Mazes 2

By Eric Sanders

MAZES is an epic thriller set during the rise of fascism in Europe and continues the story from the MAZES 1 – Murder in Munich.

In Germany the power struggles are dominating everyday life. Now the Nazi Party have become a legitimate party. For them democracy is like a tram ride – you travel as far as you can, until it’s time to get off!

One assassination plot has already been thwarted, but can Ronald Burnley, a British intelligence agent and his European Intelligence counterparts stop the next one? British, French and Hungarian agents combine in a race against time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Oct 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787195882

Book preview

EPILOGUE

Chapter 1 – The Elusive Killer

Jameson was sitting in his office, back to normal after a period of extra activities due to his involvement with the problems of Georges Vincent Barbier, of the Deuxième Bureau, the French Intelligence Service. Well, he should have been. Unfortunately normal was a luxury he was not allowed. At this moment, like Michel Heller, the resident British MI6 agent, he, too, felt distraught and on edge. The reason was Karl Becher, a ruthless and efficient killer who was on his way to London to fulfil the task his boss had set him. He was to kill Lord Davidson, a member of the British House of Lords, who had made it his task to warn his government, the British people and people all over Europe of the danger of another war, if the National Socialist German Workers’ Party came to power in Germany. Count Winter, a hugely wealthy German, who called himself Wotan, after the head of the old Germanic gods, was using his riches to organise the killing of enemies of the Nazis.

He had already arranged the death of half a dozen leading opponents of the German Nazis. Wotan employed a number of skilled assassins to carry out what he termed executions. The latest of those, of Lord Davidson, a member of the British House of Lords, was supposed to take place in Budapest when Lord Davidson was there on a state visit. It was the first one that had failed because the plan had been overheard by a former Hungarian security agent who reported it to the British Legation. Now Wotan was sending another man, Becher, to London, with the order to kill Lord Davidson.

Both Craig Jameson, MI5, attached to the British Consulate, and Michel Heller, MI6, felt responsible for having been unable to stop Becher from proceeding to London. They had obtained his travel details but he had left Munich. Worse still, Heller had obtained the information that Becher had not taken the train at Munich’s South Station where the Orient Express for which he had a ticket, was stopping. Jameson’s thoughts had reached this point, when the consulate’s travel clerk knocked on the door.

‘Sir, do you remember my informing you that two out of our seat allocations on the Orient Express had already been taken up by Vienna?’

‘Have you walked all the way from your desk to remind me of that, Douglas?’

‘Do you also remember, sir, that you asked me to find out who the two were?’

‘Are you trying to test my memory or just my patience?’

Douglas remained unperturbed.

‘You’ll never guess, who one of them is, sir.’

Jameson looked probingly at him.

‘You’re right, Douglas. I can’t imagine anyone that you’d think to be so important. Who?’

‘Captain Ronald Burnley, sir.’

‘The heck he is!’ Jameson sat up.

Hugging the doorway, Douglas said, ‘I have his reservation details, should you want them.’

Barbier was travelling to London on the same Orient Express. Jameson was aware that they knew each other but he also realised he had to inform both men of each other’s presence on the train. He decided to take his lunch earlier than usual and pushed his hat onto his head, without which he would be unable to miss the deer horn in the restaurant and left. His first goal was the Heller’s place. It was quite warm, real July weather and, like the pigeons of St. Paul’s, he decided to walk. At the Hofbräuhaus, Barbier was already seated at his usual table for lunch. Jameson joined him:

‘I’ve an item of news for you, Barbier. I shall be at the station tonight. Not to see you off, but in order to speak to Captain Burnley. He will be on the same train. You two have met, I know.’

Barbier was pleased.

‘That is right. We’ve worked together. I also have news for you, Mr. Jameson, but much less pleasant. I telephoned Paris this morning. Becher was not on the train. That is odd, is it not?’

‘Yes, I know. It is odd. I shall have to inform—’

Barbier interrupted him.

‘Colonel Perroir has telephoned your boss in London and warned him.’

Jameson nodded, expressing his satisfaction. At last he could relax or, to be exact he would be able to do so after Barbier’s departure. He knew that, mentally and emotionally, he was unable to relax, unless and until Becher was caught and prevented from fulfilling his heinous task.

