Air Warden Webster finally had a moment to sit down and eat the tomato and cheese sandwich that his wife had stuffed in his pocket when he’d gone on duty the night before. By rights of what he’d seen in the past fifteen hours or so, he shouldn’t really have much appetite, but nevertheless he was starving. He sat down on a smooth block of stone resting on a mountain of rubble and tucked in. The sandwich was washed down with a bottle of milk he’d found amazingly intact at the doorstep of a door to a house that no longer existed. He’d been pulling people and bodies out of the ruins all night, but his stomach was in good shape. Getting used to it, he supposed. He’d had several nights like this now. The sun found its way through the smoke and dust and struck his forehead. The stone was big enough for him to stretch out on and he leaned back and enjoyed the warmth of the sun. His mate Terry had called it a day and headed off to the nearest ARP canteen and everyone else seemed to have cleared off from this particular spot just off the Euston Road as well. The eerie silence was broken only by the ticking of an old grandfather clock resting precariously against the exposed wall of a shattered shell of a house to his right. He closed his eyes, exhaustion and the soothing rhythm of the clock bringing him close to sleep. A sudden rustling noise jolted him awake. All of a sudden he felt little feet running over his face. The sandwich rose in his mouth and as he stood up he saw several large rats burrowing beneath some rubble to his right. With an effort he kept his sandwich down. Time to go home, he thought, brushing himself down before bending to pick up his hat and mask. This time he could see what the rats were up to and he vomited. After he had thrown up, he took a deep breath and charged the rats, flailing his arms and shouting at the top of his voice. They scampered away. Grunting, he pulled back a large piece of masonry to reveal quite clearly their handiwork. The man’s nose had been chewed off, as had most of the fleshy parts of his face – or, he wondered, was some of that decomposition? Perhaps the body had been there for a few days? He cleared away some more rubble. The dead man was wearing a flyer’s uniform. There were wings on his lapel with something written in needlework, which he couldn’t make out under all the filth and dust. He heard some footsteps.
“Oi. Mate. Another body here. Can you give me a hand?” As he turned back to clear away some more of the rocks, he noticed something glinting in the rubble.
*
Voronov had suggested meeting at the Savoy or the Ritz, but the Countess had said that would be far too dangerous as there were all sorts of acquaintances they might bump into. And so he found himself in this rather nondescript hotel near Russell Square. As she’d pointed out, it was quite big, so their presence there wouldn’t necessarily stick out – and the rooms were perfectly comfortable, though bland and soulless – and he was a man of soul! Still, the prize was his and even if the surroundings were not to his liking, he was not going to be put off his enjoyment of that prize.
There was a light tap at the door. He jumped up, ran a hand through his oiled hair, straightened his tie and ruffled his beard to ensure the absence of unsightly detritus. The door opened to reveal the Countess, looking attractively demure.