Death Ray Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Personnel Files

  Epigraph

  Map

  Chapter One: Heading South

  Chapter Two: London’s Burning, Fire Fire!

  Chapter Three: Far from Prying Eyes

  Chapter Four: Basic Spycraft

  Chapter Five: Night of Broken Glass

  Chapter Six: The French Connection

  Chapter Seven: Watchful Eyes

  Chapter Eight: Véronique

  Chapter Nine: The Flamingo Club

  Chapter Ten: The Dumbwaiter

  Chapter Eleven: Jacques’ Story

  Chapter Twelve: From Freya to Odette

  Chapter Thirteen: Friend or Foe

  Chapter Fourteen: To France

  Chapter Fifteen: Nachtjagd

  Chapter Sixteen: A Rough Reception

  Chapter Seventeen: Lost in France

  Chapter Eighteen: Keeping One Step Ahead

  Chapter Nineteen: Setting Europe Ablaze

  Chapter Twenty: Sofie’s Choice

  Chapter Twenty-One: Hände Hoch!

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Next Stop Rochefort

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Blood and Guts

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Friends Reunited

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Beware of Fat Men!

  Chapter Twenty-Six: In the Midst of Treachery

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: London Calling

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Impossible Choices

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Taking a Chance

  Chapter Thirty: Unexpected Visitors

  Chapter Thirty-One: The Great Escape

  Postscript

  The Playfair Code

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Craig Simpson

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The Second World War is raging and Britain is in trouble.

  Intelligence indicates that the Nazis have built a deadly weapon on the French coast. Could a death ray really exist? There’s only one way to find out – to steal it.

  Finn and Loki are Special Ops agents. Officially, they don’t exist – they’re perfect for this undercover mission.

  For the young men and women who bravely carried their heavy suitcases into battle

  During a war many people have no choice but to fight. Others volunteer out of a sense of duty to King and Country, claiming they are fighting for freedom or to protect their way of life. Some, however, go to war for much more personal reasons – for revenge, or to protect those they love. These are the most powerful reasons of all – and the most dangerous. To protect those you love is a basic instinct and you will stop at nothing to defend them, even if it means betraying others who have entrusted their lives to you. As a member of Special Operations I have learned to question why my fellow agents volunteered. If it was for love or revenge, then it is time for me to start worrying and to watch out for the enemy within.

  Finn Gunnersen

  1941

  Chapter One

  Heading South

  January 1941

  MAJOR BAXTER’S PARTING WORDS on the platform of Glasgow station gave me the shivers. ‘Well, we’ve taught you all we can in the precious little time available to us. In God’s name I just pray it’s enough,’ he declared as he reached out and shook each of our hands in turn. His crushing grip said Good luck, give them hell, and Be safe, all in one. I think he wanted to salute us too, but that wouldn’t have looked right, a soldier saluting three sixteen-year-olds. People would have thought that rather strange. Of course, Major Baxter knew what they didn’t – he knew who and what we were.

  A horrible truth dawned on me. To all intents and purposes we didn’t exist, not officially, except to the leaders of Special Operations who had our details filed away under lock and key in folders marked MOST SECRET. It was odd knowing that passers-by would barely give us a second glance, not guessing in a million years that we were rapidly becoming pawns in the fight against Hitler’s Germany. Without uniforms we looked ordinary, like any other civilians, and that was exactly the point. Ordinary was good, perfect in fact, because that’s exactly how secret agents should appear.

  A shrill whistle and the frantic slamming of carriage doors heralded our departure. The train jolted forward, slowly gathering pace. I could hear the massive steam locomotive puffing and straining, her huge wheels screeching as they struggled for grip. I spent a moment looking out the misted window. Faces floated past like ghosts. Arms waved. Then it all became a blur. Suddenly the station was gone.

