“He’s a smuggler,” Kaz said, “if not worse. He could have a secret compartment or cellar dug out and hidden under all this rubble.”
“Well, let’s have him point the way to it,” I said. “How about that barn? It gives us a good view of the cottage.”
“If this weather doesn’t turn to fog,” Kaz said. “And if the barn doesn’t collapse on top of us. Otherwise an excellent idea. Lead on, Billy.” He grinned, his scarred face looking slightly maniacal. I don’t much mind maniacal when it’s on my side.
It must have been a poor excuse for a barn even before it lost a wall. The place smelled of rotten hay and garbage, the latter probably courtesy of GIs passing through. Empty cases of field rations littered the ground, the familiar crescent-moon symbol marking them as C- or K-Rations. We cleared a spot under the overhanging corner of the roof, which looked like it might lose its fight with gravity at any moment. But it was dry, and it gave us a perfect view of the cottage and the road, not to mention a bit of cover provided by the fallen timbers.
So we waited.
And waited. For hours. The misty rain gave way to fog, rising from the ground in a dark haze that muffled the occasional hoot of a nearby owl. It was well past midnight when we first heard it: the puttering, coughing sound of a small motorbike in the distance.
“Where is it?” Kaz whispered, twisting his head to try and locate the sudden sound.
“There,” I said, pointing in the direction we’d come from. “No, over there.” It was hopeless. It seemed to be everywhere, the noise and the night playing tricks on our ears. It faded away, then rose again, coming from the opposite end of the village.
“He is suspicious,” Kaz said. “I think he’s trying to draw us out.”
“Or maybe it’s his usual routine, to see if the MPs are patrolling. Not that he had a motorbike before, but he could have done the same thing on foot, circling the village until he was sure it was empty.”
“I wonder if the constables have given chase?” Kaz said.
“Unless they saw him, it’d be a wild goose chase.”
We waited some more, listening for the motorbike, picking it up in the distance only to have it fade away again. It was after two o’clock when we heard it draw closer. Much closer than it had been. We strained to find the direction, the thick fog disorienting our senses and cutting visibility to near zero.
“Over there,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Across the road, behind the buildings.” The engine was idling, giving off a rhythmic putt-putt, almost mesmerizing in the dank night air.
“What’s he waiting for?” Kaz asked. “An accomplice?”
“Us,” I said. “Let’s not disappoint him.” I was tired of waiting. If he wanted a fight, he could have one. Besides, the clock was ticking on the upcoming shelling and air attack. A mixture of frustration and practicality drove me forward, making me increasingly desperate for a solution that didn’t involve a P-47 strafing run.
I motioned to Kaz to stay low, and we used the heavy fog on the ground for cover as best we could. We slipped out of the barn, pistols in hand, and scurried to the tank in the middle of the road, straining our eyes for any sign of movement. We watched the approach to Crawford’s cottage, hoping he’d appear. Nothing. We waited ten, maybe fifteen minutes. The idling engine enticed us to move again. We darted to the blasted doorway of a cottage across from Crawford’s, where we spent another ten minutes waiting for something to happen.
“Maybe he is waiting for someone,” I whispered. “Let’s get closer.”
I led and Kaz followed, both of us swiveling our heads like mad, watching for a threat from any quarter. We froze at the sound of movement ahead, only to see a big rat run across our path seconds later. We sprinted to the edge of a wooded patch, the motorbike now sounding only yards away.
We stood still, regaining our breath, waiting for footsteps or a voice. Nothing came, nothing but the steadily idling engine. I motioned Kaz to go flat, and we began to crawl through the underbrush, skirting tangles of vines and branches, finally getting close enough to smell the exhaust fumes. Either my eyes were getting used to the fog, or it was thinning out. Kaz nudged my arm and pointed with his Webley.
There it was. On the edge of a clearing about ten yards out. No one in sight, just the monotonous engine noise filling the empty space. Then it began to sputter and cough. It ran ragged for a few minutes and then conked out. The silence encompassed us, the absence of sound suddenly frightening. Now we had to be really quiet; there was no cover to muffle our footsteps in the forest. We moved apart, circling in on the motorbike. I could feel the warmth from the engine, see where the kickstand dug into the loamy earth.
It was as if we were meant to find it.
“Look,” Kaz whispered, pointing to a canvas musette bag hanging from the handlebar. He stepped forward to lift it off, and as he did Crawford’s words about his service in the last war flooded my brain.
I was a sapper … setting charges … laying mines and booby-traps.
Kaz pulled the musette bag by the straps, but it only gave a few inches. I heard a metallic snap and rushed at Kaz, leaning in low to hit him with my shoulder, lifting him and rolling into the bushes, keeping his body covered with mine.
The explosion blasted over us, the force slamming my face into the ground as I felt a red-hot sensation in my legs. I opened my eyes to check on Kaz, shaking my head to clear it from the shock and the concussive noise.
“Are you okay?” I managed, grasping him by the shoulders and pulling him up.
“What happened?” Kaz answered, wincing as he righted himself.
“It was booby-trapped,” I said. “Are you hurt, Kaz?” I tried not to shout, the ringing in my ears still loud.
“No, I think not. Sore but unhurt,” he said, picking up his revolver and checking it. The motorbike was a twisted lump of metal and burning rubber, the smoky flames flickering in the darkness, sending shadows dancing at our feet. I felt warmth in my boot and knew that I’d caught some shrapnel. The back of my trench coat was ripped, and I could feel the tears in my wool pants above the boot. I’d have scars on top of scars before this thing was over.
“Let’s go,” I said, ignoring the squishing between my toes.
“Billy, you’re injured,” Kaz said, spotting my leg.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Now we have an advantage.” I took off at a gimpy trot, making for Crawford’s cottage.
“What, that our heads were not completely blown off? And thank you, by the way. Mine would have been if you hadn’t tackled me.”
“Anytime,” I said, crouching behind a thick tree trunk. “The advantage is that Crawford thinks we’re dead, or close to it. The idling bike was a ruse to draw out anyone watching.”
“It is about time we had the upper hand,” Kaz said. “Let’s make good use of it.”
“We need to hurry,” I whispered, checking my watch. The sky was beginning to lighten at the horizon, the harbinger of a dawn drawing close.
“I am tempted to leave him here,” Kaz said. “To the justice of a naval and air bombardment.”
“If we didn’t need him, that’d be fine with me,” I said. But we did, and I wanted the indispensable Crawford alive and uninjured for the job I had in mind for him. We worked out a plan to approach the cottage from both sides, staying out of his line of sight from the doorway. I figured he had valuables stashed in some secret spot, and it was time to dig them up and hightail it out of here. But all I cared about was one gold ring with the Pemberton coat of arms.
I went left and Kaz went right, each of us in a low, careful duckwalk, scurrying across the lane guarded by the gutted tank. Fog hung close to the ground, rising from the damp earth and making sudden movements dangerous; there was no way to tell if you were about to stumble into a hole or fall across a log. The air was thick with moisture and fear as we moved in on the cottage, flattening ourselves against the whitewashed walls on either side.