Betrayal (16 page)

Whether in rain or sunshine, the first sight one had of the entrance to the prison was of barbed wire in accordion coils strung between and over log
X
s. There was a barrier bar that could be raised or lowered just like the ones at border crossings, the guardhouse being somewhat more substantial yet even more bleak and with printed instructions that were tacked to one of the walls, the warning signs, the sentries with their rifles and, sometimes as today, one or two of the dogs.

Mary rode towards that thing she'd come to dread because, once in, there was no turning back. She handed over her pass, said, ‘I want to see the colonel, please.'

‘Colonel's away, miss.'

‘Then Major Trant.'

All the ringing up on the field telephone, the request, the orders and the answers she heard and yet didn't hear, was conscious only of the rain, the wire and the castle whose gatehouse and barbican were at the end of the road.

‘Miss?' She must have said yes, because he went on. ‘Major Trant will see you in staff common, miss. If you wait at the main door, Private Summers will show you up.'

Miss … why had he called her that when her pass clearly gave her married name?

Her ring … Mary glanced down at her hand and realized that she must have taken it off and left it beside the bathroom sink. There was nothing for it but to continue—she couldn't turn back, not now.

The gatehouse at Tralane had two octagonal towers set astride the central passageway, each of some three storeys. Access was by a stone bridge instead of a drawbridge, but there was a portcullis of spiked iron bars hanging up there, with murder holes for quicklime, arrows, hot stones and boiling oil just as before.

The archway went clear through to another bridge and portcullis, so one had another dose of it, the gatehouse being backed by what was called the barbican—two round towers with square, interconnecting floors—six of these, so that the battlements rose up ahead of her, unseen now, but as a rampart.

Trant had his offices on the third floor of the barbican. That was where they had the interrogation rooms and where the careful sifting of intelligence was done, the gleaning of carelessly given words about submarines, aircraft, cruisers, tanks or heavy guns. Bombs too—anything that might be useful, including especially that which was repeated by unsuspecting female volunteer librarians.

The lounge was on the fourth floor—bedrooms and living quarters on the two other floors she supposed, though the colonel and his wife didn't live in the castle, just Jimmy and the major and the men.

Mary was shown into the lounge and told to wait. The chairs and sofas were all of that much worn morocco that had been fashionable twenty and thirty years ago, the room looking like that of a dingy, down-at-the-heels men's club. Ashtrays on stands, the rudiments of a bar—locked up, of course. A few newspapers, a couple of magazines, centuries old, dim lights, not on, the windows serving that purpose. A photograph of His Majesty, King George the Sixth.

The prisoners were standing in the rain. They were formed up across the Bailey in long lines that ran away from her, the men rigidly at attention, all 182 of them—no, 181, wasn't it? The Second Lieutenant Bachmann and … and then those, too, who were in the infirmary …

Mary began to count them, only to discover that at least some forty or so new arrivals had been received. She tried to find Erich—could spot the
Schirmmützen
of the U-boat captains—there were now five of these, but she couldn't see him and wondered if he wasn't in one of the interrogation rooms below her—Trant would have done that sort of thing. He'd have known she would go over to the windows and would see them all standing out there, so cold and wet Hamish would hear of it.

Pulling off her gloves and coat, she removed her beret and paced about, returning frequently to the windows, only to see the men still standing at attention. They'd all get pneumonia. It was just damned stupid. Why were they doing it to them, why were the men taking it so stubbornly? It was as if there'd been a funeral or something and they were all on parade to honour their dead.

‘Mrs. Fraser, sorry to have kept you waiting, but it couldn't be helped. What can I do for you?'

‘Are they still under house arrest?'

Her voice had leapt; he'd give her the offering of a brief smile. ‘If you mean, are they still being recalcitrant, then yes.'

‘But surely they'll become ill?'