  We were heading to London, where we’d change trains before completing our journey. Our final destination was ‘classified’. I tried asking, of course, but got the standard reply, a rather worrying ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  The corridors of our train were jam-packed with troops and their rifles and kit bags. The floor was slippery, and the stale oppressive air full of cigarette smoke, idle chatter, sneezes and hacking coughs, and the odours of damp cloth and leather. I suspected many of these men had been among the troops heroically plucked from the beaches at Dunkirk the previous summer, in what optimists were calling ‘the most successful escape in history’. The word ‘retreat’ was taboo.

  Captain Nils Jacobsen slid shut the door to our compartment and pulled down the blind. Nils was accompanying us on our journey into the unknown. Like Freya, Loki and me, he was Norwegian too. In an unfamiliar foreign country it was good having him around. He knew the ropes. He was in his late twenties, but he looked older: the wrinkles around his tired eyes – eyes that had witnessed many dreadful things – were hallmarks of the stresses and strains of being a fighter pilot. Yet he was cheerful and always grinning and joking.

  Gathering up our damp coats and gas masks Nils piled them up on an empty seat. Everyone had to carry their smelly rubber nosebags at all times. I often wondered if they really worked but hoped I’d never find out.

  Loki and Freya slumped down opposite me, Loki occupying the window seat. Resting her head on his shoulder, Freya closed her eyes and let out a weary sigh. In truth we were all exhausted. For the previous three weeks we’d been hidden away in an isolated Scottish hunting lodge near a place called Arisaig on the west coast. The spectacular Highlands, with its many craggy mountains and deep lochs, reminded me of our homeland. The area was ‘Restricted’, the War Department banning everyone except those involved with Special Operations from stepping foot inside the zone. We’d got to know the area well while being taught the clandestine arts of reconnaissance, concealment and sabotage by Major Baxter and his men.

  Nils unfolded his damp newspaper and handed it to me. ‘OK, Finn, get reading out loud.’

  I groaned, but seized the paper anyway. We had to practise our English every day, to try and lose our native Norwegian accents. I began with the front page. London had been bombed for the fourth night running. The Blitz had claimed another dozen lives. It was grim reading. As I searched the pages for something lighter, I slipped into my native Norwegian and asked, ‘How come the Luftwaffe’s still pounding us to oblivion? I thought we’d won the battle of the skies.’

  Nils grimaced. ‘Winning the Battle of Britain was only a partial victory, Finn. It hasn’t stopped the bombing, but on the plus side, we’ve forced the Luftwaffe to limit most of its raids to the hours of darkness. Their losses would be unsustainable otherwise. And it has almost certainly delayed an invasion: Hitler won’t risk crossing the Channel unless he has absolute air superiority.’

  ‘Is there any way of stopping them once and for all?’ I asked.

  ‘Doubt it,’ Nils replied with a little shrug. ‘Our RDF system’s good, but not that good.’

  Freya
briefly opened her eyes. ‘What’s RDF?’

  ‘Radio Direction Finding,’ Nils replied. ‘Some call it radar.’

  We’d never heard of it but wanted to know more.

  Nils explained. ‘The system uses radio waves, just like wireless sets, only much more powerful. Transmitters along the coastline send out pulses. These pulses bounce off anything solid – like aircraft – and get reflected back. Sensitive receivers pick up the return signals. The aerials are directional and, using the time it takes for the pulses to return, it’s possible to work out how far away the aircraft are. The radar operators relay the information to us pilots and then it’s down to us to intercept the enemy.’

  Nils reached out and took my paper from me. Removing a pen from his pocket, he drew a diagram to illustrate. ‘The aerials are huge, Finn, about three hundred feet tall. You can’t miss them. I’ve seen them myself while flying coastal patrols.’

  Loki leaned forward for a better look at Nils’ picture. ‘If they’re that big, surely Fritz has seen them too? Why haven’t they just bombed the hell out of them?’

  Scratching his chin, Nils pulled a face. ‘Good point, Loki. If I was Fritz and knew what these aerials were for, I’d make destroying them my first priority. Blow them to smithereens. The fact that hasn’t happened suggests that Fritz doesn’t know what they are. Maybe he just thinks they’re ordinary radio transmitters.’

