Betrayal (9 page)

‘Aye, but not if I were to talk t' th' press first, Major. The American press.'

He'd done it now. He'd said the stupidest of things. ‘Why not let me help?' she heard herself saying. ‘I could …' She shrugged. ‘Listen more carefully, I suppose. The men do say things to each other that they might not say when near anyone else. I've known it for some time and … and have always wondered if I oughtn't to speak to you about it.'

Silently Allanby cursed her for not having earlier agreed to do as he'd asked, but was she now trying to bargain with them? She hadn't even glanced at him once since coming into the room.

Trant knew he'd best give Jimmy a nod, for she'd just agreed to do what Bannerman and himself had had in mind for her all along, but had it been clever of her, a last desperate gamble to stay the arm of the law, or was she simply getting back at the captain? Interrogating a woman like Mrs. Mary Ellen Fraser would be like having a damned fine meal in a damned fine restaurant, especially when picking the flesh out of the snail.

It was Dulsey Bannerman who said, with tongue in cheek, ‘We wouldn't want you to spy on anyone, Mrs. Fraser. They're being sent to camps in Canada as soon as a ship becomes available. It's only that we'd like to clear the matter up before they leave us.'

Canada. Dulsey had done it perfectly, thought Trant. She had been struck by the news, and struck hard.

All of them were watching her now, Mary knew. Hamish in particular. ‘More tea, madam?' asked the orderly, she feeling herself give a nod as Jimmy went over to the books to cut the string.

‘A Dickens,' he said, flipping through the pages before passing it to Trant who then handed the book to the colonel, who said with boyhood appreciation, ‘
David Copperfield
, oh my. Do they really want to read this?'

‘Some of them are learning English, Colonel. I thought reading Dickens might help.'

‘You do get on with them, don't you,' said the major, but it wasn't given as a question, more as a statement of fact. Trant could easily have gone through the books himself and yet had let Jimmy do the job so that he could watch her, she being momentarily distracted.

It was coming now—Mary knew it and, setting her cup and saucer down, forced herself to look at Hamish, to plead with her eyes for understanding, to beg it of him.

He wasn't ‘old.' He was looking lost, though, and was worrying about her.

‘A Mark Twain,' said Jimmy as if it were trash and
Huckleberry Finn
not one of the finest novels ever.

That, too, was flipped through and then the others, he passing each of them to Trant who deliberately took his time before handing each of them to the colonel.

‘Nothing,' he said.

‘Perhaps you've been wrong then, Captain,' she heard the colonel say.

‘Perhaps.'

That had been Trant, of course, but thank heavens she had left the gun at home this time, wanting to find out how things were.

They talked about the IRA, about the Garda's secret list and of how, under de Valera's government, they had very nearly been cleaned out of Eire and destroyed forever.

They talked about how the Dublin Armoury had been robbed of more than one million rounds of .455 calibre ammunition—enough to fill five or six large lorries, but that the silly buggers had then had no place to hide the stuff and the Garda had made a clean sweep and got back far more.

Yes, they talked and said more quietly and firmly that de Valera's government had been and still were scared stiff the IRA would try to link up with the Nazis and that Britain, being Britain, would rush in to occupy the South if there was so much as a hint of its ever happening.

‘Hence, Nolan had to come up here,' said someone, the colonel she thought.

‘Has there been anything new on him?' That had been Hamish.

It was Trant who said, ‘Only that one of the Darcy sisters was recently seen in the vicinity.'

‘As was Kevin O'Bannion,' said Jimmy, watching her closely, too closely, but failing entirely to realize that he had just given her Kevin's last name.

‘He's the second-in-command of the Northern Ireland group,' said Trant. ‘A cold-blooded killer, Mrs. Fraser. A terrorist who'll let nothing, not even his own people, stand in the way.'

‘A rebel,' bristled the colonel, reaching for a slice of his wife's pound cake.

‘Rumour has it that O'Bannion and the Darcy woman have met up with Liam Nolan and are hoping to get him out of Ireland.'

Trant had said that, his knees again crossed.

