TWO
It wasn’t simple chance which had lead Anthony to pick Frau Kappelhoff’s house. Not only was it near enough to the university to fit in with his role as a visiting tutor, but it was less than three quarters of a mile from the Handelshafen where the merchant ships docked. It seemed, as he walked away quickly from the Kolhmeyers, that even that short distance might cause him some problems. Anthony knew they were looking for him but there were, he thought, a couple of things in his favour. Kiel was poorly-lit because of the wartime restrictions on fuel and he had a good knowledge of the less frequented routes through town.
The further he got, the more his spirits rose. The rain and the cold had cleared all idlers from the streets and he took care to slip into the shadows when he heard anyone approach. There were still large numbers of troops about, but, as he saw with relief, even the Kaiser’s soldiers were ordinary men and preferred, on this dismal evening, to keep their coat collars up and stay, when not under the eye of a superior officer, under what shelter they could find. He knew the places he had to be on his guard and managed to slip by four danger spots unnoticed.
He was making for The Mermaid on Jensenstrasse off the Katserasse, which ran the whole length of the merchant dock. It was at the corner of the Thaulow Museum, with Jensenstrasse only yards away, that he met his first real obstacle. Two sailors, armed with rifles, were standing forlornly in the rain. After a few minutes of watching them from the shadows, Anthony decided to retrace his steps and approach Jensenstrasse by another route. It was just bad luck that one of the sailors glanced up as he moved.
‘Halt!’ the sailor called.
Anthony reluctantly came into the open. He had no hat, no overcoat and was filthy from his climb over the roofs. His wet clothes clung to him and he looked, he thought, like an absolute scarecrow. His only choice was to brazen it out.
He swayed gently on the spot as they approached, fixing them with a delighted, glassy beam. ‘Hullo.’
‘Your papers, sir,’ said the sailor who had shouted for him to stop.
‘Papers. Papers, papers, papers,’ repeated Anthony in an alcoholic way. ‘I had ’em when I came out.’ He saw the sailors swap knowing looks. ‘Never go out without m’papers.’
He started a painfully deliberate search through his pockets and pulled out an old letter. ‘Here we are. No it’s not.’ He stared glassily at the sailors. ‘M’wife’s a harsh woman. Out, she said. Am I drunk? No. All I had was a tiny little drop, just a tiny schnapps, but out! No coat, no hat, just out! Her and her mother.’
The sailors grinned, but persisted. ‘Your papers, sir.’
He laboriously searched his pockets again and this time produced Mr Kolhmeyer’s card. If the theft had been reported he was for it. He stuck his thumbs into the lapels of his jacket in an expansive way, staggered and fell back against the wall. The sailors’ grins increased and Anthony breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
He’d fallen against a propaganda poster, pasted to the wall, one he’d seen many times before. It showed a caricature of a moustached, jodhpured figure complete with bulldog, a supposedly typical Englishman. ‘He’s the cause!’ the poster screamed. ‘Why is our life controlled by rationing?’ There was a whole lot more, ending with: ‘England is our deadly enemy’ and ‘Victory for Germany!’.
The sailors, as he had hoped, looked from him to the poster and laughed. Anthony could follow their thoughts as if they’d spoken them aloud. He couldn’t be an Englishman because an Englishman looked like the man on the poster.
‘He’s all right,’ muttered the sailor who held his papers.
‘I am,’ Anthony agreed with intoxicated earnestness. ‘Only, dash it, I keep falling over. Problems with m’ legs.’ He took back his papers and put them carefully away. ‘Must be off. Bishiness aqua . . . aqua . . . friend. Want to come?’
‘I only wish we could,’ said one of the sailors with a laugh. ‘Good night.’
Anthony wobbled away, swayed across the square, turned the corner, saw the street was deserted and leaned against the wall in utter relief. For a few moments at least, he looked as inebriated as the traduced Mr Kolhmeyer.
He was on Jensenstrasse. The outer door to The Mermaid stood open, sending a yellow wedge of light onto the wet pavement. Anthony walked into the pub, feeling he had gained some sort of sanctuary.