‘I shall not make contact with you at the station, Monsieur Barbier, so I’ll say good-bye now. I’d like to say I’m confident we shall catch Becher. Unfortunately that would be untrue. Our security services in London are very efficient, but this is a situation we have never experienced. However, it was a pleasure meeting you. I wish you all the best in your new life.’

They shook hands.

* * *

That Becher had not boarded the train in Munich was due to Odo von Brandtstein, alias Loki, in Nuremberg, who provided his travel arrangements.

‘Don’t go back to Munich. Take your train from Rosenheim in a seating compartment and when it stops at Munich East, walk through the train to occupy your sleeper.’

There was the small matter of his wife whom he had left tied up, not socially but in her bed. He did not relish the idea of returning to his house a few weeks later to a mouldering corpse in his bedroom. He sent a telegram to a Munich policeman in Munich who was on his payroll. It instructed him to effect the departure of an undesirable woman from his house and to get the place cleaned up. After which Becher went to sleep with an untroubled conscience, which was not easy, as he had none. He had not included a return address in his telegram and thus was not informed by a disappointed policeman, that he had not found a woman in the house, neither undesirable nor desirable.

Six days later Becher boarded the Orient Express at Rosenheim with a ticket in a seats only carriage. At Munich East he walked through the train to his sleeper in Carriage 4, seats 19 and 20. Scanning the crowd on the platform from the train, he noticed a face he thought he might have seen before. Becher did not trust coincidences. Could anyone be aware of his travel details? Had Barbier caught up with him? Becher feared only two men in the world – one was Wotan and the other was Georges Barbier. In the end he decided that there was no way in which anyone in Munich could know of his current journey and decided to stick to his itinerary and make certain he left no trail of his journey. His British passport identified him as Brian Barnett, a resident of Southampton. After the train left Munich, the car attendant knocked on his door. He was a tall thin man, even taller than Becher and, like Becher, wearing glasses. The difference was that he needed to wear them.

‘I am Klaus, your couchette attendant, sir. If you let me have your passport and tickets, you will not be woken up at the border control. It takes place on the train between Stuttgart and Strasbourg. I shall return your passport and tickets to you before we reach Strasbourg.’

Becher handed tickets and passport to him, but he did not go to sleep. As soon as the last of the passport control officers had passed his carriage, he rang for the attendant and requested his passport and tickets back. Klaus was surprised.

‘Your documents are quite safe, sir, and I shall return them as soon as I have entered the details into the carriage logbook.’

That was a perfect reason for Becher to want them back, immediately.

‘They are my property and I will have them now.’

His tone of voice was quiet and frightening. He swung his legs off the lower berth. He was fully dressed. A look from a pair of steely eyes stopped the attendant from any further dissent.

‘Of course, sir. I’ll get them right away,’ he said anxiously.

He did not want any scenes, especially not on this trip. As he left the compartment he realised that his passenger was following him.

‘It is not necessary, sir. I shall bring your passport and your ticket to you right away, sir, you can rely on it,’ he said, as he opened the door to his tiny office and entered. Apart from a small sink with soap and a towel dispenser plus paper towels, the cubicle’s furniture consisted of a hinged desktop, attached to the wall, with pigeon holes. The attendant withdrew the passport of Brian Barnett and turned around to be faced by Becher who was pushing a revolver into the attendant’s thin stomach. He sounded almost pleasant when he said:

‘You obey, you live. You don’t, you die. Put your spectacles into the top pocket of your jacket. Now!’

Frightened, the man obeyed. Becher said, ‘Good. You’re a quick learner. Now take your jacket off carefully and hold it in your hand until I tell you otherwise.’

The attendant did. Becher said, ‘I want your promise not to raise the alarm until we are in Strasbourg. Can I count on that?’

The man, by now trembling like a frightened aspen leaf, nodded violently.

‘Say it, loud and clearly in a complete sentence.’

‘I shall not raise the alarm, sir, believe me. Please don’t kill me. And I’ll never report your being a single traveller. I promise you, sir.’

It was the worst thing he could have said especially as it was unnecessary.

‘Good, remember, any suspicious movement and I shall pull the trigger. This Luger, as you can see, is fitted with a silencer and no one outside this room will hear a thing. Understood?’

The man had not stopped nodding and was perspiring.

‘Good. Now hand me the jacket!’

With abject fear twisting into the pit of his stomach, and hands and body trembling beyond control, Klaus held out his uniform jacket. Becher took it with his left hand and lowered the revolver. His voice, too, was pleasant.