‘What we would really like to know, Mrs. Fraser, is if you've overheard anything useful in this regard—the other's a foregone conclusion, I take it.'

Again it wasn't a question but she answered in the affirmative, knowing Hamish would only say, ‘Mary, how could you?'

‘The Darcy woman, Mrs. Faser?' reminded Trant. ‘You were recently in the South. Captain Allanby …'

‘Yes … Yes, I was there. I gave a lift to a farmer, that's all. I heard nothing useful—how could I have? I didn't even know of the bombing until …'

‘The bloody news was splashed all over that newspaper you had on the front seat of the car. The whole of Dublin must have been abuzz!' said Allanby.

Mary leapt to her feet, waiting for the accusations. She would face each of them in turn, would try not to disgrace herself. ‘I bought that for my husband. I was in a hurry and … and didn't even look at it.'

‘Or hear what the vendor must have been shouting?' asked Trant.

‘That is correct, Major.' It was all she could think to say, but Jimmy had clenched and unclenched his fists and was still doing this.

‘Perhaps you've been wrong then, Captain,' said Bannerman before repeating his earlier comment about Nolan having come north, but adding, ‘and that's an end to it for now. An end.'

‘You lied to me, Erich. Lied!'

‘Mary, I couldn't help it. I had to.'

‘Did you? What about the man who was hanged?'

‘That business has nothing to do with us. Nothing!'

‘They think it has! They know all about us. I'm certain they do. Certain, do you hear? He must have told them!'

‘
Ach
, Bachmann knew nothing. The British are lying.'

‘You're to be moved to Canada.'

‘When?'

‘I … I don't know. As … as soon as a ship becomes available. Perhaps you'd best tell Berlin that, hadn't you? Otherwise one of your own might just torpedo you.'

Canada! Everything counted on time. Everything! Mary could see him thinking this as he glanced both ways along the darkened corridor towards the light at each end. Franz Bauer and Hans Schleiger were watching out. Bauer, she had never liked. Bauer.

‘Which of them said we were to be moved?'

He still didn't have a care for what she'd just been through.

‘Well?' he demanded.

‘Colonel Bannerman.'

‘Not Trant? Not Allanby?'

‘Bannerman. I've only just come from having tea with them. Tea, Erich!'

He couldn't know that right up until the last she had thought herself done for. Again he glanced towards each end of the corridor, still kept his hands planted firmly pressed flat against the wall on either side of her, still kept a little distance but now something suddenly went out of him and he gave that fleeting smile she'd come to know.

‘I've brought you trouble,' he whispered. Nearly all of their words had had to be given in whispers, some urgent, some not. That warmth he had for her came into his eyes, that momentary rush of a faraway look.

‘I ought to hate you,' she said. ‘This thing between us can't go on and had best stop.'

Kramer laid the backs of three fingers against the smooth softness of her right cheek and immediately felt the flush of heat in her. Furious with him, she was rightly feeling betrayed. Something very frightening must have happened. Trant or Allanby, or even Bannerman must suspect her. As always though, the nearness of him triggered signals in her, but had she realized she was fighting a battle she could never be allowed to win?

He'd touch her lips and let his fingers linger there, had best look steadily into her eyes and say it with meaning. ‘I love you, Mary. That still hasn't changed.'

‘You don't!' she said, jerking that head of hers away as far as possible to glare accusingly at him through the semi-darkness. ‘It's crazy of us to meet so soon. Jimmy Allanby is on to something. What I don't know, but … but something.'

The corridor was off the library. Usually blocked by locked doors at either end, it had, for some reason, been left open, forgotten in the rush of things perhaps, the British having carted everything back—Kramer could see her thinking this and worrying about it. Always she was the worrier, a useful plus for them.

The library had been in a shambles—still was, for that matter. Stacks of books had lain everywhere, they having all been confiscated and returned by the guards. Several of the men were busy sorting through and putting them on the shelves. She'd be missed—he could see her thinking this, too, she always noting the bits and pieces of uniform that had been saved as their ships or boats or aircraft had gone down. A blue tunic on one, a pair of grey-green trousers on another, felt-lined flying boots on yet another.

