Dead Men Stalking 3: The Cost of Rubber (MI7 Assassins origins)
The Frontiersmen would be in mufti because uniformed British soldiers could not be seen protecting a German officer. They were men who waged war without looking too closely at the rule book.
Welcome to part three of my WW1 espionage thriller short story! If you missed part one, read it here:
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If you’re new to MI7 Assassin, I’ve also written two earlier standalone stories:
My paying subs get the hot thrill of reading MI7 Assassin the Sunday before it goes out to everyone else on Wednesday, but whenever you get your hands on it, I would really appreciate your feedback on this story! Eventually we’ll publish these origins stories as novellas and I want them to be as good as they possibly can be when we do! So if you have any suggestions, something you particularly like or don’t like, want to see more or less of, let me know in the comments below!
Dead Men Stalking 3: The Cost of Rubber
It felt like Pollard and the Ice Maiden were going to be there forever. A most reluctant voyeur, at least Stone only heard rather than saw their lovemaking against the cabinet. But that was bad enough. It was still more information than he needed to know.
‘D’you have a rubber?’ he heard her whisper.
‘A wetsuit…? Of course,’ Bertie replied smoothly. Crouched behind the row of filing cabinets, Stone grinned despite the danger. Pollard was a devout Catholic. But then truth always was a moving target in MI7 and Pollard was the top marksman. The contradiction reminded him of the speeches the Anglican bishop of London, Arthur Winnington-Ingram had given to the troops. ‘Stay away from rubber shops,’ he had sternly warned Stone and his comrades. ‘I condemn all unnatural means of conception avoidance. I have seen the huge number of rubbers discarded in alleyways and parks, especially after weekends and holidays. I should like to make a bonfire of them all and dance around it.’ This had caused the troops huge amusement, especially when he admonished them. ‘You must keep yourselves pure. As Lord Kitchener himself has told you, sexual frustration will make you more aggressive. It will enhance your fighting spirit.’
‘They’ve got control over our lives,’ muttered Duncan. ‘Now they want control over our dicks, too.’
‘He wants us to stick our bayonets in the Boche,’ grinned Sergeant Dawes.
‘Be warned,’ the bachelor bishop continued ominously. ‘Venereal disease is God’s judgement on an immoral life. As I have said a thousand times, I look upon this war as a war for purity!’
It was ironic, Stone reflected, that the whole reason for his presence in Room 38 was also to do with rubber.
Finally, after what had seemed like an eternity, Pollard and the Ice Maiden concluded their business. He heard sounds of clothing being straightened and buttoned, Pollard making a grunt of satisfaction as he did so.
‘You showed considerable skill with your weapon, Bertie,’ she said appreciatively. ‘You were right on target.’
‘Thank you, my dear. It was all very wicked, but stolen pleasures are always the sweetest. Hmm?’
He heard their footsteps recede and then the sound of the door to the reading room being locked behind them. The lights were switched off and they were gone, returning the room to reassuring darkness. Stone stayed where he was, breathing quietly. Old instincts told him not to make a break for it immediately, even though he knew they were not coming back. He assumed Pollard would be spending the night at the Savile club in Piccadilly, rather than going home to his wife in Sussex as the last train must have long gone.
It was time to go.
He replaced the Röpell files in the cabinet and locked it. He left through the window, carefully checking again for any signs of his intrusion. Back on the roof, he removed the magnet and putty, pulled the window down and slid his knife up into the gap between the two frames to ease the fastening closed.
He slowly descended to his own office window on the first floor. Adelphi Terrace had been a hotel before MI7 and the Ministry of Munitions had taken over the building. His own office barely warranted the name; it was little more than a broom cupboard.
After changing back into his uniform he sat in his office for a few minutes, pondering the bizarre turn of events. He would have to be a lot more careful when sneaking into the records office. It had never crossed his mind that others would use it after hours. Perhaps Amanda made a habit of bringing her lovers back to her workplace?
Suitable calm and recovered, he left his office and walked downstairs, signed out at reception and said goodnight to the night porter.
The last Underground train had long gone, so he made the long walk home to his cottage in Brompton cemetery. It had been left to him by Ralph Plant, his best friend and a former gravedigger, and he enjoyed its solitude. It helped him to get over the shock and terrible sense of loss from losing his four closest mates. Ralph, Duncan, Dean and Sergeant Dawes had been far closer to him than his own family. When they were killed going over the top on July 1st 1916, he himself had suffered severe shell shock. They had fought alongside each other since the beginning of the war in 1914. He still wished he had died with them.
The walk took him an hour and a half, down Pall Mall and across a silent Green Park with its naked plane trees and lime trees, then through Knightsbridge, onto Brompton Road and finally Fulham road. But he didn’t mind. The streets of London were quiet, and it gave him time to think. He owned a car, but never used it to commute to work. It was a Ford Model T with the usual enormous gas bag on the roof as an alternative source of fuel in wartime. It was currently parked down a discreet side street in Chelsea and he regularly moved it to other locations as a further precaution. It was registered to an ‘Eamon Peters’ and was used strictly for his other line of work: assassination.
Back in the cottage, Stone poured himself a generous glass of brandy and brooded. The Röpell files had included a significant detail that changed everything. Security for the meeting was to be provided by Captain Pollard of MI7: Legion of Frontiersmen.
Pollard again.
It was a problem. The Legion was a field intelligence corps dedicated to defending the British Empire. The Frontiersmen would be in mufti because uniformed British soldiers could not be seen protecting a German officer. But these paramilitaries had a reputation for toughness and applying unorthodox tactics. They were men who waged war without looking too closely at the rule book.
Pollard was ruthless. Highly intelligent and a brilliant propagandist. A career officer who had an unofficial, more murky sideline in covert operations.
He had also recruited Stone to MI7, visited him when he was still mute with shell shock in the field hospital. But he couldn’t allow sentimentality to get in the way of his mission.
To outwit Pollard and the Frontiersmen would require all his considerable talents as a stealth raider, but somehow he had to find a way. He could not let the contract with the enemy be signed.
Major Röpell’s appointment at the Farringdon Hotel would be an appointment with death.