Deception: The Locket, #1

By Kathryn Scarborough

The World is balanced on a precipice: The slippery slope leading right into hell. And all it would take for the world to topple down, is for Hitler to sneeze.

Lovers, Elsbet a propagandist working for Germany, and Ian, an intelligence analyst and a finder of spies for the MI5, are torn apart by a war Ian saw coming but Elsbet refused to acknowledge.

Covertly, Ian travels to Germany to compel Elsbet's return, and in November, 1939, after England has declared war on Germany, their daughter Margaret is born.

Elsbet begins a cat and mouse game with a splinter group of the S. S., and discovers their dark secret; they are devotees of Odin and Thor and practice human sacrifice. Trying to find an escape for her daughter and herself Elsbet attempts to blackmail the group.

But it is too late, and she is trapped until the end.

Deception is the first book in the series of the Richmond family that spans three generations and plays out on two continents. Turn of the Key is the second book of the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathryn Scarborough
• Release date: Mar 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201453183

Kathryn Scarborough

Kathryn Scarborough won the 2018 Paranormal Romance Reviewers Award, for her book, The Wild Mountain Thyme and critical acclaim for Deception, and Turn of the Key, a WWII historical novel. She spent her youth moving around the world with her Naval Aviator father, which makes for living inside one’s head totally appropriate. Kathryn started out as a musician, music teacher, and director before studying teaching and special education. She has four grown children and three wonderful grandchildren. She lives in central North Carolina with her husband and two crazy dogs. You can see Kathryn’s other books at www.Scarboroughbooks.com. Sign up for my newsletter and I will send you a laugh out loud collection of short stories entitled Not for Bedtime Stories. Send an email to:  [e-mail] Happy reading!                                              

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Chapter 1

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Amsterdam, March, 1937

Near 1:00 am

He glanced into each café he passed, eavesdropped on conversations, looked around every corner through the night in Amsterdam’s old city center. Ian Richardson worked for the War Department of Great Britain as a German-speaking analyst; an Englishman whose job included not only translation, but other many and varied roles; sometimes more varied than he was comfortable with. And this time, and for the first time, he was acting as a spy. Ian had a lot of time to kill before his return to England on a fishing boat due to arrive around 2 am. The docks and jetties were quiet; only the sound of rocking houseboats and hemp rope slapping the water punctuating the stillness. A few lights shone through the misty night, casting strange shadows across the fog that settled on the top of the canals. Ian stood against the stone wall with one leg bent behind him, smoking the last of his cigarette. The intense fog muffled almost everything. He took a last drag and flicked his cigarette out into the canal, hearing it hiss as it hit the water. His eyes scanned back and forth, his mind taking in and cataloguing each thing he heard and saw. Minutes slowly ticked by. Everything was so static, so boring, he wished fervently that something would just happen. He walked to the end of the alleyway, and looked to the left and then to the right. Unexpectedly, he heard feet shuffling and men talking up the street. He ducked behind the stone wall nearest the jetty and peered cautiously around the corner.

There were five men stumbling down the canal’s street. A Dutch policeman, gray-haired and stooped, popped up in front of them, blocking their way like a Jack-in-the-Box. He shook his fist at the men and spoke angrily.

Here now, what goes on? The old man thrust his gray head toward a big, burly fellow who cursed him in fluent German. He pushed the policeman, shoving him out of the way. Ian moved from his hiding place behind the wall, but stopped. No need to show himself unless he absolutely needed to.

From his hiding place he counted, by their curses, half a dozen Germans and a handful of Dutchmen. The big burly fellow tried to look intimidating, but he was falling-down drunk. He thrust his forearm against the policeman, and this time the older man stumbled backward. Within seconds, a police van careened around the corner and delivered three more policemen. The police surrounded them, pulling out their nightsticks. With little ceremony, the Germans gave up their identity cards, and merely shrugged their shoulders. The police opened the men’s briefcases and dumped the contents on the ground. Ian saw pamphlets, booklets and pieces of what might be wireless sets. With the available light from a nearby streetlamp he was able to see microphones and headphones. The German Chancellor had been making a lot of noise for the past 18 months about Germanic peoples coming back to Germany to be part of the greater Fatherland. So, why were these Germans in Holland? Had they been sent by their new government?

Ian listened to the raised voices, and tried to make sense of what he heard; the Germans and what apparently had been a house full of Dutch businessmen, had been drinking and cavorting about in the middle of the night.

