Archive of Our Own

The Spandau Strategy

(Prequel to “Don’t Look Behind You”)

By G. Baker

A grieving young widow. A charming intelligence operative. A mysterious man of means. All on a collision course in post-war Berlin.

***Disclaimer:  This story is intended purely as entertainment and is strictly not for profit. 
I don’t own any rights to The Avengers, its characters, nor its universe. 
All rights are reserved by the respective holders.

 
Chapter One

A Reminiscence of Catherine Gale

Kenya 1953

 I opened the shutters to the bathroom window and gazed into the deep African night. A light breeze was fluffing the curtains. I breathed it in. After two years on the savannah, it was still the scent of the place that was most evocative. The sharp acidity of camp fires wafting smoke in the darkness. The savory note of wild sage through the open window. The floral sweetness of jasmine and gardenia carried on the breeze. The earthy petrichor rising after the rain. I luxuriated in these notes in ways I never could have anticipated before this land became my home. 

It was the sound of it, however, that remained strangest to me. In the earliest days of our marriage, Robert had cautioned me about my first night in Africa – You won’t sleep well, Cathy. You’ll miss the noise of London. The chatter of crickets and frogs from the watering hole was the only sound that reminded me of England. Everything else was otherworldly – the eerie chirping of jackals; the cawk of a baboon alert call; the raspy huff of a leopard. He was right -- I hadn’t slept a wink. The next day, in the hot noon still, the sounds were suspiciously absent. I was greeted only by the rhythmic tuck-tuck of the hornbill. The discord was unsettling.

 Those very early days were on the fringes of my memory. I soon found the noise was almost comforting. After two years, I could sleep through an elephant trumpeting in a thunderstorm. I turned away from the window, locked the shutters, and began to draw a bath. It was after 10. The day had been long and tiring, spent clearing brush along the fence rows. My hands ached as I turned off the taps. I slipped into the warm water and closed my eyes.

 From the front porch, I could hear Robert as he sat talking with the farm manager, Warui. It was customary on most nights, with the workers retired to their rondavels, for those two to sip their concoction of Kenyan tea and whiskey while discussing plans for the farm. Warui was invaluable to us, as he knew the peculiarities of the climate, the crops, and the people. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Gale,” he would say with a steady grin. “We will have the harvest in on time.” And they always did. 

 The discussion that night concerned predators. Something had been spooking the livestock in the pens and had taken a kid or two. The carcasses hadn’t been found, leading us to think it had been a big cat. Leopards would often drag their prey up into the trees to consume them, leaving little trace on the ground. Robert resolved to head out towards the watering hole the next morning to look for tracks. Better to handle the problem directly and quickly before the cat got too bold around the farm.

 What exactly happened next, I couldn’t say. As I was asked by the authorities to recollect events days later, I could no longer be sure what had alerted me first. I had dozed off in the bath that night to the chatter of conversation from the porch. Perhaps it had been some premonitory sense, or feminine intuition, or that same uneasy discordance that had caused my skin to crawl years before. Whatever it was, I instantly knew the night had gone wrongly silent.

 The next sound I heard nearly jolted me out of the tub. It was a human cry, coming from the rondavels near the barn, piercing and desperate. I hopped from the tub, toweled off, and began hunting for clean clothes. From outside, I heard the men scrambling on the porch then footsteps coming inside. 

 “What is it?” I called.

 “Stay in here,” Robert told me from the bedroom. He was pulling a rifle down from the wall and loading bullets. “It’s that damned cat back again.”
 “You aren’t going out there?”

 “I certainly am. It’s got one of the men.”

 “Then I am going with you.”

 Robert knew better than to argue. I was nine years his junior, but equally as resolute. In the life we chose together, it was important to have a partner who could instantly appraise a situation and handle herself. He merely nodded and hurried out of the room as I pulled on my boots.

 By the time I armed myself, picked up a torch, and raced outside, Robert and Warui were vanishing into the dimly lit gloom around the edge of the rondavels. As I hurried across the yard, I was possessed with the fear that I wouldn’t get there quickly enough to help. The next sound I heard stopped me in my tracks.

 A crescendo of chaos came from the storage shed. Shelves being overturned. Shouts and screams. A shot, and another, then too many to count. Warui’s wife, Carolyhna, called from the door of their house. “My God, Mrs. Gale, what is happening?”

 “It’s that leopard again,” I shouted. “The men have gone after it. Keep your children inside.”

 I reached the edge of the light and waited. As I held the torch high and stared into the darkness, my eyes began to adjust. I thought about moving forward, but hesitated, my hand firmly on my pistol. Who knew where that cat could be? After a minute or two, whatever was happening had subsided. I expected Robert or one of the men to come tell me it was over. That never happened. Instead, one of the workers, Chege, came stumbling from the darkness, covered in spattered blood. His mouth was opening and closing, trying to speak, but only gurgling sounds came out. I could see his neck was slit in the dim light, and no cat had made that wound.

 Chege fell to his knees and I held him. He could only point toward the shed, his hand trembling and weak. I cradled his head for several long moments, then recoiled in horror as he coughed and fell over, his eyes glassy under the moonlight. 

A quick movement in the trees caught my attention. Another man emerged from the gloom -- one I did not know -- a man who regarded me with hellish intent. “Thief,” he said through gritted teeth. “Our land. Ours!” He lurched forward, raising an axe, and I fired a bullet into his heart. He crumpled soundlessly to the ground. 

For the briefest of moments, it flashed in my mind that I had taken a human life -- how can this be -- then I had no other time to think. Forms were rushing about in the bush, scrambling and scuffling, some heading my way. A queasy, undeniable panic was forming in me, and I knew if I let it take over, that would be my end as well. I uttered one low cry of despair and started down the walkway to Warui’s house. I could at least protect Carolyhna and the children. 

I had taken only a few steps when something hit me from behind, knocking me to my knees. It was a second intruder. Another shove and I was on my back. He stood over me and hissed. I could see a thousand pinpricks of starlight behind his head as he raised a machete and swung. I rolled just before the blade struck the walkway, sending up sparks as steel hit stone. I swept my leg around and caught my attacker behind the knee. As he fell to the ground, cursing, I reached for the knife in my boot and plunged it to the hilt in the man’s thigh. He yelped a bark of pain and rolled to his feet. 

I stood up, shaking with adrenaline, and jabbed again with the knife. This time, the attacker was ready, parrying the blade aside, and striking me across the face. The rusty taste of blood bubbled in my mouth and I couldn’t focus. I stumbled backwards. Instead of continuing the fight, for a reason known only to him, the man retreated and limped away. I would have been easy prey. For several long moments, I was aware only of my ragged breathing as the figure retreated into the night. Somewhere bells were ringing, and workers from the rondavels on the other side of the farm were coming into the yard. 

The scene was a jangle of colors, lights, and sounds. I felt unsteady, and my ears buzzed. My shirt sleeve was soaked red where I had been wiping my mouth. The workers milled around me, asking what had happened, but like Chege just minutes before, I could only point weakly to the shed. A flicker of flame had begun to illuminate the darkness and several of the workers hunted for buckets and blankets to fight the fire. 

After what seemed an eternity, the fire was down to embers and I could make out Warui heading across the yard. He was holding his arm as it hung loosely at his side. I called for Carolyhna. As Warui approached, he motioned for me.

“Where’s Robert?” I asked. He shook his head and clasped the back of my neck. I bent my ear to his mouth and heard him whisper “Mau Mau.”

Without asking another question, I knew what had happened. In the depths of my soul I could feel it, something precious had been wrenched away. I was aware only of Carolyhna holding me by the arm, then dropping down and feeling the press of cold stone against the flesh of my face.
 

 
 Chapter Two

 The flight from Nairobi to Khartoum passed in near oblivion, marked only by the hazy drone of engines and the gentle rocking of my seat. Military aircraft were not known for their comfort features. I recalled buckling into the seat and an airman putting my baggage … somewhere. I knew I had better get used to it. From Khartoum it would be one air base after another – Cyprus, Rome, Berlin. Hopscotching across continents. Although, what did it matter really?

 Nothing was of importance any longer. Robert was gone, buried under the unforgiving African sun along with Chege. What had happened to the four Mau Mau who had been killed, including the one by my own hand, the authorities would not divulge. I got the impression they were a bit in awe of me. Slip of a woman like that taking out one of theirs. The official inquiry had been succinct, quiet, and quickly concluded. 

 Word had gotten around, however, and the support from the other farms in the area was immediate. Danger was in the air, and everyone knew it. Government reassurances were one thing, issued from the civil confines of Nairobi, but out in the bush it was different. The Mau Mau needed supplies and food. Farms were a soft target. There were no police coming to answer a call for help; the farmsteads could only rely on themselves. Efforts into establishing the home guard ramped up speed, and the firearm trade was brisk.

 In the month that had passed since the raid on our farm, my family back in England had put their collective foot down – I was to come home, at least for a little while. I was in no mood to argue. The situation in Kenya was deteriorating. Expatriates were leaving in droves, especially women and children. I would be returning to London. My uncle in Rye, Joseph Pierce, was a former army officer and had kept his connections. The gears of transport were greased with a little lubrication from the British pound and the next thing I knew, I was saying tearful goodbyes and handing over the keys to the farm to Warui and Carolyhna with vague assurances that I would be back once the situation had settled down a bit. I hated lying to them. The fact of the matter was my heart just wasn’t in it anymore.

 How had it gone so spectacularly wrong? My thoughts were a torment of opposites. The words of my attacker gnawed at me. Thief. Our land. Ours. Is that what we were? Common criminals? That was what the Mau Mau believed – that they were ridding their country of interlopers. I didn’t believe it. Robert had been born in Kenya. It was as much his home as theirs. And I didn’t care a flip about the politics of colonialism nor agribusiness. Always with me it was the people and the culture that was intriguing. We ran a small farm, and we wanted to work with the native Kenyans, not rob them of their resources. We wanted to help them prosper and to learn from them along the way. It had been a glorious endeavor for two short years.

 I wondered deep down, where I sometimes didn’t like to look, if we hadn’t deserved such a life. Who were we to think we could change things for the better? Who were we to presume our way was better? It was never our intention to destroy, only to build. How is that road to hell paved again? At any rate, just who did the Mau Mau think they were, resorting to death and intimidation? They didn’t speak for all Kenyans. Whatever the problem, there had to be a less vicious solution. There just had to be. I refused to entertain such cynicism.

 As the miles drifted by, I slept fitfully. Time flowed away from me on an unknown sea. Before I knew it, the plane was down at RAF Nicosia in Cyprus for a brief layover for refueling. Cargo was unloaded and new materials brought on board. I had a little time to stretch my legs before it was time to depart for Rome. As I took my seat again, I learned we were picking up a passenger.

 A man came on board carrying a duffel bag, a ragged coat, and a metal attaché case. He looked to be just shy of thirty, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and an insouciant way that repelled me as much as it intrigued me. He stowed the bag and held the coat. I saw the case was handcuffed to his wrist. He turned around and seemed to notice me for the first time.

 “John Steed,” he said, reaching out his free hand. He had a captivating smile.

 “Gale,” I replied. “Mrs. Catherine Gale.”

 “Pleased to meet you.” A pause, then he released my hand. “Well, it seems we shall be travelling companions on this next leg, Mrs. Gale.” 

 “So we shall.”

 “The Italians are being most commodious allowing us to land at Practica di Mare. Not that they really have any choice in the matter.”

 “The spoils of war?”

 “Something like that.”

 Steed studied me for a long time before he spoke again. I didn’t particularly care for the intensity of his gaze.

 “Is there something about me that fascinates you, Mr. Steed?”