He was well known in The Mermaid. Lassen, the landlord, was a Dane, one of the many in this north-eastern corner of Germany. When war was declared, the Germans, who had always treated the Danes with suspicion, ordered all men between twenty and forty-five to enlist. That, in Anthony’s opinion, was a mistake. He knew Lassen, who had two sons in the army, bore a burning sense of injustice. It was too much to say he was pro-British but he was resentfully anti-German and there were plenty of informers who felt the same.
Lassen was careful not to be curious about Dr Etriech who frequented The Mermaid. Perhaps, for men had learned to avoid awkward questions which could lead them to still more awkward truths, he simply accepted that the doctor liked conversations with all classes and types of customers. If he noticed that those customers were frequently better off as a result, he never mentioned it. Anthony didn’t pay much but any extra, in this time of great hardship when even the bread on the table – the miserable gritty K-bread, part flour, part potatoes – was rationed, was welcome.
Anthony made his way to a table close to the stove. The heat made him wince as the circulation returned to his frozen fingers. For a few moments he could think of nothing but warmth and would have given anything for a hot bath and a change. His clothes had begun to steam in the heat before he could bring himself to turn away from the stove.
Lassen stood behind the bar, quietly polishing a glass. ‘What can I get you, Herr Doktor? You look as if you need something to keep out the cold.’
‘I’d like some coffee and an aquavit,’ Anthony replied. ‘And . . . er . . . would you take a drink with me, Herr Lassen?’ He nodded at the chair on the other side of the table.
‘I’ll bring the drinks round,’ said Lassen.
Anthony dropped into the chair. He recognized most of the men in the room. The Mermaid was a comfortable, homely place, smelling of fish, engine oil and wet wool, with its pine boards turned the colour of oak by years of placid clouds of tobacco. It was quiet, with the murmur of conversation broken by the occasional click from a game of draughts and the scrape of chairs on the wooden floor.
Lassen put the tray on the table and pulled out a chair. ‘Trouble?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes.’ Anthony picked up the aquavit – an acquired taste – and drank it at a gulp, feeling it sting his throat. No one was paying them the slightest attention. ‘I have a passenger for Captain Johannson.’
Lassen stroked the stubble on his chin. ‘Yourself?’
Anthony nodded.
‘A private passage?’
‘Very private.’
‘I see . . .’ Lassen took his pipe from his apron pocket. He didn’t seem remotely surprised. He studied his pipe for a long moment. ‘You can pay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Captain Johannson will not be here for two or three days. Is that a problem?’
Anthony bit his lip. He’d been afraid of this. ‘It could be a great problem.’
‘I see,’ said Lassen again. He picked up his beer, drank some, then filled his pipe thoughtfully. Anthony was anxious for him to speak, but knew better than to hurry him. ‘I can pay for accommodation,’ he added, watching Lassen closely. ‘Pay well.’
Lassen lit his pipe. ‘That would be helpful,’ he said after a time. ‘Drink your coffee, Herr Doctor. Take your time. Then say goodnight as you leave, as you always do, but go down the alley to the left, to the back of the house. Be careful you are not seen. When it is safe, come to the white door. It will not be locked. We’ll arrange what happens next when you are safely inside.’
Lassen stood up and went back behind the bar. Anthony felt the reaction from the strain of the escape to The Mermaid set in and he shook himself awake. This was dangerous. The quiet murmur of voices and the chink from the draughts pieces combined to an almost hypnotic drowsiness. He picked up his coffee, but it was nearly scalding. He could feel himself drifting once more. His head grew incredibly heavy and he rubbed his face with his hands.
Then he was completely awake, every sense on edge. The door slammed back, there was a shout of command and four soldiers marched in. They grounded arms and stood to rigid attention as a senior officer, an Oberstleutnant entered the Mermaid.
Just as the Germans caricatured the English as John Bull, the English depicted the typical German officer as a Prussian with a monocle, a duelling scar, a bald head and rolls of fat round his neck. This man was no caricature, thought Anthony warily. He was wiry and fair-haired with a long, intelligent face and more threatening than any propaganda bully.