Why are these men here? the old policeman asked the lone Dutchman, who had not escaped with the others. Why are you here with all of these things? The policeman pulled on the arm of the big burly man, who did nothing but curse in German and sing some bar room ditty under his breath.

Ian looked straight into the eyes of one of the Dutchmen in the back of the group. The man edged around the group looking for escape. The police put the Germans in the back of the van and drove away. When they reached the central police station in Amsterdam, what would they do with the Germans? What could they accuse them of, some political intrigue? His gut told him this was a significant moment; but further snooping couldn’t be risked without authorization. He didn’t fancy being in a Dutch jail until someone could get him out. He looked at his watch; damn, he only had a short time before he was to catch his boat to Calais. He looked about carefully and gave up his hiding place behind the wall. The street was empty; the young man who had made his escape was long gone. Quickly, Ian moved away from the wall and down the street.

So, if the Dutch, or more aptly some of the Dutch, were already collaborating in clandestine ways with the Germans, despite the fact that their country was striving to be neutral, how would the relationship with this ally of Britain hold up in the days to come?

What occurred that night in Amsterdam put a new and glaring light on his need to keep his German wife, Elsbet, safe.

The Germans, the Nazis, had arrived in Amsterdam and no one had bothered to stop them.

Ian made his way slowly down a side street, straining to hear the putt-putt of a diesel engine. People who complained about the fog in London obviously hadn’t been to Holland. The fog was an ominous, ethereal creature. Thick as a blanket, it was exactly at eye level. Exactly... it wrapped around him, wove itself as if it was a thing and not a quirk of the weather. He shivered as the wet air saturated his coat and shoes. He rubbed his nose vigorously, but still the smell of fish, rotting vegetation and wet wood permeated the inside of his nostrils. Ian stomped his feet and wiggled his toes to keep the blood flowing. God, it’s cold!

If he didn’t catch the boat on time, he’d miss the connection with the much bigger fishing vessel that was to take him from Calais to Hastings. He stumbled, getting his mind back on what he had to do and where he had to be.

Within a few minutes he found the stone steps leading down to the canal. He heard the gentle lap of the water caressing the steps under his feet. He stepped closer to the water’s edge. Where the hell was the boat? He moved gingerly until the toe of his shoe passed the edge of the step. He looked hard to the right and to the left, listening for the putt-putt of a diesel engine. All he heard was the occasional sound from one of the boats moored in the canal, and the lap, lap, lap of the water hitting the stone steps. He hurried to the pier jutting into the canal, and waited.

A small fishing boat eased up to the end of the dock. Ian looked at the two men, one at the wheel, the other fastening the lines to the cleats on the pilings. The man at the helm spoke first. Have you been to the Chocolatier at the end of the main square?

No, why? Ian replied. Is he any good?

Yes, the sailor replied. They have hazelnuts dipped in white chocolate.

It was an innocuous enough repartee. If any Hollanders heard it, they'd wonder why the men were talking about white chocolate with hazelnuts.

Ian climbed aboard the boat, nodded to the other sailor who was pulling the lines in, and made his way below decks. He took off his jacket and hat, found the pot on the stove in the galley, and settled onto a bunk. It would take about an hour to get to Calais, and then a few more to cross to Hastings.

Ian closed his eyes and willed his mind to empty. There would be time enough to worry after he got back to London.

God grant me a good sword and no use for it.

Polish saying

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Chapter 2

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Two years earlier

Whitehall, London

October 1935

The 1931 United Kingdom general election was the first to be held since the onset of the Great Depression, and by 1931 Ramsay MacDonald's Labor Government had reached a deadlock over a response to the crisis.  MacDonald was then encouraged to form an all-party National Government to deal with the financial crisis.

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Gentlemen, this query has come from the War Department, straight from the top.  We know there is a build-up in Germany. The Jerry’s have hardly tried to hide the fact that they've manufactured munitions, much as they did before the last war, and completely, I might add, against the Treaty of Versailles. James Hedman, a short and squared off man, had a face so rigid it looked like a soapstone carving. Hedman had asked Ian Richardson to come to his office at MI5, Section 5, the branch of military intelligence focusing on foreign threats. 

Hedman's office was nestled in a corner on the fourth floor of the War Department.  His desk overflowed with files, folders, and photographs, jumbles of pens, pads, bits of pipe tobacco, spent matches, scraps of papers, and broken pencils. The  entire mess on the desk,  a complete contradiction to Hedman’s impeccably tailored navy-blue suit, and the crisp white handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket.  Hedman jostled from one foot to the other vibrating with pent up kinetic energy. 

