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Part 64
June 8th 1944 - Pemberley, England
A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men. - Roald Dahl
"Brian!" Nelli was looking around for her son, having searched inside both houses before coming out into the gardens. "Brian!!" There was in fact no point in shouting for him, since he only heard if you were right there and were yelling anyway. "Brian?"
"He's out."
"Out?" Nelli looked at Lucille in astonishment.
"Out. I think he's intending to test Ronan out over a more complex trial path...I sent Ken to tail him."
"You have no idea where he is?"
"Somewhere within a ten mile radius...Ronan is trained to go no further after all." Lucille yanked vigorously on a stubborn weed. "He said he'd be back for lunch."
"It is after lunch already."
"Is it?" Lucille looked up again with vague curiousity after having wiped a smear of dirt over her forehead. "Then maybe it was tea he said he'd be back for."
"Do you care at all?"
"Not really until dark falls...and by then in the worst scenario Ken will have returned." Lucille returned her attention to the gardens, for she was willing to swear that the weeds were growing by visible amounts whenever she turned her back. "In all probability I either misheard, or things are going too well to stop right now."
"I find it difficult to understand how you take this so calmly and yet at breakfast you were making rather a scene."
"Only rather a scene?" Lucille looked up sharply from the weeds. "It was my objective to make a complete and total scene."
"Then why did you cause it over the marmelade?"
"That was a mistake." Lucille turned slowly back to the garden and pulled out another weed with a bit of a scowl. "The marmelade had the advantage of not getting hurt feelings if it got yelled at though."
"Point." Nelli gazed at her daughter-in-law, more than a little perplexed and not for the first time. "Why create it?"
"Brian's been inclining to the morbid with this wretched talk of invasion this summer." Lucille seized another weed with a vigorous hand. "They've almost reached Rome, there's a lot of talk about a landing somewhere in France...and Brian seems to think that he should overcome his aural and visual deficiencies and get himself nobly killed somewhere in Europe!"
"You do not agree with him?"
"No I do not." Lucille abruptly whirled away from the garden. "He nearly died over that bloody dam. He nearly died for every second of that return trip he made in that wreck. Just how many times does he have to nearly die for this bloody war?"
"You would prefer Hitler was seated at 10 Downing street?"
"No. Today I am not thinking that way. Today I am thinking in lives that are being lost...and lost for no good reason."
"Oh." Nelli gave a small shiver of agreement. There were days when you thought of the cost of war, and it definitely was not worth it.
"I've my only brother risking his life every wretched day and one of my sisters is somewhere pretty close to the thick of it in Italy. How many people important to me need to be endangered for this stupid war?"
"You're rather...over-wrought."
"No I am not." Lucille turned back to her garden. "I am actually on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I am terrified of what is going to happen to my family if this invasion occurs and today I am scared that unless my husband gets distracted he is either going to lie his way through medical boards so he can gloriously kill himself and several other men over Europe...or just out and out commit suicide because of the stupid idiots who see him here and call him coward because his war disability is not visible!"
"What...?" Nelli sank down on the edge of the garden. "People..."
"Oh, Nelli I am so sorry, I didn't mean it." Lucille was out of the garden in a flash, her anger gone, drowned in a sea of contrition.
"It's alright." Nelli took a slow and shaking breath. "I didn't think...and I should have."
"It's really not that bad...I'm just in a melodramatic mood and..."
"And even in melodrama there must be a seed of truth." Nelli rubbed her face. "You'd best find Brian, there has been a landing and at the present moment the beach heads are secured and the forces are moving inland."
"Remind me to celebrate when I'm not thinking of the lives lost." Lucille pushed her hand back through her hair.
"Forget about the lives lost...it's just been called through that Mick O'Rourke and his plane did not return last night. He's been shot down."
"Survived?"
"No one knows, we just know the plane went down...Franz called it through."
"Franz survived and called in?"
"Franz doesn't fly with him any more, just happened to see it. The crew were broken up soon after Brian..."
"I forgot." Lucille gave a sudden little shiver and jumped to her feet. "I'll go find him."
"How?"
"A fun little toy I've been dying to use for ages." Lucille pulled a small black box from her pocket, pressed a button on the side and then revolved slowly as the box screamed, shrieked and wailed.
"What the...?" Nelli had her fingers in her ears.
"A little toy Jim set me up with." Lucille smiled as the screams calmed and became a steady tone. "I will find Brian somewhere over there."
"You what?"
"Well, apparently there's something on Ronan's collar which this can hear. I point it at Ronan and the tone's steady, I point it anywhere else and it squeals. I will confess, that's simply a matter of believing what Mr Darcy told me."
"Mm." Nelli looked dubious in the extreme and Lucille did not blame her. The whole situation seemed nothing short of dodgy...and Lucille really hoped she would not have to go too far to find Brian.
Brian had been enjoying himself, Ronan had hit every target within a good time and the world was feeling simply wonderful. The Allies had taken Rome almost a week ago. The Allies had landed in France a couple of days ago and managed to hold every beach head. He had been able to differentiate between his wife and his mother from across the room. There were days when he truly hated the fog and fuzz he resided in, but today he was much too glad to be alive. Even the knowledge that he had Ken on his heels could not damp his pleasure in the day, it was a safety precaution and a good one.
"Sir."
"Umm." If there was one attribute Brian disliked about Ken, it was his incurable habit of calling everybody sir, regardless of whether he knew their name or not.
"Mrs O'Niell is coming towards us."
"Which Mrs O'Niell?"
"The younger."
"Thankyou, Ken." Brian called Ronan to heel and grimaced, the reason Lucille had come after him could not possibly be good. There was also the slight matter of how she had managed to find him at all, by Brian's calculations he was a good eight kilometres out from the house and not even remotely near where he'd been heading when he'd left just before lunch.
"Thanks for stopping him Ken." Lucille's voice was just audible to Brian.
"The boys still out fishing, Luce?"
"Yes." Lucille dropped onto a nasty log with a sigh.
"Ken, buzz off and enjoy the rest of the day."
"Yes, sir." Ken retreated with relief, leaving Lucille to glance around in some distaste.
"Forest Primeval?"
"You might say that...or you might say that it is simply a home wood left to rack and ruin for half a decade now." Brian shuffled dead leaf with a foot and then sighed. "How bad is the news?"
"It's Mick."
