A Time for Vengeance

by Geoffrey Osborne

  “Shut up, you stupid little man,” snapped the Director, stung into anger. “Shut up and listen. You are in West Berlin, in the hands of the British, and…”

  “I don’t believe you,” Mueller interrupted. “It’s another of Kohner’s tricks. But it’s pointless. I’ve told you everything.”

  “If you don’t believe me, perhaps you’ll believe your wife.”

  “Hilde? She’s here?”

  The Director nodded. “Yes. You’ll be able to see her soon; and some of my men will take you on a tour of West Berlin. Perhaps that will convince you.”

  “How… how did you get me over the Wall?” the German asked uncertainly.

  “I haven’t time to go into details, but have you heard of the Thugs, in India?”

  Mueller nodded, looking puzzled.

  “Well, in the olden days the Thugs would join bands of travelers and then when they had gained their confidence, offer sweets. The sweets, of course, were drugged. When the travelers became unconscious, the Thugs robbed them. In more recent times, when the railways came to India, they would operate the same system in the crowded third-class compartments. Sometimes there would be two hours between stations, giving the robbers plenty of time.”

  “What has all this to do with getting me over the Wall?”

  “It gave me the idea, that’s all. You see, the drug they used was daturine, a poisonous alkaloid found in the thorn apple – or Datura stramonium – with similar action to atrophine. So I sent a bag of treacle toffee all the way to India to be treated by experts.”

  “Ah! So it was the toffee? You had someone switch your drugged sweets with Kohner’s?”

  “That’s right. The point is, you see, that at certain stages daturine poisoning is almost indistinguishable from cholera.”

  “Cholera!”

  “Don’t worry. You’re perfectly alright now. You were very promptly treated with the correct antidote.

  “But, you see, as both you and Kohner were recently returned from the tropics, it wasn’t unreasonable to suppose that you might both have contracted cholera. One day, when there’s more time, I might tell you how we fooled the SSD into sending you across to the West.”

  The Director hoisted his bulk out of the creaking chair.

  “Now I’ll get my chaps to take you on a sight-seeing tour of West Berlin. Afterwards you can see your wife – and then we’ll have another little chat.”

  “Why have you done all this? What do you want to know?”

  “We want to know what you told the SSD. We want to know where you hid the list,” replied the Director, as he walked towards the door. “You’ll find some decent clothes in the wardrobe. Get dressed.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gerhard Kohner was dreaming. He was in a large room, floating in mid-air. It was restful and quite effortless; he could move in any direction he wished by using the breast stroke, and it was less tiring than swimming. There were people in the room staring at him in wonder, almost in awe. Then everything began to spin; he was falling, he felt terribly sick, and the people stared to talk excitedly.

  And suddenly he knew he was not dreaming. Instinctively, like an animal, he smelt danger. The voices had something to do with it.

  One word jerked him back to full consciousness with startling abruptness. The word was “toffees” …and the realization that it was spoken in English came as an added shock.

  With an almost superhuman effort, he kept his eyes shut and held back the sickness.

  “He may have eaten more of the toffees than the other chap,” the voice was saying, “in which case he’ll be out longer. You’d better look in every hour, and call me as soon as he comes round.”

  “Is any treatment necessary in the meantime Colonel?”

  “No. He’s had morphia, and we’ve got about four ounces of vinegar into him.”

  “That should neutralize it all right sir.”

  “Yes. He’ll be as right as rain when he wakes up. But I’d like to check him before the cloak and dagger boys cart him off.”

  There was the sound of a knock on a door, and the voice of the man who had been addressed as Colonel called out: “All right sentry, we’re ready to leave.” A key rattled in the lock, footsteps echoed on the uncovered floor as the door opened, voices drifted in from outside, the door slammed shut and the key clicked the lock back again.

  Thankfully, in the silence that followed, Kohner opened his eyes. His watch was still strapped to his wrist and he squinted at it.

  Twelve o’clock. Midday or midnight? He had no means of telling. He gazed carefully around the sparsely-furnished but clean, antiseptic-smelling hospital room. There was no window, and the light came from a single electric bulb, high in the ceiling.

  What day was it? Was it only that morning that he had been interrogating Mueller? He had to assume that it was. And if he was now a prisoner of the British, he had to assume that he was in the British sector of West Berlin – although God knew how they had got him there.

  But he had to assume something, anything, to provide a basis for an escape plan. And he had nearly an hour left in which to escape.