  Nils had taken part in many frenetic dogfights. He’d flown alongside my father, who’d travelled to England and joined the RAF when war broke out. Father had been determined to play his part. And his wish was fulfilled, although ultimately it cost him his life. I was proud of him. People had begun calling Pilots like him the few, men to whom so much was owed. Of course the few had become fewer. Britain was desperately short of pilots. ‘Was radar much use to you during the Battle of Britain?’ I asked.

  After a little thought Nils answered my question. ‘Yes. Without radar our fighter squadrons wouldn’t have been scrambled in time. It gave us a few precious minutes to get airborne, achieve sufficient altitude and locate the enemy.’ He paused before continuing. ‘Even now they pick up the incoming night bombers while they’re still out over the sea. Our lads try their best to intercept them but darkness gives the enemy the edge.’ He began chewing the end of his pen. ‘What we really need is to have some sort of radar inside our cockpits. Then we’d effectively be able to see in the dark.’

  Loki stretched out a leg and gave Nils a friendly kick. ‘Why don’t you just eat more carrots?’ he joked.

  We laughed. It was said that British pilots ate lots of carrots because they thought it helped them to see in the dark.

  ‘Do the Germans have this radar as well?’ asked Freya.

  Nils nodded. ‘We believe so. In fact, there’s a nasty rumour that they have developed a new long-range system, one which gives them even more time to get their fighters airborne.’

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’

  ‘It would make sense. Bomber Command has been experiencing horrendous losses recently. No sooner do they reach the French coast than the enemy swarms about them like flies around a rotting carcass. It’s one hell of a problem.’

  ‘Well, if they do have it, it must look very different,’ Loki observed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘If their system’s like ours with all those weird tall aerials, our fighter patrols would have spotted them, wouldn’t they? Presumably they haven’t or we’d know about it. So Fritz’s radar system must look different.’

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ said Nils.

  I resumed reading for about twenty minutes before noticing that everyone else looked as though they were dozing off. Loki, Freya and me were bound together by more than just a lifetime’s friendship. Loki’s parents, Freya’s father, and my mother and sister all languished back home in the dark, dank prison cells of Trondheim’s Kristiansten Fortress – all guests of the infamous Gestapo. The fate of our loved ones was as uncertain as our own and the three of us were united by the dream of their safe release, or of one day returning to free them. With Germany seemingly winning the war, a happy outcome felt far, far away – way beyond our reach.

  Our helplessness frequently bubbled to the surface as anger and frustration. We leaned heavily on each other for support. Nils played his part too, reminding us that as far as we knew they were still alive. ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope,’ he’d say. Often, hope on its own just didn’t seem enough.

  Loki started to snore. I pressed my head against the back of the seat and closed my eyes too. At Arisaig we’d been up before dawn every day, out running in all weathers over gruelling terrain, then ordered to swim back and forth in the icy waters of the lochs. That was part one of our training. It was no holiday, or like any school I’d ever been to before. It was tough. No allowances were made for the fact we were just kids. We all knew that should we fail or display weakness, our time in Special Ops would be over. We’d learned a lot. Stuff like how to camouflage ourselves in the wilderness, how to avoid detection when crossing open ground, how to build shelters, blow up railway lines – basically how to hit the enemy hard and survive on the run.

  Although we’d now left the Highlands behind, our training was far from over. There was a second phase, a second school, somewhere incredibly secret, where we were to be taught spycraft and Lord knows what else. That’s where we were heading now. It was a daunting prospect not least because it brought us a step closer to active service, to our first real Special Operation.

  Chapter Two

  London’s Burning, Fire Fire!

  IT WAS EARLY evening when we arrived in London. The blackout meant there were few lights to see by. The air was thick with steam and soot, and my nose itched like mad.