"Shot down?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Somewhere over Germany if Nelli's lack of information was anything to go by...no flames, he may have got out."
"Well, we'll know soon enough." Brian pushed a hand through his hair, opened his mouth and then closed it without saying a word. Lucille smiled quietly to herself, Brian didn't need to say the forbidden word he was thinking...Magi. Though frankly Lucille had a feeling that the War Ministry would be more use in this particular case, Mick would be just a standard prisoner after all and when being a prisoner there was safety in being standard and correspondingly invisible.
"He'll be fine." Lucille pushed to her feet and wiped her hands with a grimace.
"Yeah." Brian rose himself and wiped his hands as well. "Just seems one hell of a way to celebrate our return to France."
"I could think of a worse way." Lucille grabbed a hand. "Least he knows he'll be out soon enough."
"Point." Brian smiled quietly.
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!?" Nelli was completely outraged and more than a little furious when she found Brian and Lucille pulling weeds in one of the formal flower beds.
"I got back from retrieving Brian an hour ago and we noticed the garden as we were coming in and so stopped to weed." Lucille wiped an extremely grubby hand on an only slightly cleaner face. "I'm sorry, I actually forgot that you'd been looking for Brian."
"I was actually more concerned about that contraption of yours."
"Didn't Ken stop by?"
"No."
"Then please excuse me while I go wring that boy's neck." Lucille pushed out of the garden and set out across the lawns with a disgusted huff.
"Brian, if I didn't know your wife I would have actually thought she was serious." Nelli watched Lucille's departure rather thoughtfully.
"She is not happy, for you probably would not have been as concerned if you had known that she had successfully found me." Brian resumed pulling weeds from the garden. Nelli eyed this activity with extreme doubt, until she noted that Brian was only pulling the dandelions out, and they were easily identified as not meant to be there.
"She rather amazes me." Nelli sank down on the edge of the garden and began pulling weeds herself. "I do not understand how she manages, for she is atrociously disorganised and seems to spend most of her time trying to remember something she claims to have forgotten."
"And...?" Brian looked up from his weeding rather curiously.
"We couldn't manage half what we do if she weren't here. She may not be the type of person I thought you would marry...but she is definitely the type of woman who gets things done and will never be tedious."
"No, she will never be tedious." Brian gave a small smile. "In truth though mother, I defy you to fault her public behaviour when she is officially in public."
"I have never seen her public behaviour, and probably never will see it." Nelli yanked out a thorny weed and shook it vigorously. "I'm afraid I am cursed to memories of her playing dress-ups with the children and engaging in mud fights if there is no snow available."
"Poor mother...why didn't you join in?"
"OHE!" The loud and gleeful cry distracted both of them from Brian's query and they turned to see Lucille flying across the lawn towards them. "OHE!!"
"What on earth are you making that ungodly row for?" Brian came out of the garden with a tumble. "Even I can hear you clearly."
"The mail came." Lucille spun around in a wild little twirl.
"And?" Brian failed to see anything to rejoice about in the news, the mail came nearly every day.
"Myeh!" Lucille poked her tongue out and then shoved the letters she held down the front of her dress. "You can whistle for your mail now."
"Did she do with my mail what I thought she did?" Brian untangled himself from the ground and looked at his mother.
"Depends what you thought she did...but I think yes."
"Then I advise you to depart before you become horrified because I'm going to get it back without whistling a note."
"Goodnight, and feel free not to appear before breakfast." Nelli rose to her feet with almost unseemly haste and moved off towards the cottages.
"Did you have to make a comment like that?" Lucille was frowning.
"Did you have to put my mail where you did?"
"Oh." Lucille gave an appologetic sort of giggle and pulled the mail out. "Sorry."
"I am now." Brian accepted his mail and then frowned. "Why is a letter from Jim exciting?"
"Because it is." Lucille dug into the garden.
"Why?" Brian abruptly shoved the double sheathe of papers across to Lucille.
"Oh." Lucille straightened up and took the pages cautiously, it was not her intention to make this the grubbiest letter in the world, but it was likely to end up achieving that award. "Umm...
Binks, you insane gibberer of all matters immaterial, if you dare even consider not restoring the house I will personally track you down and perform one of those ghastly acts upon your entrails which I gave you nightmares with.
What?"
"Jim's way of ensuring one, that I take the letter seriously, and two that I know it is really him." Brian had grimaced. "The ghastly acts were actually the practices of some people who embalmed their dead. What they did to preserve the body would give anyone the cold shivers, so do continue."
"Right." Lucille screwed up her face for a moment and then found her place again.
Get hold of Danning, I saw him only a bit ago and he's promised to act on instruction. If the Insurance...
Erm, there is a bit of a scribble there I can't read."
"I can hardly help." Brian had crossed his eyes at the page which had been shoved under his nose. "But knowing Jim, it's something which you won't wish to understand and is less than polite about insurance agents in general."
"Fine." Lucille bent over the page once more. "Did he always write like this?"
"No, I'm guessing he edits because he knows you'll actually read them and he doesn't want me to try and break his neck."
"How would he normally write?"
"Well, his insults would probably be in plain english for one, as opposed to some foreign script, and then he'd probably also have wasted half a page abusing said Insurance people and detailing precisely how he would ensure that they regreted not complying."
"Why has he never been imprisoned?"
"For one, most people wouldn't believe it...and for two, those who have seen it know perfectly well that he doesn't mean it."
"If he doesn't mean it, why write it?"
"That's something you'll have to ask James, but at a guess I'd say it's simply a matter of better to laugh at fear than to let it overpower you...I'd really love to know what he's been up to during this war."
"Has he been up to something?"
"Of course he has, he's got every intelligence service on both sides breathing down his neck at almost every second. You don't maintain that for four years without doing something...though I will concede that Jim would do it if anyone could." Brian leant back on his hands and sighed. "Do continue."
"Erm, he then does waste rather a lot of paper at this point...think Annie would call them animadversions. It starts out about the insurance people but then I think it must change."
"Why?"
"Censors pen."
"Oh." Brian blinked at the page and a half of black ink.
"He comes out of the ink with an appology." Lucille bent over the letter once more. "I really do fail to see what's so wonderful about public schooling, all it seems to do is encourage idiocy and illegibility."
"Just because Jim specialises in an atrocious scrawl does not give you the right to abuse the system."
