The Folks at Fifty-Eight (10 page)

“You see. . . he has the whole weekend to kill.”

He turned and gestured for her to join him. She crept forward, then looked nervously up at him as he handed her the compass and whispered,

“Wait here and stay low. If I’m not back in ten minutes, get out of here. Get back to the river. Then head south until you’re clear of the town. After that, start heading south-west. Stay away from built-up areas. Get to the American zone and tell them what’s happened. Tell them you need to speak to a man called Davis Carpenter in Washington.”

“I don’t have a watch.”

“So count. No, wait. Here, take mine. I’ll do the counting.”

Hammond handed her the wristwatch and then slipped quietly away. He crossed the road and moved towards the house, staying low and keeping to the shadows, before working his way around to the back.

He reached the first darkened window and gently tapped on the pane, peering through the blinds for any sign of movement and waiting for an answer. When neither came, he moved farther along and tapped a little louder at the next window. The sound carried through the late-evening stillness. He prayed it wouldn’t attract unwelcome interest. He prayed, too, for an answer.

A figure appeared at the doorway and stood in the light from the kitchen. It was a woman, elderly and frail and slightly hunched. She was wearing worn and threadbare clothing. Her hair was white and brittle, gathered and pinned into a bun. Her face was lined, the complexion wizened by hardship and time, but the eyes that picked him out in the gloom were both clear and alert. On the third finger of her left hand she wore a plain gold band. In the skeletal fingers of her right she held a walking stick, but didn’t use it for support. Instead she waved it at him as she returned his look of uncertainty with a glare of hostility.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“My name is Hammond. You are expecting me?”

She nodded briefly, and answered in English.

“Come along in. Quickly, before someone sees you.”

The door opened into an oversized kitchen, with a log fire flickering in the grate. A large coffee pot and battered kettle stood side-by-side on the blackened surface of a huge wood-burning stove.

Despite the reassuring warmth and welcome, Hammond drew the automatic. He glanced around the kitchen before continuing into the hallway, past a dining room, and toward the front of the house. He paused at the foot of the stairs and listened for any sound from above. He wondered if he should check, but it was clear there was no one else in the house.

When he returned, he found the old woman sitting by the fireplace in an old varnished rocking-chair, seemingly unconcerned and nursing a cup of coffee. He looked to the table, where two more cups of steaming coffee wafted a welcoming aroma.

The old woman explained.

“They said there would be two of you.”

He suddenly remembered the girl.

“I’ll get her.”

He returned with the girl in tow and ushered her into the kitchen. The old woman nodded a greeting but didn’t get up. Instead, she sat quietly rocking back and forth, nursing her coffee and studying the girl. She seemed lost in thought; memories perhaps. He interrupted.

“I’m sorry, but my friend needs to rest.”

The old woman nodded and shuffled off into the hallway. She returned carrying some towels and a nightgown in her arms. She handed one of the towels to Hammond, and passed the remaining bundle to the girl.

“Give me those clothes, they’re filthy. I’ll wash and clean them, and hang them by the stove. They’ll be dry by morning. You, too.” The old woman nodded at Hammond and then gestured to the girl and the torn material of her skirt. “I’ll see if there’s some thread for that. The kettle’s hot. You can wash in the sink.”

Hammond stood in the centre of the kitchen, uncertainly eyeing the two women. She couldn’t possibly mean for him to undress and wash, not in front of them. He looked, first to the old woman, who stood waiting for the clothing, and then to the girl, who showed no such compunction. She eased off each boot in turn, and then began separating the jacket fastenings. She paused, for a provocative moment and looked up at him through long seductive lashes, then smiled a mischievous smile when she saw his flustered reaction.

Hammond, captivated, had watched her pout at him and wilfully provoke his embarrassment, but then suddenly remembered his gallantry and lost his nerve. He blurted an excuse about checking the upstairs rooms, then turned and fled.

