Serpent in the Heather Page 4

  “Of course. Poland is known for its dangers.” Ironic. “I will keep it safe for you.”

  Julian opened his jacket to show his shoulder holster and after a nod from the agent, handed over his revolver.

  “I would like to speak with the British embassy.” Not answering, ferret man nodded to the next car. Julian said, “The WC? Then I have no problem answering questions, of course.”

  They stopped outside the toilet, and the agent nodded at him.

  Inside, Julian tried the window, but it wouldn’t budge. As a second choice for ditching the Macia Antonik passport, he jammed it behind the water tank. He flushed the toilet, ran his hands under the tap, dried them, and joined the Polish agent in the corridor.

  In forty-five minutes of travel, ferret man had nothing to say. Then, as night came on, the train slowed and the station name loomed into view: Częstochowa. Julian’s escort nodded for him to rise.

  Apparently they were not going to Warsaw.

  At the Częstochowa station office, he sat in a small back room smelling of sweat and burned coffee. Outside, a sudden rain thundered on the pavement. He began to hope, since he was in a quasi-public place, that an interrogation was all they had in mind.

  A large man in a good suit entered the room. Bald, self-assured, courteous for now. “Mr. Howard. I am Gustaw Bajek, Polish intelligence.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  Gustaw Bajek gave an appreciative smile. “Most people are not so pleased. But this is good to hear.” His English was excellent. He took out Julian’s passport and placed it on the table.

  A knock at the door, and in came the man with muttonchop sideburns. He handed his boss another passport, this one a little scraped up from the water tank.

  When they were alone again, Bajek took a seat opposite him, sitting heavily in the rickety chair, but looking as though he were ready for a long night of conversation. “Now, Mr. Howard, may I have your real name, please?”

  They stared at each other for a moment, a friendly enough game up to now. “Julian Tavistock.” They’d find out anyway.

  “And your purpose in traveling to Cracow?”

  “Tourism.”

  The bald man regarded him for a few moments. Then he reached over and opened the Macia Antonik passport to the photo page. “This woman, whose real name—as you know—is Tilda Mazur, is the subject of a murder investigation. So, I trust you will tell me what you know.”

  Julian hoped he meant that she was a suspect. But now, to his dismay, he learned otherwise.

  “The woman is dead.”

  Ah, too late. He glanced at the false passport they had prepared for Tilda, her picture upside down now. Too late.

  Gustaw Bajek watched his reaction, then resumed. “You are in a great deal of trouble. Carrying a forged passport—two of them, in fact, and seen at the murder victim’s home. You are, of course, a British undercover agent. Jail is next.”

  If they tried to make something out of this, Julian was on his own, since there would be no diplomatic immunity for him under a false passport. All very unpleasant for him personally and embarrassing for His Majesty’s Government.

  The agent took out a pack of Gitanes, lighting one, and offering the pack to Julian.

  Julian would have much preferred his pipe, but decided not to quibble.

  “I believe you were going to extract her,” the agent said, keeping an even tone as though, between the two of them, this sort of thing, however regrettable, was rather common.

  “That would be contrary to our countries’ mutual respect and obligations.”

  Gustaw Bajek nodded out the window where Julian could see, under the lights of the railway platform, two policemen conferring. “The local police are quite eager to talk to you. I think you would rather talk to me. I am afraid my police colleagues do not have a refined grasp of mutual respect and obligations.”

  Julian now had a choice. He could admit his agency’s complicity—embarrassing HMG. Or, understanding that in police custody this might happen anyway, he could give them what they wanted, and in doing so, perhaps be extended a professional courtesy from a sister agency.

  Julian blew a long stream of smoke to clear his lungs. Wretched Gitanes. “Tilda Mazur was an 8 for darkening. She asked for asylum.”

  A policeman, dripping wet, came in without knocking. He threw a quick, hostile glance at Julian.

  “Not now, Feliks,” Bajek said. “Please.”

  After a proprietary stare at Julian, Feliks reluctantly left.