 “What? Oh, I haven’t had the opportunity to determine. Yet. I was just wondering how a young woman such as yourself came to be found rattling around on a military transport out here in the wild Mediterranean.”

 “You shouldn’t concern yourself. I have been in the wilds of Kenya, with stops in Nairobi and Khartoum before here. I think I can handle it.”

 Steed gave a low whistle. I thought I saw a dawn of recognition in his face, but I couldn’t imagine what it could be about.

 “You have been doing some traveling. What brings you from Kenya?”

 “Are you certain you would like to know?”

 “Only if you wish to share.”

 I sighed. “The end of my life as I knew it.”

 Steed looked perplexed.

 “My husband lies freshly buried under the soil on our farm,” I continued. “I returned him to the land that he loved.”

 “I’m sorry to hear it.”

 “Thank you.”

“Natural causes?”

“No, the most unnatural. It was a raid by the Mau Mau. He was killed, along with a friend, and four of the intruders. One of them by my own hand. Oh, I see that has impressed you? Don’t be. I found it all horrifying.”

 Why was I telling all this to a man I had only just met? The way he regarded me did not inspire my confidence, but I felt compelled to tell him. Why? Was I only unburdening myself? I noticed the faraway look that appeared in his gray eyes. He turned his head away from me and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. When he turned back, his expression had changed again to one of concentrated solemnity.

 “Would you believe me if I told you we have that in common?”

 “You’ve buried a husband as well?” I regretted it almost as quickly as I said it. What was wrong with me? Steed let out a note of exasperation.

 “Loss, Mrs. Gale. Loss. By unnatural causes.”

 
“Go on.”

Steed leaned back and dropped his hand into his lap. “It was 1944. I was almost twenty, fresh out of Sandhurst. Things were expedited in those days, you know. I was assigned to lead a squad on missions in the Channel. That winter I took ill. The most dreadful case of bronchitis you ever saw. I swear I thought I had consumption. Couldn’t even hold my head up. Fever of 103. The whole nine yards, as the Americans say. The doctors took one look at me and the next thing I know I’m taking up bedspace in hospital. For over a week. During that time, a U-boat was spotted. My crew heads out under my second. Every last man is killed. The next day I’m discharged. Wouldn’t you know it?”

 
I noticed how he ended his statement with a flourish. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

 
 Steed smiled without mirth. “I’ve never quite resolved that, you know.”

 
“Some things you never get over?”

“Some things you must learn how to live with, over and over again.”

Several long moments went by with only the creak of the plane and the lazy hum of the engines between us. I looked out the window behind me. Far below, the deep blue of the Mediterranean was broken by the shape of ship trailing a V behind it. How would it be, I wondered, to open the doors of the plane, and without even one look back, freefall into nothingness. Would I rejoin Robert that way? Leaping into the eternal abyss? No, I could never do that. Life was too precious to be discarded. I had seen firsthand how fleeting it could be. I must learn to do what Steed had done -- live with my loss, even if I must be forever vigilant against it. I rolled my wedding band with my thumb.

“What are you thinking, if I may ask?” Steed said.

“I think, Mr. Steed, that you shall be a most interesting traveling companion.” I spoke just above a whisper, but I was sure he heard me. A little strand of a smile played across his lips.

 
“I look forward to it, Mrs. Gale.”

After that bit of soul searching, I felt like I had taken the fabled fork in the road. Somehow, maybe on a subconscious level, I had made a choice and re-entered the land of the living. Steed was genial. We chatted about mundane topics for the next half hour or so – film, books, home – until the monotony of drone and hum overtook us. Steed rolled up his coat and placed it behind his head. He leaned against the bulwark and fell asleep. Soon, I did as well.

ooO0Ooo

“Major, you’re needed in the cockpit.”

It was the co-pilot Exley. I woke to find him shaking Steed by the shoulder. Major? He had not yet come to. Outside the window was darkness and steady rain. I heard it pattering on the metal and glass just behind me. How long had we been asleep?

“Major!” The lieutenant was more insistent.

 
Steed woke with a start. 

“It’s Captain Carstairs, sir. That inner ear of his.”

“What?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Captain Carstairs is asking if you’d take it in, sir.”

“Where the bloody hell are we?”

“Just beginning descent, sir.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, sir. Captain Carstairs is … ill, sir. You are the senior officer on board.”

Steed looked at the lieutenant like he’d sprouted another head. I wasn’t sure what to make of the situation.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked.

“No ma’am. Just a bit of bother on the flight deck.”

A withering glare from Steed shut down any further comment from the younger man. He raised the case still cuffed to his left wrist as he moved from his seat. 

“Shall I remove it, sir? I could keep it for you.” 

“Not on your life. Let’s go.” Steed wiggled out of his seatbelt and rumbled toward the flight deck, leaving me in stunned silence. A few moments later, the pilot emerged and slumped into the seat Steed had just left. As he buckled in, he held a hand to his ear. 

“I have an inflection,” he offered. “Plays havoc with my equibrilium.”

“Yet you’ve made it this far?”

“Comes and goes.”

“I see.”

 
The aircraft lurched a bit, then steadied out. I wasn’t sure if I should be reassured or more concerned with Steed at the com. The rain was picking up in intensity. Through the window, I could just make out the sparkling lights on the boot of Italy up ahead. On a whim, I unbuckled and hurried to the cockpit. There was an unoccupied seat behind the co-pilot, and I took it. Steed was incredulous.

“Mrs. Gale! What are you doing up here?”

“We’re traveling companions, Mr. Steed. I don’t intend to end this trip without you.”

He sighed. “There’s no point in arguing, is there?”

“Not a bit.”

“Then buckle yourself in tight. This could get a bit bumpy.”

I smiled and scouted out places where I could brace myself. The high windows of the cockpit looked awfully inadequate to see through. Rain splattering everywhere intensified the claustrophobic feeling I was getting. Maybe I should have stayed in my original seat. Just how was Steed flying with one free hand anyway? I craned my neck over and could see he was resting the case in his lap and had both hands on the wheel. In fact, he held the wheel with his left hand as he worked the throttle controls with his right. Certainly, there was more worth knowing about this man.

For the next few minutes, I listened as he and the co-pilot rattled off a string of aeronautical terms of which I knew nothing. Pattern speed. Cowl flaps. Reduce props. The plane rocked a little sideways in the gusts of wind. I could see the lights coming up on the runway. Close throttles. Advance props. The engines gave a final whining roar, and the wheels hit with a bark, even on the slick runway. We were down safely. 

“Nicely done, Major. A true daisy cutter. Main wheel landing in this weather is a trick.”

“Haven’t flown one of these birds since the Airlift,” Steed replied. “I guess I’ve still got it. Roll it on in, lieutenant.”

“Aye sir.”

Steed lifted the headset off one ear and shifted around towards me. “How’s that, Mrs. Gale?”

“Well done … Major Steed.” I smiled broadly.

“Oh, just call me Steed. All my friends do.”

“Alright then. Steed it is.”

ooO0Ooo

Lieutenant Exley guided the Douglas Dakota into the hangar. No one would be deplaning on the tarmac in this weather, Steed had decided, much less a grieving widow, a blotto soon-to-be-demoted pilot, a yearling lieutenant, and his own blasted weary carcass. Once inside, he directed Exley to assist Cathy, called for the RMPs to escort Carstairs to the commanding officer, and completed the aircraft’s shut down procedure. 

From the cockpit, he watched the ground crew go through their tasks. He spotted Exley gingerly helping Cathy exit the plane. She was blonder and slimmer than he had first noticed; younger too, though with a pained expression that made her look grim beyond her years. Steed saw her turn to look at him through the high window. She grinned and made a quick salute. He couldn’t help but appreciate her bright blue eyes. Striking, in a way that made him think she could see through him. It struck him as well that she was limping. It never occurred to him that she might have been injured during her ordeal in Kenya. He made a mental note to get her decent accommodations during this stopover in Rome, even if he had to give up his own. There was always a lumpy sofa to be found in the pilot’s lounge. He smiled and saluted back. It was going to be hell deceiving her, even if it was for the best.

 Chapter Three

 
 The supply convoy had rumbled its way through the countryside for three days after leaving Berlin, ostensibly heading for the Netherlands to be restocked. Ground travel was laborious, as war-torn highways had been bombed repeatedly, and lesser roads often enough, so that detours were inevitable.

 Miles off its intended route, the lead truck reached the border of a small town, so old that it was still surrounded by its medieval wall. There, the convoy was halted at an army checkpoint.

 
 “Where are you going?” asked a soldier peering into the driver’s window.

 “Berlin to Hanover and on to Amsterdam.”

 “What do you carry?”

 “Not much. We are going for provisions.”

 “Papers.”

 The driver obliged, handing a stack out the window. As the soldier surveyed the documents, he found a five D-mark note clipped under the first sheet. He smiled, took it, left his colleague to watch the lead truck, and began walking down the convoy. At the fifth one, he paused. He flipped back and forth from one sheet to the next behind it, making sure of what he saw. He stepped to the back of the truck, tossed open the heavy green curtain, and climbed inside.

 In the truck were numerous wooden crates and boxes of all sizes. He was looking for a particular one. With a sigh of satisfaction, he found it – a large one with a dozen tiny holes drilled six inches from the top around all sides. He tapped the side and said, “I know you’re in there.” An audible gasp and shuffling came from inside the box. “I hope you brought money.”

 The soldier grabbed a pry bar from the back of the truck and worked one side of the box open just enough that he could shine a torch into it. A face of fear reflected back to him. A halting voice said, “How much do you want?”

 “Whatever you have.”

 “We haven’t much.”

 “Then your trip will end here tonight.”

 A whimper of despair emanated from further inside the box. The soldier thought it was a child. Whatever sense of human decency he might have had once was long since destroyed by the war. “Anything will do,” he offered.

 A hesitant hand slipped through the crack. In it was a gold ring with a single garnet. “Take it,” said the voice.

 “You have made a wise choice,” the soldier said. “You get to continue.” He reached again for the pry bar.

 “Do you have any water?” the voice asked. “Please, we are thirsty.”

 “Don’t push your luck,” he replied, using the bar to hammer the side of the box shut again. He climbed out of the truck, went back to the lead one, and handed the driver the documents. “I’d get a move on if I were you,” he said, slapping the door. “Those kippers in the back will start to spoil.”
 
 

  
Chapter Four

 In the most straightforward of interpretations, I was to learn, Albrecht der Bar really started it all where Berlin is concerned. He was responsible for the creation of the Margraviate of Brandenburg in the Holy Roman Empire, which coalesced from the loose collection of regions called the Northern March. Out of this intermingling of Slavs, Bohemians, and Saxons spawned the town of Berlin in the 1200s. Albert gave the town its animal totem, a bear rampant, which has been on its coat of arms ever since.

Around 1230, Albert also incorporated the old Wendish fortress area of Spandowe into the Margraviate. Spandowe obtained city rights in 1232, and over time, it became Spandau and a district in the west of Berlin. In the year 1558, the village of Gatow became part of the larger burg of Spandau. Roughly 400 years later, the British stationed an airfield there.

 As I knew it, RAF Gatow was an anthill of activity, with aircraft coming in and out, shuttling cargo, personnel, and materials. The merchant families of the old Hanseatic League would have marveled at mankind harnessing the air by machine, even if their particular interest would have been in how it could be exploited to expand their trade. 

 In the years after the war, Spandau was again a bustling district. Its wounds, of which there were many, were being healed brick by brick. The Airlift was four years in the past and sense of renewal was driving the industry of the population.

