End of Spies, Alex Gerlis [important of reading books txt] 📗

When they left the warehouse, there was definitely no one watching them: no suspiciously parked vans, no one strolling past, no sudden movement in the shadows. They made their way safely to where they were now: an accountant’s office on what she was told was the Viale Miramare, which was close to where the South African ship would sail from on Friday.

The office was actually quite comfortable, and at the back of it she and Palmer found a sofa and an easy chair where they could avoid the Germans for much of the time. The latest message had come this evening: an Italian man would arrive early the following morning saying he had a parcel for a Signor Giordano, which to her sounded like a line from one of those dreadful cheap novels her mother used to read. He would be there to make arrangements to take them to the ship later that day.

And now Myrtle realised she had decisions to make. She knew full well the Admiral expected her to return to England: her task had been to distribute the money to the Kestrel Line, to escort Edward Palmer to Trieste and to ensure he and Friedrich Steiner got on the ship and out of harm’s way.

‘I want them to disappear,’ the Admiral had insisted, more than once.

But Myrtle had begun to wonder whether she wanted to go back to England after all. It no longer felt like her country: she detested the place after its victory in such an unjust war. She hated the way people gloated about their triumph, and to cap it all, there was now a socialist government to make life even more intolerable. South Africa, she understood, was at least somewhere white Christians could still lead a decent life. And Palmer would be an agreeable companion. He was an intelligent man and an accomplished lover, even if he didn’t seem aware of that himself.

She’d withheld some of the funds for the Kestrel Line and had brought a couple of pieces of valuable jewellery with her. They’d get by in South Africa, and by the time the Admiral realised she wasn’t coming back, she and Palmer would have disappeared.

But before that, there was a further consideration, an unpleasant matter but an unavoidable one: what would happen if they were caught? The Admiral had been very clear about this: under no circumstances was Palmer to be captured alive. You know what to do, Myrtle.

But would she be able to go through with that? And what about herself – could she bear to be taken alive?

When it was over, it took Bartholomew a good while to make any sense of what had happened.

He was woken up by the Field Security Section duty officer to be told that something was happening on the railway line by Porto Vittorio Emanuele. By the time he appeared in the FSS office, it turned out that whatever was going on wasn’t on the railway line but on the road running parallel to it – Viale Miramare. Over the next few minutes, confusing reports came in from the British patrols on the scene. There’d been shooting in a building on Viale Miramare: a number of people were dead and some Slovenians had been arrested. He was putting on his coat and preparing to go to see for himself when another report came in: at least one British person had been arrested – and one more, possibly, was dead. It was then that Bartholomew muttered the word ‘Prince’.

They’d left the house in Scorcola while it was still dark and walked in small groups down the road, each group climbing into their allotted van or lorry. Hanne and Prince followed Marija into a small van; half a dozen of them squeezed into the rear. Marija explained that Jožef was already in position, and once Edvard had secured the front of the building and Jožef had followed Giuseppe to the first floor, then they’d follow.

By the time the van parked a block away from the building, dawn was rising over Trieste. In the few minutes between the van stopping and the order to move in coming over the radio, the sun had risen. They’d watched the short figure of Giuseppe head into the building, and now they hurried in too.

From the entrance hall they heard shouts upstairs. Hanne and Prince had both drawn their Berettas and now they ran up the stairs after Marija.

The office door was wide open: on the floor inside was the body of a one-armed man, his blood turning the pale brown lino flooring dark red. Prince shouted to Hanne to go the left, he’d go right.

The first thing Hanne saw was the terrified figure of Friedrich Steiner on his knees by the window with his hands tied behind his back and a deep gash across his forehead. Lines of blood ran down his face like a spider’s web as his body trembled violently and he whimpered something about being innocent and needing to leave. He was surrounded by Slovenians, who appeared to be arguing with each other about what to do with him. One of them held a knife to his throat and the blade had already drawn some blood.

Hanne spotted one of the Slovenians release the safety catch on his pistol, and she stepped forward. ‘Not here – don’t kill him here!’

There was a shout from the back of the office, and Prince called her over. Slumped on the sofa was the body of Edward Palmer. He was on his back, gazing at the ceiling with a surprised, unblinking stare. His jacket had fallen open, revealing a white shirt with a growing patch of blood and the hilt of a knife protruding from the centre of it.

Sitting in a chair alongside the sofa was a woman, her hands gripping the sides. She was bloodstained but appeared uninjured. Her face was pale and there was a nervous look on her face alongside the trace of a smile.

‘It’s Myrtle Carter,