Hands of the Traitor

  Gold!

  Suddenly he remembered Sophie's gold candles. The corner of the compound was now under a heap of concrete panels dumped by the soldiers clearing the debris. Major Jackson had told him to find poison gas in gold cylinders, but it was impossible to dig for them now. Perhaps they weren't important. Maybe they were some form of payment from the two Americans for services rendered. Within a few weeks, the Allies would overrun this part of France. The gold might be a lucky find that would change some soldier's life for ever.

  Alec accepted that he'd failed. Sophie Bernay would have known why the two Americans had been here. Sophie was the sort of girl who'd make it her business to ask things, to find out answers.

  Just thinking about Sophie made him tense.

  He had an indistinct memory of Sophie Bernay speaking after the explosion. And the Americans; the Heinmans and Sophie talking together, having an argument. The blow on his head had caused more than concussion. It had blotted something out. Something he did not even want to remember.

  *

  THE MTB CAME on time to the rescue point at Strouanne. Six of his colleagues were waiting with him. A total of seven SOE men -- out of twenty who'd been dropped off. Casualties on that scale made a blow on the head seem trivial.

  He sat by himself below decks in the cramped cabin, leaving the others above to joke and exchange stories of their experiences in France. None had come up with any secret warheads, but several had the locations of operational V1 sites for immediate bombing.

  But Alec felt ill at ease. His site had been the one -- and he had let Major Jackson down. That was not strictly true. Possibly the kitbag held some evidence. Speculation of the contents made him sweat.

  *

  BACK AT the base, Major Jackson tried to sound positive as he greeted the seven SOE operatives with hackneyed comments. They were not to worry, he told them; they'd done a grand job. They were all brave men, and their thirteen colleagues would no doubt be back in England within a day or two. Perhaps they'd run into a few small problems. Alec knew he would never see them again.

  When he entered the room for the debriefing session the first person he noticed was Major Jackson at his desk, with two other men beside him. These two were not in uniform and were not introduced, but they had American accents. Alec wasn't surprised; this was a joint forces' operation. Men were selected here for special missions irrespective of nationality. Even Padre Hawkins was Canadian. He'd developed a special relationship with the padre, though he rarely went to the camp church.

  "Captain Rider, we'll speak to you first. Let's hear how you got on."

  He wondered if he was to be disciplined for his failure to retrieve the gold samples. He lowered his eyes as he spoke. "I'm afraid my head took a bit of a knock."

  "Yes, nasty one that, but the MO thinks you'll soon be as right as rain. Something in that kitbag for us?"

  Alec told the parts of the story he could recall. The name of the Americans? He'd heard Sophie say it. A name like Heinemann ... or Heinman. That was it. Two Americans called Heinman. He remembered how Sophie Bernay had taken care to sound the H which was normally silent in French.

  Major Jackson seemed to be taking little interest in the news of possible United States involvement. "We'll make a few inquiries," he said lightly. "But they won't be American. Some bloody Krauts by the sound of it." He suddenly smiled. "Can't complain about the place blowing up, can we? Saved us a bombing raid, what! You must be one hell of a shot with that plumber's delight."

  "The Sten? Just a lucky hit on the pilot as he was opening the throttle, Major."

  "Lucky my foot! You're going to get a gong out of this, you see if you're not. I'm putting your name forward to the Colonel. He'll give it the highest backing. Now, let's take a little look in that bag of tricks you've brought back."

  "No!" He clutched the kitbag tightly to his body, an involuntary movement that frightened him by its severity.

  "Oh, come now, Captain. Whatever you've got in there belongs to the military. You've had a nasty shock to the system but you'll get over it with a bit of rest in the country."

  Still he held onto the kitbag.

  The Major took a deep breath. He was senior to Alec in both rank and years. "Captain Rider, this is an order. Open it!"

  Grudgingly Alec loosened the cord and tipped the bag on its side. The long French knife, streaked brown with dried blood, rattled across the table.

  Major Jackson laughed as though trying to coax a reluctant child. "Well, it looks like you put it to good use. What's next?"