‘That? Oh that …' He'd go over to the windows now to stand beside her. ‘That's of their own choosing. Marvellous discipline. Saw them like that in the stadium at Nurnberg in '36. The Nazis have no equal for it. Beautifully trained robots.'

‘How long have they been like that?'

‘Two hours. Since the dinner they refused to eat. A minor complaint about something Quartermaster Deeks had supplied their cooks. Now what can we do for you?'

Even as she turned from the window, Mary knew the men were breaking rank to go indoors, yet their being out there couldn't have been solely for her benefit, could it? Trant
was
an expert in the psychologies of interrogation.

‘I have to take Caithleen to Dublin this Sunday, Major. The girl's suicidal. There is also, as you well know, the danger that those who were responsible will come back to finish the job.'

There were more, then, than the girl's uncle and cousin, were there, to say nothing of Fay Darcy? ‘If they had wanted to kill her, they'd have done so.'

‘She tried to …'

‘We know all about that. Your husband has already told us.'

‘Then why won't you let me take her to Dublin on Sunday?'

‘Because it can't be arranged. Transport is at a premium these days, Mrs. Fraser. Space has been requested. When it becomes available, we'll let you know.'

‘You just want to see if I keep my side of the bargain.'

‘I'm sure the colonel would find that most unkind. More books?' he asked.

He had changed topics so suddenly, he could only be trying to catch her out. ‘Yes,' she hazarded. ‘You can look through them if you wish.'

A tough nut, was she? ‘The Thackeray you brought the last time. Any idea who borrowed it? The colonel's wife has expressed an interest.'

She shook that head of hers, but he'd take his time with her. ‘We can't seem to find the blessed thing. No one seems to have heard of it.'

‘But it must be somewhere?'

She had been genuinely unsettled but had managed to keep control quite nicely. ‘
The Virginians
, was it?'

To turn away from him would only make things worse. ‘There were some lovely illustrations—lithographs, not woodcuts. Hamish … Hamish is very fond of them. I do hope nothing has …'

‘You don't like me very much, do you, Mrs. Fraser?'

‘Should I?'

She'd been caught by that little confrontation and had weathered it well, but was now suitably flustered. ‘No, of course not.'

He would take out his pocketknife and cut the strings, felt Mary, would notice that she was heading back to the windows rather than watch as he flipped through the books. Why
couldn't
he just condemn her and get it over with?

Trant saw that she had her back to him. She had worn a beige suit today, with sand-coloured knee socks and those brogues of hers. The regular little Scottish mistress, made over from Canada, he snorted silently. Tall but not too tall. A good figure, if one was interested in such things, good posture, good shoulders and afraid, so damned afraid he could smell the fear on her.

There'd be nothing in the books this time, so she either had it on her person or hadn't brought a thing and was simply worried about the Thackeray.

Then what the devil had she brought in that one? ‘You weren't here on Thursday.'

There was no one out in the bailey now, not a soul. ‘I was busy elsewhere. Didn't Hamish tell you?'

Best not to answer that, best to leave her worrying. ‘The Thackeray, Mrs. Fraser. The men have refused to give it up, now why do you suppose that is?'

But he had
said
no one had heard of it! The urge to say,
A love of literature,
was almost more than she could bear but she would have to hold her tongue. Things must be all over for her, he having simply played her along, she having let him.

‘That book,' he said.

‘I … I haven't the slightest idea, Major. I'm not very fond of Thackeray—haven't read him in years. Not since I was at Trinity College—the one in Toronto, Canada, not Dublin.'

‘Who borrowed the book?'

‘Kramer, I think. Yes, it was Erich Kramer.'

‘And yet he denies this?'

‘Is that why they were all standing out there in the rain?'

Trant set the last of the books down on the couch where she had left them. He would let her do the tying up, would leave her just as she was with her back still to him.

Mary heard him leave the room.

