It seemed to Kinch that he'd barely closed his eyes, when someone shook him by the shoulder. "Kinch, Baker wants you."
He blinked, and Saunders gave him another shake. "You awake, Kinch?"
"Just about. What did you say?"
"It's Baker. He said to send you down."
Kinch glanced blearily at his watch; he'd been asleep for just over an hour. He shook his head to clear it, and headed down the ladder to the tunnel. Baker looked up as he came into the radio room.
"We got a problem," he said. "Klink just phoned Stalag 4, asking them to send their medical officer over."
Although he'd only been at Stalag 13 for a couple of months, Baker was already settling comfortably into the fabric of the place. Laconic, with a slow, quiet manner of speech, he hadn't drawn attention at first, but under that relaxed exterior lay a practical intelligence which hadn't taken long to catch both Hogan's and Kinch's notice. The consensus was that he was going to be valuable to the team, once he'd shaken down.
Kinch sighed. "Figures. The minute Colonel Hogan's out of reach, the bald eagle has to decide to think for himself. When's the doctor supposed to be here?"
"Tomorrow morning," said Baker. "Sorry, Kinch. If I'd been quicker, I could have intercepted the call."
"Don't worry, it's fixable. Watch and learn." Kinch gave him a grin, and went to the switchboard to place a call.
"Stalag 4? This is Stalag 13 calling, please hold," he said, in a clipped, nasal manner. He covered the mouthpiece for a moment, took a deep breath, and allowed his voice to slip into a slightly hollow tone with an anxious rising inflection at the end of each sentence. "This is Colonel Klink speaking. I requested your medical officer pay us a call tomorrow...That's right. But I no longer require his assistance...No, please tell him not to bother. Thank you, goodbye...what? Oh, yes, of course. Heil Hitler."
Baker was watching, fascinated. Kinch had even adopted Klink's hand gestures and the nervous wrinkle between the eyebrows which was so often seen on the Kommandant's face. As he ended the call, Baker began to laugh.
"Yeah, I know," said Kinch, with a wry smile. "Pretty weird, but it comes in useful."
"You guys can do just about anything, can't you?"
"We're versatile; got one of nearly everything. Chef, demolition expert, pickpocket..." Kinch broke off, remembering they hadn't actually got Newkirk back yet. "At least, I hope we do," he added softly.
Baker held his peace for a moment, but something was still worrying him. "What happens tomorrow when the doctor doesn't turn up? Won't Klink get suspicious?"
"The doctor will be here, provided Carter gets back in time. We'd better line someone else up, in case - Olsen, maybe. His German's perfect, and he's out of camp so much anyway that Klink shouldn't recognise him." Kinch gave his shoulders a stretch. "You can take a break, if you need to," he said. "It can be a bit uncomfortable down here until you get used to it."
"I don't mind it," replied Baker. "It's quieter than the barracks, that's for sure. Anyway, you've got other stuff to see to. I can stick around, if you want."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm happy to help out down here any time, Kinch."
"I'll tell the colonel to put your name on top of the list, in case I ever decide to quit. But don't hold your breath. I'm not planning on going anywhere."
Kinch was halfway up the ladder when Baker called him back. He was leaning forward, concentrating on an incoming radio message.
"It's Papa Bear," he said. "Says we're to shut down - radio silence. Everyone, not just us."
"Confirm it," Kinch ordered tersely.
Baker did so, then turned back to Kinch. "This is bad, right?"
"It could be real bad," said Kinch.
He left Baker to start putting the word around the network, and went back up to the barracks, and from there directly into Hogan's office, where he wouldn't be interrupted. Something had gone seriously wrong. No radio communication; that suggested their transmissions might have been intercepted, and their code broken. Which would mean the Gestapo had known where to find Newkirk as soon as his friends did; and the Gestapo, being closer, could have got there first.
Every so often, it almost got too hard, being the one who had to stay behind. Today was turning into one of those days. There was nothing more he could do to help the outside team, except to keep things running smoothly here at camp. Kinch took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and went to speak to Olsen.
It might have been some consolation to Kinch if he could have known Newkirk was not in Gestapo custody, but he was unlikely to have drawn much comfort from it. The situation was still serious.
"We've got no money, we've got no transport, and we can't contact home base," remarked Newkirk meditatively. "Still, things could be worse."
Elise had long since abandoned her light, teasing manner, and was turning shrewish. "I would love to know how," she said. "Please tell."