Richardson, this is Johann Reichner.  He's British like us- born here, raised here, but his family is still over there, much like you, old boy.

Ian nodded to the other man. Reichner’s pale skin was almost white and a shock of unruly white-blond hair fell over his forehead above a pair of light blue eyes. He wore a black semi-formal suit with satin lapels that made his skin look all the whiter. You two will be the War Departments very own analysts, and I want you to see and record what's going on in Germany. Ian sat up, all of his attention now on Hedman. Check on the way people in the streets react to the government; the gossip you hear, and so forth. I want you to go back to Germany to visit your families; you will take your own identity papers,  and not pretend to be anyone but whom you really are. You may take one of your cousins, nephews or nieces; the German ones of course, get on the train, and take a little tour of the country. Then, and this is the important bit; take mental notes on how many factories you see going full tilt, how many boatyards you see, aircraft, that sort of thing.

The factories? 

Hedman held up his hand for quiet. 

I don't want you to put yourself in any danger. You are to act just as a tourist.  With your fluent German, you can speak with anyone, and you don't have to say you are British, not unless someone asks you for your identity papers. The best way to get information is by word-of-mouth from the man on the street. Go into the pubs and cafés and chat it up with the common worker. My superiors in Section 5, just want a clearer picture of what is actually happening over there.

Ian sat back, waiting for Hedman to get to the punch line. Was this a joke? He remembered all too clearly the scene in Berlin just a few months before. He had been chased through the center of Berlin, as if he’d committed some horror to society, instead of just being English. Ian cleared his throat roughly, and forced his attention back to the conversation. Hedman wanted him to go back and spy on the crazy lot? Was the man mad?

I'd like both of you to take a book of sketches with you, Hedman continued, oblivious of, or ignoring the tense body language from Ian and Reichner.  There is a very rudimentary cipher that I’d like you to use. He shuffled through the items on the desk and brought out identical sketchbooks, about 9 x 14 inches.

Ah, here it is, a study of a bowl of fruit, quite bad,  actually —  Hedman grimaced at the sketch. Now, follow me on this — In the picture add bits of trees, extra branches, or feathers on the geese and the ducks, or odd bits of fruit.  One curly-cue for each munition, for instance. But you decide. In this way, you have almost a written record of what you have observed. And make damn sure that what you’re looking at is what you think it is. I don’t want to know how many baby Prams are made in a particular factory if you’ve mistaken Prams for machine guns. And if the German’s take a look at your book, it will look to them that you are practicing your sketching. Hedman stopped a moment. Of course, this is all extremely cursory and we just want to get a feel for what is going on over there and not actual numbers.  Take a boat trip on the Rhine. Carry a pair of binoculars and pretend you're looking at the scenery. Make sure you observe the Eastern bank, as you pretend to sketch the vineyards and the fields. Make sketches of what you have seen and no one will be the wiser.

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Ian watched Hedman fill his pipe looking over the bowl intently, first at him and then at Reichner. Each draw Hedman took, made the tobacco glow at each intake of his breath.

Like the tobacco in Hedman’s pipe, the world was heating up and might soon sputter and burst into flame. The U.K. would be in the thick of it all too soon.

Hedman had brought Ian into his department before he had finished his graduate studies in electrical engineering. We are quite interested in you and the abilities you’ve shown us thus far. With your fluency in German, and having attended college there, we have decided to take you on as an analyst. We understand about your degree and you will have time to take your exams before you come on with us full time. If the war comes to Europe, as we are confident that it will, it may be some years before you are able to use that degree. Right now, as a German speaking analyst, you will be invaluable to our government. The pay won’t be much, around £375 per annum, but I’m sure that pay will be increased as time goes on. We see much potential in your abilities and we would like to make sure that potential is fulfilled. Thank you, Ian. I’ll be in touch with your first series of assignments.

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And Ian had not heard from Hedman  until he’d set up this meeting with Reichner.

I must tell you that there are those in Parliament and in the House of Lords that will do anything to keep us out of another war. Hedman said as he drummed his fingers on the desk blotter with a quick rhythmic tattoo.  He stood and came around the front of the desk staring, almost uncomfortably, for them at the two men. You know that old saying, forewarned is forearmed?  That is exactly what we are going to be.  This country will be forewarned. I want you to take one month, only one month.  Do things in a simple way. The simpler the better. Make note of everything in your sketchbook, anything you see that you think means they are building up, Continued Hedman. 

