"My mission is of vital importance," Braun insisted. "Your commander made this quite clear, did he not?"
The captain laughed. "Of course. But then, my commander is an idiot who has not been to sea since the last war."
Braun cursed inwardly at his error. Here was a man who had survived by thinking independently, making it through four years in a combat theater where 70 percent casualties was the grim fact.
He would not be cowed by threats from superiors when there were far more immediate dangers in the skies and waters all around.
Braun smiled. "You have not seen an idiot until you've met my own commander. Now there is a bastard. But all the same, I must get to America."
"For our Fuhrer?"
"No, Herr Kapitanleutnant. For our country."
Chapter 5
Major Michael Thatcher pedaled his bicycle briskly at the shoulder of the Surrey road, the morning chill offering its usual incentive. His small, wiry frame gave minimal aerodynamic resistance, and he kept his head down to maximize the effect. The trip from his cottage to Handley Down was a matter of eighteen or nineteen minutes depending on the wind and, to a lesser extent, the condition of the road, which had a nasty tendency to deteriorate under heavy rain. Thatcher himself was not a variable.
His legs churned in steady time, notwithstanding the uneven gait — his left leg, artificial from the knee down, had never mastered the upstroke. Thatcher spotted Handley Down right on time as he rounded the last bend. Typical of the English country manors of its era, it was shameless and unrestrained, an overbearing statement of class and station. Huge fortress walls stood guard on all sides, protecting the forty-odd rooms that lay within. The place had been requisitioned for the cause in 1940 and, approaching the gated entrance, Thatcher tried to imagine what it might look like in another year's time. Minus the drab olive jeeps and sodden sandbags, it would revert to its proper owner, Lord somebody-or-other, and the offices and holding cells would be smartly reshaped back into dens, libraries, and servants quarters. The crater near the stables had a number of possible uses, but would likely be filled in and smoothed over out of respect for the crew of the B-17 that had smacked straight in last August. Only then could the gentry return and the parties begin.
Thatcher slowed as he approached the perimeter gate. Six months ago he would have endured a stern challenge from the guards, but now, with things winding down in Europe, the mood had lightened considerably.
"Mornin', Major," a corporal called out as Thatcher approached, his lazy salute an apparent afterthought.
Thatcher braked to a full stop and balanced the bike by his good leg. His return salute was crisp. "Good Morning, Thompson." He looked into the tiny shack that served as shelter for the guards. It was empty. "Where is your second?"
"Ah … well that would be Simpson, sir. He's gone for our morning tea."
"Corporal, this post is assigned in pairs. It is a dereliction of your responsibilities to —"
Thompson interrupted, "Here he comes now, Major."
A chunky enlisted man waddled up the path from the main house, a battered teapot in his hand and a stupid grin on his face. Thatcher frowned and issued a firm warning, "We're not done yet lads, do you hear?" He pushed off and covered the last hundred yards to the house, knowing the two guards were probably enjoying a laugh at his expense.
He leaned his bicycle against a young beech tree and secured it with a chain and lock — the law was clear on securing all forms of transportation, and no caveat was made to exempt military installations. Thatcher entered Handley Down through its grand main entrance. Two massive oak doors, no less than twelve feet high, stood guard at the columned portico. On the wall next to these stalwarts was a poorly stenciled sign that read: combined services detailed interrogation centre.
Thatcher heaved his way through the doors and into a voluminous lobby that swallowed all comers. Large enough for a small-sided football match, it was another study in contrasts. The Italian marble floors were scuffed and encrusted with streaks of mud. A fine table held a lovely bouquet of roses, the vase a dented metal canteen. The walls were adorned with decorative columns and fine paintings that depicted past lords and ladies of the house, yet accenting this was a drab collection of army posters encouraging everyone to keep their lips sealed and buy bonds to support the war effort.
Thatcher strode to the familiar hallway, no attempt made to mask his limp. There had always been an unevenness about him, even before the air crash. His brown hair was typically askew, his nose had been broken more than once in a series of childhood skirmishes, and one leg had always been somewhat longer. The injuries he'd picked up from the ditching of a Lancaster bomber had actually leveled things on that count, though standing straight he was now often told that one shoulder drooped. None of it bothered him.
Thatcher paused to study a large cork bulletin board at the hallway entrance. Only months ago it had been strictly business — security directives, status reports, and detail assignments. Now the thing was dominated by situations wanted, job postings, and get-rich schemes. Everyone was moving on, it seemed, ready to put the war behind.
He navigated to his own wing and turned into the office labeled: colonel roger ainsley. Inside was a neat, orderly place. In better times it had served as the library. The walls were lined from floorboard to ceiling with books, rich and scholarly volumes that held no relevance whatsoever to the business at hand. The place held a harsh odor, a hundred years of cigars, brandy, and varnish mixing defiantly.
"Roger, we must do something about the security situation!"
Roger Ainsley looked up from his desk. He was a large man of indeterminate shape, a few extra pounds softening all his edges. His hair was prematurely white and thin, and a set of metal-framed reading glasses completed the grandfatherly appearance. In spite of a two-grade advantage in rank, he allowed Thatcher the familiarity of first names.
"Good morning, Michael. And yes, I know. We had this discussion last week."
"Lax, I tell you! I saw the breach in the fence as I was riding in. It's been over two weeks since that car skidded through and nothing's been done."
"I'll see to it, Michael. Coffee?" The colonel pointed to a pot on his desk. "You should have come last night. The rugby squad were spot-on in their debut. Quartermaster Harewood had a memorable try, although it was at the expense of three teeth and a fractured mandible."
Thatcher ignored the match report. He was in full mood. "This impending victory in Europe is having a positively corrosive influence on standards here. Our battle is not over! We're holding nine high-ranking Nazis, and it's imperative we get every useful scrap out of them. If any should manage to escape—"
"Eleven," Ainsley interrupted.
"What?"
"Eleven. Two more came in last night."
"Who are they?"
Ainsley shrugged. "That's always the question, isn't it? They were captured two days ago trying to leave Berlin. One had information regarding a freighter that was scheduled to sail from Rome to Cartagena, Colombia. Rather ambitious, if you ask me."