"Well, for a start, Wolfgang hasn't caught up with us yet." He'd worked out very quickly that when he referred to her brother-in-law by his first name it really irritated her, so he was doing so at every opportunity. Not out of spite, but because when she was cross, she forgot how tired she was. "And we're neither of us hurt - oh, stop moaning. Bruises don't count. You were lucky not to break your leg. Even luckier not to break mine."
The flight from Sonnenstraße, a couple of hours earlier, had not gone smoothly. The gate from the rear courtyard of the house had let them out onto a narrow footpath which brought them to the levee along the river. Aware of the real possibility of pursuit, Newkirk had enforced a quick pace, until Elise had missed her footing and slipped down the bank. As she had a firm grip on Newkirk's arm, he had gone over as well.
In some respects it had been a lucky accident. The high bank had provided cover for them until they were at a safe distance from the search area. Getting back up from the river's edge had been a scramble, but they'd managed, and come out of it with only minor injuries.
They were heading back towards the old town, and the bridge across to the south side of the river. Newkirk had concluded that his best chance now was to try to reach Blackbird, and send another message home. But the first sight of the bridge came as a shock; the middle span was missing, another casualty of last night's events. Newkirk's reaction was expressed both fluently and imaginatively, in three languages; over the past couple of years he'd learned at least some French, though not the best kind, from LeBeau, and any amount of vulgar German from the guards at Stalag 13.
"Okay," he wound up, when he'd run out of invective, "there should be another bridge about half a mile further along. You up for more walking, princess? Or shall I leave you here and fetch a cab?"
With a glare that should have slain him on the spot, she swung round and set off. He caught up, and took her arm, giving her a deliberately patronising smile. "Wrong direction, darling."
Both of them grew quieter and less antagonistic, as they skirted round the edge of the old town. Their way didn't cross Kaiserplatz, so they were spared the sight of whatever damage had been done to the hotel, but there was plenty to be seen along the river; shattered, smouldering ruins bearing no resemblance to the neat houses which had stood here the day before. It was more of a shock to Elise than to Newkirk.
"Did they have to do that?" she whispered.
"Probably a mistake," he replied. "It happens."
"You don't seem to care very much."
"I'm a Londoner, sweetheart. They're getting worse than this at home, nearly every night. You can't expect me to be too sympathetic."
Soldiers had been brought in to search for casualties and to start clearing the debris, and Newkirk kept up a brisk pace in case one of the officers supervising took it into his head to start checking identity papers. He still had the fake documentation he'd brought from camp, but Elise had left everything at the hotel. It was likely to become a problem, but Newkirk was the right man to fix it.
There were more people in the street as they neared the railway station. Newkirk kept an eye out, looking for any woman with a passing resemblance to Elise; once he found a likely starter, it was just a matter of engineering an opportunity. And it wouldn't be very difficult; the woman he had spotted was headed for the station, and with a lot of people trying to leave town and the trains probably not running, it was pretty crowded in there.
He left Elise outside. "Wait here," he told her. "I'll be two minutes." If it was an optimistic estimate, it certainly wasn't much longer before he returned, with a woman's handbag which he passed into Elise's hands.
"Let's go, before she misses it," he murmured.
He didn't let her check the contents of the bag until they were some distance from the station. "Okay, have a look, see what we've got," he said. "But keep walking."
Elise rummaged through the handbag, and produced the owner's documents. She gazed at the photograph with an expression not far short of outrage. "I don't look like that," she protested.
"Close enough," said Newkirk, glancing at the picture. "You don't look like you did yesterday, you know. Your own mother would probably walk past you in the street."
"My mother would walk past me anyway. She cut me off when I married Stefan," replied Elise. "I haven't seen her for seven years."
They continued in silence for a while, at a slower pace. Newkirk's right leg had taken the full weight of his fall on the river bank, and he was starting to feel some serious discomfort in his knee. Elise was flagging, too. The damage in the streets had upset her emotional equilibrium, and as well Newkirk suspected her feet were hurting a lot; those shoes were not meant for walking. She needed to be distracted.
"What's he like, then, your old man?" he asked her. "Your husband, I mean. Anything like his brother?"
"There's a family resemblance, but Stefan is several years younger." She looked up at him doubtfully. "I don't suppose you've ever had the opportunity to see the best of Wolfgang."
Newkirk laughed. "Not likely. You saying he's got a best?"
"He did have, once. He's always been quite kind to me. But the life he's led, the things he's done for the Reich, and for the Führer - one can't do such things, and stay decent. Stefan was never drawn into that. If you could imagine a best side of Wolfgang, that's what Stefan is like."
