of some description. There was no other traffic and the
silence, broken only by the tick-tick of the Horch’s cooling engine, felt oppressive. His breath clouded in the air. It was already colder than in the west of the country.
The driver, a weathered specimen with a face the colour of walnut, was already out of the cab, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee from a vacuum flask, which he clearly didn’t intend
to share.
‘You want me to take a look at the strapping?’ Sayer asked.
‘Come.’ The old guard indicated towards the trees with his rifle barrel.
‘What’s this? Ablutions?’ asked Sayer.
Watson noted that his bladder did indeed need emptying and stepped towards the treeline.
‘No!’ The guard was indicating Sayer, who had followed Watson. ‘Only him. Not you.’
Sayer put a hand on Watson’s shoulder. ‘What’s he playing at, sir?’
The second guard brought his Mauser down on Sayer’s arm, knocking it away. Sayer swore at him with some vigour which, fortunately, the German didn’t fully understand. But he got the
gist. He prodded Sayer back against the side of the truck with the muzzle of his Mauser.
‘Come,’ repeated the older man, ‘with me.’
‘Don’t do anything foolish while I am gone, Sayer,’ warned Watson. ‘I’ll be fine.’
There’s no point in us both getting killed
, he almost
added.
He had heard of this scenario, of course. A train or a lorry stops for a rest break. The prisoners ‘stretch their legs’. They are then shot ‘trying to escape’. Well,
perhaps this was fate’s payback for Hanson. It was possible he deserved such an ending after what had happened to his fellow Englishman.
The trees seemed to absorb both light and heat and he pulled the greatcoat tight around him as he shuffled into the semi-darkness. He could hear the whistle in the old guard’s breathing
quite clearly now. He wasn’t a well man. But could Watson take him? He glanced over his shoulder, reducing his walking speed as he did so. The German was a good five strides behind him and he
slowed to match Watson’s new pace. He gestured with his rifle that Watson should keep moving. Watson did so. It was then he noticed white smudges on some of the trees they passed. He ran a
finger along one. Fresh lime wash. Markings. He was being led down a particular route through these trees. But to what?
He smelled the smoke first. Pipe tobacco. Something intense and spicy, although he couldn’t say more than that.
Latakia, Watson. Unmistakable
.
As usual, he ignored the fraudster.
The smoker was leaning against a tree on the edge of a small clearing. There was a Puch motorcycle on a stand in the centre and an access pathway led off towards the north. It was a prearranged
rendezvous between truck crew and the rider of the Puch.
Von Bork was dressed in a long, leather coat over the sharply tailored uniform of an
Oberstleutnant
in the
Oberste Heeresleitung
, the Supreme Army Command. Watson had last seen the
man one sultry night in August 1914, when Holmes had disrupted his spy ring. Then, he had been in civilian clothes and favoured cigars. He had been expecting to be welcomed like a returning hero in
Berlin; Holmes had ensured the plaudits were replaced by recriminations.
The well-cut tunic could not hide the fact that Von Bork had put on weight. During his time in England he had been keen on yachting, polo and hunting. Now, with his nascent belly and jowls, he
looked like a man who was trapped behind a desk and indulged only in good lunches.
‘Dr Watson,’ said Von Bork, tapping out his pipe on a tree trunk. ‘It has been some years.’
‘Von Bork,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘How unexpected.’
‘How are you, Doctor?’
‘Major.’
‘Oh, we can dispense with that nonsense. You aren’t in any army now, not in my book. It’s back to Dr Watson. The faithful companion, the not-so-reliable biographer. You know I
often think back to those four years in England. Some of my happiest times. The clubs, the women, the weekends in the country. All so civilized. Until that night when Holmes played his hand. How is
he?’
