The Countess Batthyany and Baroness Steighofen smiled at Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz’s discomfiture.
“Tell me, Helmut,” she asked, Udo you think you’ll be given a heating coal allowance, or can you get one?” The question made no sense to him, but he answered it.
“As a matter of fact, I was told I would be. They said it would make a difference to landlords.”
“Yes, it does,” she said. “There are two apartments on the first floor of my place. Providing you have a coal allowance, I’d be willing to make you an attractive price.” He hesitated a moment.
“Questions could be asked,” the Countess said. “But you do know me-you were even at Manny’s funeral–and the Housing Office has been after me to make the other apartment available for use.”
“You’re a remarkable woman, Countess,” von Heurten-Mitnitz repeated.
She put the Admiral in gear and backed away from the curb.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said, “how is it you never married?
” Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz was now growing used to her rapid changes of subject and odd, probing questions.
“There has never been time, I suppose,” he said.
“But you’re not queer?” “No,” he said, then, UDID you think I was?” “I thought I should ask,” she said. UUNLESS your heating coal ration will be much larger than I think it will be, we will have the option, now that we’ll be living together, of keeping two apartments just above freezing, or one apartment as warm as toast. Or am I shocking you?”
“I am afraid, my dear Countess,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, “of believing my incredible good fortune.” He reached over and caught her gloved hand and kissed it.
“How gallant!” she said, pleased. UAND since it will not be necessary for you to spend the afternoon looking for an apartment, may I assume that you’re free?”
“Yes,” he said, “I’m free. What did you have in mind?” The Countess Batthyany laughed deep in her throat.
TSREE] The Banelqrfrasiturt-rexprenn Eric Fulmar lowered the Gestapo agent’s body to the floor. He was breathing heavily, and his heart was beating rapidly.
He looked at the body for a moment, then stepped over it and fastened the latch on the compartment door.
“Shit!” he said, in German.
He stepped over the body again, then turned and bent over it and, grasping the back of the head with one hand, tried to draw the thin-bladed knife out of the head. It wouldn’t come. Either when he had twisted it–to scramble the brains–or when he’d lowered the Gestapo agent to the floor, the bones, or the muscles, or the sinews, or all three, had shifted, locking the blade in place.
For a moment, he considered just leaving the fucking knife where it was.
This hadn’t been “projected” as a “possible difficulty.” Neither was the knife included in the planning. They hadn’t brought the subject up. And, since he had already made up his mind to bring the knife with him, he hadn’t brought it up either. If he had, they might have kept him from taking it.
He had bought the knife from an English sergeant at SOE’s Station X. All British commandos had one, the sergeant had told him. It had a blade about six inches long, and a handle just big enough to be wrapped in the fingers.
The knife, which had been invented by an Englishman, then running the Shanghai police force, a man named Fairbairn, came in two versions.
The “regular” one was larger and was intended for use in combat.
Its scabbard was sewn either to the trouser leg or the boot.
The one sunk to its hilt behind and under the Gestapo agent’s ear was the “baby Fairbairn.” It was small enough to be carried hilt downward, hidden between the wrist and the bend of the elbow.
It had performed as promised, and it was possible that he would need it again.
Grunting with the effort, he rolled the body of the Gestapo agent on its side, took a good grip on the handle, put his foot against the Gestapo agent’s ear, and gave a mighty tug. Moving the body removed whatever had obstructed the blade, and it now came out easily. So easily that he sat down heavily on the suitcase on the seat.