‘You’ve been wise. Remember, you remain here for at least five minutes after I have left your cabin.’

Klaus, whose head was giving a brilliant impression of Enid Blyton’s Little Noddy, eyes screwed upward, was whispering, ‘Danke, Maria und Joseph.’ (Thank you, Mary and Joseph). Becher, keeping his eyes on him, had moved two steps backwards and, standing beside the door, spoke again, his voice thin and sharp like the point of a stiletto.

‘You are a fool, man, to think I would let you live and fools don’t deserve to live.’

The couchette attendant opened his mouth to scream out his fear and his broken hopes, but the Luger’s 9mm bullet hit his heart forcefully and simultaneously killed his cry as well as the rest of him. Becher put on the man’s jacket. It was not a good fit but it would do. He opened the door and looked out. There was no one in sight. It was the deepest hour of the night. Only the unconcerned noise of the wheels turning at great speed on the iron rails seemed alive. He hurriedly stuffed a big wadge of paper towels between the dead man’s shirt and the wound and tied them close with his braces.

He dragged the body out of the cabin and into the corridor. He let go of it, in order to open the door to the outside, then squeezed the body out of the travelling train. Job done, he returned to the galley and threw all the passports and passengers’ tickets out of the tiny window. Next he collected his suitcase from his compartment and settled down in the couchette conductor’s ‘office’. Checking the man’s coat pockets, he found a wallet. His victim had been Klaus Albert Feldman, residing at Bahnhofstrasse, Ulm, Württemberg. Becher did not know that, over fifty years ago, Albert Einstein had been born at No. 20 of that very same street, a fact to which Feldman owed his middle name. Neither would have been of any interest to Becher. Nor did a piece of paper in the wallet – at first. It was a travel voucher, headed ‘Sonderurlaub’ (Special Leave), enabling Klaus Albert Feldman, employee of the Wagon Lits Company, to end his duty at Strasbourg on that day and travel back home to Ulm. Reason for Special Leave: Wife expecting baby. Becher experienced no reaction to this information. But, suddenly, he remembered what the man had said: I’ll never report your being a single traveller.

Becher took a quick decision. If the Deuxième Bureau men were looking for him then a car attendant’s ill-fitting jacket would not be a safe enough cover. The dead man’s special leave papers had suddenly become useful. He got off the train at Strasbourg and exchanged the attendant’s Special Voucher for a ticket to Ulm. He took the Ulm train, but got off at Stuttgart, where he purchased a ticket for London via Ostend, a route that did not pass through France. He telephoned the changed route through to Nuremberg. Brandtstein, in turn, rang Becher’s British contact and informed him of the changed arrival details. Before boarding the train, Becher stuffed the attendant’s jacket into a rubbish bin at the station.

He arrived on Friday in the late afternoon in Dover instead of Folkestone, where he was met by Egil, whose real name was Hendrick Sherrard, who was a member of the British Imperial Fascist League. Sherrard led him to where his car was parked, a blue 18/50 enclosed limousine, the latest Crossley model. The additional Special Branch man at Dover had been looking out for the possible arrival of a German of athletic build, 5' 10" tall, square-faced, brown-eyed, with dark-brown hair who would proceed to the boat train for Victoria. The German had arrived but the Special Branch man had failed to identify him.

Chapter 2 – Haystack London

Ronald Burnley had arrived in Vienna at the beginning of that week. After reporting to Murdoch for being briefed, he went straight to the Embassy, where he was expected by Martin Shaver and Jordan, né Gabor. Shaver made the introductions:

‘Captain Burnley, the security officer who’s to travel with you, Mr. Bill Jordan.’

They shook hands. Ronald said, ‘Major Murdoch has briefed me about the situation, Mr. Jordan. I gather you gave a couple of Nazi roughs a rough time. I shall feel quite safe in your company.’

‘I’ve only known about the German Nazis for a short time, Captain Burnley, but I’ve learned very quickly to hate them. I’m to give you regards from Mrs. Heaven.’

‘Ah. You’ve had tea at the Kursalon. Great institution, great place, isn’t it? Did you meet the musical peacocks?’

Shaver felt a degree of awe looking at the two men, each about 180 cm high, Ronald brown-eyed, Jordan dark-eyed. With his 175 cm he felt small and his somewhat larger circumference at equatorial level did not seem to make up for it. Nevertheless, he took over.