"Why not? It's fun." Lucille screwed up her face and then grinned.
Sorry about that, but I can't afford to waste the paper by throwing that page away. Thought I wasn't getting cross about it any more, but clearly I am. They may be bothering you in the near future since they seem to be bothering everyone else.I'm serious about the house though Binks, get it properly assessed and tell Danning to go to work. Otherwise I leave it to your discretion...but your wife has a rather unique way of arguing a point.
"That was very mean of him to write that."
"How did you argue the point?"
"Just sat there and called him an idiot until he agreed."
"I'll agree, that is a unique method of arguement." Brian pushed his hands through his hair. "Just how are we going to deal with the house?"
"That is for you to figure out while I sit around and express suitable awe and admiration."
"You'd bloody well better do it in an appropriate dress or I won't believe you."
"I can't be all the time, the children will be horrified and I would hate to think what your mother would say." Lucille gave a faint sniff and stuck her nose in the air.
"You have a point there." Brian choked rather violently.
"Hmph." Lucille wrinkled her nose over the rest of the letter. "He now gets very boring, all money and the wheres and whyfors of what you'd love to do with it but probably can't. Danning can read for you and possibly even explain it in words of sufficiently small syllables."
"That was an uncalled for aspersion madam wife."
"No aspersion is uncalled for, oh my husband, I merely begin to catch up again."
"Pthhhrbb." Brian blew a rasberry and then stood up. "Shall we?"
"Certainly." Lucille grabbed his hand and pulled herself to her feet before shoving the letter in Brian's pocket. "Do whatever you usually do with heavily censored letters and enjoy the result."
"I will."
"You might also wish to pull Mrs McKenna and Squadron-Leader Angel in on this."
"I was intending to drag Hope and Pyro in, for advice on where to go if nothing else." Brian had long since given up trying to influence Lucille's way of speaking, it sometimes got confusing, but he'd managed so far. Now all he had to do was learn how to rebuild Pemberley. When considered that way it sounded nice and easy, but Brian knew far better.
June 10th 1944 - Strassbourg
Enjoy failure and learn from it. You never learn from success. - James Dyson
Standard Robinson studied the ceiling over his head with a fixity of concentration he had never achieved in his life. If he didn't maintain this focus he knew he would lose what little coherence he had left his mind. Each passing moment of focus enabled him to nibble a little more coherence back from his fear. He'd managed, come hell and high water, to remain free of captivity until now. In the past there had been narrow shaves, and there had been the once when the only reason he'd avoided capture was because they'd actually grabbed James instead of him. But now he was caught, fair and square the bug in the spiderweb with no chance of reprieve. It was a pity that the past decade had softened his nerve for getting caught, and he had no idea what to do.
The ceiling was white-washed, as were the walls and he was aware that there was a small, and heavily barred window above and behind his head. Stan was also aware of the fact there was a door, but it was by choice he studied nothing but the ceiling. Stan knew that if he even half glanced at the walls his nerve would go, and he needed his nerve like he needed nothing else on the planet...except perhaps a rescue. There were stains on the wall, dark discolourations of the white-wash which were particularly ominous and were definitely not caused by damp. Stan was scared, disoriented and flailing within his own mind, but somehow he knew that he had to get himself back under control and soon. Stan knew what the future held down its two possible paths and he was damned if he was going to allow anyone to pity him. He was by birth a de Bourgh Darcy, and there was no way he was going to finish his life with an act he later regretted.
"I'm Hans." The newcomer was pleasantly featured and seemed to be an old-timer within the walls. Hans had a face you could trust and was undoubtedly a good ally to have unside the prison. Stan was no fool though, he'd been reading reports for years and he knew all of the official informers who drifted around the prison system. Hans was one of very few informers he had not directly interacted with at any point, but that didn't mean that Stan didn't know the man when faced with him.
"Stephan." Stan pushed up on one elbow and gave a faint smile. The smile was not altogether artificial for Stan now had a job and with that job he regained his focus...and he wasn't going to release it any time soon. "Must have been a horrible shock to them to find my name on the lists again."
"I beg your pardon?" Hans' expression of bewilderment was perfect and Stan only just resisted the temptation to applaud him.
"Never fret, there's nothing to do but eat and sleep here." Stan shifted off his elbow with a yawn and fell asleep for the first time in days. He was Stephan Kalt, former SS officer who'd emerged from unconsciousness to find himself no longer in the prison hospital, but lying on the family table prepared for burial. They had not insisted that he return to the prisons, but they had ordered him out of the house. He'd been under no illusions about the cost of his actions when he'd joined the SS and now he was out of favour he blamed no one for protecting themself...he was simply thankful that they'd allowed him to simply leave. Stephan had taken himself to the mountains, and there remained until a patrol had caught him, recognised him, and processed him. It was very annoying and would they mind releasing him before he got sick again?
Hilde was aware of a decidedly nauseated sensation in her stomach. There was no mistake about what was residing within that file. There hadn't been a mistake several months ago when she'd begun her preparations, and there was no mistake about it now. Hilde was feeling very sick because from any and every angle she could see no way around the dilemma which gawped at her with leering eyes. It reminded her of one of the old men who'd lived down the street where she'd grown up. He'd sat on the street corner for years and watched the young women pass. He'd enjoyed his life on that street corner in his mouldy old jacket. He'd enjoyed watching the young women as they passed with their short skirts and averted eyes. Even more to the point, he'd so clearly enjoyed the discomfort which he knew his watching caused those girls who passed. Those girls wanted their legs to be seen by young and handsome men, not toothless old leches who clearly knew more about their bodies than they did. Hilde had actually liked him, but she'd also been careful never to walk past him in the latest fashions.
"Hilde." The telephone had startled Hilde out of her thoughts and she'd grabbed at it.
"Yes?"
"Telephone call from Strassbourg."
"Put it through." Hilde leant back and tried to think why she was being called from Strassbourg.
"Nickel?" The voice was male and devoid of character.
"Ja."
"It's me." It took a moment for Hilde's mind to recognise what was happening.
"What are you doing calling me here?"
"I'm calling from SS heardquarters in Strassbourg, didn't they tell you?"
"No they didn't...why are you calling from headquarters in Strassbourg?"
"A nice secure line."
"But..."