He allowed a full fifteen minutes to pass before deeming it safe to return. The girl had finished washing and climbed into the comforting warmth and shapeless security of a heavy nightgown. She was brushing and drying her hair by the fire.

Cutlery and plates were set out on the table. The old woman was cooking eggs on the stove. She scooped the eggs on to a plate and carried them to the table, then shuffled over to a cupboard and returned with a loaf of bread.

Hammond thanked her and sat down. He was suddenly ravenous. Other than some chocolate carried for emergencies and a few apples he’d stolen from an orchard, neither he nor the girl had eaten for two days

When they had finished their meals, the old woman pointed to the sink.

“And now I’ll take those clothes and you can get over there and wash that dirt off. I’ve refilled the kettle. The water will be more than hot enough by now.”

Hammond flushed red and mumbled a refusal.

“I’ll clean up in the morning.”

The old woman was insistent.

“You’ll do it now. I’m not having that filth sleeping in one of my beds.” She glared at the girl, who was playfully grinning at Hammond. “And you’re a little too forward for my liking, young lady. Now off to bed with you, and mind you keep to your room tonight.”

Catherine Schmidt obediently headed for the door. The old woman called after her.

“And use one of the rooms at the back of the house. Stay away from the front.”

The old woman turned to a still red-faced Hammond. He stood his ground and shook his head. There was no way he was going to undress; not under these circumstances. Hoping to buy some privacy, he offered a compromise.

“When you’ve gone up to bed; I promise.”

She nodded to a single bed pushed up against the wall in the far corner.

“That’s my bed, and the kitchen is where I sleep these days. It’s warmer in here, and I can’t easily make the stairs any more.”

Hammond shuffled uncomfortably and tried not to look as embarrassed as he felt. She stood with hands on hips and an expression of exasperation written across wizened features.

“Herr Hammond, in the seventy-eight years I have been on this earth, I have seen many different armies come and go, and led more than my share of conquering heroes up those stairs, but not for the last twenty of those years. And if that doesn’t set your mind at rest, perhaps I should add that in that sink I’ve washed and scrubbed a great-grandson, three other grandsons, two sons, a loving husband, and an invalid father.

“I promise you, I don’t embarrass easily, and you’re safe. . . from me anyway, I can’t speak for others.” She glanced pointedly at the ceiling, but then gave a smile as she added, “Twenty years ago I might have offered to bathe you myself, but I’m a little past all that nonsense these days. And now I’ll see if I can find something for you to wear.”

She shuffled off and he watched her leave, realizing there was more to this elderly lady than the simple peasant he’d assumed. He grinned at his own foolishness and began to undress.

Standing naked at the sink, he began scrubbing away the offending dirt and odour. He could hear her searching through cupboards and drawers, grumbling and complaining about men in general, and him in particular.

He wondered how she had become involved with western intelligence, and why she risked so much in helping them. Whatever the reason, it would have to be better than his had been in helping the girl. He doubted he would discover the answers. The rules of the game and the dictates of common sense favoured ignorance.

By the time the old woman returned, he had finished washing. He stood in front of the sink, feeling foolish and shielding his well-scrubbed nakedness with an inadequate towel. She handed him a nightgown and he saw her smile as she viewed the well-muscled torso.

“Well, maybe not twenty years ago. Now I come to think about it, maybe it was nearer ten.”

He accepted her teasing in good grace as he took the nightgown and mumbled his thanks. Then he snatched up his belongings and scurried out and up the stairs. On reaching the girl’s door, he paused and listened to the even breathing from within before tiptoeing into the next room. He placed the automatic under his pillow, pulled the nightgown over his head, wrapped the blankets around an exhausted frame and was instantly asleep.

When Hammond woke the next morning, it was gone nine. He hurried downstairs to collect his clothes and found them, washed and ironed and piled neatly alongside the girl’s, at the foot of the stairs. He took them back to his room, changed quickly, and then headed back downstairs.