There was a rustle of unease, followed by silence. Anthony guessed he wasn’t the only one with good reason to be wary but, still wearing his battered formal clothes and dark tie, he stood out like a sore thumb in that roomful of men dressed in seamen’s jerseys and pea-jackets. He decided to play the drunk once more, knowing the generous latitude given to drunks, and only wished he had something more convincing than black coffee as a prop.
He expected the Oberstleutnant to shout, but he didn’t. Instead he leaned across the bar and addressed Lassen in a low voice. Lassen, sullen and unhappy, avoided the Oberstleutnant’s eyes. He had a towel and glass in his hand and continued wiping the glass automatically, while grunting out answers.
Straining to hear, Anthony caught the words ‘spy’ and ‘sons’. His stomach turned over. Lassen didn’t speak but continued to wipe the glass. Then, with a droop of his shoulders, he nodded, as Anthony knew he would, and pointed towards him.
It was no use playing the drunk. The Oberstleutnant’s victorious smile told him the game was up. Lassen had been given the choice between the lives of his sons and the life of a stranger and Anthony couldn’t blame him for his choice.
Anthony stood up as the Oberstleutnant approached. He couldn’t see the point of prolonging the inevitable but he was damned if he was going to let the German know how the sick taste of fear filled his mouth. That was nothing but bravado, but it was something.
As casually as he could, Anthony picked up the coffee and took a sip. ‘Do you want me?’
The Oberstleutnant stopped. He was enjoying the moment and his air of triumphant arrogance was so apparent Anthony half-expected him to revert to caricature and say, ‘So!’
He didn’t. He smiled with a cat-who’s-got-the-mouse expression. ‘You are – or you have been masquerading as – Doctor Conrad Etriech. Don’t deny it.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Anthony with as much urbanity as he could manage.
‘You are a British spy.’
‘I can’t imagine there’d be much point in denying that, either.’
The Oberstleutnant’s smile broadened. ‘You are sensible not to resist.’
Anthony shrugged. He hoped it looked like unconcern. ‘Again, I can’t see the point. Those gentry by the door seem to block any means of escape.’
‘There is no means of escape.’
‘No. I rather thought not.’ He took another sip of coffee and the germ of an idea started to grow. ‘As we’re going to be civilized about this, may I have the pleasure of knowing your name?’
The German drew himself up. ‘I am Oberstleutnant von Hagen. I have more men posted outside. You are surrounded.’
‘Which, although clichéd, sounds unpleasantly like the truth.’ Anthony yawned. ‘All right, you win. Let me drink my coffee and I’ll come quietly. It’s a beastly cold night, I’m tired and hungry and I don’t suppose German prisons have many creature comforts.’
He raised the cup once more and hurled the steaming black coffee into the Oberstleutnant’s face.
Taken utterly by surprise, the Oberstleutnant staggered back, blinded by the hot liquid. With a quick jerk Anthony upset the table, sending it crashing into him, then, thrusting Lassen out of the way, jumped over the bar and into the rooms at the back, a torrent of shouts following him. A white-aproned woman came into the narrow passageway, her face contorted with surprise. He ignored her screams, ducked past her, raced into the kitchen, flung open the back door and slammed it behind him.
He ran out of the yard and into the alley at the back. Shouts came from the front of the house, but it wouldn’t take them long to follow him round here. He ran the length of a few houses, stopped, and tried the latch of a door into a back yard. It was locked. As quickly as he could, he put his hands on top of the door and hauled himself over, his feet scraping on the wood.
The yard was very dark. Anthony crouched by the side of the gate, trying to steady his breathing. In the alley outside were running footsteps and shouts of command. Despite himself, he couldn’t help grinning as the Oberstleutnant’s dilemma became clear. He had evidently worked out that his quarry could be hiding in any of the yards which lined the alleyway but, on the other hand, he could be getting clean away.
Feet crunched past him on the other side of the gate. Two . . . no, three men. The feet stopped about twenty yards away. That would be the corner of the alley.
‘Stay here,’ snapped the Oberstleutnant. There was the snap of boots as the soldiers came to attention, then all was quiet.
How many men had the Oberstleutnant left on guard? Anthony felt for the bolt on the back of the gate and tried to draw it back, but it was stiff in its socket. He put his hands on the top of the wall and eased himself to the top, lying along the length of the wall.
