resort lake country scantly occupied, and his first-class compartment blessedly to himself alone. By dinnertime, he would be home. He could almost taste the potato soup—his favorite—he knew Hilda would have for him as a first course. Then some Kassler Ripkin, potato pancakes with apple sauce and Buskohl. For dessert, Sachertorte. He would stuff himself! It seemed that all their Luftwaffe cooks knew how to prepare was sausages, boiled potatoes, and black bread. Outside the car, the blare of a loudspeaker banished all thought of food.
“Achtung! Achtung! All passengers who have boarded trains, please have your travel documents ready for inspection.”
Liebe Gott! Where is my Germany? Werner wondered.
Time: 0945, GMT, July 6, 1940
Place: Rumpole Street, Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
Brian Moore thumbed the bell push again and looked around the neighborhood from his vantage point on the stoop. So far the street showed no more sign of liveliness or occupation than the residence of Bertram Hudnutt. From inside, the dim sound of what must be an irritating buzzer came to Brian’s ears. Next door, a roller shade flickered to reveal a swatch of white, lace curtain. Brian shoved the button again.
“Pardon me.” The voice, somewhat shaky and hesitant, came from the porch next door. “Are you looking for Bertram, young man?”
Brian turned to find himself facing a silver-haired woman, her face a road map of years. “Yes, I am.”
“He’s not home. Has not been for three days now.”
“On holiday?” Brian asked.
“Oh, no, he died suddenly.”
That sat Brian back joltingly. “Heart trouble?”
“No. I’m not sure what caused it. Only that a constable came by, with two men in suits. I suppose from the CID. They entered his house, and when they left I asked what the trouble might be. They told me that he had died.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Brian left. He had nothing else he could do. At least not in daylight, with a nosey dowager right next door.
A phone call to the local CID office informed Brian that Hudnutt had not died of natural causes. Although they had not handled the case, they had been included in the distribution list for the report. Brian said he would be over to see it.
After producing his identification, Brian was allowed to read the report. Bertram Hudnutt had been shot by a sentry at Hamphill Aerodrome. Hudnutt had scaled a fence and entered the airfield illegally. He had explosives with him and an incendiary device. Brian put the brief report aside and looked up at the CID inspector.
“Would you have any idea why I was not on the list for this?”
Showing an indifferent expression, the CID inspector replied neutrally. “This came down to us by the usual channels. I assume it originated with your superior.”
When Brian returned to the office, he asked about the report of the shooting incident. Agnes left her desk to check the file cabinet. After rummaging through dozens of folders, in several drawers, she came up with a copy.
“Here you are, sir. It had been misfiled under military bases. It is so hard to get competent help these days,” she added by means of explaining all failings. “It should have been in the file on the dead man.”
Half a day wasted, Brian thought angrily. Brian took it from her and read it rapidly. As an internal memo of MI-5 the brief report contained far more detail. Bertram Hudnutt had been climbing a fence when a watchdog alerted sentries to his presence. Hudnutt resisted, shooting one man before being shot dead. The explosives he carried had detonated and there was not enough of him left to bury in a matchbox. Brian decided to access his second suspect.
Time: 1510 GMT, July 6, 1940
Place: Horn and Star Pub, Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
Liam O’Doul strolled off the campus of the University of Warwick and angled down High Street toward the center of Coventry. He remained unaware of Brian Moore, who had picked him up outside a lecture hall and
“Achtung! Achtung! All passengers who have boarded trains, please have your travel documents ready for inspection.”
Liebe Gott! Where is my Germany? Werner wondered.
Time: 0945, GMT, July 6, 1940
Place: Rumpole Street, Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
Brian Moore thumbed the bell push again and looked around the neighborhood from his vantage point on the stoop. So far the street showed no more sign of liveliness or occupation than the residence of Bertram Hudnutt. From inside, the dim sound of what must be an irritating buzzer came to Brian’s ears. Next door, a roller shade flickered to reveal a swatch of white, lace curtain. Brian shoved the button again.
“Pardon me.” The voice, somewhat shaky and hesitant, came from the porch next door. “Are you looking for Bertram, young man?”
Brian turned to find himself facing a silver-haired woman, her face a road map of years. “Yes, I am.”
“He’s not home. Has not been for three days now.”
“On holiday?” Brian asked.
“Oh, no, he died suddenly.”
That sat Brian back joltingly. “Heart trouble?”
“No. I’m not sure what caused it. Only that a constable came by, with two men in suits. I suppose from the CID. They entered his house, and when they left I asked what the trouble might be. They told me that he had died.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Brian left. He had nothing else he could do. At least not in daylight, with a nosey dowager right next door.
A phone call to the local CID office informed Brian that Hudnutt had not died of natural causes. Although they had not handled the case, they had been included in the distribution list for the report. Brian said he would be over to see it.
After producing his identification, Brian was allowed to read the report. Bertram Hudnutt had been shot by a sentry at Hamphill Aerodrome. Hudnutt had scaled a fence and entered the airfield illegally. He had explosives with him and an incendiary device. Brian put the brief report aside and looked up at the CID inspector.
“Would you have any idea why I was not on the list for this?”
Showing an indifferent expression, the CID inspector replied neutrally. “This came down to us by the usual channels. I assume it originated with your superior.”
When Brian returned to the office, he asked about the report of the shooting incident. Agnes left her desk to check the file cabinet. After rummaging through dozens of folders, in several drawers, she came up with a copy.
“Here you are, sir. It had been misfiled under military bases. It is so hard to get competent help these days,” she added by means of explaining all failings. “It should have been in the file on the dead man.”
Half a day wasted, Brian thought angrily. Brian took it from her and read it rapidly. As an internal memo of MI-5 the brief report contained far more detail. Bertram Hudnutt had been climbing a fence when a watchdog alerted sentries to his presence. Hudnutt resisted, shooting one man before being shot dead. The explosives he carried had detonated and there was not enough of him left to bury in a matchbox. Brian decided to access his second suspect.
Time: 1510 GMT, July 6, 1940
Place: Horn and Star Pub, Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
Liam O’Doul strolled off the campus of the University of Warwick and angled down High Street toward the center of Coventry. He remained unaware of Brian Moore, who had picked him up outside a lecture hall and
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