The Collectors - Book Four: Diamonds and Sand (The Collectors Series 4) (8 page)

             
“Thank you.”

Petros
stared at the closed door and wondered if he would find the answer to his dilemma. He knocked on the dark-stained wooden door and entered.

             
He gave the woman with striking red hair seated behind a desk, a reassuring smile as she glanced up. “Petros Kyriades. Alfie directed me to your office.”

             
She smiled and placed her pen on the desk. “That man sends everyone to me. How can I be of help?” She pointed to a chair. “Please. Not many know of the back rooms where the staff work.”

             
Petros sat. “Mrs Masters, I’m undertaking research for a book I’m hoping to write with reference to the German Jews who came to England and joined the army. I believe a few completed special training. These men served in North Africa. I checked the normal sources but can find little of importance.”

             
“Area of Operation?”

             
“Libya, 1941.”

             
Her fingers operated the keyboard with speed. She looked at him. “I have the Long Range Desert Group, SAS, and Special Forces. Which one do you think is yours?”

             
“Shall we try Special Forces?”

             
Mrs Masters’ face had a puzzled expression.

             
“Found anything?” asked Petros.

             
There was a long silence. “Nothing, absolutely nothing.”

             
“Thanks for trying.”

             
“Mr Kyriades, you don’t understand. Most unusual, there’s zilch, and it can’t be classified.”

             
“So what you’re telling me is whoever they were existed, but there are no records."

             
Mrs Masters looked up at him. “Not being able to find any information doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” She continued manipulating the keyboard and squealed as a young girl. “Gotcha. Have you ever heard of the War Diaries?”

             
“Can’t say I have. Why?”

             
Her fingers never stopped hitting the keys.

             
“Where are we now?”

             
“National Archives, Kew, and they are directing us to the War Records of each campaign. Right, we are now in Egypt with the British Army Operations and back to Long Range Desert Group. Small independent units maintained a daily record of events. They were arranged by the command.  Full circle except,” her fingers rattled the keyboard, “if you want the information you need to go to Hereford. What you’re seeking might be there. Wait a minute.” She punched a number into her desk phone, placed it on loudspeaker and waited.

             
A gruff voice answered. “Good Morning, Major Majer, Records. How can I help?"

             
“Good morning, Major, Susan Masters, Imperial War Museum. I have a Mr Kyriades, a writer investigating North Africa and the involvement of Jews in the British Army. In particular, LRDG or Special Forces. Can you help?”

             
“Ah, long time since we last had a chat. LRDG, Ralf Bagnold’s motley crew. Reconnaissance outfit if my memory serves, Bagnold and Stirling were great friends and maybe they were part of a few clandestine ops. I’ll need to check the war diaries to be sure but I believe a couple of units operated independent of the regular army, with orders direct from the top. Give me an hour and I’ll get back.”

              Mrs Masters thanked him before replacing the handset.

             
Petros looked thoughtful. “I hope he finds something.”

“If it’s there he’ll find it. Would you like to buy me a coffee in our
restaurant while we wait? Old Major Majer will be scurrying around like a rat searching for breadcrumbs. This way.”

They strolled through the corridors hidden from the public and entered the light airy cafe. Mrs Masters sat at the first empty table and Petros positioned himself opposite.

A young woman approached and took their order of two coffees, one black with no sugar and a cappuccino.

“So what
do we discuss for the next hour?” asked Petros.

Her gaze was bright as she said, “What’s the genre of your book?”

Petros’ expression gave no clues. “Action and adventure. You see these two ex-soldiers retrieve things for clients. At a price, of course.”

The
ir coffee arrived. Petros paid.

“How long ha
ve you worked here, Mrs Masters?”

“Five years.”

“And before that?”

“
Oxford Uni with an army bursary. I studied languages; Russian and Spanish. Got a double first. I joined the army full time, made lieutenant before I jacked it in. Now I’m the records officer in a museum.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Afghanistan. Couldn’t handle the idea of being blown to bits. My husband’s on his second tour. I hate it every time the phone rings.”

They continued to chat until her
mobile buzzed. “I have it redirected from my office. Comes in handy. She looked at the screen. “It’s the major. Hi, find anything?” She listened without interrupting.

She glanced at Petros. “When could you be at
Hereford?”

“Tomorrow. What time?”

“Thanks, Major. Mr Kyriades will be at the main gate for midday.” She placed the mobile on the table. “He’s found a bundle of documents covering 1941 to 1942. He’ll meet you at the guard house at noon.”

“
Brilliant. Thank you so much for your help.”

“You’re welcome. Made today interesting. Saved me from dusting
files. Are you really a writer?”

“Good question but I’ll leave you to ponder the answer. Thanks again. Bye.
”

Petros walked out of the cafe
, across the exhibition floor and into the pouring rain. He tried to make sense of it but then decided to go home.

Chapter Four

Nine o’clock came and went as Petros’ old BMW cruised at a steady seventy miles per hour along the M4 motorway towards Swindon. “I’m taking you back to your past, Bear.”