  “Asylum?” Gustaw Bajek cocked his head as though confused, which Julian knew he wasn’t. “Why didn’t she just leave?”

  “She thought you had a mole in the intelligence services or at Sosnowa House in particular.” Sosnowa House was the Polish counterpart of Monkton Hall. “She believed that this individual was giving names of Polish Talents to the Germans. Talents who ended up run over by buses.”

  “A mole. Well.” He blew a long stream of smoke, a gesture of disgust. “She was right about that, obviously.”

  “How did she die?” Julian asked.

  “Strangled in the nearby field. Four or five days ago, we think, but her body was only discovered this afternoon.”

  Julian thought of her uncle waiting for her return, the little flat with the doll on the mantel. The rain beat upon the roof of the ticket office, heavy as lead shot. He looked at the passport, still open on the table. The girl’s expression seemed to accuse him. Why didn’t you come?

  The agent went on. “So, she could not trust her handlers, could not go to the police. And therefore turned to you. Your embassy, then?”

  Julian made a noncommittal gesture.

  “Of course, the Germans had no use for her except to make sure we did not make use of her. One cannot force a Talent to work.”

  Talents were not dependable when the asset’s heart wasn’t in it; even the Germans couldn’t devise an assault on the heart. No, Gestapo plans for Tilda were doubtless to kill her. Darkening was too critical a Talent for the Germans to permit the Poles to possess, that is, if Hitler had designs on Polish territory. Where steel was not enough, strong Talents could give the edge. Every military power knew that by now, even if most lagged far behind Germany’s research and asset stockpile.

  “So, you have travelled all this way for nothing.” Gustaw Bajek put his hands on his knees and hoisted himself to his feet with a grunt. “Come with me.”

  They walked out into the battering rain. On the railway platform, ferret man and muttonchops nodded genially at Julian and handed their boss an umbrella. These Poles were a friendly lot. Well, they were winning the match, so they could afford to be cheerful.

  Bajek flicked his cigarette away and led Julian from the platform and across the car park, pavement glistening in the station lights. He gave Julian the umbrella and walked on bareheaded as though, being bald, rain was less of a concern. They walked toward a small group of men in a field lit with makeshift lamps.

  They had taken Tilda’s body away, and the police were searching for evidence in the long grass.

  “You see that old man there?” Bajek gestured at a white-haired, stooped man who stood in the sodden grass with his eyes closed. A policeman held an umbrella over him. “He is our best site view.”

  Obviously, the Polish police were using Talents in crime investigation, the same as the British. “Has he seen anything?”

  Gustaw Bajek shrugged. “His Talent goes to a 4 on the scale. At that level they can pick up only strong emotions which, with murder, is usually the fear and pain of the victim. This time, though, we have something more. It must have been a strong presence in the woman’s mind, or the murderer’s.”

  “What did he see?”

  “Fire.”

  “Just that?”

  “A large building. Perhaps a government building, or a factory. No details. Still, it is odd.” He stared at the men combing the site for clues. “Something else that is odd.”

  Bajek was bringing
Julian into the matter. Perhaps no jail after all.

  “This is the first one who was obviously murdered. Until now, the executions were made to look like accidents or suicides. They grow bolder.”

  So, Tilda was right: there had been a string of killings.

  Bajek stared through the downpour at the crime scene. “There is loose amongst us a . . . you would say, predator. The Russian bear, the German wolf, yes? But we Poles are so busy arguing among ourselves that we cannot see the shadows looming. It is my belief that this work, it is German.” He looked at Julian, appraising him. “The Sicherheitsdienst, the SD, have eliminated nine Talents in our country. In France, three. Czechoslovakia, also three.”

  Fifteen murders. That was an ugly number. “Are you sure it’s German work?”

  Bajek took the cigarette pack from his pocket. Julian held the umbrella over him as he scratched his thumbnail against a wooden match, igniting it. He took his time, inhaling deeply, perhaps deciding whether to answer. He offered the pack to Julian, who shook his head.