 In this hub of re-creation, I found myself gloomy and overwhelmed. I had arrived at the hotel where I would be staying, presumably for only a few days, late the prior evening. The long connecting flights, crossing countries, had taken it out of me physically, just as my grief had weakened me emotionally. After getting settled in and enjoying a pleasant soak, I slept like I was dead to the world. It was the best respite I had experienced in weeks. For twelve and one quarter hours, I had not a care. I wasn’t haunted by nightmares. I didn’t wake up in a cold sweat. I didn’t hear ghostly screams echoing in my ears. 

 When I woke, for a few brief moments as I lay curled under the covers, I was refreshed and at peace. It didn’t last long. I rose, threw open the curtains, and surveyed a city bearing the sour fruits of human turmoil. The ugliness of destruction was achingly familiar, yet somehow incongruous to my recent life of wild, natural places. I could not reconcile what I was seeing with what I had felt during my life on the savannah. I thought it absurd to look upon the damage and think that reconstruction was some kind of progress. To my mind, it was just refeeding the machine; the same mechanical intellect that had wrought the destruction in the first place. I was overcome by the notion of an artificial, voracious entity of Advancement that only ever sought to diminish the transcendent for the sake of itself. None of it would ever really be the same, not even if each brick was mortared back exactly in the same spot. What had been would never be again. It was almost too much to bear. I thought it much better to let nature reclaim her realm. It would be healthier that way. 

 I sighed. The fact was that I missed my farm with its sweeping vistas of the savannah that rolled into thick green forests. I longed for the feel of the earth, turning dark soil over in my hands, seeding it, and observing as it slowly brought forth life. I mourned the friends I left behind, brave Chege, and the people of the country I had adopted as my new home. Most of all I missed Robert, the husband with whom I would never grow old. The children we would never have to see grown into adulthood. My man was returned to the earth, resting under the sweltering African sun, as gentle winds swayed the grass above him. I would never be the same, having lost a part of myself that night. The restorative powers of the natural world seemed far away and something I could not access. The longer I stood at the window and studied the aftermath of the war, the more I felt the decay creeping into me. I didn’t like it one bit. Surely there would be something to come along again that would give my life meaning. This could not be the end of everything. 

 Whether it was coincidence then or the hand of fate I could never say, not even years later, but at that very moment the telephone rang. “Hello?” 

The voice on the other end astonished me. “Mrs. Gale?” 

 “Steed? What on earth?”

“Up with the lark, are we?”

“Hardly, I should think. It’s nearly noon.”

 “Then you must be famished! Would you care to accompany me for an outing?”

 I had no idea what he was doing in Berlin. I thought we had made our goodbyes in Rome, never to cross paths again. I had to admit the thought of meeting Steed again was appealing. I had never properly thanked him for his generosity in giving up his room that rainy night. Still, was I up for it? Being social and all that?

 “What have you in mind?”

 “A little place in the Shillerstrasse. They make the most excellent jaeger schnitzel, their kartoffelkloesse is unmatched, and they uncork a very fine gewürztraminer.”

 “Well, that certainly is a mouthful.” The prospect of going out into the machinations of the world, even for something as customary as lunch, terrified me, which is why I decided I must go. “Very well, Steed. I’m game.”

 “Wonderful. Will forty-five minutes give you enough time?”

 “I’m hungry. Make it thirty and you’re on. I shall meet you in front of the hotel.”

ooO0Ooo

 The dark blue VW Beetle convertible whipped up to the curb, and Steed set the parking brake. He hopped out, spotted me instantly just inside the lobby, and headed over. I came through the front doors to meet him. 

 “Hello, Steed.”

 “My dear Mrs. Gale. It’s good to see you again.”

 “You as well. I see you’ve disposed of your other traveling companion.”

 “Eh?”

 I held up my left hand and twisted my wrist around.

 “Oh that. Just a bit of official courier-ing.” Steed offered me an escort to the car. “I was glad to get rid of it. Besides, you look much nicer on my arm.”

 I eyed him warily. “I must warn you about flattery. I’m immune.”

 “Flattery is a falsehood,” Steed replied. “I was offering an honest assessment.”

 It looked a bit like rain later, but we wanted to enjoy the open air, so we decided against putting up the top. It was very warm that day. We settled into the little convertible and Steed pulled away to the main road. I shifted a bit towards him. “May I offer you an honest assessment then?”

 “Of course.”

 “I’m glad you phoned me. I am afraid the world has been ‘too much with me late and soon.’” I fidgeted with my handbag, working it in my hands. The wind whipped my hair across my face, but it didn’t bother me. The buildings, in various states of solidity, flickered by like frames from a film. I focused on sunlight dappled through the trees, cars and lorries rolling by, and the people on the thoroughfares. I let these images of a new city wash over me.

 “That’s understandable,” he responded.

 “I should like it if you could take me for a drive after we eat. If it’s not too much trouble that is.” I knew there was a tone of entreaty in my voice, like children asking what gift they would receive for Christmas.

 “Trouble?” Steed sounded hurt. “Imagine thinking a drive with you would be a bother.”

 “I’m immune, Steed.”

 “So you keep telling me.”

ooO0Ooo

 The sign over the door read Birne und Feige. I read it with somewhat imperfect pronunciation. Steed nodded his approval anyway and opened the door. The café was lighter inside than I had anticipated. The front window had panes of colored glass and the midday light threw shards of pale green and burgundy across the tables. “Ah, pear and fig,” I stated. Steed clucked in agreement.

 A good portion of our lunch passed in comfortable silence. We both enjoyed the food and the ability to just sit quietly without feeling the need to fill the time with conversation, somehow sensing how rare a commodity it was to find someone else who could tolerate a peaceful meal. It was only after we had finished, and the digestif had been ordered, that Steed spoke.

 “Are you meeting anyone in Berlin?”

 “Yes, a Mr. Gurdmann. Why?”

 “What do you know about him?”

 “Only that he’s been helping to facilitate my transport back to England. It’s supposed to be his specialty.”

 “Facilitating things?”

 “Yes, to a degree, but more that he coordinates transportation. It’s not as though civilian travel is as simple as it was before the war.”

 Steed sighed. “I hadn’t noticed to be quite honest. Her Majesty’s government shuffles me all around the globe on a whim.”

 “Just what is it you do for the government, Steed?”

 “Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that. Tying up loose ends mostly.”

 “Hmmm. I believe you’re being too modest. That was no ordinary attaché you carried. I told you my uncle in Rye is former military. I’ve seen those seals before. And my older sister was a dispatch rider for the admiralty during the war.”

 “A Wren in the family? How perfectly marvelous!”

 “No, there’s more to you than meets the eye,” I continued, undeterred. “The way you handled that plane in Rome. The way the other officers deferred to you. You are called Major, yet you don’t wear a uniform.”

 “It clashes with my socks.”

 I smiled. “More than meets the eye.”

 Steed twirled a grissini, took a nibble, and poked the end in my direction. “You’re a very observant woman, especially for your age.”

 “Two years scratching out a life on the savannah will do that for you. Keep your head on a swivel or pay the price.”

 “How did you find yourself in Kenya?”

 “Destiny, I suppose. I was at university when Robert was a guest lecturer in my class. His depiction of Kenya fascinated me, and I wanted to know more. We met and talked. And met again. And again. You get the picture.”

 “I do indeed. So, what were you in for? History? Archaeology?”

 “Anthropology.”

 “What’s the difference?”

 “Time mainly. Archaeologists are concerned with ancient civilizations and people; anthropologists more so with living ones.”

 “Ah, ‘the proper study of mankind is man?’”

 “I’ve always thought so. I put my studies on hold when we were married and just never got around to picking them back up. It made more sense to me anyway to actually live with and observe the Kenyan culture than to read about it in some stuffy classroom. Besides, we had … other plans.”

 “A family?”

 “Yes, one day.” A wrinkle crossed my brow. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it?” My voice trailed off. The silence that had once been comfortable became less so.

 “I didn’t mean to make you sad, Cathy,” Steed offered. It was the first time he had used my given name. I liked hearing it coming from him. He leaned in close, touching me lightly on the arm. “But no, you cannot change your past. Not any more than I can change mine. That doesn’t mean your future is undone. You’re still very young. Life has a way of surprising you.”

 “Maybe.”

 “Certainly! A month ago, neither of us knew the other existed. Yet now here we are in Berlin of all places tucking into the brats and sauerkraut. It must mean something.”

 I regarded him with a sly expression. “Yes, it means it’s time for dessert.”

 Steed motioned for the waiter. “Now, before we get to the strudel, you will keep me updated on Mr. Martin Gurdmann, won’t you?”

 “If you think it’s important.”

 “I just want to make sure you get where you need to go. Safely.” He paused, staring out the window into the street. “Look, why don’t you invite him here? It’s always better to meet in public, and since you’ve been here, you will have something of a home field advantage, or at least a level playing field.” 

“You make this sound very dangerous. We will only be discussing travel plans. You worry too much, I think.”

 “Perhaps.” He swirled the remnants of his drink around in the glass, but didn’t further the issue.

 
 After lunch, Steed was as good as his word. We drove around the British sector, taking in the sights and sounds. I particularly remembered the ruined hulk of the Charlottenburg Palace. Steed explained how it had only barely escaped the wrecking ball through the efforts of Dr. Margarete Kuhn, the conservationist. “It’s too bad you won’t be here very long. I could have arranged for you to meet her.”

 “That’s very considerate of you. Perhaps in another life.”

 He chuckled. “Maybe so. I just thought you might be interested in its cultural preservation. They have a daunting task ahead of them.”

 “Don’t we all,” I replied.

ooO0Ooo

 It was hours later that evening, as I lay in bed propped up on the pillows with my eyes crossing over the same monotonous passage in my paperback novel, that I realized I had never told Steed Mr. Gurdmann’s first name. “Just who are you?” I whispered to the empty room.
 
 

Chapter Five

Rome, 72 hours prior

 Steed hurried from the hangar through the driving rain to a waiting car and slipped into the back seat. He shook his umbrella on the floorboard beside him and tapped the divider with its handle. The driver pulled away.

 As they navigated the murky, slick streets, he watched the way the streetlights and neon signs were reflected crazily back to him, the puddles distorting their shapes. He looked at his own reflection in the window as the rivulets trailed down the glass, and noticed how his visage was twisted and changed by them. He was astonished by how pensive and sad he looked, how bleak and travel-worn. He knew the reason why as well. No amount of navel gazing was needed. It would always be harder to manipulate them after he met them first, especially when they were young, fair, and so achingly vulnerable. If he were a different sort of man, he would hate himself for what he would be doing. Perhaps deep down, he did – a little – but he also knew he would do everything in his power to keep her from coming to harm. That was what he had to do to live with himself. If he had read her correctly, he felt she would understand in the end.

 After a few twists and turns, the car arrived at its destination. The driver thoughtfully pulled under a porte-cochere and Steed was able to exit without further swamping his clothes. He gave the umbrella one more brief shake and headed inside, pausing only to flash his credentials to the armed guards.

 Down several maze-like corridors, his footsteps echoed against the marble and stone walls. This building had been some sort of doge’s palace in the Renaissance. Now it was a lair for post-war Allied military efforts, which included dedicated officers and the serious business of rebuilding a country, commingled with self-important bureaucratic types, garden-variety soldiers on mop-up duty, assorted gormless prats, and shadowy birdwatchers like him. The circus come to town, he thought.

 At a tall, dark, wooden door – that looked like several others he had already passed – Steed knocked once. Twice. Thrice. He heard a click and the door was unlocked. He stepped into a room that defied explanation. 

It was at the same time both a technological trove and a sumptuous retreat. A huge sparkly chandelier hung from the ceiling and sconces glowed on the walls. Everywhere the floor was covered in thick red carpeting gilded with a Greek key motif around the borders. Cozily cushioned chairs sat in front of a massive oak desk, which was adorned with crystal decanters holding various types of gold and amber liquids. It was on the whole a glittering, glamorous effect – made all the more bizarre by the banks of filing cabinets, long-range radios, listening devices, telephones, tape machines, and rudimentary computers that lined the outer walls. Each computer bore a different name – ERA 1101, UNIVAC, Pilot ACE. At the last name, Steed chuckled. 