‘I need your return tickets for the reservations, Ronald.’

Ronald handed him his pad of return tickets, copies in different colours for each national section of the route. Jordan’s thoughts moved back to the start of his journey which he was, at last, about to continue. Nolan had held their tickets, he recalled. His thoughts were interrupted by Ronald.

‘Mr. Jordan, I need to get myself sorted out today, but from tomorrow until our departure, I hope we can spend time together in order to get acquainted.’

They did and by Friday, Ronald knew every detail of the events in Bill Jordan’s life since the day Bela Gabor had woken up in the wrong hotel. Jordan, in turn, learned that Captain Ronald Burnley had been twice in Budapest. The first time he had attended school there for a term, the second time he had worked at the British Legation. He had met Major Pemmington, though not Captain Nolan. What surprised Jordan most was to discover that the captain spoke Hungarian fluently. Englishmen, in particular, were reputed not to learn foreign languages as all foreigners learned to speak theirs. This one also seemed to have a remarkable memory.

When Ronald called on Shaver for their tickets, the latter said, ‘May I have a few words with you, Ronald?’

Ronald nodded, wondering. Shaver said, ‘You know I’m part of the Security personnel here. You probably don’t know that mine’s a political appointment. With Mr. MacDonald as PM, a number of the representative bodies abroad had to accept a Labour man into their staff.’

Ronald’s expression not only confirmed he had not known but also asked ‘so what?’ Shaver, undeterred, continued.

‘I’m an economist, a theorist, Ronald, not a man of action, like the Major and Sandy and you. But I’m deeply worried about what’s happening in Europe. I’m telling you, because I know you share this concern just as, I also know, Sandy does.’ He paused.

Ronald swallowed the temptation to inform him that Alexandra Heaven was not a man. Instead, he confirmed Shaver’s words.

‘True. The growth of fascism is of concern to me. I inherited it from my father. I know little about party politics but I’ve been wondering why our Socialist Prime Minister doesn’t take some action. I heard in Munich what Hitler says about the Socialists.’

‘I don’t know the answer. Maybe MacDonald’s too much establishment himself now, but more likely the coalition agreement is successfully muzzling him. To the point: I’ve a friend in Berlin who shares our views. We met at a conference in Manchester. He’s a political commentator for the Berliner Tageblatt. So, should you find yourself in Berlin in the course of your duties, my friend would make a safe and useful contact for you. He and I are keeping in touch in occasional telephone calls.

‘That’s much appreciated, Shaver, and I’ll bear it in mind.’

Shaver had expected a little more but Ronald, at the moment, was concentrating on his immediate task. It was the first time that he was armed on a job. When he and Jordan called at the Passport Office for entries in their passports they naturally also called on Alexandra Heaven. Jordan was not surprised to witness the familiarity of old friends, nor even that their dialogue made no sense to him. Ronald asked:

‘How’s my Apfelstrudel friend?’

She laughed.

‘Sounds Mark Twainish. Things are a little better, but so reserved for her age. I’ll tell her you were here but too short of time to call.’

He answered, ‘Tell her I’m her friend forever and hope she’s mine.’

Mrs. Heaven’s reply ended the conversation.

‘I have to think about that, Ronald.’

* * *

On Saturday, the 27th July, in the afternoon, Jordan and he arrived at the Westbahnhof, Vienna’s Western station. The main hall was alive with humanity, travellers arriving and departing, porters moving luggage in wheelbarrows, calling out names of people and numbers of platforms. There were folk queuing for platform tickets to see passengers off or meet arrivals, leading to emotional scenes of tearful good-byes and touching reunions. And there were the station regulars, who loved observing people’s behaviour and there were a few accidental loiterers. There were also the beggars, the pickpockets and the conmen looking for victims, as well as police and detectives on duty. There was a tiny group of observers lounging about, who, similarly, were doing their best not to draw any attention to themselves. One of them was a somewhat shabbily dressed man, seated on a box or something similar, holding his cap in his hand, the opening downward. Jordan was puzzled.

‘He doesn’t look like a real beggar,’ Jordan said to Ronald.

‘That’s because he isn’t. Did you never do station duty with Six-Two?’

Jordan shook his head.

‘It’s an agent’s routine job in certain cities,’ Ronald explained, ‘looking out for anyone unusual passing through, any sighting, any occurrence that might be of importance to their own country’s security. Austria may be small but Vienna is an international diplomatic junction and several foreign secret services plant observers here. Your non-beggar is one of them.’