In the dim light he saw two soldiers, standing at either end of the alley. Diagonally across from him was another alley, leading, he remembered, into the yard of a small brewery. If he could get through the yard, then all he had to do was climb over the brewery gates and he would be on a main road. He blessed the instinct which had urged him to explore every back street in Kiel.
There was a bunch of keys in his pocket. He wouldn’t need those again. Drawing them out carefully, he weighed them in his hand and sent them skimming over the head of the soldier standing at the end of the alley. They clattered on the cobbles. The soldier whirled, bringing his rifle to the ready.
‘What is it, Kupper?’ called the soldier at the top of the alley.
‘I heard something,’ answered Kupper. He stooped to pick up the bunch of keys. ‘He’s here! He’s dropped these!’
‘Hold on!’ The second soldier ran down the alley. As soon as he had gone past, Anthony dropped to the ground and raced for the dark opening of the brewery yard, flattening himself into a doorway against the brick wall.
So far, so good. He could hear the voices of the two soldiers and the crunch of feet as one started to return. He willed himself to look away as the soldier went past, knowing his face would catch the light. Then he was gone and Anthony breathed a sigh of relief.
The back gates of the brewery stood in front of him. They were an easy climb, but he made more noise than he wanted to. He paused for a moment on top of the gate, fearing the bark of a dog or the tread of feet, but there was nothing.
He dropped down into the yard. Hugging the deep shadows beside the wall, he crept through the yard, past the stables of the brewery horses, finding the stable smells and the sound of a soft whinny an inexpressibly comforting sensation.
He edged his way to the front of the building, where two great wooden gates, big enough to take the brewery wagons, barred the way to the road. A wicket gate was set into them, bolted on the inside. Presumably that meant there was a night watchman somewhere. This was the danger point. To get through the gates he had to come out of the shadows. He listened intently. Silence.
It took far less than a minute to open the wicket gate and step through onto the main road, but it was one of the longest minutes Anthony had ever known.
As he stepped through onto the road, he saw a black Mercedes with an Imperial Eagle on the bonnet parked a little way down the street, its hood pulled up against the rain. He couldn’t be sure but he thought there was a driver in the car. He swallowed hard. He had to make this look natural. He turned back to the gate, pulling it shut behind him.
‘Goodnight!’ he called to an imaginary companion. They’re looking for one man, not two . . .
He’d walked a few steps away from the Mercedes when he heard a shout from the car. It was the driver. The man was leaning out, pointing towards the gate. ‘Hang on, mate,’ he called. ‘The gate’s swung open.’
With a sinking feeling, Anthony half-turned. He couldn’t ignore the driver but he dreaded him seeing him properly.
‘You want to be careful,’ said the driver chattily, getting out of the car. ‘You never know who . . .’ He stopped, and Anthony could see him looking at his filthy, once respectable clothes, so unlike anything a watchman would wear. ‘Who are you?’ he said in a different voice. ‘Let me see your papers.’
Anthony didn’t have any choice. His fist shot out, catching the driver underneath his left ear, a wicked knockout punch to the carotid artery. The driver groaned and fell, his knees crumpling beneath him.
Anthony’s first instinct was to run but the sight of the driver’s cap made him pause. His wretched clothes were a signal to every searcher. Why not take the driver’s coat and cap? Come to that, he thought with a grin, he could make a proper job of it and take the Mercedes as well.
The street was deserted, but he could hear the sound of marching feet in the distance. He pulled the driver back to the car, rapidly stripped off his coat and put it on. The tramp of regimented boots was no more than a street away, echoing loud in the quiet night. He hurriedly opened the back door and bundled the driver into the gap between the front and back seats. He was about to get back into the car when the footsteps rounded the corner.
As he had thought, it was a group of soldiers with an officer at their head. His heart sank as a gleam from a street light caught the officer’s face. It was, predictably, von Hagen.
There was absolutely nowhere to go. His only hope was that von Hagen would carry on his patrol on foot, but that hope was dashed. ‘Report to me at the merchant docks,’ rapped out von Hagen to his sergeant. ‘Carry on.’
The sergeant saluted, the soldiers marched off, and von Hagen walked towards the car.