“Pilot ACE, eh? Did it fly itself here?” 

A reedy voice spoke from behind a magnetic tape machine. “Doubtful. Its vacuum tubes and mercury delay lines would not withstand the pressures of high altitude.” 

Steed nodded gravely. “Pity. I wanted to ask it how it handled those tricky winds blowing across Sardinia.” 

A thin, bespectacled specimen popped his head up from one of the telephone banks and met him at the door.

“You are Steed?”

“I am he.”

“She has been informed of your arrival.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s sitting not twenty feet away.” 

At the head of the desk, poring over documents, sat a woman who was the textbook definition of wizened. She was rail thin and overly gray, even down to her apparel, wearing a huge pince-nez on one side of her nose. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis, and she had a dowager’s hump as big as a paratrooper’s backpack. Steed thought she was magnificent. As she heard him speak to her assistant, she dropped her papers and smiled warmly. “Johnny Boy!”

“One-Four! You get younger looking every time I see you!” He went around the edge of the desk and pecked her on her snowy head.

“You are a terrible liar. Sit yourself down and let’s have a chat.” She dismissed her assistant, who gave Steed a pointed look on the way out, and waited until he had closed the door behind him. 

“That’s quite a pet squirrel you have.”

“Feehan? Oh, he’s harmless. Very devoted to the ascetic life in this hermitage of monitoring machines. He just doesn’t like interruptions. He’ll probably go down the hall and lurk by the pay phone just to keep one close. Now, what’s your poison, my boy?”

“A brandy if you have it.”

“If I have it …” she tutted at him. A moment later and she handed him a stiff drink in a crystal glass. He downed half in one gulp and grinned. “Perfection.”

“Of course. I was the one who taught you about these spirits if you recall. Cognac, Armagnac, Calvados.”

“How could I forget? Our escort ambushed in Normandy. The men scattered to the four winds. Scrambling across the countryside until we cooped up in that drafty old maison de ferme, awaiting extraction for days.” Steed gave an involuntary shudder. “But it did have the remains of a serviceable cellar.”

“It was a four-star shamble. At least the vermin were respectful.”

“To a certain extent. One can’t have everything.”

“You’re not saying?” 

“Ate every last bite of my Epoisses de Bourgogne. After I had gone to quite considerable effort to steal it, too.”

“A true tragedy. Ah well. For what the mice lacked in comport, they made up for with palate.”

“Here here!” Steed raised his glass to her and finished his drink. “Now, tell me what have we uncovered about our man of mystery.”

One-Four tapped the documents on her desk with a crooked finger. “He’s a first-rate louse.” She twisted around sideways in her chair and put her fingers together in front of her. “You’ve brought us some very revealing intel, Steed. We’ve been able to piece it together with data from other sources, and the picture is quite ugly. Extortion, bribery, grand larceny, plain old petty thievery, and a trail of desperate, broken people in his wake. We feel we have enough to go to the authorities in Berlin, but we’re going to need more.”

“How so?”

“The money’s nowhere to be found.”

“How much do we suspect?”

“Upwards of three million pounds, give or take.”

Steed ran his hands through his hair and gushed. “My goodness me. He has been a dirty bird.”

One-Four studied him. “And your young bird? What can you tell me about her?”

“She’s intelligent, beautiful, and heartbroken. Also, very forthright for twenty-three. Capable, I would say, and not afraid of the unknown.”

“Can we utilize her?”

“Perhaps. I think she likes me. I have her holed up in my quarters at the airfield for the night.”

“Chivalrous … but does she trust you?”

“Not entirely, but I can work on that. She’s intrigued, that much I can assure you.”

“Of course she is,” One-Four winked. “This could work. Perhaps we finally have our opportunity to put this people smuggler out of business. I want you to contact her again, in Berlin. Let her get settled, then find out what she knows, which likely isn’t much. Somehow Gurdmann has managed to retain his benevolent image, and families are still using his services. It worries me how word hasn’t gotten out.”

“We both know why it hasn’t,” Steed said flatly. “I just want to be sure I can pull her out of the game before she comes to any harm.”

One-Four fixed her gaze on him, never wavering from his eyes. “You’d better, John. Take the advice of this old bird -- for whatever else I may have on my conscience I never want the blood of innocents to be part of it.”

 
Chapter Six

 The next morning, when I was going out for a little walk, I was stopped by the clerk at the front desk. A message was waiting for me which included a telephone number. As I dialed, I was thinking of ways to tell Mr. Major John Steed, if that was his real name, exactly what he could do with his little game of tattle-tell. I needn’t have bothered.

 It was Martin Gurdmann on the other end, wanting to set up a meeting to discuss my passage back to England. The British representatives had their hands full, he said, working with the new West German government handling refugees from the former Nazi-occupied lands, which is where someone like himself came into the picture. 

 “I can assure you that you will be in England before the end of this week, Mrs. Gale -- Yes, just three days -- I’ve spoken to your uncle -- It is all arranged – Certainly we can meet somewhere – I was just going to suggest it – Yes, I know the place – I have business this morning – I can meet you tonight for dinner – Perfect, I will see you at seven.”

 I hung up the phone, hesitated a moment, then called Steed to tell him about my appointment. He was supportive, but not especially reassuring. Why was it I could never quite figure out what was going on with him? This had better be on the up and up, I thought. I resolved to spend my day exploring the neighborhood around the hotel instead of fretting about whatever it was I had gotten myself into.

ooO0Ooo

The Birne und Feige was a bit busier in the evening than it had been for lunch. There were only so many places open in the post-war days. I arrived just before seven and took a table. I seated myself so that the light would fall on Mr. Gurdmann when he arrived. Something was nagging in the back of my mind. Nothing Steed had asked me to do, but something deeper. More primal. Perhaps it was just the recent circumstances of my life prodding me to be more careful. 

I ordered an aperitif and had just begun enjoying it when I heard the little bell over the door tinkle. A large man with a heavy moustache came through. He spoke to the maître’d who pointed towards me. He hung his hat by the door and began walking over. As the man drew closer, I could see the hair around his temples was salty gray. He had strong jaw and a commanding presence.

“Mrs. Catherine Gale?” he asked as he came up to the table. His expression appeared genuine and warm.

I nodded. 

He took my hand in both of his and shook lightly. “I am Martin Gurdmann. Delighted to meet you.”

“You as well,” I replied. 

He took a seat and pointed to my glass. “What have you there?”

“Futschi,” I said.

“Ah, a little too sweet for my tastes,” he said. “What do you think of the finish?”

“It is a bit peppery.”

“A sting in the tail, eh? The Germans do seem to run their spirits hot. Well, I am not above a drink of the people. I will have one too.”

With the pleasantries out of the way, Gurdmann set about to explain the process to me. I would be traveling from Berlin through Hanover to Amsterdam where I would catch a ferry over the Channel and back to the UK.

“No more RAF transport for you,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“Because you are on an island, my dear, surrounded on all sides by the Soviets. Since the Airlift, they have become much stricter in their policies and will not grant permission for civilians who are affiliated in any way with the Allies to fly over their airspace to the West. You came in with the RAF, which has raised their eyebrows. So, we must use other means. Ground transport can be arranged to get you where you need to go.”

“And this is where you come in?”

“Yes. I have certain contacts within the military that help to soothe the waters, as it were. In your case, it will be quite simple. You aren’t coming from one of the occupied lands. Arrangement can be made for you with ease.”

“How did the Soviets know I was here and why should they care?”

“Did you meet with anyone else in Berlin?”

“Well, yes. A companion I met on the flight over from Cyprus.” 

Gurdmann’s expression turned grim. “Is he British military?”

“I don’t know.”

“Surely you must?”

“It’s not that simple. I only know he came on board in Cyprus, flew in with me to Rome. We said our goodbyes there, and I didn’t think I would see ever him again until he called me here in Berlin and offered to pick me up for a meal. Here, at this very place, to be exact.” 

Gurdmann seemed surprised by that. “Go on.”

“That’s it. I have no idea what he is doing here. He’s a civil servant of some sort.”

“What is his name?”

“Jones.” I lied. Gurdmann was pressing me for information in much the same way as Steed had inquired about him. A game of cat and mouse was being played. I got the distinct impression I was in the middle. 

A song came on the radio behind the bar, diverting his attention, and he hummed along. “Ah, ‘Lili Marlene.’ All the German boys sang it to their sweethearts during the war, you know.” Hearing it seemed to carry him along a stream of nostalgia. After a few moments, he jolted back to the present. “Well, the circumstances of your arrival in Berlin are of no importance,” he said finally. “We must not let this mundane world intrude upon our dinner.”

From that point on, Gurdmann was the soul of graciousness. He regaled me with stories of his trips around the world. The places he’d been; the people he had met. Naturally, this appealed to my academic sensibilities and innate curiosity. Before I knew it, our meals were complete, the digestif had been enjoyed, and the barkeep was sweeping up the place. 

“I see Rembrandt is giving us hints about departure,” I said.

Gurdmann laughed. “Is that his name?”

“I’ve no idea. I just associate his little round, red face with a character from one of Rembrandt’s paintings.”

“My dear, that’s marvelous.”

He patted my hand across the table and regarded me with a very singular expression. It wasn’t lustful or vulgar, but more of allure. I came to learn later that I should have taken it as warning signal, but at the time, it seemed harmless enough. 

“You’re a very brave woman, Mrs. Catherine Gale, to have retained your sense of humor after the ordeal you have been through. I think it would be quite something to know you, in a different circumstance of course.”

“An acquaintance told me recently that some things one must learn to live with, over and over again. Perhaps humor is my way of coping.”

“This is a wise friend, I should say. Come, I have monopolized your time quite long enough. I shall return you to your hotel.”

As we exited the restaurant, Gurdmann picked up his hat. “I have no idea why I brought this. We are in the hottest month of August in Berlin in six years. Very little need of a hat. Still the heat does sometimes bring with it the rain.”

ooO0Ooo

The ride back to my hotel was uneventful. Gurdmann was quieter than he had been during dinner. He parked the car in front, came around to let me out, and took my hand in his. “We must meet again before you go, Mrs. Gale. To finalize preparations, of course.”

“Certainly. You may call on me tomorrow.”

“I shall be delighted. Good night.” Gurdmann escorted me around the car, kissed my hand, and departed. He waved out the window as he pulled into the main road and disappeared around the corner.

As I watched him go, I became suddenly weary. The drink, the food, the conversation, the warmth of the night all contributed to a profound sense of drowsiness. Whatever notions I had at the time of completing my evening on a serene note ended as I came through the door. A voice called from the lobby. “Mrs. Gale?” I turned. It was Steed.

“How did your evening go?” he asked, with too much perk for my mood. 

“What on earth are you doing here?” 

He put on a dumbfounded expression and let the cigarette he was smoking hang loosely in his mouth. “My dear, you seem to always be asking me that question.”

“You seem to always be popping up out of nowhere.”

“I only wanted to make sure you had a safe and pleasant outing.”

“Bah. You want to know what I’ve learned from Gurdmann.”

“Well, if you are so inclined.”

“I’m tired, Steed, that’s what I am. And certainly not in the state of mind to play whatever it is you and he are on about.”

“But …”

“But nothing.” My hackles were up. I was tipsier than I cared to admit. “I can’t tell you anything useful.”

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?” he said with a sour note in his voice. It was too much.

I turned on him. “Is this to become a habit with you intruding on my time?”