When he wandered into the kitchen, he found the old woman sitting at the table eating breakfast and drinking coffee. She saw him and started to rise. He told her to sit and finish her breakfast. She pointed to the pot and said there was plenty of coffee.

He poured a cup, and then sat down opposite her. She asked if the girl was awake. He said she was in the room next to his, but he’d not heard her moving around and assumed she was still sleeping. The old woman nodded, and leaned across the table.

“That’s good, because I need to talk to you.”

She seemed in earnest.

“About what?”

“Beria.”

“Lavrenti Beria?”

“Yes. We have a man in the Soviet offices. He says that Beria has taken a special interest in the girl and issued specific orders that she must be found at all costs. Paslov has more than a thousand troops out looking. They’re searching everywhere, and they’re not giving up. You were lucky to have made it this far.”

Hammond asked the obvious question.

“Did your man say why they want her so badly?”

“No, but if Beria’s involved, it must be something more than simple murder.”

Hammond heard Catherine Schmidt coming down the stairs. He held up a cautionary finger and then waited until she sauntered into the kitchen. The old woman looked up.

“And how are you this morning, young lady? I trust you slept well?”

“Yes, I did, and I feel much better. Any coffee left?”

Catherine Schmidt studied them for a moment, then moved to the stove and tested the coffee pot. She poured her coffee, came back to the table, and sat down.

“Well?”

Hammond stared blankly back at her.

“Well what?”

“What were you talking about?”

Hammond hesitated, unsure if she should be told about this additional complication. She waited a moment.

“If it concerns me, I have a right to know. . . It’s my life at stake here, and I’m not a child.”

The old woman answered.

“It is all of our lives at stake here, young lady, and a good many other lives as well.”

Hammond relented.

“No, she’s right. It is her life, and she does have a right to know.” He looked hard at the girl. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a man called Beria? Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria.”

“No, why? Is he important?”

“You could say that. How about a man called Paslov, Stanislav Ivanovich Paslov?”

She nodded.

“Oh yes, I know him. He questioned me in Magdeburg. They all seemed frightened of him, but I thought he was sweet; well, for a Bolshevik.”

The old woman looked to the heavens.

“Paslov works for Beria. I promise you, he is anything but sweet.”

“So, who’s Beria?”

Hammond explained, and told her that Beria wanted her for some reason. When she smiled and made a flippant comment about feeling flattered, he shook his head.

“I wouldn’t be, if I were you. Among his many other talents, he’s a sadistic killer. He’s chartered Paslov with getting you back. He’s determined, he’s angry, and he’s dangerous.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means you must be important to them, and it means they won’t give up.”

She leaned across the table and stroked at his arm.

“Never mind; you’re strong and handsome and clever. You saved my life on the train, and you’ll protect me now. I know you will.”

Embarrassed, Hammond drew back from her touch.

“So why would such a powerful man as Lavrenti Beria be after you?” he asked.

The pout changed to petulance, and then to a look of cold determination.

“It could be because I killed one of his filthy Russian officers in Berlin. A Bolshevik pig, who thought he could rape and kill German women just because they were German and he was Russian. Well, he won’t rape any more. I made certain of that.”

Hammond carefully framed the next question, shocked by the girl’s sudden transformation from flirtatious seductress to cold-eyed killer.

“And there were others, too, weren’t there, Catherine? Other men that you killed?”

She glared at him.

“Don’t patronize me with your soothing tones and condescension. I saw how easily you did those bastards on the train. Don’t speak to me as though you’re some all-American hero, and I’m a lunatic bitch. Your country and mine have a common enemy, it’s called Bolshevism, and we’re both in the middle of a total bloody war. It was in forty-one, and it still is. They were the hated enemy then, and they still are: barbarians, and rapists, and bloodthirsty butchers.”

Hammond broached another question, this time without the soothing mannerisms and conciliatory tone she had found so irritating.