‘Keeping well.’ Which was true, although he had moved cottage to be closer to Bert, the young boy who was proving an invaluable companion and quite the beekeeper. It also made it
harder for the admirers and the inevitable scribblers to track him down. The latter were always trying to ferret out what, exactly, was Holmes’s contribution to the war. ‘He has his
hobbies and his health.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping for sadder news,’ he admitted with a wry smile. ‘You know, I always expected, one day, to see your great triumph in print.
“The Adventure of the Gullible German Spy”, perhaps. Have I missed it?’
‘Your story has not seen the light of day,’ said Watson. ‘Who knows if it ever will? It is hardly a tale of great detection or deduction. Merely one of tenacious
pursuit.’
Von Bork narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh, I think it will bubble to the surface, like scum on a pot, Watson. The great man’s final case? How can you resist a curtain call for your consulting
detective?’ The sourness in the voice was striking, years of resentment curdled into hate.
‘It was you who took my name off the repatriation list, wasn’t it?’ Watson said as the mental tumblers clicked into place.
Von Bork now permitted himself a wide grin, as if his work was something to be proud of.
‘And arranged my transfer to Harzgrund?’
A nod. ‘I said I would get even with you. If it took me the rest of my life. I have not yet acquired the means to take down Mr Sherlock Holmes, but I can imagine his suffering when he
hears of the conditions prevailing at Harzgrund.’
‘Holmes is a virtual hermit. He will be oblivious to any suffering I might experience.’
‘Under normal circumstances, perhaps. Yet you write to him.’ From his pocket, Von Bork took two envelopes. ‘And to . . . Mrs Gregson . . .’
Watson started forward but a half-gargled bark from the guard stopped him. ‘You scoundrel,’ Watson said. It sounded so feeble. He wished for Sayer’s artful facility with oaths
and curses. ‘Those are personal letters. How did you—’
‘Oh, as a member of the POW committee, I can do anything. Even take the mail for censoring. Personal letters?’ He held the envelopes aloft. ‘Or full of secret codes? I shall
let our cryptographers take a look. And I shall send them on, do not worry, suitably edited, if need be, but with a little additional information to worry Mr Holmes and this . . .’ he looked
at the address, ‘. . . Mrs Gregson. A sweetheart perhaps? A widow to keep you company in your declining years?’
‘My goddaughter,’ he lied, trying to recall if anything in the letter would betray his true feelings for Mrs Gregson. But he was not of the generation that indulged in florid
admissions of emotion. And there were no coded messages. He had not had time to insert the deliberately misspelled words that were the key to the cipher he used when corresponding with his old
colleague. ‘So I am to be the instrument of suffering for Holmes? Is that your grand scheme?’ Watson tried to make it sound as pathetic as possible, but he feared there was method in
this cruelty.
‘Until I come up with a better idea.’
‘Why not shoot me and have done with it? Holmes would mourn me, I am sure.’ He was serious. It was a valid alternative to what the German was proposing.
‘Oh, no,’ said Von Bork. ‘What would another death count? Death has lost all currency in this war, don’t you find? But misery and starvation? No, an ongoing punishment, a
constant drip-drip of pain to the Great Detective, is far more satisfactory.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Now, I am needed in Berlin, so I must leave you.’ He wrapped his pipe in a
pouch and slipped it into the leather coat. ‘Rest assured, the camp commandant will keep me updated on your . . . progress.’
‘I wouldn’t want any special treatment.’
Von Bork laughed. ‘Very good, Doctor, very good. I do miss that laconic sense of humour you British have. I’d wish you well, but . . . it would defeat the whole object of this
meeting, wouldn’t it? Gunther here will take you back to continue the journey.’
Von Bork walked to the Puch, threw a leg over it and kicked away its stand. Before he could operate the starting lever, Watson said: ‘I have one question, Von Bork.’
‘Yes?’
‘What tobacco do you smoke?’
Von Bork examined the enquiry, looking for a trick or a hidden barb, but could find none. ‘Tobacco? I have a taste for Latakia, although it is rather hard to find except in Berlin these
days. Why?’