"Just shut up and listen or they'll catch me here." The response was curt. "Everyone's going to get into a bit of a flap over the next couple of weeks and you'll be given a prisoner transfer to Colditz...the prominente section."
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"Absolutely nothing."
"Are you serious?"
"Deadly."
"Then what?"
"Then wait about two days. If there's no fuss by the second day go to Heinrich."
"But..."
"Wait two days, if there's no fuss, go to Heinrich and he'll tell you the rest...I'm serious, Nickel. This is our one chance to break the whole mess wide open. We could get the entire operation if it works."
"My cover?"
"That's why you have to wait two days. There shouldn't be a problem because we're still able to fool them. I've told them you're doing nothing because you supposedly know you've got the wrong one. They'll still trust you, and if they don't there will be a fuss before those two days are up and you'll know not to go."
"Why am I over here though?"
"Didn't I tell you? You're they're number one double agent, a good friend of Darcy's who agreed to come here to ensure he survived this war where both sides would rather love to have him dead. Darcy promised you a way out should things go pear-shaped, and they have. No need to tell them that you're merely doing all this in hopes of getting us leads on who's in England supporting him."
"Leads?"
"He has people in England doing much what we know he has people doing here in Europe. He has to, he's been rampaging around the entire globe for most of this war and there's no way he could possibly have kept his attention on allied politics the way he has without people covering his back there."
"Wonderful."
"We fool them at this end, roll things up here and then start cleaning out England."
"I see." Hilde ended the conversation and hung up the telephone, she needed time to think. Her instructions were very odd indeed. Infact her instructions were so odd that the only possible explanation was that it had been indirectly interrupted. Hilde pushed back her chair and started counting, if they hadn't come to arrest her by the time she reached two thousand there was nothing to worry about at the present moment. Then all she had to worry about was the bizarre telephone call which made no sense. Even if it really had been James Darcy on the other end of the line, that call made no sense. Even if the call had been overheard and edited to appear harmless...it made no sense. Hilde abruptly pulled out the file she had been looking at before the call had come through and cursed softly. This was not the first time that she wished she knew the secret for telling which man was which. Hilde knew of only three people alive who could differentiate between James Darcy and his Doppelganger. Those three were unfailingly accurate, but never shared their methods with anyone. Worst of all, in Hilde's opinion, the three had never discussed their secrets with each other. Three people had independently achieved what Hilde had been killing her brain over for years, and one of them hadn't known either of them half so long as Hilde had. Hilde knew that one of the men was missing a leg and a finger, but she had no idea which one it was because the accident had occured several years after Hilde had first met them, and about a year before she realised that there were actually two of them. The important part of the telephone call seemed to be that she was to wait two days after a Colditz transfer and then go to Heinrich if there was no fuss. Hilde couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't how she was being extracted, if it was, there was a good possibility that she'd be returned one day. It was too confusing for words...particularly after forty-eight hours with no sleep. She was going to get a night worth of sleep and then she would consider the matter. Hilde resolutely packed her stuff and left the office, she was going to sleep until the next interruption of her rest occured.
Part 65
June 17th 1944 - Dutch-German Border, Germany
You asked to escape...I didn't realise that to you that meant five star accomodation and the papers in attendance.
Mick O'Rourke life had descended into the realms of a roaring farce. For most of a fortnight now his life had resembled one of those tall stories recounted, to much laughter, when you were a grandfather, it certainly never really happened. After all, who bailed-out of a flamer and parachuted directly into the front foyer of the local police station. Even worse, it was an unattended police station, which meant he was more likely to walk through Hitler's private bomb-shelter with a flood-lit Union Jack in his hand without being noticed, as escape without drawing attention to the fact that he'd been there to start with.
All the above was, of course, bad enough and really Mick had felt that he deserved a good break. Unfortunately things had got even worse as time passed. The local policeman had not arrived until eleven o'clock in the morning, apparently he'd had a good night before he'd woken this morning. That had been the good moment, for the policeman had not believed Mick that he was a british airman awaiting arrest. The policeman had infact kicked Mick out of the policestation. Nothing new for Mick, he'd been kicked out of a lot of bars and policestations in his time...though admittedly it was usually his father who'd kicked him out of the policestation as opposed to the resident bobby.
Mick had headed down the street after he'd picked himself out of the gutter. The weather was miserable, he had absolutely nothing but the clothes on his back and a fuzzy fragment of chocolate which had somehow eluded capture during the dark hours of flight the previous evening. It had not eluded capture that morning and it had not lasted long at all. It was unfortunate that it had only taken half the street before the policeman had thought better of his assumption and sent people to bring Mick back. That was when things had gone really foul. Two wrong transfers, three batches of incorrect papers and Mick was incoherent with rage over the thought that if he could speak any german, dutch, french or russian at all he could have escaped on five separate occasions. It was unfortunate that Mick was not blessed with any skills of the tongue at all, he was glaringly english and at times it seemed to ooze from his pores...particularly when he was trying to be inconspicuous in some corner in hopes of being completely forgotten about. Now he was simply irate and confused and rather wishing he could wreak murder and mayhem with the impunity of yore, he was tired of being shoved from one stuffy train to the next by a batch of half-witted idiots who seemed hard pressed to find a carriage door with out a map and at least three people to redirect them when they got lost. Mick was so irate now that he was simply helping his captors get lost, miss their trains and lose their paperwork...Mick was not about to admit to anyone that a highly entertaining afternoon spent in the company of a couple of James Darcy's odder friends had made him a reasonably accomplished pickpocket. Regrettably, even picking the pockets of befuddled Nazis lost its charm after a couple of days and Mick was now turning his attention to finding new methods of distraction and entertainment.
"I wouldn't do that." The tone was dry and the voice spoke English with a very nice oxfordian accent.
"What the..." Mick managed to get his mouth shut again before he said too much.
"You looked rather like you were plotting some bodily injury to your guards...and I really wouldn't advise it."
"Why not?"
"At the present moment I do not consider it adviseable for you to know." The man leant back and closed his eyes.
"Who are you?"
"Hauptmann Stephan Kalt...I happen to be with what you call the SS and I'm here to take you into more secure custody than you have been for the past few days." He leant back against the seat cushions and closed his eyes.
"You tell me that and expect me to behave?" Mick looked at the man in astonishment.
"Oh no, I tell you that with the intent to make you cause trouble...and the more the better."
"Why?"
