Against the Tide (23 page)

He grinned as he adjusted the sight. ‘I bet Dad could do it, though.'

‘He probably could but wouldn't. He's drummed safety into us enough times, though he seems to have failed with you.'

He shrugged. ‘Strange thing he said to me when I showed him the scope. You know he refuses to talk about what he did during the war.' Alan had adopted a conspiratorial tone. ‘Well, he said that these scopes were at their best at dawn and dusk.'

‘So?'

‘Well, do you think he might have been a sniper? I bet he killed loads of Germans.'

‘Why don't you ask him?'

‘Don't be daft.' He levelled the rifle and squinted through the scope. ‘You know, anything up to 600 yards would be a simple shot with this. I could sink any of those boats with a couple of bullets from this angle. Straight through – they wouldn't know what had hit them. Blow out their bottoms – no problem.'

‘No, you imbecile, the bullets would go straight through their planking and leave small exit holes. You'd need several magazines to turn their bottoms into colanders.'

‘Scare their crews though, wouldn't it?'

‘I think we'd all be a lot safer if you put the rifle back in the gun safe and played with your toy soldiers instead.'

‘Don't patronise me.' He lowered the rifle. As usual, he'd gone from being silly to angry at the same speed as a bullet leaving his rifle. ‘You're as blind as the rest of them, Jack. Laugh now, but we're going to need all the soldiers we can get soon – especially those who can shoot straight.' He grabbed the scope from me and put it back in his sack. ‘Anyway, I came to find you because dinner is ready, which is more than can be said for
Alphonse
here. I thought you were fixing his breathing.'

‘Ha, Ha.
Alphonse
is no more. He is a dead tractor, an expired vehicle, sans breath, sans heart, sans everything.' Most of the farms still used horses in preference to these new fangled contraptions. Hands full of oil, yet again, I could understand their reluctance to change.

‘Never mind that. Come on, before they start shouting. There's another surprise waiting for you.'

I wrapped up the pieces of carburettor in an oiled cloth and followed my brother across the top field and down into the dip where the farmhouse had stood for several generations.

I touched one of
Boadicea's
cylinder heads with my fingers. ‘Still warm, what's he doing here?'

‘I don't know. But it's a nice surprise – should be a bit of fun if he and Dad start up.'

We skirted the bike and approached the kitchen door. Alan went in first while I gathered my thoughts. This could be about the photographs I'd collected from Joan's house on Friday – I hadn't had the nerve to go near the club since my performance at the dance.

I had examined the photos with a magnifying glass and there could be no doubt. Kohler's face was very clear. He was posing with three other Germans, all wearing the national badges of the Third Reich on their tracksuits. I'd asked Joan if she thought Kohler had recognised her but she doubted it as she had only been sixteen at the time and a member of the British team, which had avoided mixing with their hosts. Joan was leaving the following day for a training camp in France and she hadn't objected to my borrowing the prints. I'd agonised about whom to share them with but, in the absence of any other inspiration, I had gone to Uncle Fred.

He'd been pleased to see me and intrigued with my information. Now he was here risking my father's wrath. He must have discovered something of importance.

‘Jack, come on, love. Uncle Fred is here.' Mum's voice was clear above the clatter of the saucepans as she reached the final stages of preparing dinner. I took Fred's outstretched hand. He didn't seem to mind the oil. Alan was struggling to open a bottle of our homemade cider.

My father clattered down the stairs and filled the room. His face was already flushed. He advanced on Fred. ‘Why are you still here? I told you to bugger off five minutes ago.'

‘Aubin, don't start that again. He's not here to see you. He wants to talk to Jack –'

‘Well there he is. Bugger off and talk outside, the pair of you. And don't be long. We're about to eat.'

‘I'm sure they'll only be a few minutes. I can delay serving that long. Why don't you sit down, dear, and drink some cider. Better still, see if you can help Alan open the bottle.'

Alan glowered and handed the bottle to Father, who spun the cork off with one twist of his massive hands.