  Alec tipped the bag again. The Major and the two men gasped with horror as Alec picked up a human hand wearing a large signet ring on the middle finger.

  "My God, man, what have you done?" Major Jackson leapt to his feet and stood back a few paces.

  "It's ... I don't know, sir, I can't remember." He sat down and began to breathe great gulps of air.

  Major Jackson came forward cautiously. "That's one hell of a souvenir to bring back from France, Captain Rider."

  "Yes, Major. Perhaps when I remember more about it..."

  Major Jackson peered into the kitbag. "Any other nasty surprises in store?"

  Three grenades, the Sten, and various items of clothing. Nothing else. Tipping the kitbag upside down he shook it to prove that everything was out.

  A small item fell onto the floor. He reached down and retrieved it.

  "What's that, Rider?"

  Alec let out a cry of agony.

  "Pass it to me, Captain." The Major's voice was firm. "It looks like a gold cross."

  "It is, Major." He felt faint again. He'd returned with a human hand and Sophie's gold cross. "I think I killed the girl, Major. That's her cross. I'd like to see the padre."

  The Major laughed nervously. "That's not a girl's hand, Rider."

  "I seem to have killed more than one person out there. I'd still like to see the padre, Major."

  "You've not brought back any of those gold candles you were telling us about?"

  "The girl tried to help me. I told her I'd bring her back to England. She..." He let his head drop forward. "I just don't remember. There's so much I just don't know any more."

  "Don't want to know!" snapped one of the two men sitting in on the debriefing.

  "That must be her blood on the knife," Alec said hesitantly. He found further talk impossible as he took a long, hard look at the hand on the table. The middle finger had gone blue around the gold ring. Elsewhere the skin looked white and wrinkled, like a cut of cheap pork at the butcher's. The whiteness of the flesh emphasized the dirt behind the fingernails. It was disgusting.

  He felt his body sway. "If you'll excuse me, Major, I need some fresh air."

  *

  New York

  "WELL, BUDDY, I see you managed to get your old man killed in France." Skorensky grinned. "Boy, you certainly blew that trip."

  Frank Becker Heinman sat at his desk, his right arm in a sling, and looked apprehensively at the chief executive officer of DCI. He had to find a way to put this man in his place. Thanks to his father's stupidity, he'd suddenly found himself president of a pharmaceutical company, a few days off his twenty-first birthday.

  The senior staff must be made to think he was hard, like his father. "Watch it, Skorensky; that's my father your talking about."

  "I didn't mean no disrespect, Frank."

  He detected the change in Skorensky's face. Maybe he should remind the middle-aged man of a few facts. "I'm sure you didn't, Skorensky. Only a fool would risk putting his job on the line."

  "Like I said, Mr. Heinman, I didn't mean no disrespect."

  Frank realized that the form of address had changed from buddy to Frank to Mr. Heinman. He tried to force a smile, but the deep cut on his chin made him wince instead. A fragment of the English soldier's grenade had ripped away a small piece of flesh. He hoped that Skorensky wouldn't notice the sweat on the palms of his hands. "We could be in trouble over our involvement with the Nazis."

&
nbsp; Skorensky winked. "DCI could, Mr. Heinman."

  Frank Heinman felt a shiver of panic. "We all could, Skorensky. Me as the new president, you as chief executive officer, and Jacco Morell as chief scientist. We should have stopped all contact with the Nazis when Uncle Sam went to war. DCI has been in too deep with the Berlitzan Project." He wiped his hands in his handkerchief. "They could put the three of us in the chair for it. Well, you two anyway. I guess I'm too young."

  "Don't go worrying yourself over Jacco Morell, Mr. Heinman. He ... sort of took off, as soon as the word came through of your father's death."

  The news that the chief scientist was missing came as a surprise. He'd been planning to interview Jacco Morell next. "What about his family?"

  "No problem, Mr. Heinman." Skorensky smiled slyly. "Jacco Morell didn't have a family over here. He'll not be telling anyone about the Berlitzan Project."