Now at this point, a real driver would have stood to attention before opening the back door for Oberstleutnant von Hagen, saluted smartly – Anthony couldn’t credit that any inferior would salute von Hagen anything but smartly – walk round the front of the car, climb into the driver’s cab and await orders.
As von Hagen approached, Anthony fantasized for a fraction of a second about doing just that. ‘Unconscious man at your feet, sir? I wonder how he got there? He wasn’t there when we set off . . .’ But, granted that von Hagen was not only armed himself but had a platoon of armed men within hearing distance, that wasn’t really on the cards.
The only thing in his favour was that his face was shadowed by the peak of the driver’s cap. He compromised by saluting. That, at least, he could do without suspicion. ‘There’s a problem with the car, sir,’ he said in as good an imitation as he could manage of the driver’s North German accent.
Von Hagen paused, his mouth tightening in irritation. ‘How soon can you get it going again?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. It’s the clutch. I’ll have to take it up and that will be at least twenty minutes or so.’
‘Then you’d better get on with it.’
Anthony could hardly believe his luck. He’d fallen for it! He went to the front of the car, stooping down to lift up the bonnet.
Von Hagen walked away, then called back over his shoulder, ‘Report to me at the Merchant Docks as soon as you’ve finished.’
Anthony looked up. It was pure instinct but he cursed himself for a stupid mistake. He knew immediately he’d been caught. He glanced down almost instantly but for a moment his face was clear in the light. Von Hagen stopped and turned back slowly. He opened his overcoat and unholstered a pistol. ‘Come here.’
Anthony walked towards him. There was nothing else to do.
‘Take off your cap.’
The gun was pointed at his stomach. Anthony took off his cap with a flourish. If he was going to go, he might as well go in style. ‘How d’you do, old man?’
Von Hagen gave a hiss of satisfaction. ‘You!’
He opened his mouth to shout to the departing troops and Anthony hurled himself forward. The gun flew out of von Hagen’s hand as Anthony’s fist crunched on the point of his jaw. They rolled over in the road in a desperate struggle.
Von Hagen was wiry and tough but Anthony had the advantage of surprise. Whatever happened, he mustn’t call out. Anthony clamped his hand over von Hagen’s mouth, trying to bring his other hand round to deliver a knockout blow. His fingers grasped the barrel of the gun. He picked it up and smashed the butt end into von Hagen’s temple. The Oberstleutnant’s eyes widened and his body went limp.
Anthony got up and wearily lent against the car. In the distance he could still hear the sound of marching feet. What now? He’d better get rid of these bodies. He glanced towards the brewery gates. He could leave them in the brewery. That would do it. More marching feet sounded close by and he groaned inwardly. There simply wasn’t enough time.
He bent down to von Hagen, untied the scarf from round his neck and gagged him with it. Then, opening the back of the car, he heaved the unconscious Oberstleutnant in beside the driver, shut the door, climbed into the driver’s cab and started the engine.
As he drove off, Anthony totted up his chances. The situation was interesting, to say the least. To drive round the home town of the Imperial Fleet as a known and wanted spy in a stolen army staff car with two Germans in the back, one of whom hates your guts – and, to be fair, von Hagen had been scalded with coffee, beaten up and made to look a fool in front of his men – was not an experience Anthony wanted to prolong longer than necessary.
His only chance of escape lay at the docks. With Terence Cavanaugh dead there was no other agent to turn to and his experience with Lassen showed how dangerous it was to rely on any Dane or German, no matter how friendly they may have been. Both Frau Kappelhoff and the University could give a good description of him and the theft of Herr Kohlmeyer’s identity papers would be reported in the morning.
He could try and make a break for it in the Mercedes, but the car would be a dead giveaway in a few hours and he didn’t know how much petrol was in the tank. And there was Cavanaugh’s message. He had to get that back to England. He couldn’t send it, even if he could contact a messenger. There’s a spy in England . . . Seems to know everything . . . There was no one he could trust.
A groan from behind the seat added an extra spur of urgency to his thoughts. Whatever happened next, he had to deal with those two in the back. With the cranes of the docks visible a few streets away, he turned the car sharply into a side street and drew to a halt.
