Copyright © 2015 by Daley James Francis
www.DaleyJFrancis.com
Cover Design and Illustrations © 2015 J. P. HattSmith
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review
The right of Daley James Francis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988
All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
ISBN: 9781483548753
No dragons were harmed during the writing of this book
Contents
Prologue: A Book That Could Win a War
1. They’ll Huff and They’ll Puff
2. Downsizing
3. The First Sketches
4. Neighbourhood Watch
5. Along Came a Spider
6. Serious Men Wearing Suits = Not Good
7. The Return of George Huber
8. Enter the Dragon
9. Negotiations, Explosions and Whitney
10. Grandpa’s Gift
Acknowledgements
Prologue:
A Book That Could Win a War
My mother once told me that a good book had the power to change the world. I thought she had gone mad. How could the world be changed by a story? Over the course of these pages, I will reveal the one case in which I know it to be true.
The book first came to my attention in September 1942. I was a reluctant Private in the German army, with no intentions on being promoted in such a deplorable outfit. I was happy with my sideline in retrieving objects of historical and cultural importance, and it was this endeavour that led me to be ordered to Berlin, where I was greeted by General Bernard Von Hart, a fearsome bear of a man who was as tall as he was wide, with eyes that could see into your soul. As he gave me my mission, I looked down at the floor rather than face the imposing beast standing before me.
“The Führer recognises your talent and wishes for you to conduct a special mission in France,” he growled.
I love France, so my first reaction was to picture myself sipping wine in a café filled with beautiful people. Of course, France was nothing like this picture now, as my people were busy tearing it apart, and many of the cafés I daydreamed about had now been destroyed by bombs. Anxiety filled my bones.
“Your equivalent in England, an officer named James Carter, is rumoured to be in possession of a book that could shift the balance of the war in favour of the enemy. We want you to find it and bring it back to us, by whatever means necessary.”
James Carter was a familiar name. Truth be told, I was in awe of him. He had beaten me to targets before the war, and was renowned for putting his life on the line to achieve his missions, making him a legend in our field. Sadly, the war had made idolising an English officer a firing squad-worthy offence, so I kept my magazines and newspaper cuttings in a secret place, to appreciate after the war. We adventurers have a great deal of respect for one another, and a mutual understanding that if we are searching for the same artefact, a bit of aggressive competition is to be expected. But like all sport, there is a line that we do not cross. This time, I feared that I would have to cross that line.
The General handed me a rolled up map and a M1879 Reichsrevolver.
“Your contact in Paris will be Boris. He will inform you of Carter’s whereabouts.”
We saluted each other, and Von Hart added a chilling parting order.
“Do not fail us.”
I took two short flights and a boat in order to reach Paris without drawing attention to myself. My imagination had run wild with romantic visions of the city, but this was not the land of my dreams. Homes and businesses were in ruins, and thick smoke filled the air from the many fires that had broken out during the occupation. A black cloud came over me, but I had to put my feelings aside. I had a job to do.
The boatman told me where I could meet Boris, the man who would lead me to Officer Carter, and as I made my way to the rendezvous point, I felt agitated by the vagueness of the meeting with Von Hart. As an adventurer, my missions were born out of passion, not duty, and being kept in the dark was frustrating to say the least. If I was going to kill a respected peer in order to retrieve this book, I at least deserved to know why the Führer had such a vested interest in it. Of course, I would never voice this opinion to anyone but myself.
The Café Blonde was a small, intimate haunt. The room was lit by candlelight, and the tables were covered with hardened wax. It smelled like a cellar, musty and damp from spilled beer and poor upkeep. It was probably a popular place before the war, but not now.
Jorgen, my boat contact, had informed me that Boris would be wearing a black leather jacket and would be holding a copy of The Flying Classroom by Erich Kästner. I scanned the café and found a small, hunched man sitting in the corner of the room, holding a copy of Kästner’s book in front of his face.
“Boris?” I said as I approached his table.
The book came down, revealing a face that resembled a scrunched up paper bag. He was smoking a cigarette, and he frowned as he looked me up and down.
“Who’s asking?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Huber.” My name brought a smile to his craggy face.
“Good to meet you, Huber. Take a seat.”
Boris stubbed out his cigarette, gulped down an espresso and motioned to the waitress to bring two more to the table. I pondered how many fights a man would have to win or lose to have a face like Boris. His hands were huge for such a short man, but they were as tough as old boots. He could definitely handle himself in a fist fight.
The waitress came over with two coffees and I gave her my politest smile. She smiled back, the dimples in her cheeks reminding me of the wife I had left behind in Hamburg. If I had been wearing my German uniform, she might not have been so warm and accommodating.
“The Brit can be found at this hotel,” Boris said, sliding me a business card.
“How can you be sure he still has the book?” I asked.
A huge grin formed on Boris’ face.
“You haven’t been told the origins of the book?”
“I know nothing except that the Führer wants it at all costs. I don’t suppose you want to fill me in?” I asked.