23

Fred ushered me outside and pulled me down to inspect
Boadicea
's spark plugs. ‘Sorry, but it's urgent. Why the hell your father won't subscribe to a telephone I don't know. Look, those photographs you showed me. I took them to St Malo yesterday and showed them to a friend. She telephoned this afternoon.'

‘I thought your phone was monitored?'

‘We have a code. I rang her back on a different number from a public phone. Look, we must keep this just between ourselves. I don't want to give your father any more excuses for hating me.'

‘What is it between you two anyway? Why this feud?'

Fred bit his lip. I was sure I saw some moisture in his eyes. ‘Not today, Jack. One day perhaps, but you will need to get his side of the story as well. Forget that for now if you can. The important issue is this Kohler character. My source believes that he, or those he might be with, are seen as important. If you feel up to it, I want you to find out more about him. It might mean some deception on your part – you might even have to speak to Caroline.'

‘Okay, but that last bit might be difficult. What am I looking for?'

‘That's the problem, I don't know. Look, hop on the bike and let's take her for a run up the lane. There's something I need to give you.'

He kicked her into life and I slid onto the pillion. We chugged up the narrow lane, keeping the tyres in one of the ruts made by the tractor rather than on the slippery grass ridge in between. Once out of sight of the farmhouse, Fred stopped, switched off and propped
Boadicea
onto her stand. He removed the canvas holdall from the rack behind the pillion seat and extracted a camera.

‘Take this. You know how to use one?'

‘I've used a Box Brownie but this looks very complicated.' I peered at the chrome and leatherette body with its dials and large lens.

‘It's a Leica.'

‘What's this FED mean then?' I had turned the camera over.

‘It's a Russian copy made in the Ukraine. Don't worry, it works very well. Use it for the long-range shots.' He unwrapped a much smaller camera from the roll. ‘This is a Riga Minox – Latvian. Use this for close work. Look, it's easy to hide in your pocket.'

I accepted the tiny camera. ‘Where did you get this, Uncle?'

‘That doesn't matter, Jack. Will you help?'

I looked at both cameras, weighing them in each hand. ‘What's this really about? It's not about Rudi Kohler, is it?'

Fred shrugged his shoulders. ‘We don't know, yet. You're right though, it's not your friend Kohler – it's his companions who are of interest.'

‘But isn't this spying, Uncle?'

‘Yes, Jack. I'm afraid it is. Strange though it may seem, this sleepy little island of ours is very attractive as a meeting place for all sorts of unusual people. The security services are very active in Switzerland, France and Belgium but here… well we don't like upsetting the tourists, do we?'

‘But it's not as though we're at war with Germany.'

‘Well, that's a matter of opinion. Some will say we have been since the time of Bismarck, though we haven't always been shooting at each other. The secret war, if you will, has always been happening and it's not just the English versus the Germans. Please, Jack let me explain another time. I need to know if you will do this.'

‘What is it you want me to do?'

Fred took the FED camera from me and pointed it up the track. ‘Use this to show locations. If the people you are following go into, let's say, a bank or a law office or even the States Building –'

‘You think the States are involved?'

‘I don't know, Jack. There's no doubt that in England some very senior members of the establishment are involved with the Nazis. Just keep your distance. If you're sure no one is watching you, take some snaps, or pretend to be a tourist. It would help if you had a girl with you to pose in front of buildings and make it look natural. What about Rachel? Lita tells –'

‘No, Uncle. I am not getting her involved in this.' Though it was tempting, I dismissed it. ‘And don't ask me to use Caroline either. The last time a camera got between us, she ended up in the harbour.' I held up the miniature camera. ‘And what would I use this for?'

‘Close-up work – again, make sure no one can see you and… if you happened to stumble across some documents that you could photograph without anyone noticing, that would be helpful. They're both loaded with film, though you'll have to bring them back to me to develop.'

Perhaps I had made the wrong choice. I should have known he'd try to get me involved in one of his crazy schemes but I wasn't in the mood to defeat the world conspiracy against the working man. I handed the little camera back.

