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

Then he remembered the station was a hub for the District Line and would take them back in the general direction of Kensington. He checked the clock, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. The last train to Wimbledon was due any moment, and one of its stops was South Kensington. Erika joined him at the map, her face etched with worry.

“Where are we going, Michael?”

“We’ve got to get some new clothes,” he said, indicating the blood on her dress. “How are you fixed for cash?”

“All the English money I had was back in the limousine.”

She pulled out a wad of German Marks and Michael saw that most of the bills were large denominations. He sighed and leaned against the wall, shaking his head.

“That means we’ll have to risk the bank first thing in the morning.”

“But surely they won’t react that quickly,” she said.

“Never underestimate the British government. But you may be right. The bank will most likely be clear. It’s the ports we have to worry about. They’ll probably have people stationed at all the exit points. It’s the chance we’ll have to take. The problem is we have no place to go until then. Even if a hotel would take your money, they’d take one look at us and turn us out.”

A gay couple clutching each other’s derrieres, passed between them, giving Michael an appraising glance. Their eyebrows arched when they noticed the condition of his attire. Erika gave them a withering glare, then turned back to Michael, who drew her over to a spot near the wall.

“I have other friends...in Sloan Square,” she said.

“No, I don’t want to involve anyone else. It’s too dangerous. We’ll keep moving until daylight. When the bank opens, we’ll exchange some of your money. I only bloody hope they don’t arrest us.”

Another train pulled into the station, and Michael saw it was the Wimbledon train. “Come on, this is it.”

They ran for the train, slipping inside just as the doors clattered shut. Michael let Erika have the one seat available and stood in front of her, holding the bar overhead. He tried not to notice the stares of the other passengers, for he knew they were both a frightful mess. And even though their position was a precarious one, this was not what was continually nagging at his mind. It was the look of naked fear in the eyes of the German gunman, the one called Karl. It was a look of a man who was staring death in the face.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Reprehensible! This is absolutely reprehensible!” Roger MacKinnon shouted. He stalked back and forth across the carpet in front of his desk, his cheeks mottled with rage.

Sir Robert Sandon, the object of his ire, sat facing him in one of the straight-backed chairs, looking grim.

“You told me you were handling this situation, Sandon. And I expected you to be bloody well discreet! Now, we have four dead bodies in Whitechapel, the press crawling all over us asking their blasted questions, and nothing to show for it!” He stepped closer to Sir Robert, bending down like a parent scolding a child. “You were told to keep me informed, and you let Welles go off half-cocked on some bloody safari!”

Sir Robert’s pushed himself up from the chair and met MacKinnon’s fiery gaze, his blood pressure rising.

“I won’t be talked to like this! My men were brutally murdered, God only knows by whom, and I will have to be the one to break it to their families...”

“They were East German,” MacKinnon snapped.

“...and I resent the implication— What did you say?”

“They were bloody East German! MI5 and Special Branch have been tracking them since they entered the country.”

Sir Robert’s eyes widened. “And you let them kill my men?”

A little of the hot air seemed to leak out of MacKinnon. He moved behind his desk and dropped into the leather-covered swivel chair. “Up until now, all they were doing was shadowing Thorley and the German woman,” he said, his hands toying with a letter opener resembling a miniature Excalibur. “There was no reason to expect that they would try to take them out.”

“Then it looks as if MI5 and Special Branch are to blame, doesn’t it? Besides, what have the East Germans to do with the South Wessex affair?”

MacKinnon slammed his hand down upon his desk. “That’s what MI5 was trying to find out! Welles should never have picked up Thorley and the girl! Not without my approval! It wasn’t his province to do so.”

“But we have it on good authority that the two of them are about to flee the country.”

“Precisely, old man, precisely,” MacKinnon said, steepling his fingers and offering a hawkish grin. “I have every reason to believe they’re heading for West Germany. And when they arrive, the Russians will resolve the situation. With Thorley and the girl dead, we’ll expose the bastards for the bloody savages they are.”

Suddenly, Sir Robert understood everything. It was as crystal clear as a bright summer sky. “My God, man.... You don’t give a damn about Thorley, the girl, or the bloody D-notice. You want to hang the Russians....”

MacKinnon leaned forward, trembling with excitement. “By their bloody balls. When all this comes out, the PM will make a statement to the press that will absolve Britain of any complicity then...and now. Can’t you see it, Sandon? It will mean the end of the Iron Curtain!”

“Yes, but at what price?”

“Bugger the price. We’ve been crushed between the Soviets and the Americans for forty bloody years. Become a second-rate power begging scraps at their table. No more. It’s time we reasserted ourselves and took our rightful place among the superpowers as equals.”

“And