War Cry

by Wilbur Smith

  There were no signs of life now. There was nothing to be done for him. If he wasn’t dead, he soon would be.

  Saffron leaned into the car again and turned off the headlights. She opened the glove compartment. There was a chamois leather inside. She wiped every surface she might have touched, replaced the chamois in the compartment, which she closed with the back of her hand.

  Then she walked to her car, climbed in and drove away.

  •••

  Saffron stayed the night at the Courtney family home outside Jo’burg. Shasa was waiting for her when she arrived. He’d promised to stay up until she returned from Pretoria, to make sure that she was all right.

  The moment he saw Saffron, he knew from the look on her face that something had gone wrong.

  “What happened?”

  “My cover was blown. I don’t know how, but van Rensburg must have guessed there was something fishy going on. Does he have friends in the police?”

  “Almost certainly. Close to the top. Why?”

  Saffron told him what had happened, leaving nothing out, making a point of describing where the shotgun, with Piet’s fingerprints all over it, would be found.

  “So the body is there, the murder weapon is there and the killer is in the boot,” Shasa said, wanting to make sure he’d got the essential details correct.

  “They were there about half an hour ago. What do you think we should do about it?”

  “Let’s think this through . . . Did this man Piet intend to kill the other policeman?”

  “No . . . he was aiming at me.”

  “So it was an accident, manslaughter at worst. Which means we can bury it with a clean conscience.”

  “How do you plan to do that?”

  “Simple . . . Somewhere high up in the South African Police is a senior officer who does not want it to be known that he sent a man to his death as a favor to his friend Dr. van Rensburg. Agreed?”

  “Why else would those two policemen have chased after me?”

  “Exactly . . . And somewhere high up in the Ministry of Justice are a minister and his son-in-law who don’t want anyone looking too closely into why a woman was present under a false identity at a university event, trying to chat the same van Rensburg up.”

  “That’s true.”

  “We also have a police officer who doesn’t want the world to know he shot his own partner while drunk on duty.”

  “Not to mention that he and his partner were both overpowered by a woman . . .”

  “Correct . . . Now, it is not good for justice to be impeded or perverted. In fact, it’s a crime. But this was an accidental shooting. No member of the public was harmed, and the only person who could make a complaint would be you . . .”

  “Which I have no intention of doing.”

  “I say we give Dawie a full police funeral, as befits a man shot in the line of duty by thieves he interrupted in the course of a crime. We pack Piet off to Koffiefontein. That will keep him out of the way and he’ll hardly complain about it if all other charges against him mysteriously disappear. We find out who gave the orders to the policemen and suggest that his retirement on health grounds, on a full pension, naturally, would be a good idea. And hey presto—nothing ever happened.”

  Saffron smiled at her cousin. “And people say I’m cold-blooded and calculating . . .”

  Shasa returned a piratical grin. “Nonsense! You’re the most adorable creature in the world. But you’re a Courtney . . . and you know what we’re like.”

  “Rogues and scoundrels, every one of us.”

  “We’ve sorted out my end. What about yours?”

  “It’s time I made a discreet exit. I’ll get the first train to Cape Town in the morning. That should get me in by lunchtime on Monday. I’ve got all the Marlize Marais stuff at Weltevreden. I’ll pick it up and aim to be on a boat to Walvis Bay by nightfall.”

  “I’ll make sure there’s a skipper waiting for you at Cape Town. And don’t go to Mater’s place. Probably best not to get her involved. I’ll make sure everything is collected and brought to your boat.”

  “Thank you, Shasa, you’re a darling.”

  “Hang on!” he said, as a thought struck him. “What about the photographs that were taken this evening—won’t you need those?”

  “Send them care of the post office at Walvis Bay. I’ll pick them up there. Now can I ask you one last favor?”

  “Of course, whatever you need.”

  “Is there a typewriter anywhere in the house? I need to write a letter, signed by van Rensburg. It could make all the difference to Marlize.”

