The Old Spies’ Club
based on Capt. W. E. Johns’ Biggles series

As Air Commodore Raymond, smartly yet unobtrusively suited, exited his cab half a block away, he caught sight of a familiar figure going into the news agent’s on the corner.  He had not set an exact time for their meeting and was, perhaps, a little earlier than expected; so von Stalhein’s brief excursion did not excite more than mild curiosity.  Yet that was sufficient for Raymond to change course and follow him in.  His target, newspaper in hand, went to the counter but, instead of immediately paying, requested cigarettes.  The accent was noticeable:  not by any means thick or difficult to understand, but definitely not von Stalhein’s usual, impeccable public-school tones.  Raymond slipped quietly sideways, out of the direct line of exit, and turned to examine a selection of magazines.  He heard steps, and the sound of the bell over the door as von Stalhein left the shop.

Raymond waited almost a minute, still ostensibly making his selection, then exited himself.  He thought … well, he thought he thought … that he had not been noticed.  Yet ahead of him he saw von Stalhein lingering, apparently enraptured by the display in a pastry shop window.

Raymond passed without speaking, entered the block of flats, passed through the mean lobby, and mounted the stairs to the top floor.  Somehow, bad leg or no, von Stalhein was there before him.  (Was there a service lift at the back of the building, Raymond wondered.)

His own footsteps were, of course, audible on the uncarpeted floor of the corridor.  Von Stalhein turned to look, gave him an inscrutable stare, and put the key in the lock.  Wordless, he went in; but he held the door open for Raymond to follow.

“You know,” said Raymond thoughtfully, as he took off his hat and put it on one of the empty knobs on the small rack fastened to the wall just inside the door, “your mock German accent is a bit wobbly.”

“I’ll have to work on it,” said von Stalhein equably.  He dropped his newspaper on a small side table, but paused in taking off his overcoat to ask, “Tea or coffee?”

“From Herr Boelke, I should think coffee,” suggested Raymond.

Von Stalhein took his coat and hung it up next to his own.  As he busied himself in the small kitchen, Raymond glanced over at the headlines but refrained from picking up the paper.  “What do you think of events in Yugoslavia?” he asked.

“This is related to your note?” was the reply.  Von Stalhein turned from measuring out coffee, eyebrow raised.  “It may prove a case of ‘cats and pigeons’, I suppose; but I don’t believe I can provide much assistance.  That’s not,” he added quickly, “a refusal.  I mean it literally.  I’m not familiar with the principals involved.”

“No,” said Raymond, “just idle conversation.”  He sat back, watching, as von Stalhein finished in the kitchen and came over to join him while the coffee perked.

“You do have a request, though.”  It was not a question.  As Raymond had not yet opened his briefcase and taken out documents for translation, it was an easy deduction that he had some other reason to come by.  Nor were they on such easy terms that it would be a visit purely out of courtesy.  Their relationship was—and one could dare say would always be—on a professional footing.

“There is a situation,” Raymond replied delicately.  “One with which you may or may not be able … or willing … to help.”

“Carefully worded,” von Stalhein observed, with a raised brow.

Raymond acknowledged the comment with a slight nod.  “No pressure,” he added.

Von Stalhein waited.

“There are rumours—or perhaps a bit more than rumours—regarding a … a cabal, so to speak, of former NSDAP members and supporters.”

“I have heard nothing of this,” said von Stalhein, almost apologetically.

“No, I appreciate that you aren’t involved.  It’s not that.  I’m not asking if you have information.”  Raymond hesitated.  “In the period immediately after the war, though … you were in South America, I believe.”

“I’m sure you know I was.”  Von Stalhein leaned forward, elbows on knees, listening keenly.

“Well, the hints we have suggest that some of the same people may be involved this time.”

“Ah!”  Von Stalhein sat back.  “An undercover mission, is that it?”

Raymond nodded.

“My instincts say—” Von Stalhein stopped and shook his head.  “No, in all fairness, I need to consider this.”

He got up and went into the kitchen to check on the coffee, coming back with a biscuit tin.  Raymond opened it to find a mix of plain digestive, Bourbon, and Lemon Puff.  He hesitated over the last, frowned, looked up to comment, “I’ll get that one all over me, you know how it flakes,” and picked out a Bourbon.  Silently, von Stalhein returned to the kitchen and took out cups and saucers.

“So what do you think?” Raymond said a couple of minutes later, having eaten the biscuit.

“‘Black or white’ I think is the colloquial phraseology,” said von Stalhein.  He opened the little refrigerator.  “Top of the milk?”

“Please.”

The coffee ritual ran through its course.  After half his cup and another Bourbon, Raymond looked at von Stalhein quizzically.

The other man sighed.  “I don’t think it would work.”  He put his own cup down.  “You are thinking of Paradise Valley, of course.  I’m not saying you’re wrong about its antecedents, nor Herr Doktor Stitzen’s ultimate intentions.  Nor do I feel any particular loyalty:  it’s not that—though I admit it did serve for a time as a refuge for some of those fleeing Europe.”  He hesitated, looked Raymond straight in the eye.  “I have learned too much since then, not least about Stitzen.  He is dead, I understand; but, of course, there were others, not just at Paradise Valley.  I suppose they are the core of this cabal you speak of?”  Raymond nodded.  “I have not had contact with anybody from those days, if that is what you hope.  In fact, I favour the new Germany we have today:  my sister writes often, you know; and so does Fritz, though not as frequently, being a young man building a new life for himself.”  Von Stalhein looked down at his cup, thoughtfully; then he picked it up and drank deeply.  When he put it down, almost empty, he turned back to Raymond.  “Years have passed.  You know my life.”

“I’ve read your dossier,” replied Raymond.  “All of it.”

“Well, I’d be surprised if they don’t have their own dossier.  My years as a Soviet agent would count against me.  You surely realize that?  The antagonism to the Soviet Union was real and deep; and I’m sure it holds true today.  And, though I have lived quietly here in London….”  He shrugged.  “What can I say?  They may even know ‘Lothar Boelke’.”

He paused for comment; but Raymond simply looked at him, waiting.  “I don’t think it would work,” von Stalhein said simply.  He quickly picked up and drained the last of the coffee.  “Is this likely to be a job for Inspector Bigglesworth and his team?”

“If it were just reconnaissance, perhaps,” said Raymond.

“Reconnaissance I might be able to assist with.”

Raymond shook his head.  “We really need more data … more evidence, basically … and then, quite possibly, some ploy to coax them out into territory where an arrest might be possible.”  He smiled.  “We can’t all dare be as bold as Mossad.  For one thing, we’re not after anyone with as high a profile as Eichmann.  We’re foiling plots and counterplots here.  There’s no one single prominent figurehead to take out.”

“I do not think such a cabal has much real chance of success.  The world has changed.”

“I hope so,” said Raymond.  He reached into the biscuit tin for yet another Bourbon.  “The problem, of course, is that the world rotates.  Eventually, it will show its old face again.”