David John - Flight from Berlin

‘Her name’s Eleanor,’ Denham whispered. ‘She’s from New York.’ He led Tom by the hand into the kitchen. ‘She’s a special friend of mine.’

‘Thomas Denham, how d’you do?’ said Tom, stiffly offering his hand.

‘Great to meet you, kid.’ Eleanor took his hand and pulled him into a hug. ‘Mind if we stay at your hideout?’

Denham found a penny in a drawer in the hall and went out to call Anna from the telephone box on Regent’s Park Road. She wailed when he told her; her tragedy salved in an instant by the news. ‘He’s safe and well,’ Denham said. ‘I’ll bring him up first thing in the morning.’

When he returned, Eleanor was chatting with Tom, who was helping her make corned beef sandwiches in the light of a paraffin lamp. The bread was stale, but with a few slices of sharp green apple as relish, and Tom’s obvious joy, the meal felt like a treat. Denham tried abridging their adventures for an eight-year-old’s consumption as he explained about his injuries to a concerned son, telling him the police challenged him to a boxing match, but one question led to another in the boy’s eager mind, as he listed all of the ploys Charlie Chan would have used, until it was very late and his father was exhausted.

‘We’ll tell you the rest over breakfast,’ Denham said. ‘But now to bed. Your dad has to sleep.’

‘Will Eleanor be here for breakfast, too?’ Tom whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

The mattress in the master bedroom might have been a century old and not aired in just as long. Denham sat on the edge, his hands resting on the springs, and watched Eleanor undress in front of him without a word, standing amid the shadows and the cobwebs.

She took out a hairpin, gave her head a small shake, and her hair fell around her neck. She reached beneath her hem, undid her garters with a secret movement of her fingers, and slowly slid her stockings down over her smooth, long legs. He hesitated, shyness yielding to desire, then took her hand and held it to his face. They kissed, lips and tongues just caressing, breath quickening. She undid her blouse, holding his gaze as it shimmered from her shoulders to the floor. Pale breasts in a white-silk bra.

Gently he touched them, running his thumb under the silk strap. Then she reached behind her back, and the bra, too, came away.

Getting out of his own clothes was a challenge, and he winced as she helped him out of his shirt.

They lay back on the bed. The house seemed to creak, as if turning over in its sleep. She had on only her white-silk panties. Her skin was translucent, as if she were absorbing the faint lamplight from the street. Their faces in shadow, he whispered in her ear. She gave a soft, complicit laugh, then slipped the panties off.

N one of the men noticed him crouching in the corner of the control car. They were flying blind: rain and hail dashed the windows from the darkness outside. Their faces were illuminated by the radium glow from the dials on the instruments. The propeller engines were making every surface tremble. One of the men turned and saw him. It was his father, who smiled in the apologetic way he had. A slide rule and pencils in his top pocket. Denham tried to call out but couldn’t be heard over the roar of wind and engines. His father winked at him sadly, opened his hand to reveal the pocket watch, and Denham understood that everything was lost. Suddenly the engines started making a violent hammering sound, and he awoke to realise that the hammering was at the front door.

He lay still, breathing fast. Tiny rays filtered through the tattered curtains. He heard the milk horse clopping down Regent’s Park Road. Eleanor was still in a deep sleep next to him, her arm linked in his. The hammering sounded again.

He heard Tom running down the stairs to the hall, talking to himself.

Denham shouted, ‘ No, ’ and started to get up but the pain in his ribs forced him back onto the mattress. Eleanor stirred.

Moments later Tom called up the stairs from the hall.

‘Dad, a man wants you.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He’s got a bowler hat.’

David Wyn Evans was waiting in the Hole-in-the-Wall cafe near the bridge on Regent’s Park Road. He got up when Denham entered, took off his hat, and muttered something, which may have been an oath in Welsh, on seeing Denham’s face.

‘You’re getting that seen to, I hope?’

‘How did you find me?’

‘Ah.’ Evans smiled with regret, as if he were a magician being asked to reveal his tricks.

They sat down just as the waitress placed a fried breakfast on the table. ‘Full English?’ Evans said to him. ‘They do kidneys here, and kedgeree.’

‘Just tea,’ Denham said to the girl, reaching into his jacket for cigarettes and finding with a shock the full packet of HBs Rausch had given him in the cell.

He and Evans were the only patrons. The sign on the door had been changed to CLOSED without him noticing, and Bowler Hat Man stood guard outside next to a black government car.

‘I’m glad to see you at liberty,’ Evans said, giving his plate a liberal sprinkling of salt. ‘Sir Eric kicked up quite a fuss to get you out of there, I can tell you.’

‘They thought I had something that they want as much as you do.’

‘Ye-es, that’s what worried us.’ He heaped scrambled egg onto a slice of fried bread and took a bite, watching Denham as he chewed. ‘Let’s hear it.’

Denham explained what had happened in the interrogation, and what little he’d learned of the resistance group. The Welshman listened with keen attention.

When he’d finished, Evans said, ‘So, evidently you weren’t the chosen reporter…’

‘Good God, man. D’you think I’d have gone through this’-he pointed at his face-‘if I could have told them where it was after the first blow?’

‘Hmm… quite so,’ Evans said, and gestured for the bill.

‘I think I’ve earned the right to know what’s in this bloody thing

… this dossier.’

Evans dabbed his mouth with his napkin, his cheek bulging as he probed his teeth with his tongue, trying to dislodge some bacon. ‘What we know is only from hearsay and rumour. Nothing precise. But forgive me, Mr Denham-it’s best if I don’t tell you even that. People with knowledge of the List Dossier have a habit of dying.’

The List Dossier.

‘So you’re not even sure what it is?’

‘It’s valuable intelligence all right. That much we know. A unit within the SD has been going to extraordinary lengths to track it down, and in secrecy, without using the police apparatus. That alone gives an idea of its worth…’

He paid for his breakfast and stood up. ‘I thought you might like Saturday’s newspaper,’ he said, passing a folded copy of the Daily Mail across the table. A photograph of Hannah’s nonsalute on the podium filled most of the front page. ‘Goodbye, Mr Denham.’

‘Before you go-I’d like to ask…’

Evans stopped, standing over him, lean and angular in his wing collar and black homburg, like a Mafia undertaker.

‘… Would you find out what’s happened to Hannah Liebermann and her family?’

He studied Denham for a moment and gave a curt nod. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said, making towards the door. He put his hand on the door handle, then turned and said, ‘A word of advice. The press think you were detained for interviewing Liebermann, so leave it at that. Mention the dossier to no one. If Heydrich still believes you know something… you are not beyond his reach.’

W hen Denham got back it was still early. Eleanor’s shoulders rose and fell gently in sleep, the hair across her cheek golden in the dusty light. He looked around the room, with all its reminders of his father. A pile of technical manuals, drawers filled with odds and ends. But it was the picture above the nightstand that sent a tingle over his scalp. He hadn’t noticed it last night: a framed photograph of the project engineers at Cardington, posing beneath the control car of the R101, one of two gigantic airships built to link the capitals of the empire by air. Must have been taken sometime in 1929. His dad, hands behind his back, neat and trim with his Fairbanks moustache. His colleagues with serious smiles. The mighty ship behind them nearing completion.