She didn't speak for a moment, then went on abruptly. "Stefan came home one day, and he was crying, he couldn't stop. He wouldn't tell me why, he just kept saying, over and over, that it had to be stopped. Not long after, he started sending information to the Allies."
He wasn't going to say so, but Newkirk had a suspicion what it was that had so overset Stefan Hochstetter. London was saying nothing yet, but there were always rumours. Something truly dreadful was going on, deep in the heart of the Reich. "And you helped out?" he said.
"He didn't want me to, and honestly, I didn't want to, either," she admitted. "For a long time, I kept out of it. But it wasn't always easy for him to pass messages to the right people, so eventually I took over that side of the business. I thought about it, and I decided, if it was bad enough to upset Stefan so much, then he was right. It had to be stopped, and that was the only way I could help."
After a long silence, she took a deep, resolute breath. "He's not going to make it to Sweden, is he?"
"I hate to say it, pet, but I don't think he ever got out of Berlin," said Newkirk. No point in softening it; sooner or later, she'd have to know. But an unexpected surge of sympathy roughened his voice. He cleared his throat, and continued. "They turned up last night looking for you. That probably meant they already picked him up."
"Can anything be done for him?" She spoke very low. He didn't answer her.
"Here we go," he said, a few minutes later, as another bridge came into view, around a bend in the river. This one was undamaged, but guarded; not by the SS, to Newkirk's relief. The two men in charge were municipal police, and therefore might not be on the lookout for passing Luftwaffe officers. The coat he had borrowed from Max covered his uniform, but his documentation still identified him as Captain Bachmann.
"Now, are we going to pass inspection?" He cast a critical eye over Elise. "Not too bad, considering the day we've had. At least you look respectable, which is probably more than I do."
"A little disreputable," she replied. "You have some dirt on your face - no, the other side, a little higher - oh, let me do it." She rubbed her thumb along his cheekbone. "That's better."
"Thanks, mum." He gave her a grin; it was the first time he'd felt so friendly towards her. "Now, when we get there, don't talk, if you can help it."
Both of them were on edge as they approached the checkpoint. The policeman on duty checked Elise's papers first, and Newkirk almost held his breath; but she was passed with barely a glance. It was a different matter with his own, to his surprise; he'd drawn up the documents himself, shortly before his fall from grace, and he'd been rather pleased with the result.
"You are out of uniform, Kapitan," said the Wachtmeister.
"On furlough," replied Newkirk, trying to look relaxed. "And if I'd had any idea of the kind of entertainment you get in Hammelburg at night, I wouldn't have bothered."
The man squinted at the photo, looked up at Newkirk, then looked at the photo again. "You look much older," he observed suspiciously.
Newkirk shrugged. "It's been a long war."
For a few more seconds, which felt like hours, the policeman continued to study the document, then he handed it back. "Very well. On your way."
It was all Newkirk could do to maintain his outward calm, as he took Elise's arm and crossed the bridge, and he could feel her trembling.
"What happens now?" she asked, once they were safely on the south side of the river.
He wavered. The detour to reach this bridge had taken them further from Blackbird than he had intended, and he still hadn't worked out where he would leave Elise while he made contact. Maybe he should just take her along. It would save time, besides making the whole affair less complicated, and much less dangerous. His instinctive feeling, after all that had happened, was that she could be trusted.
For the moment, love, it was nice...
He had said those words to Gretel, just at the point when he'd been convinced of her sincerity. He had believed, and trusted, and been misled. Instinct had let him down. It could do so again. He wasn't going to let a moment of fellow feeling catch him out this time round.
"I've got to try to reach the governor again," he said brusquely. "There's another contact on this side of the river."
He considered the possibilities. The Hofbrau, if it hadn't sustained damage, was certain to be open; nothing so minor as an air-raid was likely to discourage the regulars there, but it was likely to be crowded, and some of the patrons might be a little too interested in a woman on her own. The alternative was a small Weinkeller nearby, which was never busy at this time of day, and which had the added advantage that one of the staff was an Underground member, and could keep an eye on Elise without her knowledge.
"There's a place you can wait," he said. "Probably about half an hour's walking distance. Sorry, princess. I know your feet hurt, but it can't be helped. Anyway, it'll be over soon."
"You will come back for me?" Her voice was almost timid; perhaps she had sensed the change in his mood.
He gave her arm a squeeze. "Of course I will. I told you, whatever happens, I'll come back."
He was feeling optimistic, for the first time since he'd set eyes on Elise. Let him just get to Blackbird, and contact Stalag 13, and the colonel would sort it. This whole mess was almost over.
He had no idea yet how far from over it was.