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  Deadly Travel

  Book Five in the Deadly Series

  Kate Parker

  About

  Deadly Travel

  Travel to Berlin in 1939 is treacherous. Carrying out two clandestine missions in the enemy capital could prove deadly.

  When a Quaker Kindertransport chaperone is murdered in the East End of London, Britain’s counterintelligence spymaster tasks Olivia Denis to join the group rescuing children from Nazi Germany. Olivia must find not only a killer, but a traitor relaying sensitive material to the enemy.

  Once they reach Berlin, Olivia discovers she must rescue the family of an imprisoned British spy before she leaves the next day. An attack convinces Olivia the family’s two young sons are in grave danger, but where to hide them?

  Can she protect the boys before they become the traitor’s next victims?

  Continue your journey today into Olivia’s world of intrigue in London in the days leading up to war.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual occurrences or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Historical events or personages are fictionalized.

  Deadly Travel

  Copyright © 2020 by Kate Parker

  All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotes used in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-7332294-2-5 {ebook}

  ISBN: 978-1-7332294-3-2 {print}

  Published by JDP Press

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen of Lewellen Designs, Inc.

  Digital formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Table of Contents

  DEADLY TRAVEL

  About the Book

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Author’s Notes

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Kate Parker

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To my family and friends in the midst of a pandemic, may this book find you healthy and enjoying a little historical mayhem.

  To John, forever.

  Chapter One

  Late March, 1939

  A summons to Sir Henry Benton’s office was one thing; a command on behalf of Sir Malcolm Freemantle was quite another. This was decidedly not the way I wanted to start a Monday morning. I was shown in by Sir Henry’s secretary, who left me to stand on the thick carpet in front of the huge desk, the smooth, polished wood gleaming, while Sir Henry finished typing on low-grade yellow-beige paper with his beat-up Underwood.

  Satisfied with what he’d written, despite the rows of Xs I could see from where I stood, Sir Henry pulled the paper from the typewriter and acknowledged me for the first time. “Olivia, sit down. As I said on the phone, Sir Malcolm Freemantle wants to use your talents on a Kindertransport from Berlin. I’ve decided to tell him yes. We can use your observations of Berlin, the trains, and the Kindertransport for a series of articles in the paper.”

  I did not like people making my decisions for me. It had been a bone of contention with my father, a stuffy Foreign Office diplomat, since I’d been old enough to talk. “What if I don’t, or can’t, go?”

  Sir Henry held my gaze. “Of course you can. Think of this as another one of those special assignments you do for me. Besides,” he gave me a sympathetic look, “I doubt either of us can afford to tell Sir Malcolm ‘No.’”

  The father of my best friend from school, Sir Henry had hired me at a far greater than adequate salary. It had taken me a while to learn how to write copy for the women’s and society pages in the Daily Premier. But I’d proved my worth when he had me travel to Germany and Austria to help rescue his late wife’s family, and part of their wealth, from the Nazis.

  As owner and publisher of a powerful London newspaper, Sir Henry could hire whomever he wanted and pay them whatever he wanted. And give them whatever assignments he wanted.

  In this case, he appeared to be lending me out to the head of Britain’s counterintelligence service.

  “Who’s paying my salary?” I’d become accustomed to my wages from the newspaper. I didn’t imagine Sir Malcolm would be as generous.

  “I am, in exchange for our use of your notes and reminiscences.”

  “If Sir Malcolm will let you publish them.”

  Sir Henry raised his brows. “You don’t sound like you trust Sir Malcolm.”

  “I don’t.” Sir Malcolm Freemantle was a clever, devious, brilliant spy, three steps ahead of everyone else, and not a man to be trusted with a ha’penny, much less my life.

  “Wise girl. Neither do I. I’ve received some assurances from him, but who knows what they’ll be worth if we go to war. In the meantime, you’re to go to his office. You know where that is?”

  I nodded.

  Sir Henry rose and reached across the vast expanse of desk to shake my hand. Only when we both stood was our height difference obvious. He was several inches shorter than me.

  “Good luck,” he said as he released my hand. “Let me know what the old, er, ah, spymaster wants and when you leave.”

  * * *

  Sir Malcolm’s office was in what was originally an Edwardian residential block of red brick that had been turned first into a hotel and now an office building.

  An army officer in uniform escorted me upstairs from the entrance directly to Sir Malcolm’s private suite. When we approached his battered desk, the officer saluted. Sir Malcolm rose, towering over me, and told me to sit. The officer left, pulling the door shut behind him.

