Cover

Praise

“Walters throws in a few twists to produce a readable novel of Buchan-lite thrills.”

—Sunday Herald

“This brilliantly plotted novel is well researched, and impossible to put down…the characters develop with their choices and circumstances. Guy Walters wanted to write a thriller about the British Free Corps because few people seemed to have heard of the unit…. The result is World War II from a fresh perspective.”

—Claire Morris Bernard, The Historical Novels Review

“A clever tale that twists history upside down…nonstop action all the way and a thoroughly good read.”

—Swindon Evening Advertiser

“This has everything you’d want in an historical novel…it’s hand-stuck-to-the-pages stuff.”

—Front Magazine

Colophon

Title Page

Copyright

TOUCHSTONE
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Touchstone Edition 2005
Originally published in Great Britain in 2002
by Headline Book Publishing, a division of Hodder Headline

Excerpt from Autumn Journal by Louis MacNeice, published by Faber & Faber, is reproduced by kind permission of David Higham Associates.
Excerpt from Erotocritas, translated by Theodore Ph. Stefanides, is reproduced by kind permission of Papazissis Publishers S.A.

TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Designed by Jan Pisciotta

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Walters, Guy.
The traitor : a novel / Guy Walters.—1st Touchstone ed.
p.  cm.
“A Touchstone Book.”
1. World War, 1939–1945—Prisoners and prisons, German—Fiction. 2. World War, 1939–1945—Great Britain—Fiction. 3. Waffen-SS. Britisches Freikorps—Fiction. 4. World War, 1939–1945—Germany—Fiction. 5. British—Germany—Fiction. 6. Soldiers—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6123.A47T73 2005
813’.6—dc22  2004062602

ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-7459-3
ISBN-10: 0-7432-7459-8

Dedication

This book is for
ANNABEL

Acknowledgments

For historical advice and guidance, I must thank Adrian Weale. He has taken my appropriation—and subsequent subversion—of the subject in very good spirit, and I am very grateful.

For medical matters, I turned to Dr. Peter Kyle, and his daughter, Vanessa Andreae. They were both exceedingly helpful and allowed their brains to be picked without the slightest complaint.

His son-in-law, Tobyn Andreae, was immeasurably helpful in matters of plot. He knows how thankful I hope to be.

I could not have had a finer and more rigorous editor than Marion Donaldson. She must take enormous credit for any enjoyment the reader may gain over these few hundred pages. I would recommend her to any author.

My agent, Tif Loehnis at Janklow & Nesbit, is a wonder. She has exhibited enormous faith and kindness, and has set me on a path that I hope to be very long. She is worth every percentage point.

My parents, Martin and Angela Walters, my brother, Dominic, and my parents-in-law, Richard and Venetia Venning, have given me so much of the confidence and support needed to carry out such a venture. I can never fully repay them.

Finally, and most important, there is the person to whom this book is dedicated.

Prologue

JUNE 1986

Hugh was away, and there was nobody to help get the children up. That sounded like Simon shouting upstairs, no doubt being picked upon by Giles, his twin. Louise would still be in bed. Only twelve, she had already reached that adolescent stage of permanent indolence. This morning was going to be a shocker, she could just feel it—they had to leave in an hour. Roll on the spring term, when they’d all be back at school.

“What?” she shouted up the stairs.

“Giles is throwing all my soldiers out the window,” came a sobbed reply.

“Giles! Giles! Stop that! Now get dressed and one of you go and wake up your sister.”

She went into the kitchen and filled up the kettle. All her actions at this time were automatic. Put teabags in pot. Open fridge, get out milk and orange juice. Put on table. Go to cupboard next to sink. Get out five bowls and five plates. Stop—no Hugh. Only get four. Lay table. Get cornflakes out of cupboard under clock. Look at time. Half past seven. Put cornflakes on table. Look out of window. Watch soldiers raining down from boys’ bedroom. Ignore it and look at paper. Hear mail arrive. Go to hall, shout at children, pick up mail.

She rifled through them. Nothing interesting—a newsletter from her Oxford college, British Gas, a couple of letters for Hugh, and then, curiously, a final envelope addressed to “Miss Amy Lockhart.” That was her maiden name. There was a badly printed insignia on the top left corner and the words “On Her Majesty’s Service” running along the bottom in maroon. It was probably from the taxman. She took them into the kitchen.

The kettle had boiled, and she poured the water into the teapot. As it brewed, she studied the envelope. The insignia seemed to be of an eagle on top of an anchor, crossed out by what might have been a couple of swords. Not very Inland-Revenue-ish, she thought. It was quite bulky, and the envelope could barely contain whatever was stuffed into it. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table.