I’ll be damned, Watson thought. ‘No matter. I just collect such facts. You never know when they might come in handy.’
‘Well, if it’s a present you are thinking of,’ Von Bork smirked again, ‘my birthday is in December. If you should live that long.’
The sudden roar the engine smothered the possibility of any further conversation, and Von Bork manhandled the bike round, gave the throttle a quarter-turn and disappeared down the path through
the trees. Watson wondered if the German could feel the imaginary daggers he was throwing him penetrating that expensive leather riding coat.
‘I am sorry,’ said Gunther in his halting English.
‘It’s not your fault . . .’ Watson began, then stopped himself. ‘Sorry for what exactly?’
The sound of the rifle shot zigzagged through the woods, ricocheting off the trunks until a blurred version of the report reached their ears. Watson didn’t wait for permission, he began to
sprint as fast as his reluctant body would carry him, back to the road.
They’ve shot Sayer,
said the voice in his head.
And, because his phantom friend had been right about the Latakia, Watson knew this was true too.
At first the diners on that Friday evening in the Savoy’s River Room thought it was thunder, but that was simply the initial ignition, which did indeed sound like a low
rumble in the heavens. The noise of the second, more powerful blast came half a minute later, followed almost immediately by a strange sickly orange glow, as if the sunset had gone into reverse.
The percussion wave arrived while many customers had vacated their tables and moved to the windows – which had not yet been fitted with their blackout panels – to see if this was a
German Zeppelin attack or an early sortie by the new German bombers the papers were talking about.
The glass simply shuddered to begin with, the reflected light from the restaurant’s electric lamps dancing and shimmering as the panes distorted. And then they imploded, showering guests
with shards that sliced through cloth and skin. The screams of wounded patrons and staff almost drowned out the third explosion, which unseated the few remaining sections of glass, sending them
spinning across the room like a magician’s knives.
Mrs Gregson was fortunate. Seated on the far side of the restaurant’s small dance floor, she was peppered with the finest of glass particles, one of which entered her eye, causing stinging
and irritation. Her dining companion, Robert Nathan, a senior member of the Wartime Constabulary, was blown backwards off his chair and cracked his head, but soon struggled to his feet.
Mrs Gregson rose and picked her way through a scattering of shattered glass, broken crockery, cutlery, half-eaten dishes and bottles of wine busy glugging their contents onto the Savoy’s
carpet. She could see the bright blooms of fresh blood on some individuals over near the windows, but she could tell that a significant proportion of the people on their feet were simply dazed.
‘I need everyone who is uninjured – I repeat, uninjured – to go through to the foyer,’ she shouted over the moans and groans that that were now replacing the shriller
screams that had filled the room in the immediate aftermath of the detonations. ‘Now, please, in an orderly fashion. Perhaps any staff could stay and help? Thank you.’
Still that unnatural light washed over the river outside, lending the Thames a hellish cast. ‘Those who are able to walk, but are wounded, I want you over on the left. Next to the
bandstand. Please . . . we need access to the more seriously injured, so if you can move away . . . Mr Nathan, can you please make sure the house physician is informed at once that we have
casualties and that ambulances have been called?’
There were, she knew, only six ambulance stations in the whole of London, and it was likely they would be deployed to the site of the explosion. ‘And get the doormen to commandeer some
taxis,’ she added.
Nathan, who was facing up to fifty, but still fit – his pig-sticking and cricket regime in India had ensured that – didn’t question Mrs Gregson, but vaulted the low railing
behind him and walked briskly to the main foyer. She heard his voice booming out, issuing orders rather than requests, as if addressing his servants in Calcutta.
She looked around the damaged room. ‘Maître d’ . . . maître d’?’
‘Yes, madam?’ The Frenchman stepped forward. He had a razor-thin cut along his cheek, running down to the corner of his moustache, but there was little evidence of blood. His
previously oiled-down hair, though, was sticking up at crazy angles, like a chimney sweep’s brush.