Holding von Hagen’s gun, Anthony opened the back door of the car. The driver, who had started to groan, fell silent as the gun was pressed to his head.
‘Listen to me,’ said Anthony as fiercely and as urgently as he could. ‘I’m an English spy.’ The man’s eyes rounded in fright. ‘One murmur and I’ll put a bullet in you. Nod if you understand.’ The driver, sprawled across the floor with von Hagen on top of him, nodded. Anthony felt the need of reinforcements, if only imaginary ones. ‘There are other men with me. Understand?’ The driver nodded again. ‘Any sound and you’re for it.’
There was a handkerchief in the pocket of the driver’s coat. Anthony put down the gun and gagged the driver with the handkerchief. Von Hagen’s eyes flickered open. He gave Anthony a look of concentrated hatred, but the scarf stopped him from shouting out.
‘Get out of the car,’ said Anthony. ‘Remember, I’ve got the gun.’
The two men slowly climbed out.
‘Von Hagen, take off your clothes.’
The German’s eyes gleamed defiance. Anthony’s finger tightened on the trigger. ‘I want your clothes,’ he said levelly. ‘If I have to get them with a bullet hole in them, I will.’
Anthony was bluffing. He couldn’t risk the sound of a shot and he knew he couldn’t murder a man in cold blood. However, he hoped that von Hagen wouldn’t guess that. ‘Take them off!’
Von Hagen unbuttoned his overcoat and shrugged it off. His eyes measured the distance between them but the gun made him hesitate.
‘And the rest,’ said Anthony. ‘Jacket, trousers, boots . . . That’s the ticket. Sorry if it’s a bit chilly, but that’s life.’
Quite what he would have done if von Hagen had shouted, he didn’t know. Clubbed him, perhaps, and run for it. Anthony could see von Hagen itching to disobey, but he couldn’t risk the gun. Fortunately for Anthony, the German hadn’t worked out that he couldn’t either. After a few tense minutes von Hagen stood in his underwear with a pile of clothes beside him.
‘Now, gentlemen, step over to the wall. And, von Hagen, old thing, I’d like some privacy. Turn your faces to the wall and don’t look round. I will shoot.’
Anthony wanted to tie them up but he didn’t have anything to tie them with, apart from the belt of the driver’s overcoat, and it wouldn’t do for two of them. Besides that, he had a healthy respect for von Hagen’s courage. At a distance he could control matters. If he came too close, he was sure the German would attack. No; dangerous as it was, he had to leave the two men as they were.
As quickly as he could, he took off his clothes and scrambled into von Hagen’s discarded uniform. He had to put the gun down to get dressed, and that was dangerous. On three separate occasions von Hagen made as if to turn round, and each time Anthony stopped him. ‘Just stay there . . . I’ve got the gun . . . Watch it! The next time you move, I’ll shoot. That’s your last warning. Keep your faces to the wall!’ The snarl in his voice convinced him; he hoped it convinced von Hagen.
Anthony wasn’t proud of what he did next. All he knew was that it was necessary. Holding the gun by the muzzle, he stole up behind the two men and cracked the butt down hard on von Hagen’s head. He slumped to the ground. The driver, still gagged, turned wide, frightened eyes to him. ‘Sorry,’ said Anthony apologetically, and walloped him, too.
Once on the main road, with the entrance of the merchant docks in sight, Anthony did his best to copy von Hagen’s arrogant swagger and strode up to the entrance to the docks, trying to look as if he owned the place.
There were two soldiers on duty at the gates. They saluted as he walked through. So far so good . . . ‘Who is the senior officer present?’ Anthony barked at them.
‘Major Stabbert, sir.’
He nodded curtly and strode on. He might have to talk to the major, or perhaps, with a bit of luck, he could pull this off alone.
The tide was in, the dark water slopping against the quayside. That meant there should be at least one ship getting ready to sail. He walked along the wet cobbles, feeling a stab of joy as he saw the black bulk of a steamer, its funnel pumping out heavy gusts of smoke. A dockhand stood by a bollard, ready to cast off the hawser.
‘Halt!’ Anthony commanded in his best Imperial Army voice.
