Russian Front (12) ‘Well, she’s probably used to being taken everywhere in them London taxicabs.’ Eichmann picked up a newspaper to give them a reason for his presence – they were beginning to turn their attention to him – and moved as unobtrusively as he could to the phone book sitting on the shelf under the pay telephone. The hairs on the back of his neck had stood up when the woman behind the counter had said the name Swayne. There were three Swaynes in the directory, but only one Doctor. The address was somewhere called Windy Ridge, and according to the gossips at the counter it was only a mile from here. He paid for his newspaper and went out. The back of his neck could sense the eyes of the two women following him. He either had to get somewhere to stay and a decent cover story worked out or he had to get out of here within a few hours. There were posters all over the railway stations and bus shelters warning the populace to be on the lookout for spies. ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’ and ‘Keep Mum – She’s Not So Dumb.’ He glanced at the newspaper. That bloody pipsqueak Montgomery. Something about the progress of the Allied landings in Morocco and Algeria. Reading between the lines, the Americans had taken a beating at somewhere called Kasserine. Good. He folded the newspaper and put it under his arm. Then he walked purposefully in the direction that the Austin car had gone. He hoped he looked like a man who had popped down to the village to get a newspaper and was simply on his way home. He strode out of the village and was soon among fields and moorland, with sheep dotting the hills. After about half a mile a turning appeared on his left. There was no signpost, of course. He grinned mirthlessly. All that nonsense in 1940 about taking down signposts so as to confuse paratroops and some illusory group called ‘fifth columnists’. He and the others in the Embassy in Dublin had practically wet themselves laughing when they saw the newsreels. As if elite German paratroops would pack up and go home if they couldn’t find a signpost! About a mile the woman in the post office had said. How many kilometers was that? About one-and-a-half. He must have walked the best part of a kilometer already. There was no other turning in sight. ‘The Surgery, Windy Ridge’ was the address. That suggested a house on a hill. The turning was a narrow lane which wound upwards towards the moors. He heard a bus rumbling around the corner, which decided him. He mustn’t be seen hanging around, lurking about. Some officious citizen would tell the local bobby. He continued his purposeful I-know-where-I’m-going stride into the lane. Ten minutes’ walk rewarded him with the sight of a stone-built bungalow sitting on a shoulder of the hill that led to high moorland. A sign said ‘The Surgery’ and gave opening times and Dr Swayne’s qualifications. He tracked the telephone wire going from the pole in the lane to the house. Too risky to try and cut it in daylight, he decided. He might be seen. He marched up to the front door of the house – the surgery door was around the side - and pushed the bell. He heard it faintly within the house. Then, as he listened to footsteps approaching the door, he worked at putting a smile on his face. He squinted to wrinkle his eyes. People, especially the very few women he had ever bothered with, told him that he had cold eyes. But he was here to play the friendly Irishman. He shifted the briefcase to his left hand. The door opened and there was a woman in early middle age. She held the door only one-quarter open. Doctors, even village general practitioners, get some funny callers. ‘Good morning. Is it Mrs Swayne I have the honor of addressing?’ ‘Yes. Good afternoon, can I help you?’ Eichmann had forgotten the time. He glanced at his watch and tried to look bashful. ‘Ah, there’s me forgettin’ when it is. Trust an Irishman to forget to wind his watch.’ She didn’t say anything to this, just stood there looking at him with a faint, inquiring smile. Was he overdoing the blarney? ‘I won’t keep you a moment,’ he promised. ‘I was in the area and I thought I’d look you up, as you might say. The truth of the matter is that I met a chap called Hugh Swayne when I was in Alex – Alexandria, that is – and I owed him some money. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, by any ghost of a chance?’ The woman glanced behind her, Eichmann couldn’t see at what. ‘Another friend of Hugh’s! What a coincidence. You’d better come in, mister …?’ ‘Ryan, Pat Ryan.’ ‘How do you do. I’m Helen Swayne, Hugh’s mother. Come in to the sitting room. We were just having a cup of tea.’ She looked at his briefcase. ‘Are you in the area on business. You’re not going to try and sell me insurance, I hope!’ He chuckled politely as he walked into the hall, looking around. There was a small suitcase under the hat stand. ‘Not at all! No, I’m actually in the Royal Navy. Lieutenant-Commander. But I’m on leave, hence the civvy street look.’ The Swayne woman looked surprised when he mentioned his rank, but opened the door of the sitting room and there, sitting on the window-seat of the bay window, was ‘Miss Sally’. Eichmann felt a surge of satisfaction as he saw her. Got you, you bitch. Tracked you down. His smile was genuine as he put his hand out. He wanted to touch her. She looked at his hand for a split second before offering hers. He realized he should have waited for her to do this before sticking his hand out like that. No matter, an unimportant slip. ‘Sally, this gentleman is Pat Ryan. He has come to pay his debts.’ ‘Nice to meet another friend of Hugh’s,’ he said as he sat down. ‘Although,’ he added easily, ‘I don’t suppose I know him as well as some.’ The older woman glanced at Sally as he said this. Sally colored slightly. What have I said wrong? Eichmann asked himself. English social etiquette was unfathomable. ‘I only met him a couple of times,’ he continued, ‘we were playing cards – just a friendly game of pontoon, you understand – anyway he won a few quid, and I said I’d send him a check. Then, of course, I lost his address. I thought that was that until I was sent down to the naval air station at Yeovilton, and I remembered he said his parents lived at Hawkstone. So, here I am.’ ‘Would you like some tea? I’ll get another cup.’ The Swayne woman got up to go to the kitchen. ‘I’d prefer coffee, if you have any in the house, Mrs Swayne.’ ‘Helen, please. An Irish person who doesn’t like tea! You’ll be saying you don’t drink Guinness, next.’ That was a mistake. The Irish drank tea all the time. He didn’t know how to answer that, so he made the polite chuckling noise again. Sally was looking at him. He guessed what she was going to say from the expression on her face. ‘I can’t help thinking I’ve seen you somewhere before.’ He was ready for this. It was probably a good sign. If she was really on to him she wouldn’t make such a remark, she would be making excuses to get to the telephone. And she seemed relaxed. He began to feel the same calmness and even elation he had felt in the tart’s flat. He was in control. ‘Well, I’ve been in the navy since late thirty-nine,’ he said breezily. ‘Been all around, including Alex, as I say. It’s not impossible that we’ve bumped into each other.’ He looked at her and pretended to try to remember where he might have seen her. He had never been further South than Madrid in his life, so he had to be careful. ‘I think I’d have remembered such a pretty colleen as you,’ he murmured. She looked down, enduring his attempt at gallantry politely without showing the slightest sign of being pleased. Swayne’s mother had returned with his coffee as he made his last remark. There was a slightly awkward silence. Had he said the wrong thing again? He wasn’t embarrassed; it was just so difficult, this kind of small talk. It all seemed completely trivial to him, but the rules were endlessly complicated. He sipped his coffee. It was dreadful. Then he saw the photographs on the side board, and got up to look at them. He glanced around. ‘You don’t mind if I have a look at your photos.’ ‘Please do,’ said Helen Swayne. Her voice was neutral, flat somehow. Was she suspicious? Eichmann’s problem was that he didn’t know what Hugh looked like or whether he had any brothers or sisters. He looked at the family snaps and portraits one by one. There was Doctor and Mrs Swayne on their wedding day. An old woman, somebody’s granny. A toddler pushing a wheeled toy. The Swaynes with a young child on holiday on a beach somewhere. Then a teenager with an air rifle. Could that be Swayne? It reminded Eichmann of somebody, although he couldn’t place it. The Swayne woman appeared at his side. ‘You might be interested in seeing this. It’s taken a long time to come back from the developers. It’s a portrait of Hugh on his last leave. It’s more than a year old. Eichmann took the glossy print and stared at it for a long time. Then he handed it back to Helen Swayne with a tight smile. ‘Would you excuse me for a minute. I’d like to use the, uh …’ ‘Yes, of course. There’s one next to the surgery, just at the end of the hall.’ Eichmann walked to the toilet and shut himself in, his thoughts racing. The progress of the battle of Stalingrad had been followed keenly in the German Embassy in Dublin for obvious reasons. He and his colleagues scanned all the Russian newspapers and propaganda material produced for British consumption as part of the overall intelligence appreciation. Much had been made of Red Army’s skill street-fighting skills, and there were regular reports of the prowess of Russian snipers. Yuri’s face was well known, he had even featured in Russian newsreel films that Eichmann had seen. As soon as Helen Swayne had shown him the photo, Eichmann had realized that Hugh was Yuri’s double. But what did that mean? Were there now two ‘Yuris’ fighting over there? Hugh Swayne can’t have been chosen simply for his marksmanship. The Russians had plenty of sharpshooters. He must have been chosen for his million-to-one resemblance to the fabled Yuri. All of a sudden, Eichmann saw the truth. Yuri must be dead, or badly wounded. Swayne had been taken to Russia to keep the legend alive. He was probably in Stalingrad now, grinning and waving to the stupid Slavs in their stinking holes. All he had to do was put on a Russian uniform and there was Yuri, large as life. Eichmann washed his hands and pulled the chain. How had they got over the language difficulty? It didn’t matter. There was one overwhelming priority. He had to get back to Dublin and radio Berlin. If this desperate trick were exposed, it would be a wonderful propaganda coup for Goebbels. As he left the toilet he turned left into the surgery. There was a telephone on the doctor’s desk. He traced the plaited cord to a small Bakelite junction box on the skirting board and yanked the wires out of both sides. Then he tucked them neatly underneath the box. There was probably an extension somewhere else in the house, possibly upstairs, but he had probably done enough damage to render the line inoperable. He strode back to the sitting room. ‘I joined up just under two years ago,’ Sally was saying. ‘I was disillusioned with the publishing job, all I did all day was type and make the tea, and I just felt that I wanted to help with the war effort.’ Mrs Swayne was nodding approvingly, her eyes shining. Sally was evidently making a good impression. Eichmann returned to his seat and undrinkable coffee via the sideboard, taking another look at the hated visage of Yuri, the sub-human assassin. At the next pause in their women’s chatter, he offered casually ‘Is Hugh keeping up with his language studies? He was quite the linguist when I met him. Russian, wasn’t it? And what else?’ Both women looked at him, Helen Swayne with a puzzled expression. ‘You must be thinking of someone else,’ she said. ‘Hugh was rather behind in French. Although he had to cram his Latin for medical school. Unless he’s been studying in the Army, but I think he would have mentioned that in his letters.’ Eichmann turned his attention to Sally and knew that he had blown his cover. The blood had drained from her face at his use of the word ‘Russian’. He had overplayed his hand, he should have made an excuse and ducked out as soon as he had seen the photograph. But it didn’t matter. He leaned over and reached for his briefcase. ‘Well, I better be after writing Hugh a check and then I’ll be on my way …’ His hand groped for the gun. There was a flurry of movement at the edge of his vision. He looked up to see Sally’s back as she dashed out of the sitting room door, heels clacking against the parquet floor in the hall. For a moment, he was undecided. The Swayne woman just looked bemused. Then he reached for the gun. There was a clattering noise of something falling to the floor in the hall. ‘What is the girl doing?’ muttered the older woman. Eichmann found his gun. It was at the bottom of the case, the barrel pointed upward. He grabbed it by the barrel and took it out of the case. Helen Swayne’s eyes widened as she saw it. He dropped the briefcase and was turning the gun around when Sally appeared in the doorway. She had moved fast. ‘Drop it!’ she was shouting. ‘Drop that, drop it!’ She held a small automatic pistol in both hands. The barrel was shaking slightly as it pointed at him. He didn’t feel afraid exactly, more frustrated that the situation was slipping away from his control. Slowly he put his revolver on the floor, never taking his eyes off Sally and her pistol. As he leaned down, he studied her gun. It was a small automatic, no more than.32 caliber. It didn’t look to him as if the hammer was in the cocked position. She hadn’t had time to work the slide to chamber a bullet from the magazine. It was unlikely that she would travel with a round already in the chamber. Did she know how to use a gun? He stood up and took a slow step towards her. ‘Sally, you don’t understand, I’m with British intelligence, MI6, I’m here to look after you.’ He kept his voice low. He didn’t expect her to believe him, he just needed to get within arm’s length. ‘Stay where you are! I’m not afraid to shoot.’ He believed her, but now he could see that the hammer of the pistol was definitely not back in the cocked position. He took another step towards her. ‘That’s far enough! Stop!’ He stared in her eyes. Then he reached out and grabbed the barrel of the gun, wrenching it away from her hand. She tried to pull the trigger as he did this but nothing happened. He slipped the automatic into his pocket. He stepped back and bent to pick up his revolver. Too late, Helen Swayne made a move towards it. He smashed her in the face with his forearm and she bounced back into her seat, dazed. He picked up the revolver. He had to get going. It was time to finish these two. At that moment the electric doorbell started, accompanied by furious knocking. A face appeared at the window. Through the net curtains Eichmann could see a policeman’s helmet. Raising his gun, Eichmann shot the bobby twice through the glass. The noise in the sitting room was deafening. Through the smashed window Eichmann could see soldiers with rifles taking cover behind the low stone wall of the front garden. There were police cars in the lane. What was going on? A bullet buzzed through the air past Eichmann’s shoulder and shattered a mirror over the sideboard. He realized that he was standing there, presenting an obvious target. What the fuck had gone wrong? Sally had dropped to the floor when the shooting had started. Now she had crawled behind the sofa. He wanted to kill her, but he couldn’t afford to waste time and ammunition on revenge. Leaving his briefcase, he dashed out of the hall, and turned right, towards the back of the house. The back door in the kitchen was locked. He couldn’t see a key. Shooting the lock off only worked in American gangster films. He opened the window over the sink and hauled himself out, dropped down into a conservatory. The door to this was also locked. The Swayne woman was cautious, alone on her own. He picked up a spade and smashed his way through the wood and glass of the door. The wood of the conservatory was old and rotten and this only took a few seconds. Eichmann stumbled through the gap, slipping on broken glass and cutting both his hands as he steadied himself. A soldier appeared around the corner. Eichmann’s revolver cracked in the breezy air. The soldier vanished. He couldn’t see any other soldiers. The fools hadn’t surrounded the place before they barged in. He started to run to the edge of the garden. A bullet ricocheted off the short stone wall. He vaulted this, dropping his Webley in the process. There were only one or two rounds left in it anyway. As he ran through a field towards a copse of trees, he was already planning his escape. He had money in his pockets. He had to get back to Dublin. There would be an Iron Cross in this for him. He continued to run, working the slide on the pistol. Without turning around, he snapped a couple of shots over his shoulder. It was a light gun, he could hardly hear the shots in the wind with his breath heaving.
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Copyright © 1998 Aidan Steer |