‘Erich,
please
. I must go. The corporal who came with me is new. He'll be watching for just such a thing. Trant will have told him to. Trant, Erich.'

‘Will I see you again?'

Vehemently Mary shook her head. ‘We mustn't. It's far too dangerous. There are things that have happened since I last saw you, things I have to … to think about.'

Erich didn't ask if there had been trouble with Hamish, or anything like that. Indeed, even though he must need to know what had happened with his ‘cousin' in Dublin, he didn't ask about it. He
knew
she needed time and he
was
willing to give her that, even with Canada on the horizon.

Tapping her lightly under the chin, he gave a gentle chuckle. It was not that of a man who would have had a tanker within the cross-haired glass of his periscope, not that of a man who must have shouted time and again, ‘Fire numbers one and two!'

Kramer took her hands in his and held them against his lips, felt the trembling in her, the uncertainty, knew there were things he had to ask but that they'd have to wait. She'd be worrying about his wanting to kiss her now, would be wondering if she would still be able to resist. Was she wet? he wondered and thought it likely. Lies … he had told her lies—she'd be telling herself this, would be shouting it at herself.

As his lips found hers, she tried to draw away but then … then threw her arms about his neck as he pressed her against the wall, her skirt rucking up until suddenly he let go of it to slide his hands under pullover, blouse and brassiere to take each nipple firmly between a thumb and forefinger.

‘I can't, Erich. I mustn't. Hamish …'

A button must have popped off her blouse. A button! Mary knew she couldn't have heard it hit the floor at their feet, he not leaving her yet, she now pressing her forehead against his chest.

More couldn't be said, for one of the lookouts—Bauer, she thought—hissed ‘Vanish!' in
Deutsch
, and they parted, she going one way, Erich the other.

The sheets were cool and crisp and smelling sweetly of hay and roses and autumn. Deeply troubled by the day, Mary slid further down and pulled the covers up about herself. Mrs. Haney and Bridget did such a good job of things. No spite, no venom. Just clean sheets, ironed to beat the blazes beside the kitchen fire.

I hate myself, she silently said. No matter how hard she tried, the image of an Allied freighter going down at night in mid-Atlantic wouldn't leave her. Another seven thousand tons of shipping, that one. Hamish and she had listened to the news on the wireless, and then she had gone up to bed, to huge blessings that were so often taken for granted, to shelter and clean sheets now warming with her body's heat.

‘You wanted him,' she said softly to herself. ‘Admit it, damn you. You secretly hoped he'd take you right then and there. … I needed reassurance, that's all.'

From him? she silently asked and answered, Erich doesn't love you. He can't! That freighter would have lain like a thin, mast-bristling silhouette on the ocean's dark horizon. He would have watched as they'd got closer and closer to it and then, as the torpedoes had struck it, he'd have seen the explosions flash brightly through the pitch darkness of the night as they ripped the hull right out of it.

Bathed in that terrible light, men would have run this way and that in their confusion and panic, trying to cut the lifeboats free, the boats then dangling over the side as the ship listed suddenly, so suddenly, it would have upended in a ball of fire and hiss of steam before slipping below the waves to give the death rattle of bursting bulkheads and boiler plate.

Not speaking, Hamish had looked at her, she not saying anything, either, each of them wondering how many survivors there could possibly be from that one ship alone? The men on watch perhaps, but definitely not those who had been below decks in their bunks or the engine room—how many tons of shipping had Erich's U-boat sunk, how many lives had been lost to the cold, cold waters of the North Atlantic because of him?

The news had gone on to other things, she knowing Hamish had still been watching her. Leningrad was under siege, Moscow threatened. Near Kiev, in the Ukraine, more than seven hundred thousand Russian soldiers had surrendered to the enemy.

London had been bombed again.

And in the North Atlantic, a convoy out of Halifax, in Canada, had been savagely mauled by a wolf pack of German submarines. Seven ships had been lost—not just that one freighter. Two hundred and eighty-four men were known to have died or gone missing and yet here she was, clean, not covered with Bunker C and freezing, lying only in fear of losing everything, of disgracing herself and those who counted most, of dying too.