According to the Armistice agreement signed in 1919, the Jerry’s aren’t supposed to have over 100,000 men in their army, nor are there to be any munitions factories or military airplanes or ships.  Here are your papers and identity cards. You may send your letters to this P.O. Box #629, London, NW. Just commit those three numbers to memory and send me postcards, one each week. You can send one of the picture postcards that are available in each little town and hotel and that will tell me about where you are.  Hedman put his arm about the shoulder of each man and led them to the door as he looked at each one. 

Good luck to you then, I'll be expecting updates at least once a week.  And then, you shall make your way back here and give me a report `a la beginning artist.

Reichner and Ian left Hedman’s offices and Ian didn’t look or speak to the other man, until they reached the corner where they shook hands and they, and moved off in opposite directions.

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Two days later, Ian crossed the Channel and took the train into Berlin.  He thought he knew better than Reichner or Hedman what sort of insanity had spread over Germany in the past year.  He'd seen some strange goings on during his trips to see his Great Aunt Aga, before her death some six months before.

He checked in at Aunt Aga’s home in Potsdam. Ian was like a beloved nephew to his cousins Joe and Hilda. They have kept the homestead together since his last visit despite rampant thievery and vandalism. Aware of Hedman’s instructions, Ian told Joe that he wanted to take a vacation before he started his new job, and he would like to take Heinrich, his twelve-year-old cousin. Joe didn't want the boy to miss any school, but Ian convinced him that a little vacation would be good for them both.

Ian and Heinrich traveled by train to Bremerhaven, the seaport where the Weser River emptied into the North Sea. Ian had heard a rumor that there was reportedly a submarine base there and he would investigate. He and Heinrich stayed in a rooming house near the docks and every morning he would walk with the boy around the area, sitting at some of the cafes, drinking coffee, with Ian’s ever-present sketch pad. Behind a huge merchant ship, Ian was sure he saw a periscope mast.

Henrich, wait here. I’ll be back in a moment. With his pad under his arm and the pencil behind his ear, he whistled softly walking the length of the pier. No one stopped him or asked him what he was about. He found a huge cleat to sit on near the bow of the merchant vessel and opened his pad. He began estimating how far away the distinct shadow of a periscope mast was reflected on the surface of the harbor behind the merchant ship. He saw two, what he estimated to be cruisers with suspicious looking items on the decks covered with tarps. Were those guns of some type? It seemed Bremerhaven was building up military sea craft. But the buildup was subtle and was not at full capacity.

Ian made his way back to the cafe finding an antsy Heinrich. The boy was bored and ready to get going and do something.

Come on, we’ll check out and go to Bavaria. Would you like that? The food is great.

Oh, yes. But could I buy a souvenir for my mother? I saw a lace shop on the next street.

Sure, we’ll go there now. But I have to find the post office. I’ll ask and go on to the post while you take your time looking around, will that be all right? I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you some money and if you finish buying your present before I return, you can get yourself a little cake at that Bäckerei I saw on the corner. I saw you drooling over that Black Forest cake.

Heinrich laughed. All right, I know where the lace shop is, I’ll meet you at the Bäckerei when you’ve finished at the post.

Terrific, tus.

After Ian had mailed his postcard to Hedman, he and Heinrich had a pleasant half hour demolishing two pieces of Black Forest cake. The day was balmy and the bustle of people walking about and the smell of the sea air was relaxing.

"Come on, young man. We are on the six o’clock train going south. We’ll be in Wiesbaden by tomorrow morning. We can see the spa-baths and the old Roman road there, you could even write a paper about it, there is lots of archaeological information about the Romans there a thousand years ago.

Ian had always had a way with Heinrich and the two spoke together easily on the train going south. Ian asked about the boy’s school.

And, did you know, all the machinists have gone on strike in Berlin? We were lucky to catch the trains we’ve taken on our trip. A lot of trains just don't run anymore, but that is something the Chancellor has promised to fix. Heinrich’s face shone for a moment before a shadow from some memory moved across it. He leaned in and whispered, My friend, Werner, told me at school that his father was talking about immigrating to America. The boy’s face looked troubled. Within months of the government upheaval, the idea of free speech was already becoming just that, an idea.

The car lolled back and forth with the movement of the train. All the passengers' heads stayed down, reading, napping, or looking out the windows. Every one, over thirty souls, were