The men began to gather in the great hall and come into the library. Philip Werner was back, and Mary was glad to see him. A bad cold, he said, grinning at her in that way small boys do who have successfully skipped lining up at school and want to tell their friends about it. Since a lot of them knew little if any English, books in German were at a premium. Philip chatted away their disappointment but knew she was doing the best she could with promises or editions, if not in
Deutsch
, then in French, Italian or Spanish—things once left by sailors in Newry and picked up for a song in the fleas. Blood and gore, most of them, or hot romances. Repeated requests to lending libraries and to private citizens were constantly being made. Anywhere she could get them, she did, but it was never easy. Far too often she was asked why she was doing ‘anything for the enemy.'

Everything went as usual and this, too, wasn't easy. Philip
was
so darned nice and such a good friend, Helmut Wolfganger, too. Those who could speak English all tried to chat her up. As usual they wanted news of the war and she was forced to tell them yet again that she had been specifically forbidden to discuss it.

Orel had fallen—it had been on the news last night. Bryansk and Vyazma were caught in pincers. Thousands and thousands of Russian soldiers had either been killed or taken prisoner. It would have made Erich and the others happy, would have made their standing in the rain less an act of punishment and more one of heroism, but she couldn't tell them, and the news really was terrible. The Germans seemed to be winning on every front.

They had all had to change out of their bits and pieces of uniform, though. Rank had vanished, as had regimental unit and service. All had been levelled in this way, and she wondered if Trant hadn't done it deliberately so that she could see them for what they were: German and Nazi, even though many of them were so nice and not Nazis at all? Time and again, to reassure her, they had said their quarrel wasn't with Britain, many that once the Communists had been crushed in the East, peace would be made in the West, an honourable peace; some that it was the Soviets, the Bolsheviks and the Jews who were responsible.

Seeing her lost in thought, Werner gave her a questioning look to which she returned an uncertain smile. ‘Another hour, Mrs. Fraser. It's good of you to do this for us.'

How many times had she heard that also? ‘Two hours, Philip. Because of the delay, I've told Private Summers I won't be leaving until six, if that's all right.'

Werner grinned sheepishly and scratched his head in doubt. ‘Has the private asked the major if this is possible?'

‘Could you go and see, please?' It was all so coy—Philip knew something of what had been going on between Erich and herself—all of them must.

He grinned again and, pushing himself away from the table, reached for his crutches and said, ‘For me, it will be a pleasure.'

Mary picked up the latest pile of returns. Several of the men came in and she knew Philip had stopped to talk to one of them, to Helmut Wolfganger. There were whispers, for Helmut was looking gravely at him, and then at herself, she starting in among the shelves to hear only snatches of what was being said in
Deutsch
. ‘It's a good thing … Bachmann when … did …'

Angrily shoving the books into any place she could, she called out, ‘Helmut, wait, please. I …'

With a warning, he shook his head but she asked it of him anyway. Had they been talking about the second lieutenant?

‘You are mistaken, Mrs. Fraser. We were discussing the weather.'

There was no humour now in either of them, no kindness, only a warning that was all too clear. She couldn't have been wrong about them. She couldn't!

The bullet hadn't been in any of the books she'd brought in today. It was resting against her left instep. Only once in a while had it bothered her and each time someone had asked—Private Summers most of all—she had said a nail must have come through from her heel, or there was a stone, that she would check when she got the chance.

Philip came back to report that 6.00 p.m. would be fine with Major Trant. They worked, she filled in time and when Franz Bauer came for her, she knew Erich would be waiting.

Just next to the washroom there was a narrow set of stairs that spiralled up to a series of corridors and rooms, some with doors, others without. At a landing, she turned quickly off to her right and ran along the corridor until she came to another set of stairs.

Running up these, Mary flung open the door at the top, then closed it behind herself and leaned back against it, her heart hammering. Always it was like this. The fear of knowing Trant and Jimmy Allanby and the guards would be watching for just such a thing. The fear of what she was doing, of betraying Hamish and her country, herself as well and all for what? For loving one of the enemy? Did she really still love Erich? How could she?