  The army officer who witnessed Gerhard’s anti-Hitler speech and took down his name for future reference was Colonel Heinrich Graf von Sickert. The following day he called up an old school friend who was on the staff of the Fourth Air Fleet and made inquiries about Gerhard. A few days later, his friend called back with his findings.

  Von Sickert did not find Gerhard’s family background as impressive as some might. To a man of his aristocratic Prussian lineage, the von Meerbachs were newcomers to the world of wealth and social privilege. Gerhard’s war record, however, was impeccable and perfect for von Sickert’s purposes. He decided to make further inquiries among contacts in Berlin and Munich.

  In early March, he had an opportunity to share his findings with a likeminded soul.

  After a disastrous December and January, the tide had unexpectedly turned in the Wehrmacht’s favor. In the south, Field Marshall Erich von Manstein had overseen a series of armored assaults, executed with blitzkrieg vigor, which took back much of the territory seized by the Russians after the Battle of Stalingrad. Now von Manstein was preparing a new campaign, and the Führer had flown to the Ukrainian town of Zaporozhye, to bring what he saw as his unique military genius to bear on the next stage of operations.

  In the improved mood, there was more time for socializing among the officers who were present. This enabled von Sickert to have a word with another old friend, a staff officer called Kleinhof from Army Group Center. They armed themselves with schnapps and cigarettes and found a couple of armchairs tucked away in the corner of a reception room.

  “I think I’ve found a possible recruit,” he said. “Man called Gerhard von Meerbach.”

  “One of the von Meerbachs who make engines?” Kleinhof asked.

  “Yes, younger brother of the current head of the family.”

  “You mean that fat swine Konrad? Are you sure your man is on our side? The older brother’s a diehard SS man. He was Heydrich’s toady-in-chief, and now has his thick skull rammed up Himmler’s backside.”

  “I’m informed that the two brothers have never been close. Young Gerhard never showed enthusiasm for the Party. He was an architectural student, more of a lefty, bohemian type. But then something happened, no one’s quite sure what, but suddenly Gerhard had joined the Party and was working in Speer’s architectural practice.”

  “He couldn’t have got that job unless he had the official seal of approval.”

  “Quite so. But even then, a lot of people got the impression that the good-Nazi act was put on for show,” von Sickert said. “They assumed brother Konrad had insisted on it for the good of the family business.”

  Kleinhof nodded. “Everyone was at it. Steel companies, Krupp and Thyssen, and all their friends were buttering up the Nazis like mad. Hardly surprising: the state was their biggest customer.”

  “Then again, it’s possible that von Meerbach was sincere in his beliefs until he saw what was happening here in Russia.”

  “God knows that’s enough to change anyone’s mind.”

  “He was at Stalingrad, right through the campaign. Von Richthofen didn’t pull his last aircraft out till mid-January.”

  “He should count himself lucky to survive.”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I happened to be in a bar in Taganrog about a month ago. Von Meerbach was there. I gather he’d recently discovered that his wingman had died of injuries received at
Stalingrad. Then some damn fool of an infantryman came up and called him a coward.”

  “I’d horse whip any man who said that to me.”

  “Von Meerbach didn’t do that. But he laid into him verbally, I can assure you.”

  Von Sickert gave a full account of everything Gerhard had said, keeping his voice as low as he could. It would hardly do to be overheard when the Führer was in the same building.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just the drink talking?” Kleinhof asked.

  “No.” Von Sickert shook his head. “I considered that possibility. But in the first place, von Meerbach wasn’t that drunk. A little tight, maybe, and he was angry at being insulted. But he knew what he was saying. One could tell from the way he looked around, almost daring anyone to disagree with him.”

  “And did they?”

  “Not so much as a whisper.”

  “That says something too, you know.”

  “I agree. But the impression I got from von Meerbach was of a man who was saying things that had been on his mind for some time, and not giving a damn about the consequences.”