The dockhand stopped, coming respectfully to attention as he saw an Oberstleutnant approach. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘This ship. Where is it going?’
‘She’s for Korsor, sir. Zealand,’ he added helpfully.
Korsor! Perfect! If he could get to Korsor, he’d be safe in Denmark and as good as home. All he had to do was get on board.
‘Lower the gangplank.’
The dockhand stared at him. ‘Lower the gangplank, sir? But . . .’
‘I want to go to Korsor,’ Anthony snapped. ‘Lower the gangplank.’ He was an Oberstleutnant in the German Army, albeit on a very temporary commission, and no one was going to stop him.
The dockhand looked bewildered. Further up the quay, Anthony could see a group of soldiers and decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘You there!’ he shouted to the sergeant in charge of the soldiers. ‘Bring Major Stabbert to me immediately. Leave that rope alone,’ he snarled at the dockhand.
A sailor looked over the side of the ship, some fifteen feet above. ‘What’s the delay?’ he called. The dockhand shrugged.
Major Stabbert hurried up, slowing as he saw Anthony beside the ship. ‘You wanted me, sir?’
Anthony looked at him imperiously. ‘I am Oberstleutnant von Falkenhayn.’
‘Von Falkenhayn!’ gasped the major.
Anthony smiled in a wintry sort of way. ‘I bear the same name as my uncle.’
He could see the major gulping. The nephew of the Chief of Staff was not someone to be treated lightly. If he was going to bluff, he might as well make it a good one. ‘I have urgent state business to Korsor. Secret business, you understand? It is important I leave at once. Command the captain to lower the gangplank.’
‘But sir . . .’ stuttered the major.
Anthony glared at him. ‘Are you questioning my orders, Major?’
‘No, sir!’ The major looked up to the ship. ‘You there! Lower the gangplank at once.’
There was a bustle and shouted orders on board.
‘There seems to be a lot of activity tonight,’ Anthony said with gracious condescension as the gangplank came over the side of the ship.
‘Yes, sir. We are looking for an English spy.’
‘Two English spies,’ Anthony corrected. He might as well cover his retreat while he had the chance. ‘I heard something of the matter. He has a companion with him. I trust you will manage to capture him.’
‘We will, sir.’
‘He’s a clever man, Major. You need to be on your guard.’ The gangplank was nearly secured. ‘You know he evaded us once before? The road was blocked and guards posted. He waited until a patrol had gone through, then approached the guards. “After that patrol,” he said. “The spy is with them.” Naturally, the officer in charge sent a detail after the patrol and the spy offered to lead them. I regret to say the spy made good his escape and the officer is an officer no longer. Be careful, Major, if you capture him. He is very plausible.’
‘I will, sir.’
Anthony walked up the gangplank and the major snapped to attention.
‘Cast off,’ Anthony commanded as soon as his feet touched the deck. ‘I will talk to the captain later.’
The steamer pulled slowly away from the quay.
Anthony had to fight a huge desire to laugh. Already they were over a hundred yards away from the quay and the bluff – the outrageous bluff – had worked. He leaned over the ship’s rail and grinned.
Two men, one wearing nothing but a coat and with his bare feet clearly visible, had come on to the quay surrounded by soldiers.
It was partly ordinary common sense, he knew, but there was a streak of sheer mischief which made him cup his hands round his mouth. ‘Major Stabbert! That’s the English spy! Don’t let him get away!’
Von Hagen gave a howl of protest, jabbing his finger at the departing ship.
To Anthony’s intense joy, he saw the soldiers around von Hagen bring their rifles to the ready. Denmark, neutral Denmark, was eight hours away, he was safely on board and von Hagen had been arrested by his own men. There was only one more thing he had to think of. It was unlikely on a ship this size, but . . .
He turned and walked along the deck, stopping the first sailor he saw. ‘You there! Take me to the wireless room.’
‘We don’t have wireless, sir,’ said the sailor.
Anthony hid his delight behind a frown. ‘In that case, I will speak to the captain now.’
‘Yes, sir!’
Really, thought Anthony, the way everyone jumped to his orders was wonderful. The German army might have its faults, but in many ways it was an excellent institution.