"Again, you really don't want to know." The man smothered a rather wide yawn with some difficulty.
"Why aren't my energetic guards objecting to you chatting in English and yawning in their faces?"
"I'm SS, they'd no more consider expressing disapproval of my actions as they would pull their own toenails out."
"Yuck." Mick grimaced.
"Not really, it's probably what I'll do to them if they do make a fuss about my actions."
"Oh." Mick studied the face of the man who sat next to him. It was a very odd face really, a face that Mick felt he knew, but had no idea why. It also happened to be the face of scholar, pale, detached and somehow incredibly stupid for all the book-learning that head undoubtedly possessed. It was the face of a man who could starve to death while thinking of something else, and leave behind a very puzzled ghost who couldn't understand why it had died, but was very relieved not to have to worry about mortal flesh any longer. Mick considered the man for a moment longer and then settled back and closed his eyes, there was no point at all in trying anything with this man...he probably wouldn't even notice that he'd been done, let alone be flustered by it. There was also the fact that this clearly considered himself to be outside the law, and Mick was very attached to his toenails.
"UP!" It was an unceremonious shove which sent Mick onto the floor of the carriage, and it was with a scowl that Mick rose to grab his coat and follow his captor. Somehow his other guards had vanished during the hours of his slumber and though he had vague recollections of stumbling from train to train on a couple of occasions he had no idea where he was at all. His right leg was rather sore from where it had hit the carriage floor and his neck was very sore from sleeping while sitting on a very uncomfortable carriage seat.
"Where are we?"
"You don't want to know." The man lead the way swiftly out of the station, pausing first for a short and very nasty sounding exchange with the station master who seemed to want to object about something. Mick had considered his options of escape, but couldn't quite bring himself to risk it, he had a foggy recollection of his guard dealing with someone who'd annoyed them during the dark watches of the night and it had looked very painful.
"What was that about with the station master?" Mick had waited until they were well clear of everywhere before he spoke, and he really couldn't figure out why he wasn't panicking madly about heading out to heaven only knew where with a man who seemed to be some academic psychotic.
"Oh, he was objecting to me taking you out this way." The man resettled his pack with a sudden grin which unnerved Mick more than anything else had. "I think the poor man gravely suspects me of having a private laboratory or torture place out here because rather a large number of people come this way in my company and are never seen or heard of again." The oxfordian accent had given way to something more common and comfortable.
"You expect me to keep walking with you after you've said that?"
"Well, you seem to be." The man paused to foray in a nearby orchard and returned with a couple of apples. "I don't plague his trees too badly during the season and he leaves a bin available for me to raid when I pass." He handed Mick one apple and bit into his own with the vigour of a school-boy on holiday. "You'd best eat it, we've nothing else and a fair walk ahead."
"What's in the pack then?"
"Clothes for you mostly...though I trust they haven't forgotten my coat this time. I presume some identity papers to get us across the border...possibly the means to get you the whole way back to England."
"I'm..." Mick spluttered to a stop and stared at the man. "What the hell is this?"
"You're Micheal Addams O'Rourke, you were Brian Dominic O'Niell's Navigator for five years and just in case you've forgotten, Brian O'Niell grew up with James Darcy. You had no hope of survival after they figured out fully who you were, because they are getting more than a little desperate for information. We heard you'd come down and we had orders to find you and get you out expeditiously."
"Do I know anything of use to them?"
"Doubt it." The man lead the way into a nearby shed and quickly stripped off his coat, the shirt underneath was definitely not military issue. "Get changed, you're no deader for being in mufti now than you'll be if you get recaught at all."
"Oh." Mick hesitated for a moment and then grabbed the shirt that was shoved his way.
"Keep your identity disc on, it'll prove you are an escaped POW if things go sour on us. It'll take them at least a month to clean things up if you are caught, and believe me, we'll be trying to spring you every second of your time back in custody." The man crammed a hat quickly down over Mick's head as they finished changing and lead the way quickly back out and onto the path which lead nowhere.
"What about my uniform?"
"It's no longer in the shed, someone will have already been in to grab it...it'll probably save some soul currently rotting away who doesn't have an identity disc."
"Oh." Mick thought to himself for a moment and then opened his mouth again. "How am I getting away?"
"No idea, I just pick people up and take them to a preset place...after that I know nothing and I don't want to know nothing."
"Why?"
"When I'm caught I'd prefer not to be able to tell anything under any circumstances."
"How do you know where to go?"
"Same way as I know to pick someone up. Some chap comes by and tells me the who, when and two wheres."
"Same person?"
"Never. For all I know it's not escaping at all, I could simply be feeding you to some secret laboratory where they carry out..." The man hesitated, clearly searching his brain for some horror he considered worthy of the role.
"Thanks, but no, I like ignorance at the present moment."
"I thought you might." His cheerful grin caused Mick to swear as he realised he'd been had. "Oh, and on the topic, when you get back let Brian know that Mitre is fine and at a standard camp."
"He's caught?"
"Mm, been here since the Italians were relieved of his presence. Nothing we can do about it though, he's not hot stuff such that he can't get by under the radar and us getting interested might just cook his goose."
"So Mitre is incarcerated but fine...what if he gets hot?"
"We'll get him out if humanly possible."
"Ah." Mick fell silent for he had a feeling that the man was not going to continue so communicative as he had been. Besides which they were now walking even faster than ever and Mick was running out of breath to talk with.
"Up." An unceremonious hand dug Mick out of his slumbers and it took him a moment to remember exactly where he was and why. He was in some grubby little hole of a cabin three quarters of the way up a mountain in the last bit of cover available from a rather dense pine forest. He'd been there for four days now because that had been where he'd been told to wait.
"Who are you?" Mick untangled himself from his coat and squinted at the newcomer who was a very nice silhouette against the doorway.
"Someone who has come to get you moving." The man reached down and grabbed Mick's shoulder to pull him onto his feet. "Got to move because there are people coming...and I really doubt that you wish to get caught."
"I'm ready." Mick was more than ready, the mention of capture had washed even the faintest hint of sleep from his mind. "I take it I'm not to know where until we're there?"
"Correct." The man lead the way out into the sunlight and Mick was staggered to realise who had him in hand.
"Daoud?"
"Shut it." Daoud was leading the way at a swift trot which soon lengthened to a pretty swift run. Mick put his head down and ran, though a part of his mind wondered how close the 'visitors' were that they had to move that fast.