  “Well, if that’s true,” Kleinhof said, “then I agree that he is worth following up. I tell you what, when I get back to HQ, I’ll have a word with Henning von Tresckow and we’ll see if we can’t find a way to put him and the von Meerbach fellow in the same place at the same time. Henning will soon work out if he’s a likely ally.”

  “It would be useful, for propaganda purposes if nothing else, to have a man like him on our side. The public love their fighter aces.”

  “And, if we removed the big brother, he’d presumably be able to swing his business resources behind us too.”

  “Give my regards to Henning when you see him,” von Sickert said, as the two men got to their feet. “And to Frida.”

  “Of course,” Kleinhof assured him. He looked around and gave a shake of the head before he remarked, “Odd, isn’t it, to be talking like this when he’s so close?”

  “Yes,” von Sickert agreed. “I’ve been asking myself why I don’t save everyone a lot of bother and get rid of him here and now.”

  Kleinhof gave a weary smile. “Everyone asks themselves that, and he knows it. That’s why they take our guns away before we get anywhere near him.”

  “Surely it wouldn’t be hard to smuggle one in, though.”

  “Calm down, Heini. It will happen. We have a great deal of planning to do. But I promise you that in the end, the man will get what he deserves.”

  •••

  Within an office off the corridors of the Reich Consulate in the center of Lisbon, a man was sitting behind a desk on the far side of the room, writing something on a pad. He looked up, his pen still in his right hand, and registered the presence of the woman sitting opposite him.

  She was shabbily dressed, and in need of a hot meal, a bath and a good night’s sleep. She was good-looking enough, though—underneath it all—with long legs and striking blue eyes. The man returned to his work.

  After a few moments, the senior official stopped writing. He looked directly at the woman. He was a heavy-set man with a tough, skeptical air to him.

  “And your name is?” he said.

  “Marlize Marais,” replied the woman.

  “I am Deputy Consul-General Schäfer.”

  The woman did not believe that Schäfer was a consul. What are you? she thought. Abwehr? SD? Gestapo? Something dirty, that’s for sure.

  “I find myself in an unusual situation,” Schäfer continued. “All day long we deal with the Jews, degenerates and criminals who seek to escape justice in the Reich by coming here to Lisbon and polluting the streets while they wait for a means of getting away. But here is a charming young woman, going the other way. She seeks nothing more than the chance to enter the Occupied Territories of the Reich.”

  “That is correct, Deputy Consul. I wish to do my duty.”

  Schäfer shrugged. “This photograph. The woman in it is clearly yourself. The man you are with is Johannes van Rensburg, leader of the Ossewabrandwag?”

  “Yes, that’s van Rensburg,” she said.

  Schäfer nodded. He looked the woman in the eye again, maintaining a steady gaze. “Here are two letters. One bears van Rensburg’s signature. The other purports to come from a senior OB man called Vorster, in his own handwriting. Am I to believe they are genuine?”

  “Yes, sir, I am an admirer of the two men.”

  “The British are crazy,” Schäfer said. “Why let prisoners write any letters at all?”

  “They are weak. That is why they will lose,” she replied.

  Schäfer leaned back on his chair and put his feet on the desk. He was going to play cat and mouse with her. She felt revulsion at his dominance, the cruel twist of the smirk that was crawling across his face. She would have liked to break his neck.

  She had to forget those thoughts. They belonged to Saffron Courtney, but she was Marlize Marais. Her life might depend on how well she played that part.

  “How do you know van Rensburg?”

  Saffron kept as close as she could to the truth. “I don’t. We’d never met before that night. But I think he is a wonderful man who understands what our country needs and why it can never succeed so long as the blacks and the Jews have any say in it. I heard he was going to a party at Tukkies so I asked a friend to take me along as his guest. I wanted to say hello to Dr. van Rensburg, but I was too scared to do it. Then I told myself not to be so silly and approached him. We talked for a bit and then a man came by. He was taking photographs of all the guests. He took that one of us.”