  “Because we have been tracking a particular and very interesting code name. Nachteule. You would say Night Owl. The Germans and their poetry.” Gustaw spit out a stray thread of tobacco. “You are not the only ones with spies in good places.”

  “It’s a plan of extermination, then,” Julian said.

  “Yes. Your French allies, they have not told you this?” Gustaw shook his head. “There should be more trust, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oui.” Julian went on. “Tilda’s uncle doesn’t trust you. But he told me that she was followed by a man with thick glasses, looked to be in his early thirties. And that he was Dutch.”

  Bajek narrowed his eyes. Julian related the conversation he’d had with the policeman.

  “Dutch? That is most interesting. One of the recent Talent murders here was linked with a Dutchman. The wife of the victim said a man with such an accent had telephoned the house, and soon her husband left for some kind of meeting. He took a bad fall off a bridge.” He turned around and motioned to someone across the car park.

  “The Dutch are allies,” Julian observed.

  “Perhaps he goes on his own, to the Germans. Also, we have another very interesting clue that I will tell you. Nachteule has a wealthy friend . . . a benefactor. And British, you see.”

  British. “Who?”

  “We do not know.” The bald man smiled without humor. “Naturally, we would like to.”

  A car pulled up, and Bajek gestured toward it. Julian slid into the back seat, followed by Bajek. In the driver’s seat, ferret man handed a towel back to his boss, who wiped off with it.

  They sat for a minute while Julian stashed the umbrella under the forward seat.

  The agent brought out Julian’s passport, handing it to him. “I must ask you to leave Poland, Mr. Howard. Today. After that, the police may create difficulties for you.”

  Julian accepted the passport with a grateful smile. “I understand.” Bajek nodded at ferret man, who handed back the gun he had confiscated earlier.

  Reaching into his breast pocket, Bajek took out Tilda’s passport and thumbed it open to the photo page. The little booklet was just visible from the lights set up in the field. He nodded in appreciation. “This is very nice work. Not clumsy, like some we see.”

  “We try.”

  “Well. You will not need it now.” Gazing for a few moments at Tilda’s picture, he replaced it in his pocket. “From here you can take the train back to Cracow, and from there you will leave Poland on the first train. My man will see that you safely make your connection.”

  The car pulled around to the station waiting room. Gustaw Bajek nodded at him to get out. “Good luck, Julian Tavistock.”

  “Will I need it?”

  “We will all need it.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Poland more than you.”

  8

  WRENFELL, EAST YORKSHIRE

  FRIDAY, JULY 31. “We’re making some progress with young Martin, but he won’t admit he’s making up this . . . special power.”

  Martin had slept late and had been sneaking down the stairs to get to the barn and his new job when he heard his name from the parlor. He crept closer to the open door.

  Miss Kim was saying over the clatter serving tea, “Perhaps he believes it. Suppose, for instance, that I thought I could sing, and told the choir director at All Saints that I should have a solo. But I had the voice of frog.”

  “Ah, yes, I see what you’re driving at. But it’s not the same at all, really. People can be mistaken about the degree of their natural abilities. But powers that are entirely made up?”

  Made up, Martin thought with disdain. So the vicar didn’t believe him at all, despite acting so friendly and saying he ought to unburden himself. He glanced down the hall that went all the way to the back door. Old Babbage hadn’t come looking for him yet.

  “Do you think it’s really quite settled,” Miss Kim said, “that Talents are just a figment of the imagination? Evidence is building in their favor.”

  “Evidence? You’d have to show me. Seeing the past whilst holding a hanky belonging to someone . . .” Here the words faded. “. . . just rubbish. Transport a teapot across a room without touching it, seeing things far away when one is not present. Surely you don’t believe it.” A pause where Martin could imagine the old wanker shaking his head in pity.

  “To be honest, Vicar, I have seen a few such things.”

  “Oh? I must say, Miss Tavistock, I am surprised.”

  Martin was surprised too. He crept closer to the door to hear better.

  Miss Kim was saying, “We should at least keep an open mind, don’t you think?”