  ‘There should be a car waiting outside the station,’ Nils announced as we all jumped down onto the platform. ‘We have to go across the city to catch the next train from Waterloo. But we’ve got plenty of time.’

  Ambling alongside waiting trains, I watched women on tiptoe hug their men, refusing to let go. There were tears and handkerchiefs, sobs and laughter, smiles and frowns – a whole kaleidoscope of emotions. I realized it was their last desperate moment before parting and I knew that for some there’d be no return. There were lines of small children too, their raincoats buttoned up, their hats and caps pulled down over their ears. Each wore a name tag as though they were an item of luggage, and each carried their gas mask in a little box with shoulder straps. At their feet rested small bags and suitcases, just one each, as though they were off on a short holiday. Some looked excited, a few bewildered, but a good many were crying their eyes out. Women with clipboards were clucking round them, keeping them in line and doing their best to be cheerful. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re being evacuated. Should have gone months ago,’ Nils replied.

  ‘Evacuated where?’

  ‘All over the place. Basically, anywhere outside the city. Families will take them in and look after them until it’s safe for them to return.’

  Many of the children were incredibly young. Poor blighters. I smiled as I passed two small grinning boys with cheap-looking toy tin helmets on their heads and wooden rifles in their hands. I saluted them and laughed when they stood to attention and saluted me back. We had something in common – we were all going on an adventure. I just hoped theirs would be less dangerous than ours.

  Exiting the station, Nils set about searching for our transport. I’d never been to London before and I soaked up the atmosphere: the hectic streets, the buses, the men on street corners selling newspapers. The city was bustling, frantic, alive. I took a deep breath. After hours of being cooped up on the train it felt good to stretch my legs. There were posters everywhere. One showed a soldier pointing at us and bore the words, ‘Is your journey really necessary?’ Yes! I found myself thinking. Another showed a sinking ship with the caption, ‘A few careless words may end in this’. It was a reminder to avo
id discussing the movements of ships or troops. Not all were so threatening though. One showed a boy clutching a spade and said ‘Dig for Victory’.

  ‘Look at those!’ Loki announced excitedly, pointing upwards.

  ‘What?’ Following his outstretched arm, I gazed to the heavens and saw shapes in the moonlight. They resembled flabby inflatable elephants and were rapidly rising into the night sky – barrage balloons. I’d read about them. They were huge, over sixty feet long and thirty feet tall, and were filled with hydrogen. Tethered to the ground by a long steel cable, they could be winched up or down thousands of feet in just minutes. I felt alarmed by the sight of them and the inevitable question that sprang to mind. Did they always raise them after dusk, or was trouble heading our way?

  Loki yawned. ‘At least they’ll force the Luftwaffe to keep to higher altitudes.’

  ‘Uh-huh. I’d hate to fly into the supporting cables. They’d cut an aircraft in half.’ We both peered up a while. ‘I wonder what would happen if one exploded? I wouldn’t want to be standing beneath it!’

  ‘Yeah, imagine thousands of feet of cable falling out of the sky.’

  Nils ran from one parked car to another, tapping on windows and asking the drivers if they were under orders to escort us across town. Finally, he reached the last vehicle, looked back towards us and shrugged apologetically.

  ‘Oh great!’ Freya cursed. ‘What do we do now?’

  Suddenly something cut through the air. It began as a low-pitched hum but rapidly rose into a screaming whine before oscillating between the two extremes – an air-raid siren! The wailing horror put the fear of God into me. Raising the barrage balloons was no exercise, I realized. Someone knew the enemy was coming! People stopped whatever they were doing and scurried for cover. Nils hurried back and shouted, ‘Just what we didn’t need. We’ll head for the nearest shelter.’

  We quickly found ourselves amid a huddle making for the entrance to an underground station. Caught up in the mêlée, we descended the steps. It felt as if we were being carried along on a tidal wave. People pushed and shoved, swore and complained. ‘Get a bleedin’ move on!’ yelled a tall fellow impatiently.