“Intruding?!” He was incredulous, and a twinge in my conscience told me he had every right to be. I had agreed to relay to him what Gurdmann told me. “What about tomorrow?” he offered.

“Certainly, if that is what it takes for me to get to my room now.” I stomped off and left him to stew in the lobby. I caught a glimpse of him as I ascended the stairs. He was watching me and sullenly crushed out his cigarette in the sand of the hotel ashtray. I took it as a chastisement, and one rightly earned. I had trouble falling asleep that night.

ooO0Ooo

One more pass in front of the restaurant wouldn’t be so strange, would it? Just to preserve the evening a little more solidly in my mind. I came in the door, hung my hat, and took a seat at a table next to a goddess. No, not a goddess. That would be unattainable. Next to … a beautiful and real woman. An intellect. A humor. A delight! Yes, I must imprint this all to memory. I may never see her like again. This woman. Brave Catherine. To be mine alone … this is a wish too auspicious to admit.
 

Chapter Seven

Steed rubbed his eyes as he sat alone at a cozy table near the window in the hotel bar. He was nursing his last drink of the night and would be heading back to Gatow soon. Of all the nerve of that woman. Didn’t she know what they were up against? He had half a mind to storm up those stairs and … what then?

“Of course she doesn’t, old man, because you haven’t told her everything,” he muttered to himself. 

This was a fine kettle of fish. Gurdmann was rotten and, like most creatures that slither in the slime, very skittish. They almost had him in Cyprus, but he scuttled away. Cathy was the one person he knew who would have reason to get close to Gurdmann that he shouldn’t suspect at all. She must help out. She must. How could he convince her without drawing her further into danger? This had the potential to go irreversibly pear shaped. Gurdmann could slip the net again. That could not be allowed to happen. What to do? 

Because he could not think of an answer that would change anything until morning, he finished his drink and left the hotel to begin the trip back to the base. Before he could climb into his car, he saw a familiar face getting out of a cab. It was Captain Carstairs, newly reassigned from Rome. 

“Thought you would be here,” he said, nodding up towards the rooms of the hotel and raising an eyebrow.

“Hardly,” Steed replied. “She has other plans. I must say, Carstairs, you really ought to be congratulated on your performance in Rome. It was top drawer.”

“It was a trifle, Major. I got plenty of practice tying one on during the war. Method acting they call it.”

“So allegedly you got the sack …”

“… but in reality, I get to be a spook. I don’t know which is worse.”

“Oh this, certainly.”

“We’ve got the goods on Exley, you know. You were right to suspect.”

“He did offer to take the case. I didn’t want to believe it was him.”

“Neither did I. He was a fair co-pilot. Well, I shall have to cry about it tomorrow. We’ve got a late-night errand.”

“Which is?”

“Gurdmann. He didn’t return to his lodging tonight. We’ve got two birddogs on him. They’ve tailed him to the industrial district.”

Without hesitation, Steed hopped in his car and unlocked the other door for Carstairs. “Let’s hope we’re not too late. I don’t want a repeat disappearance.”

ooO0Ooo

 Between Charlottenburg and Spandau lay the industrial district of Berlin known as the Siemensstadt. Its massive steel skeletons, multi-floor factories, and glowing windows formed what was once known locally as the Electropolis. All of this area was heavily shelled by the Allies during the war, destroying almost half of the immense district. The Russians seized the accounts of the Siemens company itself in 1945, but portions of the district lay outside Soviet control by 1953. It was being reconstructed quickly in the post-war era, but Steed knew there were still many abandoned remains where a man could get well and truly gone if he so desired. A web of roadways and railways lead into and out of the district as well. They had quite the task ahead of them if they were going to flush out Gurdmann from this warren.

 Carstairs navigated their way to the address the field trackers had given them. When they were getting close, Steed cut off his headlights and coasted the VW to a stop behind their car. The men exited and came back to Steed’s window.

 “He’s in that one,” the first man said, pointing to the dismal shell of a factory building in front of them. It appeared to be mostly intact, but was not operational. A weak light could be seen moving from the first floor to the second, which was the top. He saw Steed following the light. “That’s him.”

 “Good. You stay here and watch this side. You, around back. Carstairs, take the west side. I’m going in the front. Keep channel seven open. Got it?”

 The men nodded and began their approach. Steed moved slowly in the deserted streets, traversing from one shadowy spot to another, and keeping his footfalls light. He soon lost sight of his companions creeping around the corners. At the front of the building, he found the doors already parted, with a grimy chain snaked through and hanging an open padlock. He slipped through as silently as possible given the dry and dusty hinges. 

 He entered into what had once been a sort of reception area. Through dirty windows to the left, he could see into the factory floor with its comatose machinery, and to his right were simple offices. Ahead was a broad staircase. A scent of damp concrete and rusted metal hung in the air, noticeable but not cloying. From above he heard a footstep crunching on glass. He would have to move cautiously.

 Up the stairs he crept, clinging to the outside wall to give himself a wider field of vision upwards. The interior was illuminated better than he expected it to be, given the spotty production from the streetlights. His footsteps made only the very slightest chuff as he continued. 

At the top of the first landing was a murky hallway. He listened, but could not hear anything unusual. The step he first heard had come from above anyway. He continued up to the second floor. 

When he reached the second landing, he was sure he heard activity down a similar dark hallway. He slipped to it and slid ahead with his back against the wall. He pulled his pistol out of his pocket and held it ready. As he moved closer, he could discern a very faint rectangle of light coming through a doorway about ten meters away. Before he could reach it, the light began to move and grew brighter.

Gurdmann popped through doorway at that moment. He carried a leather satchel and a shaded lantern. There was the briefest current of shock between them before Steed leveled his gun and hissed, “Stop!”

In a flash, Gurdmann whipped the lantern at Steed and turned to run. Steed threw up his arm and managed to deflect the device away from him. It struck the far wall and the oil ignited. Through the flickering flames, Steed could see Gurdmann racing ahead. He managed to squeeze off a single shot and could have sworn he heard a grunt, but the man kept moving. Soon, he was around a corner and out of sight, heading towards the factory floor. 

Steed followed, hitting the transmission button on his radio. “I had him on two. West side, he’s coming down towards you. All positions converge.”

At the end of the corridor was a second staircase down. It was metal and much more utilitarian than the first. Steed could hear Gurdmann’s footsteps nearing the floor and hurried down.
Before he reached the bottom, he heard a single shot and weak cry. He headed to that direction and found one of the trackers slumped against the machinery. Steed flipped on his torch, covering most of the light with his free hand. The man was still alive, but would need assistance. “Man down,” Steed called into the radio. “Request medical.” A crackly voice replied, “Yes sir.”

Steed quickly swept the light around him. He could see drops of blood on the floor, some of which headed down the bays of machinery. Not much, but he had hit Gurdmann after all. He set off following the trail like a bloodhound.

Near the end of the factory floor was a rail line leading out of the facility. Steed reached that point and stopped. Gurdmann and Carstairs were locked in a fierce battle, grappling with each other by the shoulders. He leveled his gun but couldn’t take a shot. They were too close together. He looked around and found a short metal rod wedged between two machines. Before he could use it, he heard another shot and Carstairs fell to the floor holding his abdomen. Gurdmann cracked him over the head with the butt of his gun and ran towards the line.

“Go, go!” Carstairs said through gritted teeth as Steed reached him. “I’ll be alright.”

Steed raced towards the line in time to realize in horror that Gurdmann had him in his sights. As he saw the muzzle flash, he twisted aside, heard the report, and felt a burning sting in his arm. The bullet had just grazed him. He ducked behind a machine and heard another two bullets ping off to the side. 

“I know I hit you,” Steed called. “How long before you bleed out?”

When his remark was met with silence, Steed waited a beat and stuck his head just far enough around the corner of the machinery to look in Gurdmann’s direction. Another bullet whined through the air. He crouched to the floor and slid around to the other side of the machine. Nothing. He could hear Gurdmann’s footsteps crunching in the gravel down the track.

Steed got to his feet and followed. The rail line descended at a gentle pace out of the factory. It grew ever gloomier the further along he went. He found he had to pick his way among the sleepers, using his hand along the wall to guide himself. From up ahead, he heard the sound of an engine being turned over. Soon, he could see light emanating from the cabin on a motorized draisine that ran along the track. Gurdmann was making his escape. 

Within seconds, the little engine was chugging out of sight down the track. It was heading out of the British sector, but would hit the checkpoints before it got there. What was Gurdmann’s game? Steed resolved to follow it as long as he could.

After about a mile of intermittent jogging, stumbling, and falling on the rugged line, Steed spotted the draisine ahead through a grove of trees. It was still running, but not moving. He approached cautiously, but could not see any movement. He stalked towards the cabin and whipped his gun up through the window. No one was inside. Gurdmann was gone, again having given him the slip. He slapped the side of the machine in frustration. 

He shined his torch into the surrounding grove, but could see nothing. In the cabin, he spotted something that gave him a bit of hope – a fresh thumbprint smeared in blood on one of the levers. We’ve got you. Tangible proof for the police. Now, where did you slip off to? Further ahead?

A little trickle of uncertainty made its way down Steed’s back. Up ahead would be the fence marking the end of the British sector. Beyond that was the GDR and bad news for a spy such as himself, but he had to chance it. Gurdmann had slipped off somewhere up the track. He had to know how.

Within about fifty yards he had his answer. Tucked away to the side was a small train platform, overgrown and desolate. It was what the Germans called a geisterbahnhof – a ghost station. Long abandoned after the war, it would lead into East Berlin. Steed felt a gnawing distress in the pit of his stomach. There was no way he could follow now. Gurdmann was unreachable.

ooO0Ooo

This tunnel is worse every time I come through. It is intolerable. They will be waiting on the other side, I know it, but they know me and will always take a bribe. The party line only goes so far when you have mouths of your own to feed. I will take a little with me to give them. The rest is mine! I have worked too hard for it, having to deal with these insignificant peasants and their lack of foresight.

Plans must be made. Yes, plans to leave this dreadful place. I should find Horst. He can have an airplane ready quickly. For the right price, he will fly me anywhere. I will take a little more for him. 

The British are stupid. They will never find out what I have done with the rest of it. They will never find it. Never. Especially when I can send Horst back for it. Yes, here will be a good place. Ha! Catch me if you can, idioten! You will still find nothing! 

Chapter Eight

 This time, it wasn’t a surprise when Steed arrived at the hotel. I was feeling a bit sheepish about how I had treated him the night before, so this time, I called him and invited him to breakfast. Food seemed to be a common ground between us.

 “Thank you for the jasmine,” I told him. “It was brought to my room earlier.” He regarded me with a puzzled expression. “You didn’t send them?” He shook his head and plopped down wearily at our table.

 He looked terrible, sitting there in the hard light of morning, but wouldn’t tell me anything. His eyes, gray when I had seen him before, were darker and glittering. “After breakfast I have something to show you” was all he would say. It was a side of him I had not seen. The charming insouciance had been replaced by a steely determination. It was all a bit worrying. 

 When we had finished our meal, he led me to his car, and we drove for many cheerless miles into an ugly industrial district that was in various states of disrepair. He pulled over and pointed up ahead to one of the abandoned edifices. “That was where I spent last night. Trading potshots with Martin Gurdmann.”

 I was dumbfounded and more than concerned. “Steed, are you hurt?” It was an earnest question, but seemed somehow inadequate. He lifted his arm. I could see what looked like a bandage underneath the sleeve.

“I’m the lucky one. Two of my colleagues are in the base hospital.”

I hadn’t noticed his injury. Suddenly, I felt quite ashamed by my actions the night before. If I had only told him what Gurdmann had said, if only I had taken the time, maybe it would have made a difference. “I’m sorry.”

