Newkirk

Blimey, these authors have been nothing but trouble so far.

This Tuttle lass—that's what she calls herself—well, her judgment in coming here is appalling, isn't it? She has a nipper at home and one on the way, and being here is ruddy irresponsible. We need to get all of them authors out of here soon, but especially her.

Look, we're used to difficult assignments. POWs who perform rescues and sabotage in enemy territory would be, wouldn't we? But none of us is keen to expand our repertoire to include delivering babies.

I suppose it's not really her fault. I don't think she meant to come here, but she did something to arrive, didn't she? Because there must a reason for that popping sound we kept hearing every time one of them authors showed up. Not to let light in on the magic, but there is no magic, you see. There's only sleight of hand. Everything else can be explained logically, including time travel. I think.

All I know for certain is that we wouldn't be in this mess if curious authors didn't keep dropping in on us. I can't understand why they find us so fascinating—apart from my obvious charisma, of course, and clearly Colonel Hogan has an eagle on his shoulders, which women find alluring. But deep down we're just humble blokes trying to do our part to win this bleeding war.

Colonel Hogan picked Tuttle for the mission because she could identify an important intelligence agent whose cooperation we needed. And I, of course, was chosen not just for my street smarts and key role on the Gov's team, but because I could be the other half of an attractive young couple. We would have a reason to be in town and we were less likely to come under suspicion if we were together. As the Gov knows, I look quite dashing in a suit and fedora, and Tuttle cleans up quite well. So we dressed up as Franz and Klara Richter, and we followed our assignment to the letter.

It wasn't so bad at first. I had a lovely bird on my arm, and we had a nice meal involving no fish stew whatsoever at the Hauserhof. We accomplished what we were sent to do: Identify Hahn as he arrived to dine in the hotel restaurant at 7 o'clock, as promised. We spotted Marya too, but thankfully she didn't see us, or the whole evening might have gone pear shaped right then and there.

No, we had, ooh, at least 15 minutes before that happened.

Because then, as planned, we took a stroll to Olsen's house, where he lived under the name of Klaus Richter—my cousin, for purposes of this little outing. I'd been dreading this part of our mission ever since the Gov told us Crittendon was hiding there with another author, Wind-in-the-Sage, the one who was wearing denim trousers like a dockworker's. They'd be safe as long as they laid low, but we needed to get them back to Stalag 13 to avoid compromising Olsen. And for that girl to go anywhere, she needed female attire. I was to get her measurements and make a dress. Right, I would be sewing all night again.

But any time Crittendon was on the scene, we somehow ended up making a rod for our own back. It was as predictable as gravity: wherever he went, Crittendon unleashed chaos and if we survived it, we'd be flinching at the thought of him for months.

Well, me and Tuttle went walking down the high street in Hammelburg arm in arm, just like any proper young couple with a baby on the way going for their Sunday stroll through Hampstead Heath. We climbed the front steps of Olsen's townhouse. I remember smiling down at Tuttle as I took the key out of my pocket. She was holding up quite well for a member of the pudding club and had been pleasantly quiet ever since we'd ventured out in public.

But suddenly the front door swung open and the wrong face flashed in front of me. If anyone was going to open the door, it should have been Olsen, but he wasn't home. He was back at camp.

It was Crittendon. That great sodding twit should have been in hiding, but no. Acting with customary brilliant judgment, he was answering front doors on high streets in Nazi Germany. And it turns out he wasn't joking when he said he knew judo. For once, he struck a very effective blow—the sort of rabbit punch that is illegal under Marquess of Queensbury rules.

When I came to, I was crumpled in a heap, I was lightheaded, my neck was sore, and Tuttle was gone. Worse yet, two goons in Gestapo plainclothes were looming over me, "helping" me to my feet with a firmer grip than the situation properly demanded. Anyone with eyes would see that I was a respectable gentleman with the suit and shoes to prove it, but clearly the Gestapo have no appreciation for fine British tailoring.

My brain was woolly as the Krauts started questioning me in German, but my senses sharpened the instant Crittendon sprang out the door. He was yelling—in English, mind you—and daring the agents to follow him as he dashed down the street. One of them ran after him; the other clutched my upper arm and dragged me to his motorcar.

Just like that, we were off to Gestapo headquarters a few streets away. That sit-down in the back seat of the motorcar helped me clear my head, collect my thoughts, and take inventory of the situation.

Newkirk, hauled to Gestapo headquarters: Bad.

Tuttle, gone: Bad.

Wind-in-the-Sage, alone in Olsen's house: Bad.

Crittendon, chased off: Could be good. All right, bad. Very bad indeed.

At least Crittendon led the other goon away, leaving me with only one arresting officer. All right, cheer up, lad. Remember: You are Peter Newkirk, thief, sneak, scoundrel, and impersonator extraordinaire. Now, settle into your role. Franz Richter has been whapped on the back of the head by an unknown assailant in front of his cousin's house. His pregnant wife is now missing. You are a distraught husband. That's all anyone needs to know.

