D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

with Britain to defeat the Russians. It was a pipe dream, of course, but you had to admire them for what they risked. Except for a few sacrificial lambs, the group’s core somehow survived all the purges, even the one after the failed attempt on Hitler’s life in July 1944.... Your father was a member.”

Erika’s eyes widened.

“The people behind the massacre don’t want any loose ends,” Michael continued. “That’s why your father died.... Mine, as well.”

“But who killed them?”

He turned to her, fixing her with a level gaze. “The Russians.”

“My God, if that’s true—”

“Then they will go to any lengths to keep us quiet, including killing us. What I don’t understand is why that regiment was there in the first place. The British weren’t involved in the Russo-Finnish War. There was no bloody reason for it!” He slammed his hands against the steering wheel repeatedly, his anger boiling over. “Damn them! Damn them all to hell!”

“Michael, please!” Erika shouted, grabbing the wheel when the car began to swerve.

He pushed her back and pulled the Toyota over to the side of the road, then turned to face her, eyes blazing. “Never do that again! You want to kill us?”

“Maybe you should ask yourself that question,” she said, opening the door and stalking away from the car.

Michael sighed and shook his head. “Bloody idiot you are, Thorley.” He threw open the door and went after her, catching up to her outside an Italian restaurant. He reached out for her arm and she wrenched away from him. “Erika, wait.... Please.”

She stopped and turned, her eyes tearing and her mouth a delicious pout. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. But you can’t imagine what this all means to me.”

“Yes, I can.... I lost a father, too.”

Michael nodded, feeling even more foolish. “Of course, you did, and you know I’m sorry for that. But at least you knew him.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I didn’t tell you this.... There was evidence that my father’s death was self-inflicted. Neither my mother nor I believed he could do that, but nothing existed to prove otherwise...until Dad’s letter.”

“Then that is what your mother meant by ‘disgrace.’”

Michael stared at the ground and nodded.

“Christ,” Erika said.

“My God, Erika, did that letter sound like the letter of a man about to blow his brains out?”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Then you can see why I have to pursue this, why I have to find the truth, no matter what it means?”

Erika reached across the gulf between them and squeezed his arm affectionately. “We’ll find it together.”

They started walking back to the car, and Michael’s determined mood intensified, his gestures becoming more and more animated as he spoke. “I think our salvation lies with one of the remaining four men on that list. There’s nothing in what your father gave to mine to indicate it, but I’m certain there has to be one more piece to the puzzle, otherwise I think we’d be dead by now.

“We have to go to Germany, Erika, as soon as possible—tonight.” They reached the Toyota and he locked eyes with her. “I know you want to help, and I’m so very glad you’re here. I hope you know that. But we have to get to those men on the list before the Russians do...or we’re doomed.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The sight that greeted Michael and Erika when they entered his mews flat, stopped them cold. Everything that could be moved had been turned upside-down and scattered to the four winds. All his books had been ripped to pieces, his records pulled from their sleeves and cast about, one so hard it stuck partway into the wallboard. Furniture had been reduced to kindling and the leather sofa he’d owned and loved since his university days had been slashed, the horsehair stuffing yanked out in ragged tufts that spilled onto the floor.

The kitchen had not been spared either. Mason jars full of sugar and flour had been dumped out on the linoleum, the jars then smashed to slivers. Even the stove and refrigerator had been wrested out of place and now sat in the middle of the tiny space. It was all too much.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Michael said.

Erika remained silent while she moved about the room, her eyes scanning everything. She picked up an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer record that had been broken in half, then let the pieces fall back to the floor.

“This is all my fault,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”

He shot her an angry glance when he caught sight of his university diploma ripped into five ragged pieces. He sighed, shaking his head wearily. “Sorry, doesn’t cut it, love, but it’s okay.”

She nodded, her lips trembling. The phone rang then, and it took a moment for Michael to locate it under an overturned bookcase. Throwing it aside, he snatched up the receiver and brought it to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice was harsh, unapologetic.

“Michael? My God, are you all right?”

Lillian sounded frantic, and Michael frowned, puzzled.

“Why wouldn’t I be, mother?”

“Turn on the telly. Now!”

Michael nodded to Erika. “The telly, turn it on.”

“What?”

“The television. Turn it on.”

Ironically, the television was one of the few items that appeared no worse for wear. Erika moved over to it and snapped on the power switch. In a moment, the staid image of Gordon Honeycombe filled the screen.

“...Once again, police are searching for anyone with information on the murder of John Ferguson—late of the War Graves Commission—who was found shot late last night in his home in Streatham. The Police refuse to comment on the motive, saying only that robbery is not indicated.”

“Oh, God,” Michael said.

He couldn’t believe his ears.