 “Why? You didn’t do it.” He got out, thumped the car door closed, and began walking ahead, not coming around to open my door. I clambered out and followed him. The silence of the car ride over continued. I wondered at the time if something hadn’t been irretrievably broken in our fledgling association, which filled me with a sharp sadness I did not expect. It wasn’t to be the case. I soon found out Steed was summoning up the courage to ask me to do something he felt he had no right to ask.

 We walked along about a hundred yards or so beyond the first factory to an old warehouse. Steed reached two massive doors and swung one open. He looked back at me and said, “We found this just a few hours ago.”

 Inside was a jumble of clothing, trunks, old luggage, children’s toys, and other discarded items from humans who had obviously been uprooted in haste. I had seen these sorts of images before during the war when Jews and other “undesirables” had been rounded up for the concentration camps. I was dismayed and in disbelief. These clothes and other items were newer. They certainly hadn’t been here for years. A few weeks at most.

 “Steed, what does this mean?” 

 He walked away from me, circling into the shadows that hung in the corners of the building. “It means we’re dealing with a very awful and callous human being.” His voice echoed to the rafters. “One who can make people vanish as if they’ve been swallowed up by the world.” He walked over to the refuse on the floor and considered it. He then returned to the doors and motioned for me to follow. We left the warehouse and walked back towards the car. 

“I want to show you something else.” His tone was low and ominous.

 We drove a couple of miles down a bumpy roadway that paralleled the tracks leaving the factory complex. After passing a small grove of trees, we stopped. He once again exited the car, gesturing to me. We traipsed through the little wood, a damp fog curling around us, and came out on the tracks themselves. Just ahead was one of those tiny maintenance engines that run along the tracks. A draisine, Steed called it.

 “This is how he gave me the slip,” he said. “I had to follow on foot. I can tell you my calfskin boots will never be the same.”

 He took my hand and led me around to the door of the cabin. Inside, he pointed at one of the levers. I could see a red smudge. “We lifted his print off that. He’s no longer a ghost. We have proof now, Mrs. Gale.”

 I was suddenly confused. “Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

 “Ah,” was all Steed said in reply. He guided me further down the tracks. After a few minutes, he stopped at a dilapidated platform and climbed up. He reached down and pulled me up with him. For just a moment, we stood together, our faces mere inches away. I cannot tell you even now what passed between us, but it was a realization we had begun something that would take years to play out. I hung against him for a beat longer, then pushed away. I ran my thumb along my wedding band. He regarded me silently, his expression unreadable, then walked further along the platform. A locked door led into the station. I moved to it in anticipation that he would show me what was behind it.

 “Don’t. That way leads to ruin.”

 “What?”

 “East Berlin. That’s where he’s run to. I couldn’t follow. We can’t reach him there. I have a very sneaky suspicion this is where he’s been dumping the refugees he’s swindled, at least some of them. Turning them over to the East Germans.”

 A current of electric loathing ran up my spine. I felt as disoriented as I had that night on the savannah weeks ago. 

 “He takes it all. Their lives. Their possessions. Their money. People abandoned and discarded. That means your uncle’s money too. You’re personally involved in this whether you want to be or not.”

 “But my uncle is an honest man. He’d never sell me out!”

 “No, that’s not what he’s done, Cathy. He didn’t know. No one has until recently. Look, Gurdmann was thought to be an angel for desperate people. Turns out he’s the damn devil. And saying that, the truth is if I had done my job better in Cyprus, we wouldn’t be in this situation now. I wouldn’t have to ask you what I’m about to ask you.”

 “What is that?” I said calmly, though fearing I already knew the answer.

 “I have to ask you to lure him out. He expects you will be calling. He will think you are still expecting your travel plans to be fulfilled. He will not think you know anything about what I have just showed you. He will think you are the same delightful young woman he met the other night.”

 Steed came closer and put a hand on my shoulder. “Can you do it, Cathy? Can you dance with the devil?”

 Oddly enough, if he had asked me that question last night, when I was being a right ass, I might have still said yes. Here and now, having seen what I just saw, I had no doubt what I must do. “As long as we can set the tune,” I replied, putting my hand on top of his. 

Steed squeezed my shoulder and smiled. “You just might be the most decent woman I’ve ever met,” he said. I was certainly the most terrified, but I never let him know.

Chapter Nine

 We returned to my hotel to begin planning what to do. We surmised that it would be easier to capture Gurdmann there, than to attempt to waylay him out on the roads or in some other public place. Plain clothes officers could mingle in the lobby, and he would never suspect they were anything other than hotel guests.

 From my room, I was to call Gurdmann, set up a time, then ask him to take me on a predetermined route that would give Steed and the authorities the ability to both track our movements and the time to set up their net. Down the Reimenstrasse to the West Tor and back, in the late afternoon.

 Steed picked up my room telephone. “Wait just a moment before you call.” He unscrewed the cover on the mouthpiece and inspected the receiver. Then he flipped the base over and ran his fingers all around. Lastly, he followed the cord into the jack in the wall. He took out a little screwdriver on his key chain and removed the cover on the jack. Apparently, it was all to his satisfaction, and he stood up and nodded to me. “Just wanted to make sure nothing’s being monitored on this end.”

 He handed me the telephone. “I have to admit to being a bit nervous,” I said. 

 “You’ll be fine,” he replied. “In a few short hours, we will have this ogre off the streets.”

 I sat down at the little table by the window and dialed slowly. Steed walked over to look at the flowers I had placed there -- the jasmine he hadn’t sent me. It was eerily obvious now who had. I felt a cold chill and thought about hanging up. The phone rang several times before Gurdmann answered.

 “Martin, it’s Cathy.” I tried to sound as lighthearted as I could. He was hesitant on the other end. “I wanted to phone to finalize my travel plans with you. Yes, you gave me this number last night. Oh, I’m sorry to hear you’ve hurt your leg. Yes, those shower tiles can be very slippery. Say, could we perhaps go for a drive? That way you wouldn’t be taxing your leg, and we could make the arrangements. Splendid! I shall expect you around four. Yes, please pick me up here. I look forward to it. Goodbye.”

 I hung up the receiver and sighed heavily. Steed smiled at me. He had plucked one of the larger jasmine blossoms and tucked it into the buttonhole on his coat. “You have a talent for this, Mrs. Gale. Cool as a cucumber, you are.”

 “Not really, Steed. Just highly motivated.”

 “You told me not too long ago that I was being too modest. Now, I think I should return the favor. It has been a pleasure having your assistance.”

 “I am glad to be of help.” I turned away so he wouldn’t see me blush. “Though I haven’t really done anything yet.” 

 “You’ve done a damn sight more than most would do. When this is all over, I shall personally see to it that you return first-class to London.” He rapped his knuckle on the table as if to emphasize his commitment. “Now, it’s my turn to use that phone.”

 As Steed burned up the wires with our plans, I watched him. I thought about the burdens he must carry daily. The secrets he knew. The missions he had completed. The ones that were still ongoing. He never knew where he would be sent nor what he would be called on to do. I wondered what exceptional temperament he must have to accept it as well as he did. When he completed his calls, he gently replaced the receiver and rubbed the back of his neck. He worked his wounded arm a little. He had probably not slept at all the previous evening. 

 “At the risk of sounding terribly outrageous, Steed, I was wondering if you’d like to go to bed.” He turned around to me with a most shocked expression. I couldn’t help it, but I started to laugh. “My goodness, I just thought you might like a nap.”

 He swallowed hard. “And here I thought you were proposing to go above and beyond the call.”

 Steed put his head down for about an hour at my insistence. “Make sure you wake me, Mrs. Gale. No exceptions.” Once his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep almost instantly. I took the time to stretch my legs a bit and circled around the lobby of the hotel. I wanted to see where all the exits were located just in case I needed one. I did the same tour of my floor. Reasonably satisfied, I returned to my room and found Steed just where I had left him. For the remainder of his nap, I sat quietly at the table and tried to finish that dreadful novel I had been ploughing through the other night. 

 When I woke Steed, he mumbled for just a moment, then was instantly alert. I wondered how many times he had been roused to situations much less comfortable than the one he was in currently. He then made a few more telephone calls, and we merely had to wait it out. Around 3 p.m., the weather took a turn that I thought might thwart our plans. A dense gray cloudbank rolled in from the southwest carrying with it the portent of heavy rain. Steed didn’t seem to be phased by it, suggesting that I use it to my advantage. “Wet clothes will almost assuredly guarantee you an excuse to come back to the hotel,” he said.

 When Gurdmann pulled up just after 4, a few misty drops had already begun to fall. “Are you sure you want to take this trip, Mrs. Gale?” he asked.

“Certainly, we’ll be in the car. A few raindrops will not be a problem.”

“As you wish.”

 He used the excuse of his injured leg to not come around for me, but he leaned over and opened the door from the inside. He was warily looking around the portico. As I entered the vehicle, a grim notion came over me that I could be sealing my fate, but I pushed it to the back of my mind. Gurdmann pulled the car towards the main street and as I looked out the window, I saw Steed watching us through the glass in the hotel bar.

 Out in the traffic, Gurdmann asked where I would like to go, and I described the pre-planned route Steed had devised. I used the excuse that I wanted to take one last look at Berlin before I left. It seemed to satisfy him because he didn’t give any outward indication that he suspected anything. After a while, my doubts began to ease. Gurdmann was the same genial conversationalist he had been the evening before. We talked about what I would be doing when I returned to London. I lied through my teeth the whole time while answering him. In no way did I want him to know any more about me than he already did. 

 He told me that I should be ready to leave the hotel by the next day. I would receive a message by phone and a car would be arriving to pick me up. He asked if I had any oversized baggage that would need to be accounted for, and I told the truth for once and said that most of my cargo was being shipped separately to England. All I needed to bring with me were the suitcases in my hotel room. This seemed to pique his interest a little more. 

 As we approached the West Tor, Gurdmann slowed the car and looked to turn around. “We really cannot go much further tonight, Mrs. Gale. I have not brought with me your travel documents. You will get those in the morning.”

 “I understand. May we stop just a moment? I’d like to stretch my legs a bit.”

 He hesitated, drumming his fingers uncertainly on the steering wheel. 

 “Please Martin, just for a bit.” I placed my hand on his. It was like petting a reptile. 

 At my touch, he seemed to shudder. It was barely noticeable, but there. A sense of imminent threat overtook me, and I felt he couldn’t park the car quickly enough for me to get out. I knew he was eyeing me from the side. As the car pulled to the curb, I instantly removed my hand and hopped out. It felt good to be out of that oubliette.

 I walked down the road a way, pretending to be getting a better look at the gate. I heard the car door close. He came up behind me and stood very near. I felt his breath on the back of my neck. He stood there, lurking, for several long moments. Then, “May I make a request of you?”

 “What is it?” I asked. The sky was rumbling thunder, like an admonition. 

 “Would you leave with me tonight?” I didn’t answer right away, which he must have taken as interest on my part. “I have a plane waiting to fly to South America. I can take you with me if you wish.”

 Just at that moment, the skies opened up, and we were pelted by cold, fat raindrops. “Martin, I don’t know what to say.” I blinked water out of my eyes. Our clothes began to get soaked.

 “Please tell me you will come.” He took my arm and began limping back to the car.

 “Let’s go back to my hotel, and we can discuss it.”

 This reply seemed to gratify him and he quickened his pace. On the drive back to the hotel, he took my hand in his. “Brave Catherine. Take on a new life.” I thought I would be sick. The return trip felt like it took twice as long. My anxiety was at redline; I wanted to throw myself out of the car. As he turned into the drive to the hotel, he lifted my hand and kissed it. I could scarcely contain my revulsion. “You shiver, my dear? Perhaps the rain has made you chilled.”