The Gestapo agent was middle-aged and thin, with a beaky nose, a crinkly neck like a lizard, and sparse hair. I looked more Aryan than he did, I decided as he hustled me inside for questioning. I was familiar with this situation, though I hadn't expected to be presented with a tall glass of water and two aspirin.

"Are you all right?" said the agent, who called himself Vogel. "Please, drink. And take the aspirin—they'll help."

"Ja, ja," I replied. I was thirsty and sore. I debated whether the drink would be spiked, but dismissed the thought as a spy movie cliché. There was no reason for the Gestapo to drug a man who'd just been knocked out; I was obviously woozy.

So I took a big sip, chased it with aspirin, then loosened my tie to cool down and make sure my lock picks were easy to get to, just in case this was a dirty trick. Vogel was at the door, having a whisper with someone in the hallway. He returned and sat across the table from me.

"Tell me what happened, Herr…?"

"Richter. Franz Richter. My wife is missing, Sir! We just had supper at the Hauserhof. She's with child, so I'm trying to ease her burden and allow her to cook less. After supper, we took a stroll…"

The agent cut me off. "Where is your wife?"

"That's just it. I don't know. I was struck, and when I came to, she was gone. Can you find her? As I said, she's with child…"

The agent frowned. "Hmm. We'll require a description."

I provided details, adding inches to her height and omitting the mention of her strawberry blonde hair colour in hopes that she'd elude detection. I wanted her safe, not in Gestapo custody.

"Very good," Vogel said. "We will find her. Now, tell me, what was your destination? You know there's a 9:30 curfew in Hammelburg?" He consulted his watch. "That's any minute now."

"As I said, we were walking after supper. A daily constitutional is so important to the health of racially valuable women and their unborn children." I felt nauseated as I added the last phrase.

"Hmm. Were you meeting anyone?"

"We were stopping at my cousin's house for a brief visit."

"Who's your cousin and where does he live?" the agent demanded.

I didn't let myself hesitate and give the agent reason for doubt, but I was running the traps in my head: Was the agent onto Olsen? If so, he'd know I was lying. If not, then surely Wind-in-the-Sage would be smart enough to hide instead of answering the door, right? What if Crittendon had returned? And where was Tuttle?

"His name is Klaus Richter and he lives at 11 Kaiserplatz."

"Ah," the agent said soberly. "That's where we found you. In front of 11 Kaiserplatz."

"Ja," I replied. "We were nearly there." It was all going so well until Crittendon clocked me, that tosser.

"Well, perhaps you will be interested to know that I've already dispatched an agent to 11 Kaiserplatz." He gestured to the door.

My heart sank. That's what he'd been whispering about. He was suspicious of me. I mentally retraced my steps: Where had I slipped? How had I given us away? Was Tuttle in danger?

"Ja, Klaus Richter is very well known to us," the agent said.

I fumbled with my tie again, slipping out a lock pick that could inflict damage if I was cornered. It was a question of whether I would aim low or go for the eye.

"Good man. He's helped us many times," the agent smiled. "We were concerned that he might have been targeted by whoever struck you. We should have a report soon. Would you like coffee?"

I could hardly believe what I'd heard. "Do you happen to have tea?" I ventured.

"Only the English kind," the agent replied. "Earl Gray. Lots of people won't drink it on principle."

"Oh," I replied. I could taste that tea. So close and yet so far.

The agent leaned forward and confided, "But if you like it, I'll make you a cup. I don't spread this around, but I studied at Oxford and I prefer tea over coffee."

"I'd love a cup," I replied. I sat and recovered my senses while he left the room to put the kettle on.

He popped his head back in: "Milk? And how many lumps?"

"Yes, and two please," I answered.

When Vogel returned, he had two big mugs of steaming hot, milky sweet tea, a plate of biscuits on a tray, and a friendly smile on his lizard face. He set the tray down, grabbed a biscuit, and dunked it.

We sat companionably and I took tea with the Gestapo. "I've been meaning to tell you, that's a very nice suit," Vogel commented.

"Thank you. I have an excellent tailor," I replied. Emboldened, I added, "He trained on Savile Row. Best suits in the world."

"Absolutely," Vogel said cheerfully.

Fifteen minutes later, as our chat wound down, the agent that Vogel had dispatched returned, announcing that all was well at 11 Kaiserplatz.

Vogel patted me on the back warmly and encouraged me to go straight home while they found my wife. "We're the Gestapo. We'll locate her. How many pregnant ladies could be strolling the streets of Hammelburg after curfew?"

Not many, and that worried me. But I was free now, and I could worry better back at Olsen's house. I descended the steps of Gestapo headquarters, inhaled, and headed west. As I walked away from the plaza, I heard that bloody popping noise again.

So help me, if another one of those authors turns up, I won't be held accountable for my actions.

I raced back to Olsen's house and let myself in, hoping to find Wind and Tuttle there; no luck. I radioed Papa Bear; no reply.

Bloody hell. It was 10 o'clock, curfew was on, and I was on my own. Those two authors were somewhere on the streets of Hammelburg, and the Gestapo was looking for one of them. I had to start searching now.