  Frank gripped the edge of the desk with his left hand, his right arm held tightly by the sling the German doctors had given him when they'd set the smashed bones. "Is anything missing?"

  The sly smile vanished. "Nothing, Mr. Heinman. I've checked out the safe. No papers out of order, no chemicals unaccounted for. People are saying Jacco missed your father and just took off."

  "You didn't...?" Hell, he missed his father.

  Skorensky turned on a conniving grin. "I'm here to help you, Mr. Heinman. You wait until you're properly better before you worry your young head about the business. That damage to your arm ain't gonna heal overnight. And your chin still looks a mess, if you'll excuse me saying it."

  Frank began to feel anxious again. "But you've covered up the death of my father in France?"

  "It's like I told you, Mr. Heinman. Officially, your father disappeared on a hunting trip up in Alaska. A good one that, seeing as there's no body. And you got those injuries when you fell trying to rescue him. There'll be no big deal made if you stick to the script."

  Frank breathed more easily. The tightness in his chest eased slightly. "You're a reliable man, Skorensky." He wiped his hands again in his handkerchief and noticed a small ink stain on his father's ... on his desk. "I guess our troubles didn't disappear with Jacco Morell."

  "You're right there, Mr. Heinman."

  Skorensky had the facial expression of a devoted and trustworthy servant. Frank recognized it as the expression that had caused his father so much pleasure. It was a false servitude, and it brought little relief now. He rubbed the ink mark with his thumb but it stayed put. "They can't touch us for what happened in France."

  "That's correct, Mr. Heinman. Not if you've got it right. Some big explosion, and all the Berlitzan oil destroyed."

  Frank nodded. "You're right, Skorensky."

  "And Mr. Heinman beyond recognition -- if you'll excuse me saying so."

  "Totally beyond recognition. Even if the American GIs dig him up, they'll never know who it is. Not after what that grenade did."

  "What about the signet rings, Mr. Heinman?"

  He knew! The rat knew! The expression on Skorensky's face gave him away. He just sat there, with those stupid innocent eyes, asking about the rings. How the hell had Skorensky found out?

  "I fancied there had to be more to it, Mr. Heinman. Your father told me those rings were the badges of office, for the head of DCI to wear. Only you've not put them on since you came back from France, so I thought perhaps..."

  "Shut up, Skorensky."

  So oily, so suave, and so cocksure of his position. The man was a threat to the company. It all came back to the Berlitzan Project. The Feds could wipe DCI off America if one whisper of their Nazi involvement got out.

  "I'm going to need your help, Skorensky." Frank knew he was failing to impress. This small, dark-haired man who'd been at his father's right hand for years probably still saw him as a podgy school kid.

  "You ... you don't know the half of the problems ahead, Mr. Heinman."

  Frank took one look at his father's choice of company chief executive officer. The man had glanced suggestively at the outer office where the glass screen allowed the secretary's head to be seen at the typewriter. "Karen McDowell?"

  "Afraid so, Mr. Heinman. Your father's put one up her, so to speak. Not the first time either, so she claims. It seems he arranged things for her with money in '37."

  It was as though one of those German flying bombs had smashed into the Manhattan office. "She's ... she's not serious?"

  Skorensky's eyes told Frank that Karen was serious. They also told him that the chief executive officer was rather enjoying this moment.

  He jumped to his feet. "She has proof?"

  Skorensky tipped his chair back slowly. "She has what she calls ample proof -- about both occasions. I also think she knows something about the Project."

  He took out his white handkerchief again, still damp from the sweat on his hands. "Who else knows about this?"

  "She's very discreet, Mr. Heinman. She thinks it might help the company if you dealt with it informally."

  Frank rubbed his chin, cautiously feeling the fresh scar. As president he needed to act with authority -- and the lack of that damn Heinman beard wasn't helping. He twisted the handkerchief round his fingers, and the vomit rising in his throat now reached his mouth. "Skorensky, you've got to help me, before she goes public."

  Chapter 9

  London

  THE FIRST V2 rocket blasted off from its small launch pad in the Netherlands on September 8 1944, and crashed without warning on the houses of Chiswick in west London during the evening mealtime.

