The Bavarian Gate By John Dalmas

Finally, Anna read minds and Macurdy auras, and Anna would carry a 6.35mm Beretta pistol.

Meanwhile MI5 just might have a tap on her aunt’s phone. Anna should keep the possibility in mind when she called. All in all it didn’t look too sticky.

The next morning before daylight, a sergeant drove the two to a village in Essex, where shortly after dawn, Anna dialed her aunt on a public phone. After several rings, a voice answered: “This is Agnes Henderson.”

“Aunt Agnes, I realize this is terribly early, and I hope it isn’t too great a shock, but I’m your niece, Anna.”

“Anna Really! What a nice surprise to hear from youl How is your dear mother?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen her for months. I’ve been away on confidential business, to do with the war effort actually, and been hard to reach. The reason I’m calling is that I’m stranded here in Essex, in East Dunsford, and desperately need transportation to London. For myself and my husband It’s quite urgent, I’m afraid. We have important business to transact there for our employer, and I do hope you can help me. ”

“I see. Well.” Anna could imagine the wheels turning in her Aunt’s mind, and wished she could tune in telepathically at distances like that. “Let’s see. It is now-6:12. Where can you be picked up?”

“I’m in the lobby of the Dunsford Inn. It’s in the center of the village, easily found.”

“I won’t be able to pick ou up myself, my dear, but someone will be along later today. I’m not sure when. How are they to recognize yon? I haven’t seen you for years, you know.”

“I’m still small, which doesn’t surprise you, I’m sure. My husband is large he looks rather like a docker, actually–and humps from a war wound. Both of us are unkempt just now-almost as if we’d spent the night walking about the heath-but we’ll take the opportunity to tidy up a bit.”

“How may we recognize the person you’re sending?”

“I don’t know yet who it will be. I need to phone around. But he’ll wear-let’s see. Something in his cap. A small flag perhaps, or a sprig of something.”

She paused. “This call is costing you or your employer money, my dear, so unless there is something else that must be said, I’ll hang up.”

“No, I think not. It was so nice speaking with you, and so good of you to help. We’re registered here as Mr. and Mrs. Monday. And thank you again.”

Anna hung up and turned to Macurdy. “And now, Mr. Monday, it is time to register. I hope they have a room with a private bath. I could use one, and then a nap.” She lowered her voice. “Can I trust you?”

Macurdy laughed, and answered softly: “Colonel Landgraf trusted me, and you know how that turned out. But yes, you can trust me, and I’ll trust you.”

Macurdy was still napping when their pickup arrived. Anna had been waiting in the lobby with the Times, and leaving the man there, went up to et her “husband.”

She wakened him with a sake. “He’s here,” she said quietly. “Our ride. He’s Irish. He even has a sprig of shamrock in his cap! With his connections that’s idiotic during wartime( Let’s go before he draws attention.”

Macurdy got up and put on his sweater, the only outer garment he had. “And remember not to talk,” she reminded him. “It’s best if he thinks you speak only German-I’m sure the station chief does–but the innkeeper knows you’re a Yank.”

He’d do better than simply not talk, he decided. Once out of the inn, he’d reinstate fully his persona of Montag the retarded, Montag the handicapped.

In the lobby, the Irishman hardly glanced at him. His aura reflected a low level of curiosity and a simmering discontent. He’d taken the shamrock from his cap though, as if he’d only worn it for Anna’s recognition.

Also, he’d brought along a small bag from Alice, with travel odds and ends for Anna. Seemingly she suspected her niece had arrived by submarine, a reasonable supposition.

Despite his dourness, the Irishman drove wisely, observing the speed limits all the way to London. It was dusk when they got there. Macurdy had wondered if they’d be delivered to Agnes, but instead they were taken to a tenement in a working class neighborhood, where their driver led them up two flights of stairs and knocked at an apartment door.

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