CANADA
SPRING 1950
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A waft of fresh spring evening air gusted into the aeroplane as the exit door at the front of the cabin opened.
‘If you would like to follow me, sir, madam?’ a stewardess said, ‘Two RCAF officers are waiting to escort you from the plane.’
Mitch stood up and stepped into the aisle. Claire edged out of her seat sideways until she was able to bend down and pick up her handbag. She joined Mitch and the stewardess in the narrow passage between the door and the galley kitchen. Mitch took Claire’s hand, letting go only to salute the two officers at the exit.
‘Officer Boucher, sir,’ the female officer said, saluting Mitch.
‘Officer Lloyd,’ the male officer said, following Officer Boucher’s lead.
Then the officers turned and saluted Claire. She returned the gesture. It had been six years since anyone had saluted her - and then it was only when she was wearing her WAAF uniform, which, once she had been recruited by the SOE, wasn’t often.
Officer Boucher escorted Claire down the steps, while Officer Lloyd walked alongside Mitch. ‘We need to pick up our cases,’ Claire said, when they were on the tarmac.
‘Already in the car, Mrs Mitchell,’ Officer Boucher said.
Claire looked over her shoulder at Mitch. He winked and she gave him a nervous smile. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To a hotel, Mrs Mitchell.’
Claire sighed. She wasn’t going to get anything out of the female officer. She probably hadn’t been told the name of the hotel or its location, Claire thought.
The car, a standard RCAF six-seater black saloon, was waiting for them when they came out of the airport. The driver, standing at the back of the car, opened the boot and stowed the suitcases. Claire and Mitch got into the back of the car, the driver took up position behind the steering wheel and waited for his fellow officers. Lloyd sat in the front next to the driver, Boucher in the back next to Claire. When everyone was seated, the driver pulled into the stream of traffic leaving the airport. Claire, leaning forward, looked past the officer and out of the window. There were vehicles on either side of them. In a slow-moving convoy, they were heading into Montréal.
When they arrived at the hotel, they were met by a police sergeant who, after introducing himself, ushered Mitch and Claire into the hotel and, bypassing reception, pressed the button for the lift. As the lift rose to the sixth floor, Claire took hold of Mitch’s hand. She gave it a squeeze to reassure him everything would be all right. Whether it would or not remained to be seen. She tried to imagine how she would feel if it was her mother, or one of her sisters and their husbands, being held prisoner by a madman like Beckman, but she couldn’t.
The hotel suite was modern and spacious. There was a sitting room, double bedroom, and a reasonable sized bathroom. No sooner had they taken off their outdoor clothes than there was a knock at the door. Officer Lloyd opened it and Montréal’s Chief of Police entered with the sergeant who had met them.
‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’ Chief of Police Sam Jacobs introduced himself, then pulled out a chair from beneath the dining table. Mitch pulled out another. When Claire took the sofa, sitting on the end nearest to the table, the men sat down.
‘Your parents house is surrounded. I’ve got armed police on the ground and an elite task force of specially trained officers with snipers in the upstairs windows of the neighbouring houses. The German won’t get away this time,’ Chief Jacobs said.
‘Has Beckman said anything about my father and mother? Has he made any demands, other than wanting to talk to me?’
‘He told the police negotiator that the hostages were in the basement. We have no proof of that, but we can’t see them in the room where Beckman and the woman are.’
‘Nurse Bryant, who worked for him?’
The Chief of Police nodded. ‘We haven’t seen much of her in the last four hours. I guess she’s either in another room or she’s keeping out of sight.’
Claire was visualising the layout of the house, where the basement door was in reference to the sitting room and the dining room, which were both at the front of the house, both with big windows. ‘Which room is Beckman in?’ she asked the chief. ‘When you look at the house, is he in the room on the right of the front door or the left?’
‘The right.’
‘That means he’s as far away from the basement door and the kitchen as he could possibly be, Mitch.’
‘That’s what I was thinking.’
‘He seemed happy to talk to the police negotiator,’ Chief Jacobs said. ‘In fact, our guy thought he had Beckman’s confidence, was getting through to him, but--’ The Police Chief shrugged, ‘the next time the negotiator spoke to him, Beckman said he was bored and wasn’t going to talk to anyone but you, Captain Mitchell.’
‘Beckman was playing with your negotiator.’
‘I should have got someone else, someone more experienced,’ the chief said.
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Chief. And don’t blame your negotiator. Beckman’s a controlling liar. He’s an expert confidence trickster. When do I get to talk to him?’
‘Tomorrow. The negotiator will brief you on his findings.’
‘I meant when do I get to talk to Beckman?’.
‘As soon as it’s light. Once my men have changed shifts - when the guys on duty tonight have left and the day shift is in position - it will be safe for you to negotiate.’
‘Negotiate? I’m going in. I want my father and mother out of there.’
‘We would rather you didn’t go inside the house,’ Chief Jacobs said.
