Ritter pulled up outside Dasch’s office, got out, slammed the door and walked inside.
Carter remained where he was. His heart was beating too fast and he was having trouble thinking straight. He had no idea whether he would be blamed for what had happened and, if he were, exactly what Dasch would do about it. Finally, he took hold of the satchel that contained the money, opened the car door and climbed out.
At that same moment, Dasch emerged from his office, followed closely by Ritter, whose face was still the same chalky shade of white as it had turned in the moment he’d seen Galton kicked into the street.
Dasch walked right up to Carter and took hold of his shoulders. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Carter stammered.
‘Ritter said it was a trap.’
‘It was,’ replied Carter, ‘but we got lucky.’
‘That was not luck!’ said Ritter. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, we would both be under arrest by now. We would be finished. All of us!’
‘You misjudged him, Ritter!’ said Dasch, his voice raised to a shout. ‘You’ve been doing that since the first day you met him. Why don’t you finally admit it.’
For a few seconds Ritter’s mouth twitched, as if he were trying to suck out something caught between his teeth. But then he blurted out, ‘It’s true!’ He turned to Carter and solemnly he said, ‘I will not make the same mistake again.’
For a moment, even Dasch looked surprised at Ritter’s admission. Then he got down to business. ‘This man you were dealing with,’ he asked Carter, ‘does he know you are working for me?’
Carter shook his head. ‘Of course not.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Positive.’
Dasch stepped forward and embraced him. ‘Thank God for that,’ he sighed. Then he stood back. ‘My friend, you are still trembling with fear!’
Dasch was right, but not for the reasons he believed. To Carter, it was starting to look as if Eckberg had been right, and that he could no longer rely on Wilby’s promises to keep him safe.
‘The police have nothing on you,’ continued Dasch. ‘Even if they tracked you down, it would mean nothing. No money changed hands. You never set eyes on the goods he intended to sell. As far as they’re concerned, you didn’t even show up to the meeting. All you are guilty of is a conversation with this man, and they could hardly convict you with that.’
Now Ritter chimed in. ‘Mr Dasch is no stranger to the police, but they always leave here empty handed.’
‘I keep meaning to ask how you do that,’ said Carter.
Smiling, Dasch patted him on the cheek. ‘Patience, my friend,’ he said. ‘That day is coming soon.’
…
While a freezing wind blew through the streets of Rocherath, snatching away thin streams of smoke escaping from the chimney pots, Lieutenant Carter lay on the floor of the attic, wrapped in his dirty army blanket. As long as he stayed on his back, the hard wooden boards were bearable. It was only when he rolled onto his side that his hip bones began to complain.
People came and went throughout the night. Half conscious, Carter listened to the slam of doors and the sounds of men’s voices, oblivious the others who were trying to sleep. He had grown so used to the noises in that Belgian farmhouse, at any time of day or night, that even the loudest of them did not stir him from his rest. But shortly before 5 a.m., a strange shudder jarred him out of sleep. The whole house seemed to tremble, as if a train had rumbled past outside. But there were no trains anywhere near. Carter’s eyes snapped open and, for a moment, he just lay there staring at the ceiling while he waited for the sound to reappear.
Another shudder came, and then another, rolling together until he lost track of where one sound ended and another one began. It must be thunder, thought Carter, but he had never heard thunder in the middle of the winter before. The idea passed through his head that maybe they were having an earthquake.
Then he heard a metallic shriek that caused all his muscles to tense, followed by an explosion somewhere on the edge of town. He saw the glass in the window of his room appear to ripple, as if it had transformed into liquid.
Another explosion roared out of the darkness, and then more. In between the din of the explosions, he could hear trucks racing past outside.
‘Out! Out! Out!’ somebody was shouting downstairs.
It was only now that Carter realised they were under attack. He thought of the Belgian prisoner, Grandhenri, raging in his cell in Bütgenbach that death was on its way, and the warning of ther German soldier, which Wharton had refused to believe.
Carter rolled out of his blanket and was halfway to his feet when a dusty red flash lit up the room from outside and he toppled backwards. Struggling to his feet again, Carter glanced through the window and saw the whole horizon towards the German border illuminated with a flickering glare.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor again. The window of his room was gone and flakes of ash were flitting like moths around the room. He sat up and put his hands to his face, certain that he must be hurt even if there was no pain, but the skin was still intact. Hurriedly, he moved his trembling hands along his arms and legs, searching for a wound that was not there. He did not know how long he had been unconscious. It seemed like it might only have been a few seconds, but there was no more shouting in the hallway and the house felt empty now.
Once more Carter got up, weaving and uncertain on his feet, and clattered down the stairs, hand skimming along the greasy banister, not even sure where he was going. Arriving at the ground floor, he remembered that he had left behind the olive green satchel in which he kept his cigarettes, a notebook for his case work and a can of tinned peaches, which Riveira had tossed to him the night before when they parted company out by the field kitchen. Instinctively he spun around, ready to run back up the stairs. In that instant another blast, which seemed to come from right outside the house, knocked open the front door, nearly carrying it off its hinges, and the shockwave dropped Carter to his knees. A wave of smoke rolled in, filling his lungs with the metallic burn of high explosives.
Carter staggered upright and, as he turned to leave, he noticed that he wasn’t alone. Someone was sitting at the table in the room where he and Wharton had interrogated the German soldier the night before.
Carter stuck his head into the room. It was dark, but he realised immediately from the silhouette that the person was Wharton himself. ‘Major?’ he asked.
The silhouette turned slowly, seeming more mechanical than human. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Carter thought he sounded drunk. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we need to leave. This town is getting blown to bits.’
Wharton did not move. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.
Carter stepped into the room, his hand held out to help the major up. The floor trembled beneath his feet as another shockwave washed over the house. More roof tiles clattered into the street, smashing with a sound like broken crockery. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to go.’
‘I didn’t know they were taking the fuel across the border,’ muttered Wharton. ‘They told me it was for their farm equipment.’
It took a moment for Carter to understand exactly what Wharton was saying. ‘You knew about the theft before it happened?’
‘Of course I knew,’ said Wharton. ‘I’m the one who sold it to them.’
Carter felt his body go numb, stunned by what the major was admitting. Even though Wharton had not been exactly helpful to him, the major’s perpetually exasperated explanations had made sense to Carter. He had proved entirely convincing. And Carter, who had made a life’s work from the tools of deception, had believed that he could always spot when those same tools were being used against him. Until now. In spite of the fact that German shells were arcing down upon the village, Carter just stood there feeling stupid and amazed.