Jordan’s eyes focused on a slim woman with Slavic features, in her forties, thinly clad, studying the telephone directories outside the only telephone booth in the station. She had no luggage. Ronald noticed Bill’s wondering glances and nodded. This one he knew.

‘Russian. Tatyana Jablonska. She and the French agent are the only women doing this job, which tells you something. What, I have no idea. They always use women and the women do not even try to use a cover. I’m not punning.’

Jordan was not quite sure what the word meant but, guessing correctly, gave a little smile. They walked on to their platform where, about twenty minutes earlier, the Orient Express had arrived from Bucharest and Istanbul. Here, the crowd also contained a sprinkle of admirers of the rich and the famous, searching for conversation material which would make them interesting: ‘You’ll never believe, my dear, who was suddenly walking past me, so close we could have shaken hands.’ Following their porter, Ronald and Jordan reached Carriage 5 and clambered up the high steps. After the porter had secured their suitcases in the luggage nets, received his Trinkgeld (tip) and departed, they both stepped out onto the corridor. True to the image of the average holidaymakers going back home, they stood by the window, looking out at the people milling on the platform.

Jordan felt good. He was on the move at last. The platform controller’s first urgent whistle sounded, warning passengers that departure was nigh. The large clock at one end of the platform showed nine minutes past three, exactly four minutes to departure. More shrill whistles penetrated the rhythmical noise of the steam emerging in thick swathes from under the carriages. They were followed by the engine driver’s triumphant drawn-out siren blasts, then the train was on the move, gathering speed very quickly. The landscape was rushing by to the left. They went inside their compartment and sat down to see the landscape rushing by to the right. Soon after departure, their couchettes-attendant arrived to check tickets and introduce himself. His name was Gavin. He was a Londoner, originally from Hackney, now living in Wandsworth, whose favourite words were ‘of course’ and ‘er’.

Ronald had not told Jordan of the point 32 Colt in his shoulder holster, exactly the same type of weapon that Captain Nolan had carried. Both had much on their minds and they did not converse a lot. Gavin expertly converted the single couch into two bunks. For obvious reasons, Ronald was going to take the lower one, but for the time being they both continued to sit on its edge.

The train arrived in Munich punctually at ten minutes to ten, due to stop for twenty minutes. Ronald asked Jordan to lock the door behind him and stepped out into the corridor. He pulled the window down to watch the hustle and bustle on the platform. Despite feeling safe whilst in the station, his eyes were watching every movement around him. His eye caught the large station sign: MÜNCHEN OSTBAHNHOF, Munich East Station. His thoughts flitted back and silent images of friends he had known here, emerged on the internal screen. At the very moment when ‘I wonder how Craig Jameson is doing?’ was reaching it, a familiar voice turned it into a talkie:

‘Good to see you again, pal.’

Ronald looked up, laughing in sheer pleasure at seeing the owner of the voice walk towards him.

‘Craig Jameson! I was just thinking of you!’ They shook hands. ‘You’re not also on the way to London?’

‘No such luck, Ronald. I’ve come to see you.’

‘Should I feel honoured, concerned or astounded?’

‘Honoured sounds much better, Ronald, but the truth is more prosaic.’

‘Poetry was never your favourite conversation subject.’

‘The simple fact is that having booked a body from here to London, I learned yesterday that you’d be on this train also and not on your own. You happen to know him but it’s possible that you may not desire him to meet your escortee.’

‘That’s great prose. You know, Craig, I didn’t know that you know someone I know whom I might prefer not to know. It might be a distinct advantage to know who he is.’

Craig laughed.

‘You haven’t changed. But things have been getting messy. The man I’m referring to is Monsieur Vincent Georges Barbier. He is travelling in Carriage 6, seats 61-62.’

‘Barbier! Of course I know him. Deuxième Bureau –Monsieur? But how do you come to send a French agent to London? That’s if you can tell.’

Craig thought for a moment.

‘He’s ex-Bureau now, on the way to London to re-join his family. So it could be that you don’t want him to meet or know about the fellow you’re escorting, whoever he is.’

Ronald was frowning.

‘I’m not sure, Craig. Do you know about the attempt on the life of Lord Davidson in Budapest and the murder of one of our men?’

The question took Craig by surprise.