A huge crash came from above, from the boys’ bedroom. A moment’s silence and then some really loud screaming. Resigned, she went upstairs to find Simon sitting on the floor in tears, next to a knocked-over chest of drawers. Giles was reading an Asterix book on his bed, still wearing his pajamas, looking the innocent.

“Giles pushed me into the chest because I tried to stop him throwing my soldiers out the window.”

“Giles? Did you?”

“No, Mummy—I’ve been reading, I promise.”

“I don’t believe you for a second. If you don’t both get dressed and downstairs in five minutes, I’ll make sure your father spanks the pair of you when he gets back.”

She stared at them. Giles stared impudently back, but reluctantly got up as slowly as possible. She left the room and went across the corridor and pushed open Louise’s door. The curtains were drawn and Louise was still in bed.

“Come on, young madam, time to get up,” she said as she opened the curtains.

“But Mummy,” came a voice from under the blankets, “we don’t have to get up for ages. I can miss breakfast if I want.”

“No you won’t.”

“But Daddy lets me when you’re away.”

“No he doesn’t.”

“He does.”

“Well, he shouldn’t. Now get up.”

A surly grunt. With that, Amy pulled off the sheets and blankets with one vigorous tug.

“Mummy! What are you doing? How dare you? Stop being such a fascist!”

Amy paused.

“What did you call me?”

“A fascist.”

“And what is a ‘fascist’ exactly?”

“Why, don’t you know?”

“No, I don’t. I’d like you to tell me.”

Louise stayed silent.

“Go on,” Amy urged. “What’s a fascist, Louise?”

“Give it up, it’s just a word.”

“No, I won’t. Come on.”

“Well, it just means that you’re really bossy and stuff.”

“Does it, now?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t ever call me a fascist again, do you hear? You’ve obviously no idea what it means. I’d rather you called me a bossy cow than called me that.”

Louise went silent, shocked by her mother’s intensity.

“OK, OK—sorry.”

“Good—now get up.”

Amy went back downstairs. Fascist indeed. Where had she got that from? Presumably they all called their teachers that.

She sat down and picked up the envelope. She slit it open with a spoon handle. It was from the Ministry of Defence—so that was the insignia. There were at least a dozen sheets of neatly typed pages. Even before she read it, she knew what it would be about.

Dear Miss Lockhart,

I am writing to you concerning your father, Captain John Lockhart….

Her eyes started to fill. She had waited nearly a quarter of a century for this, and it was hard to believe it had arrived. She looked out the window. Another soldier fell down.

AUGUST 1934

The graffiti makes it clear they are not wanted.SMASH FASCISTS!GET RID OF BLACKSHIRT THUGS! If he were alone, he would be feeling scared, but with his band of brothers he feels strong, ready to give these Jew bastards what-for. They have it coming, that scum, they really do, taking away their jobs and charging all those high prices. They’re out for revenge, and some Hebrew blood will be spilled tonight.

And what a lovely warm night for it. They certainly cut a figure walking down Commercial Street, the twenty of them, fine upstanding fellows ready to defend the sacredness of Albion’s soil. They aren’t wearing their black shirts—this is “unofficial” business, a little bit of extracurricular, if you like. Party line is against violence, but then most members of the British Union of Fascists prefer a punch-up to a knees-up.

All they need now is a Jew, a nice fat Jew who can be taught a lesson. This is the place for it—lots of rag-trade Shylocks ready for a good kicking. But where the hell are they all, these sons of Israel? They must have had a tip-off, because the streets are empty. Could there be an antifascist in their ranks, a bleeding Communist, in league with the Jews? As far as he is concerned, this proves it, proves that the Bolshies and the Yids are all in it together.

One of the mob throws a rock through a shop window. The breaking glass sounds good, and a cheer goes up. The shop name is Solomon—a sure sign that it deserves the rock. A Star of David gets painted on the door with the wordsJEWS OUT. Another cheer. They’ll soon get the message, these leeches, and bugger off somewhere else.

They continue walking, curtains twitching as they pass. It smells foul around here—can’t these people keep themselves clean? Another window gets broken and…Jesus! What the hell was that? Did someone just hurl a rock at them? Where in God’s name did that bloody come from? He thinks he knows, he thinks he saw one of them running down that side street.

“Come on, lads!” he shouts. “Get the little shit!”

More cheering and he leads them into a run, turning right down the side street, entering a row of slum housing, a few shocked pedestrians standing still.

“Get ’em all!” and the blows come down, indiscriminately.

“Fucking Jewish scum!”

The mob are nicely worked up now; nothing can stop them, not even the police. He spots the rock-thrower again, turning down another street. This is like a maze, are they being led into a trap? He doubts it. Blood is all he wants—how dare a Yid throw a rock at an Englishman!

“Keep running! We’re gaining on him!”