  Alec Rider heard the explosion from several miles away. He tried to discover the reason for the noise by tuning to the BBC news. The explanation of a gas explosion convinced nobody. Within days the capital reeled under an onslaught of several hundred terrifying Wunderwaffen.

  At first the British authorities managed to keep the worst details of the monster rocket secret, afraid that panic might set in. But news soon got round amongst the Londoners. Air raid warnings were useless, for the military experts could find no way to detect a missile dropping vertically at five times the speed of sound. One moment life was normal -- as normal as life could be in a heavily bombed city -- then the clear and silent sky brought an explosion of earthquake proportions, flattening houses within a radius of many streets.

  Churchill was desperate to find a way to halt the carnage. By now one thousand of the massive V2s had been launched, with six hundred of them hitting London. The British Prime Minister had already ordered heavy bombing raids against German cities, but he admitted in secret that the Germans could win the war within a matter of weeks.

  Alec Rider quickly came to the same conclusion.

  The army sent a summons for him to return from sick leave for questioning. No, he told Major Jackson in the same office where he had been debriefed following the pick-up from Strouanne, the compound in the Pas-de-Calais could not possibly have been a launch pad for a giant rocket. Surely the British knew all about the V1 sites by now, since they had already overrun most of northern France close to the coast.

  "Thank you, Captain. It would appear we have killed one monster, to be confronted by a worse contender for a Nazi victory." The Major sat forward in his chair. "Feeling better, old chap?"

  "I think so, Major. Are you getting another team together?"

  "Perhaps, but nothing as erotic as rescuing French beauties from the evil Hun. We might have a trip to Holland lined up for a lucky few. That's where most of these big rockets seem to be coming from. The Jerries are using mobile launch sites -- in residential areas."

  "The MO says I should be fit soon."

  "But the padre has some doubts I gather."

  "With all due respect to Padre Hawkins, Major, he's not exactly proper army, so to speak." Alec tried to hide his disappointment at the rebuttal. He wanted to pay the Nazis back for his ruined life.

  Padre Hawkins had been a good comforter, a close friend through the early stages of recovery. He liked the padre, a Canadian by birt
h, both of them thrown into life at the deep end by this war, both struggling to stay afloat.

  Fergus Hawkins always had something sensible to share each time they went under.

  "Our boys have had a little think about the name you gave us. Heinemann wasn't it?"

  "Heinman, Major."

  "Same difference. It's still German. We think you got confused about who was who over there." The Major opened a drawer. "There's to be no gong I'm afraid, but you can have these back as a little memento of a bloody good effort on French soil. Besides, the army doesn't need jewelry." He tossed the signet ring and small crucifix onto the desk. "Have a little chat with the padre this afternoon. It's very healing, you know."

  Alec reached for the objects. Healing? The memory of that severed hand falling from the kit bag would never heal. It had seared itself into his brain to stay for eternity, but he could cope with it. What really screwed him up were the half-memories of Sophie Bernay. Even in his sleep he could see her face, taste her blood on his lips.

  "Thanks, Major, I'd like to see Padre Hawkins again."

  "Good fellow. I'll fix up a meeting."

  *

  THE TWO men sat alone.

  "I don't want you to think I'm a soft touch or anything, Padre." Alec Rider felt anxious for the future. "But I wouldn't object if you prayed for me when you have a spare five minutes."

  He watched Fergus Hawkins sit back, his tall body crammed into the canvas deck chair under the scarlet berries of the mountain ash. The tree just about filled the small back garden. A smell of smoke from a neighbor's bonfire hovered in the air. Autumn wasn't far away now.

  "I've never thought of you as a soft touch, Alec." The Canadian reached out and touched his arm. "Not many people are ready to admit they need God -- not when death isn't staring them in the face. And I'm afraid it will always be so."

  "Ah, but the difference is I mean it, Padre." Alec could have used his fellow officer's Christian name, but it would have destroyed the relationship. A padre was a padre, and more than an equal. "I still can't remember what happened."