‘Captain Nolan? On the train. I learned the details recently. What’s it to do with – ?’

‘Everything. I’m looking after the Hungarian who Nolan was escorting and who was supposed to be the victim. He, too, is a former agent and he, too, is moving to Britain for safety.’

Amazed, Craig waited for two passengers to squeeze past them, before saying:

‘What did he do?’

‘He overheard the plot and reported it. That’s not all. Whilst in Vienna, waiting for me, he discovered a secret cell of Nazi plotters which enabled the Austrians to close it down.’

Craig checked the time.

‘Ronald, I must rush but you need to learn a fact or two about facts discovered by Barbier which connect with your fellow.’

‘They are?’

‘There’s a Europe-wide secret murder organisation run by a German aristocrat who calls himself Wotan. He organises the killing of enemies of the Nazis. One of his tools, a man called Karl Becher, almost succeeded in infiltrating the Deuxième Bureau. When he was found out, he killed two French agents, one a friend of Barbier. Here’s the connection: Becher’s boss, Wotan, organised the Budapest attempt on Lord Davidson.’

‘Brother!’ escaped from Ronald’s lips.

‘There’s worse, Ronald. Becher is supposed to be on his way to London, still with the task of killing Lord Davidson in London. At this moment in time he has disappeared. He’s dangerous and ruthless. We’ve no idea where he is, though I, personally, believe he’s already in London.’

Ronald stood frozen for a moment, absorbing what he had just heard. His eyes watched the busy life on the lit-up station platform, without seeing a thing. Then, returning to his normal self, he said:

‘Thank you for adding a little paprika into this tedious journey.’

‘What are friends for?’ Craig replied. ‘You would have got to know it all as soon as you arrived in London.’

They spent a few more minutes exchanging more information, until whistles and shouts on the platform, followed by the first heavy chugs of the engine, announced the train’s imminent departure and caused Jameson to depart hurriedly. Ronald returned to his compartment. He needed to think about the new information before deciding how much to tell Jordan, if anything. It was obvious to him that there was no point in trying to avoid contact with Barbier. Another immediate reaction to Craig’s paprika was to keep his loaded gun under his pillow.

At Chalons the next morning the Boulogne carriages were uncoupled from the train which continued to Paris. The Boulogne section departed later, having acquired a breakfast car. After instructing their couchette attendant to ensure they would share a table with the passenger from 61 & 62, Ronald briefed Jordan.

‘There are a few new facts you need to know, Jordan. We shall meet a Frenchman at breakfast, a former Deuxième Bureau agent with whom I am acquainted. He discovered the existence of a German secret organisation which aims to murder prominent enemies of the German race in Europe. The attempt to murder Lord Davidson in Budapest was one of his plots and Captain Nolan was shot by one of his members.’

Jordan had been aware that Ronald had spoken to someone whilst the train was standing at Munich Station. It had built up a little tension inside him and he was therefore not entirely unprepared, mentally, for this sort of information. He kept his voice calm.

‘It fits. The plotters were Germans.’

‘I’ve more. Barbier also unmasked one of the organisation’s killers in Paris, a man named Becher, who had infiltrated the Deuxième Bureau. Becher has murdered two Bureau agents in Paris. He is now on the way to London with the aim of killing Lord Davidson there.’

Jordan stared at Ronald.

‘In London? They are crazy.’

‘The head of the organisation calls himself Wotan after the Germanic top god and believes himself all powerful.’

Jordan, reproach in his voice, said, ‘He may be on this train. I am not armed.’

Ronald gave a short laugh.

‘From what Major Murdoch told me, you’re dangerous enough with the arms permanently attached to you. The likelihood of Becher being on this train amounts to nil. However, this is his description: 165cm tall, athletic build, square face, brown eyes, straw-blond hair.’

‘So no action on this trip, you say, Captain Burnley?’

‘Unlikely. We can relax now and enjoy the journey.’

