‘They’ve got him,’ Cazolet said. ‘Or at least they’re pretty sure it’s him. Ironic. It was a V-2 the other night. They pulled him out from under the rubble.’
There was an involuntary gasp. ‘What do you mean – “they’re pretty sure”? Is it him or isn’t it, for God’s sake?’ There was a petulant, unsteady timbre in his voice.
‘Not much to identify, that’s the problem. Just a man’s body with its head blown off and a German identity disc around the neck.’
‘Prison camp records? Size? Weight? Hair colour? Isn’t there something else? We must be sure!’
‘That will all take a little time, I’m afraid. The state of the camps, particularly for transit prisoners, is pretty awful. The whole system’s been swamped and the records are all over the place. It’ll probably take a couple of days before they’re sure … But how else could Hencke’s ID end up on a body underneath tons of rubble?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know …’
Churchill’s eyes were closed, as if in prayer. For several minutes he scarcely moved, he might have been asleep, but Cazolet could see the occasional agitated shaking of his head, the only sign of some inner turmoil. When at last Churchill looked up, Cazolet saw the change in the eyes. The emptiness had gone, in its place was a spark of emotion – not release, certainly, more grim resolution, but a spark nonetheless.
‘Great turning points in history are usually marked by death, William. I never guessed it would be Hencke’s.’
‘We don’t know for certain.’
‘He’s dead. He must be dead, don’t you see? It’s as if he has been holding up the onward march of history, and history cannot wait. There is a great war out there which must be finished, one way or the other. Events have moved beyond my control and I must follow in their wake, whether I like it or not.’ He took a deep mouthful of brandy. When he spoke again there was resignation in his voice. ‘Get me General Eisenhower on the phone.’
‘But we can’t be sure …’
‘The war isn’t going to wait around for your doubts, Willie!’ he snapped, unwilling to brook any delay now his mind was made up. ‘I need to get hold of Eisenhower and tell him that one more soldier is dead and he can have his damned division. There’s nothing to be gained by holding on to them any longer.’
‘It’s nearly midnight, two in the morning at the general’s HQ,’ Cazolet protested. He could no longer be certain whether the Old Man was thinking straight. ‘To be honest, I’m a little confused …’
‘I, too, am confused, William. Last time I enquired I was His Majesty’s First Minister and Secretary of State for War. I don’t recall having laid down either of those heavy burdens. Which gives me the right and you the duty to get the good general on that bloody phone without further prancing around. Or would it make it easier if in future I gave you orders in Swahili, as the King’s English seems to be something of a problem?’
Damn, but the Old Man was in a foul mood. Swallowing the doubts and irritation, Cazolet picked up the telephone and tapped to attract the operator’s attention. ‘See if General Eisenhower’s in the land of the living, would you, Grace? The Prime Minister would like a word …’
It was miserably uncomfortable and the smell appalling. That’s what made it such a good hiding place.
After they escaped from the bomb site she had dragged him through the shadows of yet more anonymous back-streets, pausing only to make a hasty telephone call before arriving at an unkempt boarding-house set back from the road behind a bushy, secluding hedge. Their reception lacked any trace of enthusiasm. Behind the front door hovered a small and wiry man who appeared greatly agitated and whose polished bald head was flushed and sweating profusely in spite of the cold. He wore an unironed shirt and an unwelcoming glower, closing the door quickly before rushing them into a back room with curtains tightly drawn. Hencke was instructed to wait in the sparsely furnished bed-sit with its squeaky floorboards and discoloured sheets while she busied herself with the proprietor. They obviously knew each other well, but that didn’t prevent her frequent disappearances from the room to consult with him turning into a running battle conducted in voices which became increasingly heated. He didn’t seem pleased to see Hencke.
‘Don’t worry about Uncle Billy. He’s a miserable sod with a nervous disposition, but he’ll do as he’s told.’ She said it with such authority that Hencke never doubted her. It was during a pause in the ongoing argument held just outside the door that Hencke first learned her name. Sinead. No other name. He also discovered her secret. ‘You’ll guess this much anyway before this is over, so I’ll tell you now and you’ll get very little else. So don’t go asking bloody stupid questions which I can’t answer.’ She lit a cigarette and offered him a whiskey, but he declined. He remembered how quickly the half pint of beer had begun to affect him after so long without a drink.
‘We’re Irish. Nationalists. You mustn’t believe everything you’ve heard about us,’ she hastened to add with a nervous smile. ‘We’re nice people really.’
Hencke declined to mention he’d scarcely heard anything about Irish Nationalists, although what little he had heard was none too complimentary. But then, what must she think of him, a widow murderer. War makes strange companions.
‘The British occupy half our country. We want it back,’ she continued. ‘And we’re willing to fight for it, if necessary. Fortunately for you, it’s meant getting our boys in and out of London without the police knowing, and that’s what we’ll have to try with you. Get you to Ireland. There you’ll be safe – and halfway home.’
Hencke sat quietly, saying nothing, trying to figure her out. She had an open, honest face, a natural smile and full lips which belied the uncompromising tone of her words. The scattering of freckles across the bridge of her ski-slope nose and the healthy bloom in her cheeks gave her an aura of innocence, yet once she had taken off her raincoat there was no denying her womanhood. As she felt the pressure of his steady gaze she lost her sense of authority and began to feel awkward and girlish. She lit another cigarette, her lips closing nervously around the tip like a young girl at a village dance waiting for her first date. She had poise beyond her years in dealing with Hencke, yet a touching naivety about herself. Her large hazel eyes bubbled with enthusiasm, but already there were the first crinkles of maturity appearing at their downcast corners. Something in them suggested a sadness which tinged her ebullience, marking her while not yet scarring. Her initial appearance, he decided, was misleading. This was no ordinary Friday-night girl in a pub. He had already learned not to make the mistake of patronizing her.
‘So, how will you …’
‘No questions, Peter Hencke. This could all go wrong and they might get their hands back on you. I don’t want you giving away our whole game. So keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut and we’ll be getting along just fine.’
‘One thing I must know, Sin … Sinead.’ He was unused to the name, and had to wrap his Middle European lips carefully around it. ‘One question. Why did you decide to help me?’
Her brow furrowed. ‘The most difficult question of all. That’s just what Uncle Billy’s been bellyaching about. And I can’t say I’ve got much of an answer.’ Self-consciously she twisted the bracelet on her wrist. ‘They say that one of you killed an old woman – but I don’t believe half of what they print in their newspapers,’ she said, hurrying on. ‘You looked so pathetic in the pub, starving and wet, and that always appeals to an Irish girl’s heart. Then I had to make up my mind – you or those bloody bobbies. Not much of a choice, really. You could be Attila the Hun for all I care, you’d still be preferable to those black-hearted bastards. Anyway, you’ve lovely eyes. They sort of glow. Like my brother’s.’