  “Well. One can’t argue with an open mind, can one? But in the case before us, the lad’s just trying to appear big, what with his poor marks at school and not getting on at his father’s shop. I fear this is what comes when young people stray from Christian teachings.”

  “Well,” Kim said, “I’m very glad that the Listers don’t mind Martin staying here for a few weeks. We certainly . . .”

  A shuffling sound, and Martin spun around to find Walter Babbage staring at him from down the hall. Going down to meet him, Martin said, “I was just coming,” though he figured Babbage knew different. Oh, sod it, anyway.

  He followed Babbage out the door, past the kitchen where the smell of the morning fry-up beckoned him. He guessed he’d missed breakfast, even though it was only eight thirty. He was starving, but Briar needed feeding too, and he hoped that would be his job. He liked looking into that horse’s big round eyes. You couldn’t tell what a horse was thinking, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t This one’s a liar.

  He’d only been at Wrenfell two days, and he had to admit it was grand. All those rooms and two toilets, so you didn’t have to wait, and the meals with ham and heaps of mash and even butter. And then yesterday for a late-night snack, Mrs. Babbage had put a leftover Yorkshire pudding on a dish in his room.

  And now that he knew Miss Kim was on his side, he didn’t ever want to go home. But to earn his keep, he’d have to learn fast about horses. It wasn’t as though he’d never been around a horse, there was that brown and white one up to Aunt Pim’s, and Briar seemed to like him. And Rose, Babbage’s daughter, she was friendly right off. She’d stood in the hall outside his door yesterday when he was getting settled in Kim’s brother’s old room and said, “I got me cold cell. An’ you got seein’ things as happened.” And then she sort of ducked a curtsy and was gone.

  Whatever cold cell was. It was one he hadn’t heard of. But Miss Kim had said he and Rose might have some things in common, and maybe that’s what she meant, that they both had Talents, him and Rose. So, Wrenfell was a bit of all right.

  Out in the barn he was rubbing ointment into what Babbage called tack, and Briar in her stall was flicking her tail at flies. He’d never been in a place that smelled like this, a big stew of hay, oiled leather, and earthy turds. His mum would think it dirty, but it wasn’t at all.

>   The vicar had driven off after swilling his tea. Hathaway was against him, against Talents, for sure. Yesterday during his visit the vicar claimed that Teddy admitted he didn’t really have a Talent, that he’d lied to the club members. It was just something he’d said to fit in. That plonker! Teddy was new to Adders and hadn’t yet done his initiation where he had to show his Talent. So, it might be true he didn’t have one. If he did, he’d be loyal to the club, the one place where you got admired for what you could do, the one place where you knew you were special. He hoped Christopher stayed loyal.

  There was only him and Teddy and Christopher in the club, at least up to end of last term. You had to be careful who you asked. Sometimes, you could pull up your sleeve a little to show the ink mark, but if people looked funny at it, you could say you were just playing around. He’d first seen the mark, a wavy line with an eye at front and three crosshatches over the tail, on a batman’s hand last fall when they had their match with Lambert’s down at Hull. The fellow, Gil, he said he had attraction, and did Martin know what that was? And he’d said, sure, that was when lots of people just right away liked you, and it was a Talent, wasn’t it? Which Martin very well knew, because he’d studied about Talents at the library. And it was true about Gil; Martin had really liked him even though Gil’s team skunked Coomsby St. Mary’s school.

  It had been exciting to meet someone who was like him, someone else with a Talent. Did Gil ever hear of site view? Sure, he says. And then he tells Martin about Adder clubs, and how you could ink on the wavy line, the one that looked like a snake.

  That was the first thing he did when he got home. And then he’d started a club at school.

  Buffing the reins to a nice, hard finish, he vowed he’d never give up Christopher’s name to them. Even if Teddy already had, it was a point of honor when you gave your word to keep a secret. Maybe he did always mess up. But at least he was no traitor.

  “All done, then?” Walter Babbage had come back in with a wheelbarrow. When Martin showed him the gleaming bridle, and was looking forward to a break for scones and butter, the old man only grunted and gave him another bunch of crusty reins.