The three men having breakfast together on the train, were an unusual combination; a British secret agent, a Hungarian and a French former secret agent. They had plenty to talk about from the start but even more to think about which explained why silence predominated for the rest of their breakfast. Jordan was the first to get up and return to his compartment. Barbier had picked up one of the French newspapers from a shelf when he entered the carriage. It was a Chalons local paper. Having finished his first cup of coffee, he took a quick look at it, when a short article on the front page gripped his attention:

‘Crime terrible dans l’Orient Express. Dans les heures matinales du 12 juillet on a trouvé le corps mort d’un employé des Wagon-lits, sans sa veste. Il n’y a rien de doute que l’homme était assassiné et jeté dehors du train. Le nom du victime n’est pas encore…’

(Terrible crime on the Orient Express. In the early hours of the 12 July the dead body of an employee of the Wagon-lits, without his jacket, was found. There is no doubt that the man was murdered and thrown from the train. The victim’s name is not yet…)

Barbier stopped reading and was staring at the paper. Ronald noticed it and asked:

‘What’s wrong, Barbier?’

Barbier, getting up to leave, handed him the paper and said, pointing at the headline:

‘Becher. He did travel through France, wearing a couchette attendant’s jacket.’

He threw the paper on the table and left. Ronald read it but thought Barbier’s opinion was a little far-fetched. The subject obtained no further treatment. Each one’s mind was burdened with personal thoughts. The dearth of conversation continued even whilst the three men shared the same compartment in the train to Victoria Station. There a surprise awaited Barbier when a stranger stopped him as they left the platform and addressed him in French.

‘Monsieur Vincent Barbier?’ He held out his Deuxième Bureau identity card. ‘I am Captain Marcel Duval. Colonel Perroir has sent me to London to discuss the Becher situation with our ambassador and to confirm your safe arrival. I have the embassy car outside to take you to your West London home.’

Ronald had quickly stepped close, his fingers touching his pistol butt. However, he instantly realised that the man was on the level. Barbier, too, had no doubt about Duval from the moment he had approached him. Nevertheless, he checked his identity card carefully and put a couple of questions to him that only a bona fide agent could answer correctly. Then Barbier said good-bye to Ronald and walked off with Duval. The embassy car took them to No. 7, Royal Crescent, in West London, where Barbier stepped out of the car followed by Duval.

The next moment, Duval saw something he would have found hard to believe if told. From all that he had learned about Barbier, the image built up in his mind was that of the toughest man he had ever known. As they stood there on the pavement, shaking hands, Barbier’s eyes turned towards the front door of the house. And Duval suddenly saw the shine of a pearl-shaped liquid glisten in each of Barbier’s eyes. He watched the man, who he was supposedly protecting, walk up the stone stairs to the front door and press one of the bells by the side of the door. Even from where Duval stood he could hear a woman’s outcry inside the house, and heard her heels beating the stairs as she was running down from the first floor.

Then the door was opened by Denise, the woman to whom Duval had promised he would bring her husband back to her. But if he had hoped to get a glance of her, he was disappointed. All he saw were her arms, with her hands closed behind Barbier’s neck, moving convulsively in rhythm with the sounds of her laughing and sobbing at the same time. As Barbier stepped into the house, she seemed to be still hanging from his neck. Duval turned quickly and, re-entering the car, said to the driver, in French, ‘retour a l’ambassade, chauffeur’ (back to the embassy, driver). A sticky sensation in his throat hampered the free passage of those few words. The chauffeur, fighting a similar sensation in his throat, engaged his gears and drove off fast.

Denise was still hanging from Vincent’s neck, her wet cheek pressed against his, when they reached the flat on the first floor. Only then did she let go, linking her arm into his, as they entered the living room. There, standing side by side in front of the sofa, stood two little girls. They were holding each other’s hand, Janine, born in 1922, not yet eight, was the taller one. The other one was Liliane, six years old, born in 1924. He stared at them and they stared at him and neither of them heard what Denise was saying. He stepped forward, knelt down on the floor and put his arms around both of them, murmuring in French again and again:

‘Mes mignonnes, mes belles mignonnes’ (My beautiful darlings). Turning his head to Denise, her eyes unnaturally bright above her smile, he said:

‘Je ne me pardonnerai jamais, jamais, Denise.’ (I shall never forgive myself, never.)

* * *

Ronald’s task did not end until he had delivered Jordan safely to the Home Office the next morning, where he was to obtain the official data concerning his new life in Britain. For that reason, Ronald’s travel documents had included one night’s reservation for two single rooms at the Welcome Hotel, a small bed & breakfast place near Victoria Station. The hotel bar provided a snack meal of eggs on toast, ingestion facilitated by a small lager. They were the only customers and still had little to say to each other whilst eating. After the barman had removed the plates and served the beers, they leaned back to relax. Ronald had the impression that Jordan was on edge. He assumed it had to do with seeing his old friends again and raised his glass.