He’s glad he keeps himself fit. No Jew is going to outrun him, and this one will be the first to know it. He can see him clearly now, thirty yards away, his little legs doing their best. He looks a real shorty, this one. Good, he’ll be even shorter in a few minutes, if he ever walks again.

There are four of them in the lead now. Some of the others are finishing off the ones back there, and some are a little slower. Shameful. He must make sure they get some proper PT. Twenty yards now, then ten, and then the lad turns around, panting, looking back at them with fear and boldness in his eyes. He must be only fifteen.

“Just leave us alone!” the lad calls out.

“Fuck you!” one of the men shouts, and the four of them pounce.

Oh yes, this is good, this is what they came here for. This little Jew-boy will regret throwing that rock. These new boots are proving worthy additions too, judging by the screams the boy gives at each kick. His face is coming up nice and red and purple under the gaslight. There’s blood in his mouth too—internal bleeding, that is, which means they are really giving it to him.

The boy tries covering his head but it’s no help. Two of them pick him up and hold him between them, while the others take turns hitting him. The boy cannot even say “Stop” anymore, just makes a strange groaning. He looks a real mess, and he’s slipping in and out of consciousness. They cannot see his eyes anymore, just a mass of bruises and cuts. Should they kill him? he thinks. Why not? Nobody will throw rocks at them again.

A whistle! The four men look back. They see the silhouettes of at least six policemen.

“Coppers!” he shouts.

They’re running once more, but this time faster than before. He is running like a superman. He feels supreme now; he feels great. They will never catch him. For he is too quick, he is too clever. One day, when the country is theirs, they will run from no one. But until then, he will live underground, plotting and waiting.

Chapter One

NOVEMBER 1943

Lockhart was anxious. They had been navigating the same three miles of coast for two hours, and still there had been no signal. The night air was clear and the sea was calm. The captain had insisted they were in the right place, although Lockhart didn’t believe him.

“Who are you going to trust?” asked the sailor. “Me, or a bunch of drunken shepherds?”

Lockhart held his tongue. Pompous naval halfwit. He didn’t want to start lecturing the man on Cretan bravery. He turned, and continued to scan the inlets for the three flashes of light.

The air was scented with thyme. The aroma brought back good memories, but now wasn’t the moment to reminisce. The last thing he wanted was to miss the signal and find himself kicking his heels back in dusty Cairo. Perhaps Manoli and his gang of andartes had been captured, tortured, shot, their families raped and deported. Those too frail to move would have been burned alive inside their homes. Lockhart slowly exhaled.

The little crewman next to him started tugging at his sleeve and pointing. Lockhart looked through his binoculars to see the dim light of a blinking flashlight.

“Get the captain to take us in,” Lockhart ordered under his breath.

As the crewman made his way aft, Lockhart tried to discern anything around the light, but it was too dark. He should have been helping to ready the dinghy, but something wasn’t right. And then he realized the obvious: the flashlight was blinking four times. He looked again. There was no doubt—it was the wrong signal. Bugger. It could be a German trap or, just as easily, a simple mistake. He went aft to find the captain.

“Bad news,” Lockhart announced. “It’s the wrong bloody signal.”

“Christ,” the captain sighed, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. It had been a long night, and he still had to get back to Cairo.

“It’s flashing four times instead of three. I’m sure my man knows the drill—he’s done this before.”

“Your Cretan friend probably can’t count.”

“And you can barely sail, so why don’t you just shut up and do as you’re told?”

Lockhart glowered at him, detecting a small, cynical smile through the captain’s dark ginger beard. Lockhart held his stare.

“All right then, sir,” the captain said. “What would you like to do, then?”

Lockhart paused. The captain was making him bloody-minded. He didn’t want to stay on board, but a decision made in anger could see him trussed up in the back of a German truck, en route to a bloodstained cell in Heraklion. Sod it, thought Lockhart, Manoli had probably just made a mistake.

He looked the captain straight in the eye.

“I’m going ashore.”

The captain snorted. “Whatever you say.”

Lockhart regretted his decision as soon as he went back on deck. He had let some damn-fool sailor wind him up. He bet Theseus never had this problem when he sailed to Crete. Lockhart tried remembering his Plutarch—what was the name of Theseus’s pilot? He had read it only the other day, thinking that he too should have sacrificed a goat to Aphrodite before he left.

He looked through his binoculars again. There, still, were those same four confident flashes. He felt perversely reassured. If the Germans had discovered the location of the landing point, then they would have known the correct signal too. Was he trying to justify his rash decision? Perhaps. But he had come too far now. It would be too much of a climbdown to go back.

The crewmen were readying the dinghy. Onto it was lowered food, weapons and ammunition, a radio, clothing, and—most crucially for those spending the winter stuck in small mountain caves—spirits and cigarettes. As Christmas was coming up, the supply officer had even slipped in a Christmas pudding at Lockhart’s request.