  I sat in an uncomfortably hard wooden chair. The view out his window was lovely, with the tops of bare tree branches and the roofs of nearby buildings shining in the dappled sunlight. Perhaps Sir Malcolm hoped his visitors would be distracted by the view. I was not so foolish and watched him as I would a snake.

  “Come, come, Mrs. Denis, I’m not that bad a person.”

  “I’m wondering why you chose me to do whatever it is you want instead of any one of a million other young women.”

  “Because you have the attributes needed to convince the Refugee Children’s Movement and the Watersons to let you go in Alice Waterson’s place on the next Kindertransport.”

  “And those attributes are?”

  “Fishing for compliments, Mrs. Denis?”

  I shook my head. “I want to know what’s expected of me. By you, by the Quakers, by the Watersons. Didn’t I read that Alice Waterson was killed recently in a nighttime attack on an East End street?”

  “Yes. Did you know her?”

  “I met her at some parties before I was married. She didn’t make much of an impression on me at the time.” She had been quiet, with mousy brown hair and an unfortunate habit of dressing in dreary colors. Brown tweed with a beige blouse, sensible brown shoes, and a brown hat. She even had a brown ballgown.

  But
I remembered she could draw men to her with a forthright laugh and a cynical way of looking at them.

  “She was engaged to be married. To a German.”

  My eyes widened. That was interesting, especially in light of Hitler’s current behavior. “Is he also a Quaker?”

  “Yes. And likely to gain British citizenship, or was, at least as long as Alice was alive.”

  I thought I saw where this was heading. “Her family doesn’t approve of him?”

  “Her father is a peer of the realm. The whole family is quite patriotic despite their refusal to fight. Lord Waterson served as a medical corpsman on the Western Front. Noncombatant, but brave nonetheless.”

  I guessed her father was about the age of mine, who had also served in the Great War. “You want me to go on a Kindertransport, but why would the Watersons care who went in their daughter’s place?”

  Sir Malcolm’s lips slanted upward, proving that snakes could smile. “You speak German. You’ve traveled to Germany before. You have a plausible reason to be there as a reporter covering the work of the Kindertransports for Sir Henry.”

  The Kindertransports were organized by Jewish leaders in Britain and Nazi-held territories to remove unaccompanied Jewish children under the age of eighteen to the safety of Britain, the only country that would take them. The Quakers were active in helping organize and chaperone the children on the trips as well as finding them places to stay once they arrived.

  The first Kindertransport had arrived by ferry the preceding December. Not much had appeared in the newspapers since then, but with the Germans now occupying all of Czechoslovakia, there would be more demand from parents to rescue their children from the hell they found themselves in.

  “And,” Sir Malcolm added with a nod of his graying head, “you find killers.”

  “Do the Watersons think her fiancé killed her?” What had happened during their courtship?

  “They suspect him.”

  “And Scotland Yard?”

  “Can find nothing that points to anything but a random street robbery gone bad. She had her neck snapped on a dark street not far from the docks.”

  What was a peer’s daughter doing in that neighborhood at night? “So I’m supposed to go on this Kindertransport and watch him to see if he’s a Nazi agent. But even if he is, I doubt he would be stupid enough to kill his ticket to stay in England with a war coming.”

  Sir Malcolm watched me closely. “Her fiancé doesn’t go on the Kindertransports. And I want you to keep an eye on everyone associated with this trip.”

  “Why?”

  “The people on this transport knew Alice well and were in the area on the evening she was murdered.” He steepled his fingers. “Every time this particular group has traveled together, British secrets end up in Nazi hands. I want to know if the Refugee Children’s Movement is harboring a traitor, as well as a murderer.”

  “And I’m expected to figure out which one of them, if any of them, is the killer.” I pressed my lips together in distaste. “What if I fail?”

  “Then it probably means Scotland Yard was right, and this was a random attack on a dark street. Unusual, though, in that she was killed by having her neck snapped.”

  “Someone choked her?” That was unusual for a mugging. Normally, victims of robbery with violence were stabbed.

  “No, she had her skull snapped off her spine in a very businesslike way. The way sentries are taught in the military.”

  “A strange skill for a group of pacifists.” I would consider that proof that this was a random killing.

  “Yes. If they are.” He slid a piece of paper to me. “Memorize this name. He’s your contact in our embassy in Berlin. He’ll give you your secondary assignment from me once you arrive.”

  I glanced at the name. Douglas MacFerron.

  “You mean finding the traitor giving secrets to the Nazis in Berlin isn’t my secondary assignment?” How many different directions did he want me to go in at one time?

