Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,7

problem.’

‘I see,’ said Lassen again. He picked up his beer, drank some, then filled his pipe thoughtfully. Anthony was anxious for him to speak, but knew better than to hurry him. ‘I can pay for accommodation,’ he added, watching Lassen closely. ‘Pay well.’

Lassen lit his pipe. ‘That would be helpful,’ he said after a time. ‘Drink your coffee, Herr Doctor. Take your time. Then say goodnight as you leave, as you always do, but go down the alley to the left, to the back of the house. Be careful you are not seen. When it is safe, come to the white door. It will not be locked. We’ll arrange what happens next when you are safely inside.’

Lassen stood up and went back behind the bar. Anthony felt the reaction from the strain of the escape to The Mermaid set in and he shook himself awake. This was dangerous. The quiet murmur of voices and the chink from the draughts pieces combined to an almost hypnotic drowsiness. He picked up his coffee, but it was nearly scalding. He could feel himself drifting once more. His head grew incredibly heavy and he rubbed his face with his hands.

Then he was completely awake, every sense on edge. The door slammed back, there was a shout of command and four soldiers marched in. They grounded arms and stood to rigid attention as a senior officer, an Oberstleutnant entered the Mermaid.

Just as the Germans caricatured the English as John Bull, the English depicted the typical German officer as a Prussian with a monocle, a duelling scar, a bald head and rolls of fat round his neck. This man was no caricature, thought Anthony warily. He was wiry and fair-haired with a long, intelligent face and more threatening than any propaganda bully.

There was a rustle of unease, followed by silence. Anthony guessed he wasn’t the only one with good reason to be wary but, still wearing his battered formal clothes and dark tie, he stood out like a sore thumb in that roomful of men dressed in seamen’s jerseys and pea-jackets. He decided to play the drunk once more, knowing the generous latitude given to drunks, and only wished he had something more convincing than black coffee as a prop.

He expected the Oberstleutnant to shout, but he didn’t. Instead he leaned across the bar and addressed Lassen in a low voice. Lassen, sullen and unhappy, avoided the Oberstleutnant’s eyes. He had a towel and glass in his hand and continued wiping the glass automatically, while grunting out answers.

Straining to hear, Anthony caught the words ‘spy’ and ‘sons’. His stomach turned over. Lassen didn’t speak but continued to wipe the glass. Then, with a droop of his shoulders, he nodded, as Anthony knew he would, and pointed towards him.

It was no use playing the drunk. The Oberstleutnant’s victorious smile told him the game was up. Lassen had been given the choice between the lives of his sons and the life of a stranger and Anthony couldn’t blame him for his choice.

Anthony stood up as the Oberstleutnant approached. He couldn’t see the point of prolonging the inevitable but he was damned if he was going to let the German know how the sick taste of fear filled his mouth. That was nothing but bravado, but it was something.

As casually as he could, Anthony picked up the coffee and took a sip. ‘Do you want me?’

The Oberstleutnant stopped. He was enjoying the moment and his air of triumphant arrogance was so apparent Anthony half-expected him to revert to caricature and say, ‘So!’

He didn’t. He smiled with a cat-who’s-got-the-mouse expression. ‘You are – or you have been masquerading as – Doctor Conrad Etriech. Don’t deny it.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Anthony with as much urbanity as he could manage.

‘You are a British spy.’

‘I can’t imagine there’d be much point in denying that, either.’

The Oberstleutnant’s smile broadened. ‘You are sensible not to resist.’

Anthony shrugged. He hoped it looked like unconcern. ‘Again, I can’t see the point. Those gentry by the door seem to block any means of escape.’

‘There is no means of escape.’

‘No. I rather thought not.’ He took another sip of coffee and the germ of an idea started to grow. ‘As we’re going to be civilized about this, may I have the pleasure of knowing your name?’

The German drew himself up. ‘I am Oberstleutnant von Hagen. I have more men posted outside. You are surrounded.’

‘Which, although clichéd, sounds unpleasantly like the truth.’ Anthony yawned. ‘All right, you win. Let