‘I'm sorry, Uncle. You are asking too much. I'm sorry I got you involved. I just wanted to know why Kohler was disguising himself; but he's only a student. I don't know anything about his associates – they're none of my concern. I let my curiosity get the better of me. Despite what you say, we are not at war with Germany and I don't think we will be; in fact, we have a direct air link with them now. I read in the
Evening Post
that it takes just six hours to fly direct to Berlin. No, I'm sorry. I just don't want to get involved to this extent. My God; if Father found out he'd… I just don't know what he'd do but –'

‘I understand, Jack. I do.' He sounded as though he didn't, sounded disappointed, and I felt my cheeks warming with embarrassment. Was I turning him down because I was afraid? The casual way he had smuggled in a revolver and the talk of his mysterious associates had been worrying me.

I watched as he wrapped the cameras in the canvas bag. He placed the package on the pillion seat, limped away from the bike and struggled up the low bank and stood, surveying the bay below.

In the distance was the smudge of France, only twelve miles away, and half-way out, was the reef of the Écréhous, owned by Jersey but still a bone of contention with our Gallic neighbours. 200 feet below us was the sweep of St Catherine's Bay, enclosed by the long arm of its breakwater. We could see its whole, wasted length from here, thousands of tons of beautiful pink granite squandered by some foolish English civil servants a century before. I watched his shoulders slump and then heave. He walked towards me.

‘I'm sorry, Jack. If the world was different and this…' he waved his arm over the channel separating the two cultures, ‘was secure, forever… but it's not.

‘Spain was beautiful, you know. Less green, perhaps, but as peaceful as this. People trying to live their lives, loving, creating. Then it all exploded in their faces. The Germans came to crush their revolution, brought their bombs, blasted villages and cities apart. Why? Because they hated socialism? Yes, of course. But the real reason was to practise, prepare their war machine so that they were ready to slice through our rotten democracies like your father's knife through that beef that's waiting for you now.'

He turned and held my wrists. ‘It was very wrong of me. You're only eighteen, your whole life ahead of you. Unlike me at your age, you have a wise head. Mine was full of adventure and I've found it. It's shaped me in a way I hope no one else will ever be shaped. I have no choice now, but you do.

‘There is going to be a war, Jack. The Germans will take France, perhaps in weeks. They'll take these islands because they are there. They might then offer a peace to Britain, an alliance even, before they turn their might on Russia and crush her to dust. That's the future, Jack. It may even be too late to change it but I'm not going to stop trying.'

I wanted to pull away but couldn't.

Fred released his hold, letting his hands fall to his side. ‘Have you ever wondered about Malita and me? Why she is so sad? So much in pain?' His voice was almost a whisper now.

I knew they had fallen in love when Malita was assigned as his interpreter in Madrid, and he had told me about the horrors of civil war.

‘Uncle, you don't –'

‘We think we were betrayed because they came for us in the middle of the night. They weren't very skilled in interrogation, Franco's thugs, and the German advisers had been called in to help. It seemed that too much information was being lost with the dead bodies. They didn't wear uniforms, just smart suits.'

His voice had changed to a monotone, almost mechanical, clipped, distant. ‘There were two, one spoke excellent English, the other passable Spanish. The leader was very polite, even courteous. Had me patched up after the local police had finished their introductions. He was quite rational, though that quickly disappeared when I wouldn't tell him what he wanted to hear.

‘He turned me over to the local thugs and left with his colleague. It's an odd thing but, after a while, you slip below physical pain. That's when they start the mental torture.' He stopped.

I waited, horrified.

‘Then they brought Lita to me, made her watch whilst they removed my teeth with a little hammer – one at a time. I gave them some false names and they sent for the Germans. They listened and went away again.

‘Later their leader returned, never raised his voice, was always calm, face expressionless. He told me that I had lied to him, had given false names and wasted his time. It was inconvenient, he said, and it wouldn't happen again. He waved his hand, dismissing me.