  He watched me. “I think if you find the killer, you’ll find the traitor. I just wanted you to be aware of what you’ll be facing.”

  “I might have guessed there would be more to this than just spying on some Quakers trying to rescue children from the Nazis.” Sir Malcolm wasn’t the sort to do things for only one reason when he could turn an investigation in multiple directions. Probably why he was in charge, I thought grimly. “What is this secondary task I’m doing for you?”

  “You’ll find out when you get there. I’m not sure at this point if it’s even possible.”

  My heart sank to my heels. Sir Malcolm had something dangerous that needed doing in Berlin, and I was expendable.

  No. My stubborn streak reasserted itself. He thought I was expendable. I’d look after myself, and if things got too treacherous, I would walk away. That choice was mine to make. Even if walking away from my assignment while in Berlin was hazardous on its own.

  “I’m not going to throw you to the wolves,” he added. “Don’t worry. This won’t be any more difficult than helping Sir Henry’s mother-in-law leave Berlin.”

  Why didn’t I believe him? I summoned up my courage. “When do I leave?”

  “The whole group leaves for the Netherlands the day after tomorrow on the seven o’clock ferry train. Now, you’d better make yourself known to the Watersons as the investigator they requested and the Refugee Children’s Movement as the reporter writing the story to help them gain more funding.”

  * * *

  The Watersons lived in a wealthy area near Holland Park. I escaped the wind and the rain as a maid let me in, and I handed her my card. She took my coat and umbrella and led me to a drawing room done in art deco furnishings and paintings.

  A thin, gray-haired woman in a plain rust-colored dress with a wide collar and cuffs in the same material came in a minute later. “This was Alice’s favorite room,” she said, looking around. “It seems strange not seeing her here.”

  Grief was etched on her face. I was sure sorrow would rest on her shoulders for the remainder of her life. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh, please, don’t be sorry,” she said, sitting down as she gestured me to a seat. “You are here to investigate whether our suspicions are correct?”

  Not exactly, but I needed to be diplomatic. “I’ve been directed to go on the Kindertransport in Alice’s place, to keep my eyes open, and to talk to her friends and find out if any of them have any information about Alice’s death.”

  Lady Waterson’s eyes and lips narrowed. “They were all there that night. I just want you to find the man who killed my daughter.”

  She carried not only grief, but a deep burning anger.

  “You’re sure it’s a man.” I raised my eyebrows, having not heard anything that would make me certain of the killer’s gender.

  “Alice was a strong woman with a forceful personality. I don’t believe another woman could have gained the upper hand and killed her.”

  “Even by surprise?” Alice had her neck broken on a dark, empty street in the East End. She had been alone. She was at a disadvantage that a determined killer could put to good use.

  Lady Waterson sat forward, her legs primly pressed together to one side from the knees to the ankles. “Since she was attacked from the front, I doubt it was by surprise. I believe it was someone she knew.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Her fiancé. Johann Klingler. I’ve never trusted that man.” She paused and stared at me for several moments. “It’s not fair of me, telling you I believe Johann killed Alice and trying to turn you against him, when I don’t have anything to back up my instincts. But the fact remains that Lord Waterson and I were against him from the start.”

  “Did Johann do anything that you can point to that made you question his loyalty or his love for your daughter?” I’d be more successful if I had something concrete to consider.

  “He always looked around here as if he were appraising the furniture.” She shook h
er head. “He seemed to know the price of everything.”

  “What sort of work did he do in Germany?”

  “He was a solicitor. That’s why he had to get out of Germany. He tried to defend people the Nazis were throwing in prison.”

  This was getting me nowhere. I decided to try a different approach. “Can you tell me about Alice’s close friends?”

  Lady Waterson leaned back in the overstuffed chair covered in a tapestry print. “Her close friends were children she grew up with in our faith. Several of them will be on the Kindertransport with you. Shall I write down their names and addresses?”

  “Please.”

  While she wrote at a small desk, I asked, “What about the staff at the Kindertransport office? What can you tell me about them?”

  “Mr. Thomas Canterbury, the head organizer of the different transports, attended university with Alice.”

  When she didn’t continue, I said, “Surely, that created some sort of a bond. Especially since they worked on the rescue together.”

  “Yes. Apparently, they worked well together,” she said grudgingly. “But despite his college degree, he was only a research assistant when he left his position to manage the Kindertransport office. At the time I met him, he was living with his mother and younger sisters in what Alice called threadbare elegance. She said he didn’t have the drive to get ahead in any field.”