 “Yes, a little,” I lied. “I can change clothes when we get to my room.”

 “Are you sure?” he asked.

 “Certainly. I believe we have time. Clearly the rain will have delayed your flight.”

 He studied me with an obsession that I had seen many times on the savannah. Primal, voracious. A predator set to devour its prey … or an animal sizing up a mate.

 I took his arm through the lobby, but when we got to the stairs, I walked ahead of him. Steed was to be waiting, hidden in my room. I had never wanted to see someone as dearly as I wanted to see him at that moment.

 
 “You are eager, Catherine,” Gurdmann said, limping up awkwardly on his wounded leg. 

 “I want to open the door for you, so you don’t have to stand in the hallway as long.”

 I reached the door to my room and fumbled with the keys. My hands were shaking practically sideways. I managed to get the key in the lock and open the door before Gurdmann got there. Please be here, Steed. Please be here.

 Once inside, I quickly scanned the room and my heart dropped. I couldn’t see Steed anywhere. Just the bouquet of jasmine still sitting on the table. It had been moved more towards the center of the room from the window. Behind me, I heard Gurdmann come in. He spotted the flowers and chirped a note of approval. “I see you appreciate my gift.” He ran his fingers over the petals. He was coiled tightly.

 “The best presents are the surprise ones,” I said, backing ever so slowly away.

 “I very much agree,” Gurdmann replied.

 “I do as well,” said a voice from behind the curtains. Steed popped out with a pistol leveled at Gurdmann. “Should I put one in your other leg?” he said.

 The look that passed across Gurdmann’s face at that moment was one that still haunts me. I can recall the sheer outrage that roiled into a furious anger. I thought for just a fleeting second that my heart would stop. The next actions happened all at once. In one swift motion of his hand, Gurdmann shoved the vase of jasmine toward Steed, I dove to the floor, and Steed spun away from the curtains. The vase struck the wall and shattered.

 For a man with an injured leg, Gurdmann moved with remarkable agility. He turned on his heels and scooted out the door with Steed close behind him. “Stay here,” he said, leaping over me. I got to my feet and followed them to the door. At the top of the stairs, Steed caught Gurdmann by the collar and twisted him against the wall. Gurdmann countered with a hammering blow on Steed’s injured arm, which caused him to cry out and release his hold.

 Gurdmann thundered down the stairs. I rushed over to help Steed. At the bottom, one of Steed’s men set himself to block our adversary, but Gurdmann crushed his fist into the man’s face and continued. I was expecting to see him disappear into the twilight through the pouring rain. Instead, several of the local gendarmerie swooped down on him outside the door like a wake of vultures. He fought against them, but there would be no escape this time. 

Gurdmann turned back to me and shouted, “Why, Cathy? For these insignificant peasants? There really is no cure for it, Cathy! I will always be with you! Waiting!” His rage was inconceivable and, I thought, tinged with a heavy despondency. Unrelenting rain battered his face. He lunged as if to come back inside at me, and Steed’s colleagues, who had been hidden in the lobby, blocked him from entering. Gurdmann tried to struggle, but a well-placed baton blow took the fight out of him. He was quickly cuffed and put into a waiting wagon with several officers clambering inside after him. The monster was captured. 

Steed and I looked at each other and plopped down to the stair steps in relief. We hung there for a few moments, letting the excitement subside.

“I want you to pack your things,” he said finally. “You’re leaving here tonight.”

“What?”

“It’s too dangerous for you here. You’re coming with me.”

This was a turn. A few minutes before and I thought he had deserted me. “You’re concerned with my safety. Is that why you hid behind the curtain?” I said it gently, not really wanting to be accusatory. 

“Eh?”

“I thought you were going to apprehend Gurdmann when he came into my room.”

Steed was thoughtful. “I needed to see space between you.”

“You wouldn’t have let him attack me.”

“Of course not! Look, I know what he did to a police officer when he escaped us in Cyprus. He was quick and brutal. I had to wait until I saw daylight between you before I made my move. So he couldn’t grab you.”

“I just don’t want to feel like I’m being used, Steed.”

“I told you I would be there and I was.”

Doubt churned inside me. “Does it matter at all to you what happens to other people so long as you get your man? I’m sure you’ve had other helpers. Are we just immaterial to you?”
He fixed me with his eyes, glittering intensely as they were in the soft light of the stairway. What he said next impressed me, and I wouldn’t forget it. “Never. I don’t care a rat’s what Gurdmann said. No one is insignificant.”

 
Chapter Ten

 
That evening, after the tumult had subsided, I and my belongings were moved to the British Consulate-General in the Uhlandstrasse. I hadn’t argued with Steed over his plan to move me here, whether there was a real threat or not. I welcomed the extra level of security. It felt as though the end of my long journey was in sight. As for Steed, I think he just wanted me closer. Maybe I had given him food for thought. Maybe he was just being Steed. He told me his room was right down the hall if I needed anything. That sly boots. 

When I had put my things away, Steed brought me to meet with several officials at the consulate. We discussed what had happened until late into the night. He talked me up the whole time. I could tell he was greatly relieved that the mission had been a success. As I was leaving the meeting, a strange, very old woman tugged at my sleeve. I had seen her sitting quietly at the table during the debriefing. She had a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

“You’ve done a great service, young lady,” she said, taking my hands in hers. She nodded toward Steed. “He likes you very much, you know. Admires you, even. Don’t ever forget that. No matter what happens.” I couldn’t imagine what she meant. Over time, her words became clearer. I only ever saw her that one instance. Steed would never even tell me her name, not even a few years later when he told me she had passed away.

Back in my room, I longed for quiet and calm. I remember standing under the shower until the water began to run cold. It seemed there wasn’t enough of it in the world to wash the events of the last few hours off of me. Given my state of mind, I reckoned I would not sleep well, but I did. Dreamlessly.

Around 8 a.m., I heard a knock at the door. I opened it and there was Steed with a tray of food. “Room service,” he said.

 He was struggling with it a little, his injured arm now in a sling. I smiled, thanked him, and helped him with the tray. We tucked into the eggs, rashers, and muffins with enthusiasm. “Why is it we always seem to be eating together?” I asked.

 “Because it’s a sensible thing to do,” Steed said. “When all around is madness, meet the basic needs first. Preferably with a charming companion. Also, I’ve come to know that any food you get could be the last you’ll see for days.” 

He poured a mimosa for me in a tall, slender glass. It was divine. “You didn’t have to do this, you know, but I am grateful.”

 He put down his fork so that it clinked on the edge of his plate. “You’re grateful? Mrs. Gale, you have been nothing short of a revelation.” He hesitated for a tick as if thinking carefully about what to say next. "Would you be agreeable to helping me again? In the future, I mean. Her Majesty’s government can always use the assistance of talented people such as yourself.”

 I didn’t have an answer for him then. In later years, our dealings became more certain, and Steed and I had a working partnership. It had its share of victories and heartaches to be sure. At this point, however, I wasn’t ready to move forward. “Maybe,” was all I said.

 Steed seemed accommodating. “Of course. Once you’ve had time to think about it and get back on your feet.”

 “I want to begin my studies again, Steed. That is my first priority.”

 “Yes, I should imagine it is. Well, may I call on you in London from time to time?”

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t. In fact, why don’t you come see me at my uncle’s in Rye. I’ll be there for at least a month or so until I can get settled. He has a brace of terriers that we can walk along the harbor. Make a day of it at Camber Sands.”

 “Capital!”

“One other thing, Steed,” I began. “How did you know when I left the restaurant with Gurdmann that night? You were already there waiting for me at the hotel.”

 He chuckled. “That barman, the one with the red face, he’s one of ours. I left word to phone me when you two left.”

 “I see. Do you intend to spy on me indefinitely?” I raised an eyebrow at him.

 “My dear Mrs. Gale! If only I could!”

Chapter 11

Berlin 1990

 When my boot squelched into the tenth icy mudhole of the day, I had just about had enough. “I still can’t believe you talked me into this, Steed.” 

We had been picking along the rutted track for a good forty-five minutes, stumbling through the briars and slipping on fallen leaves. It was the same one we had followed thirty-seven years before on the cold trail of a madman. The rail lines had long ago been ripped up, and an overgrowth of brambles and bushes made it harder to discern where to go. “I’m much too old for this, you know.”

 “Oh, stop grousing. I’m older than you are, my dear.”

 “You don’t look it. That’s the problem with men.”

 “Just the one problem, then?”

 I ignored him and kept pushing forward. We had waited until the early afternoon to make our trek, hoping it would warm up a bit. The morning had been frigid, even for a German November, and frost crackled under our feet. My breath circled my head like a cloud. “I could be back at the hotel right now, feet propped up to a toasty fire, sipping some hot chocolate with kirschwasser.” 

 Steed huffed his disapproval. “I hope you won’t be disappointed, Mrs. Gale.” He stopped, shook his head, and grumbled. “I still do it. I’m sorry.”

 I laughed. “Nothing to be sorry about. You knew me by that name for a long time.”

 “I did, didn’t I? Well, I hope your chap knows what he’s got.” He stood up taller for a bit, stretching his back. “Although how could he not be captivated? You have that effect, you know.”

 “Oh, stop it. I told you when we were here the first time that I’m immune.” I lied. I knew he meant it sincerely. I would never tell him, but it always made me pleased when he complimented me.

 Steed pulled the map out of his pocket and checked it against his compass. “We should be getting very close.”

 “You said that ten minutes ago.”

 “One of these days you’ll have to tell me what you and Emma got up to on that trip to parts unknown,” he said, changing the subject while pointedly not looking in my direction. “I mean, you came out of it with a husband, but I don’t think I’ve ever gotten the full story from her.”

 He wasn’t trapping me that easily. “Oh no. What is between you two, or not between you two, is none of my business.” I let a few beats pass. “Besides, she’d never forgive me if I spilled the beans.”

 “Beans? What beans? I didn’t know there were beans!” He arched an inquisitive eyebrow at me.

 Ha! After nearly four decades he could still make me giggle. I took off a glove and swatted him with it. “Here, for that you get a swig.” I handed him my flask. He took a long pull and exhaled. “Delicious. I always knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

 “Hush up, you.”

 After a little pause, we took up the hunt again. That platform was around here somewhere. Even after all this time, it couldn’t disappear. It had to be close.

 “There were no beans, Steed,” I said finally. “She was laying a ghost to rest. She had to do it.”

 “Right.” He pushed a flimsy branch out of his way. It flipped back and nearly swiped my nose.

 “No, really. Don’t be petulant. We were lucky to make it back from that trip. It wasn’t a pleasure cruise.”

 “Now that much she has told me. Devilish strange tale.”

 “That’s putting it mildly.”

 “Whatever happened to him?”

 “No one knows. Some things we never found out and perhaps it’s better that way.”

 Steed didn’t reply, but I could tell he was running things over in his mind. His body language gave it away. He would stand a little straighter, pull his shoulders back, like he was facing up to whatever thoughts were giving him trouble. We trudged forward in quiet contemplation for about five more minutes or so, when it happened. I stepped and something twisted under my foot. I looked down and found a rusty can of spray paint.

 “Look here,” I said, showing him the can. I quickly spotted another.

 “Good girl! There must be a graffiti-coated train platform very close by!”

 “There certainly is,” I nodded. “Just behind you about fifteen yards.”

 I wouldn’t have spotted it had I not bent down to pick up the can. The straight parallel lines of the platform were discernible through the brambles and limbs as my angle of vision changed. I grabbed Steed by the coat sleeve and pulled him with me. 