"Where am I?" Mick had been considering things quite carefully before he finally spoke. The biggest problem was that he'd been moved once in a car when he really wasn't awake enough to know what was happening. Now he was heading north with a man and woman of rather doubtful heritage who seemed to think maps and compasses were ridiculous indulgences for half-wits. Where the man currently was Mick had no idea, for he'd vanished into the shadows as soon as they'd settled in their current location. If anything, Mick was simply thankful to be in the hands of a couple of English speakers.
"You don't know where you are?" The woman's expression was humerous as she turned away from the gas cooker she was rather cautiously working over.
"No."
"Then I'd say you're lost."
"Very kind of you." Mick scowled. "Where are we?"
"North of a line drawn between two points in the southern hemisphere."
"Har-har." Mick accepted a tin can of semi-warmed mush.
"Stan!"
"What?" The man came back out of the shadows.
"Chow."
"Thanks." Stan grabbed the can of mush and started hastily shovelling it into his mouth.
"Is there a problem?" Mick paused in eating to study the man thoughtfully.
"No." Stan finished his food and handed his can back. "Thanks, I'll be back when it's safe to move."
"It's safe to cook food but not move?" Mick looked more than a little surprised.
"No, it's just not yet safe to go forward." Stan ducked back into the shadows.
"What's the problem?" Mick turned back to the woman.
"Probably a group of soldiers or something." The woman shrugged as she carefully packed the little gas cooker back into one of the packs they had. "We've got a day to reach the coast and there's an off-chance they're actually looking for us."
"What will we find on the coast?"
"Hopefully a means to return to England...you've been a more than minor headache."
"Quick." Stan abruptly emerged from the shadows. "We go now." He had his own pack and was already hustling Mick into the shadows he had emerged from.
"But she..."
"Can get herself out if she gets cutoff unlike you." The man was dragging Mick forward at a run.
"Sorry." Mick abruptly remembered that he was the helpless ex-prisoner who'd made life difficult for everyone.
"Just run." Stan dragged Mick down a sharp decline, across a road and into some thickish hedging on the other side. There was a small fall off a bit of cliff onto some beastly hard rocks.
"Wha..."
"Just dump your pack and into the water." The man, Stan, shed his pack as he spoke and plunged into the icy water. Mick followed his lead, but somehow found that the man ended up behind him, guiding him and nibbling at his heels to make him swim faster. It was a firm yank which caused Mick to stop swimming, and Mick surfaced to splutter and find his nose practically touching the stern of a depressingly large looking boat.
"Wha...?"
"Just thought of a problem I had not considered." The man was treading water and fairly scowling at the black stern which seemed to reach to the heavens.
"You mean we've got to swim back?"
"No." The voice came from above at the same time as the end of a rope crashed into the water.
"Who...?" Stan sank with a gurgle.
"Just get aboard you idiots."
"What are you..."
"Stan!" It was more than a note of exasperation in the word.
"Right, sorry." Stan indicated that Mick was to grab the rope. Mick grabbed it and then released it.
"What's the problem?" Stan was frowning.
"Sorry, I can't grip it."
"Grip it." The man swam slightly backwards. "Hoi!"
"What?" The head reappeared.
"He needs an elevator."
"Why?"
"Because we're bloody freezing."
"Right."
"Uck!" Mick found himself rising swiftly out of the water as the head above proved to be well muscled.
"Do you need an elevator too?" The woman spoke after she'd separated Mick from the rope and chucked it back over the side. Mick was a shivering, miserable muddle of frozen cold humanity on the heaving deck when Stan replied.
"No." Stan brought himself over the side and almost crowned the woman as he did so. "Damn that water is cold for bathing in."
"Who is the corpse?"
"Mick...Brian's old navigator."
"Ah, well you'd both better get dry."
"Right." Stan dragged Mick down into the cabin, stripped him and towelled him roughly dry before stuffing him into some old flannels. "You'll find the fixings for tea in the galley."
"Right." Mick shuffled around in search of what a galley might be, aware that Stan had hastily dried himself, redressed and ascended back onto the deck again. Mick eventually found the tea fixings over the little gas stove which huddled against the forward wall and put some thought into just how he intended to make tea since he was spending most of his time fending off the ceiling. Obviously the boat was moving.
"Good." Stan spoke as Mick came out into the freezing with a mug half full of tea in either hand.
"Where'd..." Mick stopped as he noticed Stan violently shaking his head.
"Subtlety always was your strong point." The woman swung herself easily back up and over the side, she was dripping wet. "No fouling, we're clear to go."
"Go where?" Mick wasn't really expecting a response, he'd never got one before, but the habit of asking still remained.
"To get Stelle." The woman pulled a map out as she spoke. "I think the lakes will be where she'll head."
"Why are you looking at me?" Stan was returning the woman's look in a rather horrified manner.
"You didn't speak to me on the telephone."
"No." Stan shook his head decisively.
"So I am stuck on a boat without anyone competent of even sailing it?"
"Yes...unless Mick knows how to sail." Stan turned with a lift of his brows.
"Me?" Mick made a faint gurgling noise. "Nothing this big."
"It can't be that different." The woman turned on Mick. "We're not even asking you to take her to sea...just minny along the coast about ten miles."
"But..." Mick spluttered and then turned to Stan. "You really can't sail?"
"I've crewed in these waters once...or at least I think that's how it was described. In truth I was shown two ropes, one called port and the other starboard and Jim kicked me if I pulled the wrong one when he called a name."
"And she can't sail?"
"For your information young man I have never voluntarily set foot within sight of the sea in my life."
"Right now?"
"This is not voluntary." Her expression was more than a little intimidating.
"Ah." Mick scratched his head and frowned at the mast which towered overhead. He should have simply said no, for he doubted that summers spent on a lake over ten years previously counted. "Umm, I think you need to pull that rope."
"Just pull?" Stan grabbed the rope Mick had tentatively tugged on.
"I think yes." Mick had his eyes on the forestay as he responded and he was very relieved to see the jib wriggle up the forestay almost as he answered. "Then you'd probably better pull on port." Mick had turned his attention to the tiller and a hopeful looking rope.
"I think we're moving." Stan sounded alarmed more than anything.