‘Here’s wishing you a happy reunion with your friends tomorrow.’

Jordan raised his glass in silent response. After taking a sip he put it down and explained.

‘Thank you, captain. Before I left Budapest, I received a letter from Irene. It informed me that András, her husband, was dying and she had financial difficulties because of doctor and hospital costs. But, see, the letter took almost two weeks to find me. He is most likely dead by now. András Kalman and I were close friends throughout the war. His war wound has cost him his life now. The bullet was moving slowly towards the heart, impossible to remove. It was a matter of time and luck. And they have a son of ten, Daniel. I just hope I’m not too late to help her. Ilona and I planned to visit them. After she was gone, I could have done so. Instead…’

Ronald saw real grief in Jordan’s eyes.

‘I’m sure you’ll be in time.’

Jordan nodded.

‘I hope so, but I had different plans…’

Ronald looked up, surprised.

‘Different plans?’

Jordan nodded.

‘Find and punish the killer, Captain Nolan’s. A promise I made to the dead man, a promise I shall keep, Captain Burnley. As soon as I’m sure Irene and her boy are all right, I shall go abroad to find this Professor Kohlen. Until I’ve done that I cannot lead a normal life.’

The quiet fierceness in his voice and his eyes convinced, as well as troubled Ronald. He made no comment. They both slept well, each of them looking forward to his next day’s reunion.

The information of the threat to Lord Davidson’s life had reached the head of MI5 and the Foreign Office early on Monday. Because of the German element and the French involvement, the Foreign Office took overall charge. MI6, too, was a major player. The timetable was taut as Becher was believed to arrive on the Saturday. Preparatory action had been swift. The FO passed the task to the Commissioner in charge of Scotland Yard who appointed Superintendent Francis Knowle of the Special Branch to take charge of the combined action.

Knowle’s immediate measure was to arrange close protection for the person of Lord Davidson. He next posted extra men at two Channel ports, Folkestone and Dover, as well as at the London boat train termini of Liverpool Street and Victoria. Having learnt that Becher was likely to be travelling under a false name, had reduced Knowle’s expectations in the direction of zero. He was right. Not one single male traveller arriving in England on one of the boat trains had fitted the description of Becher.

To embark on the main task, he had been set, Knowle was forced to wait until the next Monday. On that morning, Ronald reported to the Home Office with Bill Jordan, formerly Bela Gabor. It was almost as if he was delivering a parcel. An official of near-cadaverous appearance received them. He led Jordan to a designated office and directed Ronald to the main secretariat where one of the secretaries, a tiny, but extremely well-endowed blonde with large lively brown eyes, presented him with a document, de facto a receipt for Bill Jordan. She also handed him a familiar looking envelope which bore his name. Its content ordered him to report immediately to Major Cormody. He had hoped to rush home. A taxi just cruising along as he stepped outside, took him to 54 Broadway. The driver agreed to wait for his return. When Ronald entered Cormody’s office, the Major looked up from the file he was studying.

‘Ah, Burnley. Change of plans. Emergency. You’re attached to Scotland Yard as of now.’

He handed him an envelope and a card in a small wallet.

‘Orders and admission card. You’re joining a team, whose task is to catch that German, Becher, before he can fulfil his murderous intentions. Keep in touch.’

He returned his attention to his file. Burnley looked at the contents of the letter. A few handwritten lines on an internal message sheet requested him to report to Scotland Yard, Room 22, at two-thirty prompt. The clock above Cormody said: one-thirty. He left hurriedly. The taxi took him home in less than ten minutes and the driver again agreed to wait. But Lisette was out. On their telephone note pad he saw an entry: ‘Lunch w. Celeste’. He made the best of his disappointment by enjoying a luxurious top-speed self-made meal of bread and butter and cheese, accompanied by a self-made cup of tea without milk. Leaving a rushed note on the table, he rejoined his driver-in-waiting who dropped him outside Scotland Yard’s Embankment gate on time – only just.

Upon showing his admission card Ronald entered the building and reached Room 22, puzzled and filled with the expectation of the unknown. Outside the open door sat a special constable at an ordinary small table. He, stood up, demanded to see the identity card and ticked his name off on a small list. Ronald was reminded of his very first arrival at 54 Broadway in October 1926. This man, tall, broad-shouldered,