  “Tukkies, eh? That’s a nickname for the University of Pretoria, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you a student there by any chance?”

  “No . . . I should have been, but I couldn’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my father lost all his money. The filthy Jews took his business, every penny he had. We lost our house, our car . . . everything.”

  “This business of your father’s,” he went on, “what was it?”

  “A school outfitters in Jo’burg. Uniforms for all the rich children who go to the private schools there.”

  “And you lived in Johannesburg?”

  “Yes.”

  “With other Afrikaners around you—your family, your neighbors and so on?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why can I hear a distinct trace of English in your voice?”

  Saffron had anticipated that someone might ask this question, though not until she reached Flanders or Holland. She was prepared. “My father sent me to Roedean—have you heard of it?”

  “No. I expect it’s a fancy private school.”

  “It’s a college for English gentlewomen. For years my father served the mothers who sent their daughters to Roedean. He dreamed that if he worked hard enough, he could send his own daughter there. He thought that the Dutch and British could be reconciled. He wanted his girl to have the best that the British could offer, to become as good as them.”

  “We Germans are already better than either of them,” Schäfer sneered.

  Saffron shook her head sadly. “Pappa was only doing his best. And after he had worked his fingers to the bone for years, he made enough that he could send me there, and learn to carry myself and talk ‘like a lady’—he always said it like that, in English. And I tried my best, because I knew how much it mattered to Pappa. I tried to talk like a lady . . . and it made no difference. The girls looked down their noses at me. I was a shopkeeper’s daughter. ‘A dirty Boer,’ that was what they called me. And then my father lost everything and I had to leave in my last year because he could not pay the bills. They would not let me stay for my final examinations. So yes, I was left with this reminder of my past in the way I speak. But believe me: I hate the British even more because they took my own voice from me.”

  “I feel for you, Fräulein Marais,” Schäfer said. “How did your father lose his bu
siness?”

  “I told you, the Jews took it from him.”

  “Which Jews? How?”

  Saffron shook her head as if trying to get past a bitter, humiliating memory. “My father wanted to expand his business. He planned to buy the shop next to ours in Jo’burg and knock them into one big shop. And he wanted to open another branch in Cape Town. So, in 1938, he borrowed the money from a Jewish businessman called Solomons. He bought the shop next door. He had plans drawn up. He hired builders. They started work . . . and then Solomons called in his loan. My father had to pay all the money back, but of course he had used it to buy the property, pay architects and builders. He only had about a quarter left . . . Because my father could not pay, Solomons took the shop. He made his nephew the manager . . . The filthy, scheming, greedy Jews.”

  Schäfer frowned. “Why did he call in the loan?”

  “The excuse he gave was that there was a war coming and the risk of lending was too high.”

  “In 1938? How did he know a war was coming then?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the Jews know these things because they start the wars themselves. But it doesn’t matter. That was just an excuse. Solomons deliberately got my father into debt so he could take the business. Pappa thought he was a friend. But a Jew is never your friend. All he thinks about is himself and his race. So now he has the shop. My Pappa is dead. And all I want to do is help the fight against the Jew.”

  Schäfer was stony-faced, unmoving, like a statue: he revealed nothing. He continued to stare at her, his eyes like needles probing deep into her soul. And then, as if flicking a switch, he said, “Bravo!” and gave three slow, emphatic claps of the hand. “Well said, fräulein.”

  Saffron was unsure of her ground.

  “Fräulein Marais, your papers . . .”

  Saffron realized that she had passed the test. She was on her way to Belgium and it looked as though Schäfer was so impressed by her performance that he was sending her straight there.

  She was in. Now her mission could begin. But in her mind she was offering up a silent apology to Isidore Solomons. I’m sorry, Izzy. I used your name to help fool these Nazis. I told lies about you and your people. But I swear to you, old friend, it won’t be in vain.