"I know, get the anchor..." Mick abruptly pulled the woman over to take the tiller. "Hold this exactly as it is and do not even twitch." Mick then dove forward and started dragging the kedge line up. That the anchor had an internal stowing mechanism was obvious by the rope's disappearance into a haweshole, unfortunately Mick hadn't the time to figure out how it worked, for now he simply hauled the light kedge up and threw the whole mess down the forehatch. They'd probably regret that later, but for now Mick was more preoccupied with not sinking a boat which didn't belong to him and seemed to be heading for the nearest bit of shore far too fast. "I told you not to twitch." Mick dove back into the cockpit and put the tiller over just in time to prevent the jibe. "Stan, pull port tighter." Mick waited until he felt a bit happier with the boat before he spoke again. "I need to know where we are, and where we're going."
"Here." The woman handed over the rather battered map she'd been studying earlier.
"Thanks." Mick hastily found his position before looking up again. "Who are you?"
"Why do you ask?" Her expression became suddenly guarded.
"Because I feel it bad manners to call you 'hey, woman!' which is my only option currently."
"Hilde." There had been a longish silence before she responded.
"Thankyou, Hilde." Mick conned the map again before pointing to it. "We're here?"
"Yes."
"We're going where?"
"There." Hilde pointed to another point on the map.
"Right." Mick studied the map again before lifting his head to start searching for landmarks. In particular he wanted landmarks which would still be apparent after the sun finished setting.
"Does he actually know what he's doing?" Hilde sounded more than a little doubtful.
"With a map, he must." Stan shrug was audible as well as physical. "Who knows about the boat and he's doing better than either of us would under the circumstances."
"Umm." Hilde grimaced but dropped the matter, Stan went back to waiting for orders.
"What insanity possesses you, Ju?" Hilde was staring in blank astonishment at the woman Stan had brought over the edge. Mick couldn't understand the point of Hilde's astonishment, but there was apparently reason for it for the other woman grimaced and then shrugged.
"He was worried about how this was going and the only reason he's not here is person is because le Duexieme ruled that I was more likely to pass unobserved."
"Le Deuxieme needs his head checked." Hilde turned to look over the side. "I'll be going now, have a good trip back."
"You can't." The woman, whom Mick suddenly realised was that atrocious cousin of James Darcy by name Juliette or something similarly outlandish, spoke bluntly. "The entire place is like a smashed hornet nest...and I can promise you, I'm not facing Jim with the lovely news that you idiotically got yourself executed because you didn't know when enough was enough."
"I'm going to be executed anyway when this stupid war is finished. I might at least get executed for the truth."
"You really think Jim will just sit back and let you be executed? Not a chance."
"I doubt he'll get a choice." Hilde's eyes had gone flinty. "I'm a murderer...and due to the fact that my last murder was a rather public one of the son of a United States General I can promise you, I'm going nowhere. At least this way I'll simply be killed, there won't be any hanging around in courts while people dissect my life and try to make me repent...or try to prove that I'm even worse than I am."
"Would have thought they'd try to pump you dry before killing you." Mick was slightly perplexed.
"I'm a member of the SS you idiot." Hilde turned sharply. "Anything they don't already have, they know they'll never get. Holding me however is completely mental since I'm trained in mind-games and if it so took my fancy, and it undoubtedly would, I could make the entire prison revolt against the guards. My job is to destroy the will and desire of the prisoners we hold. My job is to ensure that people are more willing to tell their secrets than withold them. Believe me, if I wasn't aware of the possible repercussions I'd simply persuade the lot of you to let me go...you'd sail off happily confident that it was the right thing to do...even if as soon as you ran into another person you realised it was a fib from start to finish."
"Then why don't you?" Mick was even more perplexed.
"She won't do it because I'm standing here." Juliette gave a soft snort. "The past has proven that I do not respond well to mind games."
"That was hardly my fault." Hilde had been moving slowly closer to the edge of the boat.
"Don't do it, Hilde." Juliette hadn't moved.
"You want all of this mess to be dragged out infront of whatever post-war tribunal is thought up for us?"
"No, but I do trust either Jim or le Deuxieme to have some trick up their sleeve to deal with this. They're not stupid and they will know about this."
"I'm due for extraction within...about a month I expect. I'm supposed to be re-inforcing my cover with you people in preparation of capturing you all. They'll probably rough me around a bit, but my details will check."
"Fine." Juliette capitulated rather abruptly. "Just try not to get yourself killed."
"My word on it." Hilde gave a faint smile and then slid over the side of the boat and into the darkness.
"Let's get out of here." Juliette grabbed the main halyard as she snapped her instruction and after a moment the two men hastily complied.
"You don't believe her do you?" Stan asked the question as they moved into open water outside of the canals.
"Of course not." Juliette's response was a snort. "If Hilde killed anyone there were mitigating circumstances. We hadn't the time for the arguement and she wasn't going to be persuaded."
"Couldn't we have simply restrained her?"
"Not a chance." Juliette settled down more comfortably next to the tiller. "Just have to hope she's right and not lying about the extraction."
"And now?"
"We return to England."
"Good." Stan settled down in a huddle and yawned. "I leave the ship in your skillful hands and trust you won't drown me."
"Har-bloody-har."
"Language sister mine, language." Stan's eyes closed, Juliette focussed on the compass and Mick was left very, very perplexed about who the man called Stan really was.
June 23rd 1944 - London, England
Your secrets are safe with me...and all my friends.
"Y'think it possible?" Those words broke a very dead silence. Five men who would have been renown for their intelligence had they not gone to such immense pains to conceal their existances from knowledge. Five men, and not a word between them concerning the situation for a full fifteen minutes.
"Hard to say." Another responded.
"Nothing we can do, though." The tone was glum. "Persuade the Yanks to withdraw for the sake of one man?"
"Not a chance." There was a pause. "What was he doing over there in the first place?"
"No idea." Silence settled over the group once more.
"Thought the Navy promised us there'd be no risk."
"Trust the Navy to make a muff of it."
"We might try asking the Navy what is going on."
"If they've muffed, they'll never admit it."
"The Army muffed it last war...at least the Navy only mislaid a Commander, the Army lost a General. It'll be the Air Force's turn in the next war."
"Fat chance the Air Force will have of that considering there's no marriage, no life and no known off-spring, legitimate or otherwise."
"Could it be another of these tricks? He did officially die back in '41."
