The Iron Storm by CW Browning (classic literature books TXT) 📕

listen. Thankfully, he was very good at that. By the time he’d finished breakfast this morning, he not only knew where Asp lived, but also knew that most of the town distrusted him. Pierre Lucien. That was his real name. He used to be a factory worker outside of Paris, though now they weren’t sure what he did. He traveled a lot, and when he was home, he kept himself to himself. He was likeable enough, they agreed, but his reticence was met with suspicion. There was no reason for a man to be that secretive about what he did every day. None at all.

Eisenjager sucked on his cigarette, never taking his eyes from the house across the road. It was a very strange situation he found himself in, nothing like what he was used to. He had to go see this Asp, but had no inkling of why Hamburg thought the man would be able to help him find Jens Bernard. He didn’t like not knowing who people were, or why they would be able to help him. He preferred to know exactly what he was dealing with. Less mistakes were made that way, and there were less opportunities for failure. This Asp was an unknown factor, and Eisenjager didn’t like unknown factors.

He was still delaying the walk across the street five minutes later when the front door to the house opened and a tall man stepped out, turning to shake the hand of someone who Eisenjager could only assume was Asp. After shaking his hand, the door closed and the tall man turned to walk down the path to the street. Eisenjager’s eyes narrowed sharply and he sucked in his breath. He knew that man! Or at least, he knew of him. Everyone in the SS knew of Obersturmbannführer Hans Voss. The man had created quite a reputation for himself over the course of two years. When Eisenjager had gone over to the Abwehr, Voss had been climbing the ranks of the SD with speed and tenacity. He was determined to break into the ranks of the Senior command, and Eisenjager had no doubt that he would accomplish it. Men like that always did. They wanted prestige and power more than anything, and they usually got it.

What the hell was he doing here?

Eisenjager scowled and watched as Voss turned and walked down the street away from him. What business did the SD have with Asp? And what did that mean for his own dealings with the man?

There was only one thing he could do, and it would have to be done before he went to see Asp. He would have to contact Hamburg again and advise them of this new development. They would have to instruct him on his course of action. If he had his own way, he would neutralize Voss and go about his business, but the presence of the SD here meant that Asp was something altogether different than what he’d first supposed, and he had to know exactly what before proceeding.

Eisenjager turned and disappeared down the alley between two buildings, making his way back to his car and his wireless radio. Asp would have to wait.

Chapter Twenty-Four

RAF Duxford

Miles sipped his tea and read the letter in his hand, smiling occasionally. He read it through, set it down, and reached for his neglected plate of sausages and mashed potatoes. He’d spent the morning patrolling over the North Sea, returning for lunch to find a letter from Evelyn waiting. His day suddenly seemed a bit brighter, especially after reading about the latest dustup with her pilot officer friend, Ron Durton. That man really was something else. He seemed to be destined to get into scrape after scrape, mostly brought on by his own idiotic penchant for practical jokes. Yet Evelyn seemed to enjoy him, and Miles admitted that if he ever got to know him, he probably would as well.

Cutting into a fat sausage, Miles glanced at the letter laying on the table next to his plate. It was dated the tenth of May, and Evelyn wrote in the letter that she was on her way to tea and wanted to post the letter on her way. So it was written after lunch. Yet there was no mention of the invasion into Belgium, or of the Germans moving through Luxembourg unopposed. In fact, he realized with a frown, there was no mention of anything aside from the day-to-day happenings on the station.

Before he could think any more about it, a shadow fell across his plate. He looked up to find Slippy standing there with a tray containing his lunch and a pot of tea.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked cheerfully.

“Of course not,” Miles said, nodding to the empty seat across the table. “Did you just come down?”

“Yes. A little ahead of schedule, I’m afraid. My fuel gauge was acting up, trying to tell me that my tank was empty.” Slippy set his tray down and settled himself across from Miles. “It wasn’t. Turns out the gauge is broken, so I could have continued without worry, but how was I to know? How was your morning?”

“Bloody boring. We didn’t see a thing.” Miles folded up Evelyn’s letter and slid it back into the envelope. “Jerrie’s too busy over in Belgium.”

“And France. Did you hear they’re bombing cities in France now?” Slippy picked up his knife and fork, preparing to dig into his lunch. “Targeting civilians by all accounts. What kind of sick bastard targets civilians while their army is off fighting miles away?”

“The Nazis, apparently.”

“Well it’s jolly shabby of them. It’s things like that that will be their downfall. You can’t cheat at cricket and then expect to be welcomed in all the good clubs.”

“Something tells me Hitler has no interest in playing cricket at all, let alone doing it honorably,” Miles said dryly. “He’s a plebeian, my dear boy. He has no idea of what’s right or proper.”

“And yet he’s knocking on France’s door.” Slippy