Lockhart checked himself over. He was dressed as a native—baggy breeches known as “crap-catchers,” a black bandanna, a thick shirt and an embroidered waistcoat. He had even grown a moustache, although it was not up to the hirsute magnificence of the typical Cretan example. Slung over his shoulder was his Sten gun, and around his chest a belt of ammunition. He slowly cocked the weapon and engaged the safety catch with his right thumb.

There was one more thing, one thing that he had promised himself to get rid of. He felt the point of his left collar. It was still there, that small bump, his ultimate escape route—his suicide pill. They called them “cough drops” at Arisaig, their training center in Scotland, although this was a medication that killed in five seconds. In theory, it meant that you never talked, you never suffered, and your friends stayed safe. It was supposed to be the honorable thing to do, because everybody cracked, running out of things to tell, until all that was left was the truth. But many of them threw the cough drops away, determined that they would never talk, and would suffer anything rather than take their own lives. If there was life, far better to hang on—let someone else kill you. Lockhart unpicked the stitching on his collar and removed the little gray capsule. He looked at it briefly, and then threw it into the water. As it landed with a tiny high-pitched splash, Lockhart hoped some poor fish didn’t regard it as a tasty morsel.

“We’re ready to go now, sir.”

Lockhart looked at the little crewman. There was a tremor in his voice, and his eyes were unnaturally wide. He must have been only twenty, yet here he was risking his young life in the middle of the Mediterranean for a man he had never met.

“Fancy some bravery juice?” asked Lockhart, pulling his hip flash from his breeches.

“Sorry, sir?”

“Well, if we’re going to get blown to bits by whoever it is on the beach, then I’d prefer to have some Talisker inside me, wouldn’t you?”

The crewman smiled gauchely—he plainly had no idea what Lockhart was talking about.

“Do you want a drink, man?”

“Oh, yes please, sir,” the crewman replied, taking the hip flash.

He swigged it, and Lockhart was surprised to see that the whisky didn’t make him cough and choke. Richard had always said that Talisker was a lot smoother than Lockhart’s “filthy” Glenfiddich. It looked as though his brother had been proved right. The crewman handed the flask back.

“Thank you, sir, that was very nice, sir.”

“My pleasure,” said Lockhart, taking a neckful. “Right—let’s get on with it then.”

They made their way to the side of the boat. Lockhart looked around the deck. The captain waved a perfunctory goodbye. Cretin. Lockhart nodded back, turned and swung himself onto the scrambling rope. The dinghy was almost too packed for him and the crewman to board. Lockhart sat on an ammunition box in the stern, while his companion pushed them away with an oar. Unslinging the Sten, Lockhart steeled himself for an imminent volley of shots.

They were two hundred yards from the shore, and the crewman was rowing the heavy dinghy with great difficulty. Over his shoulder, Lockhart could see the flashlight, still flashing that exasperating four times. He gripped his gun tighter, trying to make out perhaps the shape of a German helmet, but there was nothing visible. Whoever was there was well hidden.

Lockhart looked back at the boat. They were now too far away to go back. If it was a trap, and the Germans had seen them leaving, then they would open fire. Lockhart didn’t fancy his chances sitting on a box full of hand grenades. At least he wouldn’t feel anything, he thought. No, they had to keep going in.

A cough. Not a loud one, but loud enough to carry across the smooth waters. The crewman looked startled. Just as he was about to speak, Lockhart put his finger to his lips. Lockhart squinted again—they were a hundred yards away and the cough had seemed to come from the right of the flashlight. He tried playing the sound back in his head. Had it been a German cough or a Cretan cough? Was there a difference? Lockhart knew he was clutching at straws.

With fifty yards to go, he ordered the crewman to stop rowing. As they bobbed, Lockhart noticed the flashing becoming more rapid, more insistent. The crewman looked up at him, bewildered. Lockhart scanned the beach—he began to make out three figures near the light. They didn’t appear to be wearing uniforms; their shapes looked more baggy, informal, as if wearing peasant clothes.

Lockhart gesticulated to the crewman to continue rowing. It could yet be Germans in disguise, but Lockhart was now more confident. Nevertheless, he leveled his Sten gun at the three figures, waiting for a suspicious move. If that happened, he would open fire. There would be no indecision. The SOE training school at Arisaig had taught him to use weapons as part of his body, and to react without a pause.

“Hurry up, John!”

The crewman stopped rowing. It had come from one of the shapes, now only thirty or so yards away. Lockhart broke out into a big smile. It was that hairy brute Manoli! He looked at the crewman, who had shut his eyes in relief.

“Come on, keep rowing,” whispered Lockhart. “There’s a glass of raki for you when we get this lot off.”

“What the hell is raki?”

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