"He was assumed deceased because no one could find him, very different to the evidence in hand we are speaking of."
"The Army thought they had good evidence for assuming him dead to. I still say we wait for an official report of trouble either from the Navy, or more relevantly from the remaining Darcys, they'll know if they've lost their man to the Nazis. The old lady may be dead but there's plenty of ill-will left between those families...and if that eldest grand-daughter hasn't marked Mr James Darcy as her personal and private property I know nothing about possessive, money-grubbing gold-diggers who are out for what they can get."
"There had better not be a next war." The observation followed a brief silence which the rather vindictive ending of the previous statement had brought about. "I doubt we could take it."
"Certainly not enough money." The approval of the change of subject was general and silent as the new topic was considered. The consideration was brief though for the idea was unthinkeable and thoughts slowly and reluctantly returned to the original topic. "Fact still remains though, what are we going to do?"
"No idea." Silence fell again.
The silence was broken by the shrill ring of a telephone. Though the men stared at the instrument, none made a move towards it. The telephone continued to ring. The men seemed to consider it akin to the devil.
"Go find out why it's ringing."
"Why should the switchboard know? It doesn't come through them."
"Well it must be connected at some switch board."
"Probably a wrong number."
"Determined ringer for a wrong number, that's fifteen peals already."
"Answer it."
"You answer it."
"Fine." It was an impatient snap, but the hand which lifted the telephone shook slightly for all that. "Good morning. I susp..."
"There is a rumour abroad of a very disturbing nature." The voice was soft, tone and pitch were rather creepy. "I am instructed that Mr Darcy is currently to be found in the Darcy Town House and precipitate action would be unwise." There was a click and the dull buzz of a dead line.
"Interesting." He replaced the receiver gently. "It would seem that this number is known by at least one other."
"What was that about?"
"It concerned a disturbing rumour and the fact that Mr Darcy is at home. Precipitate action is considered unwise." Silence engulfed the room once more.
"But the photographs..." It hung in the air, a mute protest of perplexity.
"Well...the rumour of the other Darcy?"
"We never bothered to look because the Navy said he was safe."
"What line to take though?"
"I suggest sending someone around to the Darcy Town House with some totally cheesy...let the Navy do it. They're bound to want to talk to their man about something."
"What?"
"I don't know! Ask the Navy."
Sub-Lieutenant Claude Watson, RNVR, trod up the imposing front steps of the Darcy town house and subjected the front door to a thorough pounding. Claude was not happy. Claude had been pulled away from some very important work to do a totally pointless job that anyone among hundreds could do equally well.
"Mr Watson, been a long time since you've visited." It was Morris who opened the door and Claude pulled a face.
"I've been sent by the Navy."
"Why?" Morris was hanging up Claude's hat and coat.
"Those idiots seem to be somewhat at sea as to whether Jim is in England or not."
"Do I assume you do not want tea?"
"A brilliant deduction." Claude disposed of his gloves into a pocket. "Where is Jim?"
"In the study."
"Wonderful." Claude moved off, leaving Morris to shake his head and retreat back into the kitchen. Morris had lived and worked with Darcys for many years and he knew something very odd was in the wind. Morris also knew that the wise asked no questions when something odd was in the wind, at least then he could honestly claim ignorance. Very odd that the Navy should be nosing around again. Very odd.
"Thought I heard your musical tap." James leant back in his chair as Claude came into the study. "What brings you here? I thought you were on the coast with the Alligator."
"How the devil you know that I do not want to know." Claude dropped into a handy armchair and buried his face in his hands. "God things are a mess...are you certain you can't bring your bomb knowledge to us?"
"Quite certain, bombs are out and I refuse to tackle those abelian rings of yours again." James put his pen aside and closed the ledger he'd been working in.
"Doesn't surprise me, but I did have to ask." Claude pulled his face out of his hands and sighed. "Any way to convince me that you haven't simply told someone else?"
"Well I could spin that nice little yarn about the mess you got into up at Oxford when you didn't heed warning that Ashie was rather good at chess."
"Mm." Claude grimaced. "Torn some code words out of you they might have...in the Navy's opinion. Got that story out of you I highly doubt!"
"That was rather my opinion, hence my use of it in proving my bona fides."
"You would." Claude's tone became almost sour. "Have a squiz at this little beauty." It was a small shell and a handful of scribbled notes that Claude handed across.
"Nice." James handled the shell careful, his eye appreciative as he took in its lines and structure. "Very nice...one of ours?"
"Regretfully no...Japs."
"Ah." James laid the shell aside and began to study the notes which accompanied it. "Why do you keep doing this?"
"A vague hope that some day I'll wear your resistance down and you'll come aboard."
"No chance." James' brows knitted slightly as he glanced between notes and shell. "Tough little sod it would seem."
"Why?"
"Have a look at the nose cone impact resistance." James proffered the notes.
"I was actually asking why there's no chance of getting you to come on board? You don't half enjoy this stuff, so refusal makes no sense."
"It has nothing to do with me, my abilities and what I might or might not like. You get an application sent in to get me on board and the top brass will capsize the suggestion faster than the Hood sank."
"That took three minutes."
"Top brass will sink you in three seconds." James dug back into the notes. "Those truly learnt in the last war that it is dangerous to have Darcys on the loose. They play it safe this war and refuse to let me leave the country."
"But you were in..." Claude hesitated in confusion, rather reluctant to finish his sentance.
"Prove it." James looked up, his expression dry. "You prove that I've left the country and the Navy will sob on your collar and give you copious medals because you'll have finally given them the perfect excuse to put me under lock and key for the rest of the war."
"Good lord." Claude sank back in his seat with a rather bemused expression. "I thought it was your peg which was getting in the way."
"Nice."
"But I mean..." Claude stopped and frowned rather darkly. "Surely that's tying up people at our end as they try to prove you've been out. Jim..."
"For every English Agent working on proving I'm crooked there are at least two Nazi Agents. I also have a couple of American attendants and I had an Italian, but he was recalled during the Sicily invasion...I also have a Russian on my tail, but that's not very often because he's also keeping an eye on two other people."
"Sharing your agents?"
"I'm generous." James returned his attention to the shell and Claude gratefully accepted the sign that a change of topic was desireable. After this visit ended it would take quick trip to the Admiralty, to reassure them that their man really was in England, and then back down to the Solent and the real stuff he needed to do.