“I have never seen the book. My friend Noonan, however, got his hands on it, once upon a time. The pages were blank, except for a dozen or so, which had crude sketches on them.”
“It’s a sketchbook? Why is it so sought after? Is the Führer making a return to art?”
Boris laughed, and continued his story about Noonan, who had got hold of the book when it had been in the possession of a collector named Vincent.
“Noonan told me that he came across a very strange drawing. He described it as a cross between a monkey, a wolf and a Man…”
I managed to swallow the laugh I wanted to let out, so as not to offend Boris, who was deadly serious in his retelling of the story.
“That kind of image stays with you for a long time,” Boris continued. “Later that night, as Noonan lay asleep in his hotel bed, Vincent came crashing through the wall. As Noonan jumped up, he caught a glimpse of a horrific beast as it ran and leapt from the window.”
“What was it?” I asked, my interest growing by the second.
“Noonan swore to me that what he saw was the exact same beast that had been drawn in that book. He said it was like the image had walked straight off the page and now existed in its own right.”
I sniffed my coffee before tasting it, suspecting that Boris might have been under the influence of something a little stronger than caffeine.
“Can I speak to Noonan tonight?” I asked, and reached for the notebook I kept in my jacket.
“Noonan is now living in a different kind of hotel, if you know what I mean?” said Boris, twirling his finger at the side of his head and making the sound of a cuckoo.
I drank my coffee and threw a couple of francs on the table. Boris continued to read his children’s book, smiling and giggling in places. And there I was thinking that it was a decoy. Maybe he was mad, after all. The story about Noonan had all but confirmed it.
Using the address on the business card, I made my way to the Saint Hotel, where Officer Carter was staying. I knew that I had to be at my best so as not to alert him to my intentions, as I knew that he would have an acute awareness of his surroundings, and a suspicion of everyone around him. We adventurers needed these traits in order to survive.
The hotel was in a state of disrepair, but was quaint and satisfactory. I booked a room, and recalled Boris’ tale of monkey-wolf men as I strode up the winding steps of the hotel. I also wondered if Carter might be able to identify me. Although I had never had my photograph published in a newspaper, I was successful enough that he might know my name and reputation, and my physical description. Carter, on the other hand, was famous right across Europe, and I had seen many photographs of him. His exploits were far more celebrated in England than mine were in my homeland.
After resting from my journey, I left my room and visited the bar downstairs. It was quiet, but had an open fireplace which was burning nicely. I decided to unwind, whilst keeping a close eye out for Carter and any possible accomplices. Following a couple of whiskies, Carter finally made an appearance. He was alone, and had lost a lot of weight compared to the last photograph I’d seen of him. The war hadn’t been kind to him, which was to be expected as an Englishman living in Nazi-occupied territory. He was pale, and his eyes were reddened through lack of sleep. I decided to hold back for now, and glanced over to the only other person in the bar, a fat old man asleep in a chair by the fire.
My heart rate doubled when, drink in hand and merry of smile, Carter approached me.
“May I have the pleasure of your company?” he asked in perfect French. A thousand thoughts, words and actions passed through my brain at once, but I managed to remain calm.
“Why of course,” I replied. “I’m sure I will be of better conversation than that gentleman.”
The sleeping man was snoring like a lion.
“Quite,” said Carter, and he sat in the chair opposite.
Carter and I exchanged pleasantries about the weather and so on. It was tremendously difficult not to break character and talk to Carter like the fan that I was, especially as I found him such endearing company. It was only after a couple of drinks, when we had become comfortable with each other, that the mood suddenly changed.
“How did you find me?” Carter said, in English this time. His face changed from friendly to serious in an instant, but he didn’t reach for a weapon, which led me to believe that he didn’t have one in his possession.
“How… How did you know?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
We sat staring at each other, like a scene from the American Westerns I was a fan of. What were we supposed to do now?
Carter reached for his drink and took a sip. He seemed exceptionally calm for somebody who was about to be captured, maybe even shot.
“If you’re looking for the book, it isn’t here,” he said, pausing to take a sip. “I got rid of it, and your Führer will never find it. Did you and your superiors really believe that I’d be carrying it around like a journal?”
“Superiors, yes. Myself? No,” I replied.
“Do you even know what it is you’re looking for?”
“They were pretty vague in their description, if I’m honest.”
Carter let out a bellowing laugh. I felt very silly, having come all of this way, and sitting opposite a man I admired.
“I’m an adventurer, like you.”
“Ah! That explains a few things.” Carter looked very pleased with himself. “The bureaucracy of the world doesn’t sit well with people in our line of work, and we bring them far too much trouble.”
I allowed myself a smile. I loved Carter’s attitude, for I felt the same.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Huber. George Huber.”
My heart started to race, and I prayed that Carter had heard of my adventures.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
I cannot lie, the lack of recognition caused my stomach to sink.
“You must be good if they’ve sent you here to get the book back,” he continued, which made up for him not knowing my name.
“I am yet to reach your level of fame, but I am strong of body and mind, and my passion knows no equal. Your capture will be the crowning achievement of my career.”