 Within moments we were back at the platform we had left behind so many years ago. An ocean of water had flowed under the proverbial bridge since then. Steed and I had worked together, played together, saved each other, disappointed each other, left each other, and rediscovered each other. Sometimes we laughed about those days, and sometimes we cried about them. We had never stopped being friends. In the end, even with the occasional pitfalls the years had doled out to us, it was worth it. We looked at each other and grinned.

 “Let’s see if I can still climb up on this bloody thing,” he said. After a slightly longer effort than the first time, he made it. “Old Mountain Goat Steed, they call me.”

 “You certainly have a hard enough head.”

 He reached a hand down to help me up. I too didn’t hop up as spryly as I once did. “This is the last time I’m doing this, Steed. I don’t care what you think is in that tunnel.”

 The train platform, already unused for years when we first found it in 1953, had fallen further into ruin in the decades since. The British had gone to additional efforts to seal it up after Gurdmann was captured, welding the doors shut and putting up a fence, but the local youths had eventually discovered it and turned it into what looked like a party spot. The graffiti and symbols were layers deep; a veritable catalog of whatever pop culture memes were au courant at any given time through the years. 

“Arschloch,” Steed read out loud. “How rude.”

Deeper still was the layer of beer bottles and cans. They looked very decayed, meaning the party had been over for some time. I circled around the structure, slipping on my anthropologist cap, as I contemplated and analyzed the scribbles and markings. Some aspiring painters had tried their hands at Starry Night, done in dramatic black and white, and the Mona Lisa, who was wearing a cowboy hat. 

“At the very least, we’ve gotten to examine a primitive blend of stylized letter composition and interpretive street art,” I offered. 

“If you say so.” Steed was over at the doors, tracing his fingers along the seam. The weld was still holding. 

“What do we do now?” I asked, coming up behind him.

“I have a couple of options,” he said. “I think I’ll go with the sanest one first.” From his backpack he pulled out a hammer and a small wedge of metal that looked like a cross between a flat screwdriver and a chisel. He put it under the head of a hinge bolt and began hammering upwards. The bolt moved a bit then stalled. He continued hammering for a few more strikes, then stopped. “Rusted shut. Right, then.”

Steed reached into the backpack again, this time carefully taking out a sealed box. He opened it, revealing a grayish putty. This he packed liberally around the door locks. Next, he pulled out a silvery metallic ribbon and inserted it well into the putty. He let about a foot hang out the bottom with a pointed tip on the end. He returned the items to the pack, zipped it, put it on, and fished a lighter out of his pocket. “Get behind something and don’t look directly at it,” he said. “Once I light this, we’ll have about ten seconds.” 

For once I didn’t argue or even shoot a barb. I certainly didn’t want to know whose arm he twisted to get it, or if he made it himself. I hustled over to the far end of the platform and squatted behind a concrete piling. Steed lit the ribbon, which immediately began sparking, then burst into a dazzling white light. He raced over to me, made a show of shielding his eyes, and I did the same. Within a few more seconds, the light disappeared into the putty, then a prolonged sizzling flash and a metallic whump! 

We sat motionless for a few seconds more. Steed looked around and listened. Nothing to be heard but a few birds flitting away among the bare trees. “We’re too far out in the woods to attract much attention.”

The thermite had achieved its intended effect. Both door locks were melted out and the weld on the seam had bowed out and bent crookedly. Smoke wafted around the holes. The molten mass on the floor still glowed hot. Steed picked up a few handfuls of dirt from around the platform and covered it. He then yanked on the weld to pull more of it away. He gave the door on the right a swift kick, then another, and the remaining weld released its hold. The door swung open and thudded against the wall. We were in!

A gush of dank, stale air escaped from the tunnel. Motes of dust and other particles drifted crazily from the opening. I slipped on the filter mask Steed had given me earlier, and he did the same. “Who knows what kind of spores are floating around in here,” he said. 

We switched on our torches and entered the tunnel. I was immediately swept back to those terrifying days in 1953 when Gurdmann so nearly escaped from us. I wondered if he had been the last person to have traversed this tunnel. “Do you know what we’re looking for, Steed?”

“I have a sneaking suspicion I do. Something Gurdmann said the last time we saw him, back in ’63. He was talking about how he was everywhere ...” 

“Everywhere you might run to. Everywhere you might hide.” The same shiver ran up my spine as it did then. 

“Yes, I’m sorry to remind you of it. I don’t think he was speaking just about the old house. I believe he was also referring to this particular place. This tunnel. It was his everywhere. Where he ran to. Where he hid. It was how he moved from East to West and back again. ‘I might be down here. Or I might be right behind you.’”

“There is a certain logic to it. But tell me, hadn’t the money already been found? Didn’t he lead the authorities to it back in 1963?” 

Steed scratched his head. “We thought so. Turns out it was only part of it. Less than a tenth of the real currency mixed in with a bundle of counterfeit notes and fake bearer bonds.” 

“But why?” 

“To throw us off the track? To pawn it off on unsuspecting business partners? Or bribe corrupt officials? Who knows with a mind like that. I think he still held on to the belief that he was eventually going to get out and make his way back to his real stash. He didn’t count on being in danger in prison, but you never know to whom your cell mate is related.” 

I winced at the thought. “Funny how life plays out those situations given enough time.” 

“I wonder if he thought so? At any rate, he died taking his secret with him, or so I thought. When the Wall fell last year, I began to pick on a thread in my memory. The night he escaped me and ran to this tunnel, he was carrying a satchel with him. We found an empty safe concealed in a wall in the abandoned factory. I think he had been using it to hide the money. That’s why he risked himself to retrieve it that night. Why else would he go for it? What else could possibly be so vital that he would go out in the middle of the night to get? He needed the money because he was planning his escape. Flights to South America aren’t cheap today, and they certainly weren’t back then, especially when the plane and pilot had to be hired.”

“Perhaps the Soviets took it when he exited the tunnel on the East side?”

“I believed that for a long time, but now I don’t think so. Everywhere we knew he had a hidey hole, we searched. No matter how trivial it seemed. Of course, we couldn’t be as thorough in East Berlin, but we worked our double agents hard to locate where he might have hidden it and they never came up with so much as a pfennig. I even asked old Brodny about it, but he also discovered nothing. Since the Wall fell last year, loads of old Soviet documents have been reviewed – the ones they didn’t burn – and there is not one syllable about Martin Gurdmann nor any money.”

“I’m not certain there would be anyway.”

Steed sighed. “Well, if there’s not, then I’m sorry we’ve wasted an afternoon chasing a phantom.”

We walked on further into the tunnel. The darkness was heavy and thick, seemingly swallowing up the beams from our torches. It was broken only occasionally by single spots of light that came from ventilation pipes that led outside. Little pools of water formed underneath them. The interesting thing about the tunnel was how smooth and unbroken the walls remained. The graffiti artists hadn’t penetrated inside, so the tunnel was a veritable time capsule dating back to the night Gurdmann escaped into East Berlin. If he had planted the satchel here, anticipating he or someone he trusted could retrieve it at a later date, we hadn’t come across it.

Eventually, Steed and I had spanned the full length of the tunnel. The door at this end was sealed as well. He was crestfallen. I patted him on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “We gave it a shot. I’m glad we did.”

“You’re a good sport, Cathy. I was sure it was here. Certain. Holmes, you know. ‘When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains …”

“… However improbable, must be the truth.’ I understand.”

We began the long walk back to the other side. As we moved along, I swung my torch here and there, trying to illuminate spots I hadn’t seen on the first trip. I hit upon a ventilation shaft dropping down from the ceiling. This one wasn’t generating the spot of light like the others. Something was blocking it.

“Steed, have a look.” I shined my torch upwards.

“It’s a ventilation shaft. There are dozens along this tunnel.”

“Yes, but this one appears to be blocked.” I switched off my torch. “See, no light from above.”

Steed reached up, but could just get a hand on the bottom. He looked at me and cupped his hands together in front of him. “Up you get.”

I stepped into his hands and he pushed me upwards. My head nearly hit the ceiling. “Hey!”

“Sorry!”

He adjusted my height and I was able to fish around in the shaft with my hands, which soon were slick with grime. Whatever was there was difficult to grasp.

“Yes, there is something!” I couldn’t disguise the excitement in my voice. Had we really found it? 

I dropped down and put the item on the floor. Steed held his torch so we could see. It was a satchel alright, but it was soggy wet with damp and mold. We opened it and found what was once approximately three million pounds of ill-gotten gains. Barely recognizable as paper much less currency, the preceding four decades of weather had turned the contents into a swamp of mush and pulp. “Well, shit,” I said.

Steed rocked back on his haunches and laughed. A belly laugh like I had not heard from him in years. He was rolling. Tears began to form in his eyes. I couldn’t help it. I began to laugh as well. “To hell with Martin Gurdmann.”

After a while, Steed and I locked arms, and we finished the slow walk out of the tunnel. We had left the stinking parcel right on the floor where we found it. Our little way of claiming a triumph over a tyrant. We found it. When we got back outside, we removed the masks and caught our breath. The air was still bitterly cold. Steed pushed the doors together and snaked a heavy chain through the burnt-out holes. He secured it with the largest padlock I had ever seen. “This should keep ‘em out until I can have the authorities seal it up again.”

“Are you going to tell them about the satchel?”

Steed was thoughtful for a moment. “No, I don’t believe I will. There’s nothing left to return to anyone. Let it be lost to the ages. We know the truth.”

I took a deep breath and nodded my approval. I stepped to the edge of the platform and peered into the surrounding wood. It was peaceful in a way I could only appreciate after coming out of the dark. I recalled that night on the savannah when my young life had changed forever. I hadn’t thought about it for a long time. I looked over at Steed. He had a calmness about him as well. “You know, at the risk of sounding irretrievably trite, we already have a treasure. ‘Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.’”

Steed snapped his fingers. “You know you’re right.”

“And we have other people who love us.”

“Who are waiting at the hotel right now to hear our tale.”

“Race you to the car?” I asked with a sideways grin. “Loser buys the first round.”

Steed hopped off the platform and hesitated to help me down. “I should get a head start.”

“Why?”

“I’m older than you!”

---END---

Author’s notes – If you’ve made it this far – thanks!

1. The original script sets Cathy and Steed’s adventure with Martin as 1961. It is changed in the episode to 1953. This gave me the idea of tying it to Cathy’s husband’s death. It is a well-known fact of Avengers lore that Mr. Gale was killed in the Mau Mau rebellion, which was in full swing by 1953. Very plausible. The name Robert is one that I seem to recall being tied to him in some way, but I could be wrong. One source also states that their children were killed as well, but that is up for debate (and especially horrific).  

2. But how to get Cathy to Berlin? She is returning to England. Air travel in Europe post-WWII was hard for civilians. Thus, the arrangement for military transport, leading to a chance meeting and one which Steed did not hesitate to utilize.

3. In the episode, Martin hints at some kind of romantic connection between himself and Cathy. I don’t buy it. She certainly doesn’t seem happy to see him in the episode. She’s terrified and repulsed by his creepy, obsessive vibe. No way is he an ex-lover except in his own mind, and he’s crazy.

4. On another point, like Emma, Cathy must have been very young when she married and when widowed. I put her at 23 in the story. I remember reading somewhere that she was born in 1930. Emma was born in 1938 (Diana Rigg’s birth year). Emma’s father was killed in the shooting accident when she was 21, and she took over Knight Industries – as Miss Knight (see “The House that Jack Built”). She was partnered with Steed by late 1964-early 1965 (season 4 shooting dates), and they were already “old friends.” When did she and Peter marry and how long had she believed she was a widow? That’s another story! BTW, did you ever notice how Cathy still wore her wedding ring, but Emma did not? Interesting.

5. The events of Cathy and Emma’s adventure, hinted at in the final chapter, will be in an upcoming story, because the idea of Cathy and Emma partnering on a case is just too good for me to ignore.