The Dark Chronicles Read Free Page A

read the file this morning and panicked – not that another traitor on his watch would lead to calls for him to resign, but that his being stationed in the British Zone in ’45 might bring him under suspicion of actually
being
the traitor. His position as Head of the Service was no guarantee of protection: Five’s Deputy Head had almost lost his mind after being investigated by other officers in ’66. Even a Chief could be brought down. He had probably spotted the omission in the translation some time during the afternoon. It exonerated him, but he knew it would cut more ice if someone else pointed it out. Of the officers who would be hunting the double agent, I was the only one with good enough Russian to spot it – outside Soviet Section, ‘Tolstoy’ and ‘Turgenev’ were about all anyone could muster. Additionally, I would have good reason to protect him, as he was a family friend and my father had apparently asked for his help. So he had called me in to get his story straight before tomorrow’s meeting. ‘It can’t possibly be Chief,’ I’d tell them. ‘There’s been a translation cock-up.’ Good old Paul.
    ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘Henry won’t be the only one who will need convincing.’
    He looked up, alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Osborne and Farraday,’ I said.
    ‘Yes, yes, of course. I see that. But can’t you explain it to them, too?’
    ‘I thought you’d already discussed it with them,’ I said lightly, raising my glass. It was empty, and I made sure he noticed.
    ‘What? No, not yet.’ He stood up and walked over to the drinks cabinet. ‘I thought it best to sound you and Henry out first.’
    ‘Very wise,’ I said, lifting my glass. He poured a generous measure, and as he stepped away I took out the Luger, disengaged the safety, aimed between his eyes and fired in almost the same moment. The kick pushed me into the armchair and I felt one of the springs dig into my back as the crystal shattered on the floor and his body slumped to the ground and the liqueur began to seep into the carpet.
    It was very quiet then. I could hear the wind whipping against the trees outside and a joist creaking somewhere in the house. My head was pounding, the blood careering around it. There had been a moment, a fraction of a moment before I had fired, when he had stared into my face and I’d thought he might have understood what was about to happen to him – that he had realized who I was.
    I replaced the Luger and stood up. Pritchard was due to arrive in twenty-eight minutes, and I had to clear up the mess and be well away before then.
    I set to work.

II
Sunday, 8 July 1945, British Zone, Germany
    I reached the farmhouse about an hour before dawn and hammered on the door. After several minutes it opened, and a tall, lean figure with piercing blue eyes peered out at me.
    ‘
Kann ich Ihnen helfen?
’ he said, in an unmistakably English accent. He looked exactly the same as he had the last time I’d seen him.
    ‘You’re English,’ I said, searching his face for a reaction but getting none. ‘That
is
good news. I’m afraid I’m lost. I’m looking for the British headquarters at Lübeck.’
    ‘You
are
lost,’ he said, placing his emphasis equally carefully. ‘It’s a good distance from here. Come in and I can show you on a map.’
    It was typical of Father: the war in Europe had been over for two months and there wasn’t a soul for miles around, but he had still insisted on keeping to nonsensical recognition codes with his own son until we were inside the house. As soon as we were, he shook my hand and asked if I had had a safe journey. Barely pausing to listen to my reply, he led me through to a cramped, low-ceilinged room and told me to take a seat. He didn’t ask about Finland, or Mother, or anything else. He had business to attend to.
    The area looked as though it had once been a sitting room, judging by the elaborate floral pattern on the wallpaper and armchairs, but it was now