             
“If truth be told, they shifted the base from Hereford to Credenhill five miles further north. Do me a favour, PK, let me sleep or stop somewhere for breakfast?”

             
Petros checked the time. I’ll stop for you to stuff your face. Twenty minutes, no more.”

             
Bear glanced at the blue motorway sign. “There’s an eatery five miles ahead.”

             
They stopped at a Granada service station, grabbed coffee and sandwiches and returned to the car. Fed and watered, rubbish binned, they left. Five minutes later Bear’s snores filled the interior of the car. Petros laughed.

He
saw the exit sign for Hereford and a mile further on drove off the motorway. An hour elapsed before he turned onto a slip road next to the army establishment’s main gate.

“
Wake up, Bear.” Bear rubbed his eyes and stretched as best he could. “Come on, shift your arse.”

             
“I’ll shift yours in a minute with a size ten.”

             
Both men alighted from the car and strolled to the entrance guardhouse. A military police sergeant, with a knife-edge crease in his trousers and boots that reflected the sun, stopped them. “Can’t leave your car there, Sir.”

Petros smiled, the professional soldier in him awakened. “I have an appoint
ment with Major Majer at midday, Sergeant.”

             
He turned and barked, “Corporal, visitor file.” An armed man handed the clipboard across, his eyes forever on the move. “Names?”

             
“Petros Kyriades and William Morris.”

             
“I have a Mr Kyriades but no Mr Morris. Wait and don’t move.”

             
A tall, red-haired man in uniform approached. “Sergeant, are these my guests?”

             
The sergeant saluted. “One, Sir, the other’s not on my list.”

             
“Give me the file.” Major Mager wrote plus guest. “He is now and the man you are refusing admittance is one of us. Sergeant Major William, Bear, Morris, known to the regiment as Night-Fighter. This man could hide in the middle of a field in broad daylight and you’d never see him. At night it’s impossible to fight a man you can’t see. Correct, Mr Morris?” He held out his hand.

             
Bear recognised the handshake.“ A long time ago, Sir.”

             
“My apologies, Sir,” said the sergeant. “I had no idea.”

             
Bear shrugged. “Why would you? When I was a part of this you were shitting your nappy.”

The sergeant grinned. “You’re correct
, Sir.” He turned to Petros. “Rules, Sir. I need to check your car before I can allow you in. Please open the bonnet and boot.”

Bear chuckled and with Petros returned to the car. A corporal with a dog
, and a mirror for checking under the body, approached. The dog jumped inside and sniffed before he repeated the process in the boot. The corporal inspected the underside and the engine compartment. “All clear, Sergeant.”

“Sign the book, gentlemen.
” He handed them their visitor passes. “Please wear them until you leave.”

“Thank you
, Sergeant,” said Major Majer. “Mr Kyriades, if you would give me a lift we can kill two birds with one stone.”

“You’ll have to sit in the back
, behind me. Bear needs all the room he can get.”

“No problem,
I’ve arranged for us to have lunch in the mess and there’s a car park thirty metres away.”

Petros follow
ed the major’s directions. In less than a few minutes they stood side by side at the officers mess bar.

“Drink first, then a busi
ness lunch. What would you like?”

“Fresh orange and tonic for me,” said Petros.

“Pint of Guinness please,” said Bear. “Need to top up my tan.”

Major Mag
er gave the order plus a pint for himself. “So what happened to you after you left, Bear?”

“Did
this and that until I met this scrawny runt. Someone has to look after him and I made it my job.”

“And you
, Mr Kyriades, after you resigned from the regular army?”

“
Please call me Petros. I think you have the answer to those questions. You’ve checked me out.”

“Of
course. That’s what we do. Computers are wonderful, not that I can work them but I have staff that can. Let’s eat and after discuss the diaries in my office.”

One hour later the three men sat in a modern office. Major Mager leant back in his chair.
On his desk, seven piles of documentation. “What year, Petros?”

“LRDG
, September 1941.”

“That’s
strange,” said the major, “if my memory is correct ten units made up the LRDG and we have thirteen patrols. This pile is 1941. Shift the rest to the floor. Please keep them tidy or my clerks will go ape-shit.” With the files removed the major split those remaining into three lots. “What are we looking for?”

“
A patrol, which may have been attached to LRDG, found two Luftwaffe pilots in a cave in south Libya, one dead and the other close to it.”

The major smiled. “Thank Christ someone had the sense to sort this lot into
units and date.”

Each took a pile
, checked and placed it on the floor. One each remained.

“It’s here,” said Bear.
“LRDG (MOST SECRET). Bloody hell, Major, you should photocopy this and send it to a publisher. These guys were stark raving mad. It states here, ‘
In accordance with orders received, I Lieutenant Baumstein and my men dressed in the uniforms of the Africa Corps entered Al Wigh airfield used for the repair and servicing of German Military aircraft. We drove our German vehicles at full speed, machine gunning, lobbing homemade petrol bombs and grenades at stationary vehicles and planes. By observation, we damaged or destroyed twenty-five operational aircraft. There were no casualties.