  He lifted the bedclothes and saw that he was wearing hospital-issue pyjamas. Were his clothes in the plain, white wardrobe near the washbasin? He had to know.

  The fat man pushed back the bedclothes, swung his legs over the edge of the bed – and crashed to the floor as the room cartwheeled around him. It took him nearly two minutes to drag himself to the washbasin, haul himself up to it and turn on the tap. Only then did he give in to the nausea.

  Things got better after that. The dizziness went. He washed, drank copious draughts of water and forced himself to rest for five minutes. Then he opened the wardrobe, and began to breathe more easily.

  He dressed quickly, and threw the pyjamas into the bottom of the wardrobe.

  *

  The door opened and the sentry’s voice followed the young Army doctor into the room.

  “Just knock when you’re ready to come out sir. My relief is due any minute now, but I’ll tell him you’re inside.”

  “Right-oh. I shouldn’t be long anyway.”

  The door closed and the doctor approached the bed.

  Kohner peered at him through lowered eyelashes.

  The doctor was newly-qualified, a young, fresh-faced lieutenant who believed in keeping fit. He had just run up four flights of stairs, choosing to ignore the lift, and he was breathing hard.

  He was also breathing his last.

  As he leaned forward to lift Kohner’s left eyelid, the German’s left arm shot out to encircle the doctor’s neck. At the same time, the Englishman was flipped over on to his back. He could not match the ox-like strength of the big SSD man, and he had no time to call out before the pressure of Kohner’s arm on his windpipe increased to cut off the air supply. His legs thrashed the air in a futile dance until his heels dropped to drum a final, macabre tattoo on the polished floor at the side of the bed. The doctor’s neck was broken.

  Kohner swung himself off the bed and pulled the limp body on to it. Working quickly, he removed the doctor’s white coat before covering the body with the bedclothes.

  The coat was too small for the German, but it would do if he didn’t fasten the buttons. He shrugged into it and moved across to the door, listening intently.

  There was a murmur of voices outside, and then the sound of footsteps fading into the distance. The first guard had been relieved, Kohner guessed; but still he waited a couple of minutes, whispering to himself in excellent English, rehearsing what he wanted to say. Satisfied at last, he knocked on the door.

  The lock snicked back and the door opened a crack.

  “All finished sir?”

  Kohner noted with satisfaction that the voice was different. The guard had been changed.

  “No!” The SSD man’s tone was urgent. He pulled the door open wide. “Come quickly sentry. I need your help.”

&nb
sp; “What’s the trouble doctor?”

  “I think the patient is dead, but if we both work fast we might be able to resuscitate him.”

  The Military Policeman came in at the run – and once again, the surprise was complete.

  There was no finesse about Kohner’s action. He relied once again on his enormous strength. Again, his left arm was locked around his victim’s neck; but this time Kohner began to run with him, charging across the room, using him as a human battering ram.

  The sentry’s head thudded sickeningly into the opposite wall. Only then did the SSD man relax his vice-like hold to allow the British soldier to slump to the floor like a crumpled, lifeless doll.

  It was all over in seconds, and Kohner moved swiftly across the room to close the door. Then he began to go through the pockets of the two dead Englishmen, taking all the money he could find. He would need West German Deutschmarks. The East German marks he was carrying would be useless here.

  He was thinking quickly, clearly. He was feeling elated, the way he felt when he ambushed and shot the Israelis in Ecuador; the way he felt every time he killed.

  There was no one in the corridor when he opened the door, which he locked behind him, pocketing the key. A dozen yards to his left he could see a lift, its doors gaping wide. He stepped inside and stabbed the button for the first floor. As he descended, he took off the doctor’s white coat and dropped it on to the floor. Then, when the lift stopped, he took the stairs to the ground floor and walked outside. He breathed a sigh of satisfaction as he recognized the outside of the British Military Hospital. He knew exactly where he was now, and he had a clear-cut plan.

  Five minutes later, he was in a taxi, speeding towards Tempelhof. Soon he would be on a BEA domestic flight for Hamburg. No papers were necessary for that. But he had an address in Hamburg, near the Elbe Tunnel, where he would be fixed up with a false passport within two hours. From Hamburg, he would take a flight to Leipzig – and by tomorrow morning, he would be back in SSD headquarters in East Berlin.

  He leaned back in the taxi, smiling contentedly. Automatically, he reached into his jacket pocket for a treacle toffee then, as his fingers touched the paper, he remembered and withdrew his hand as if it had been stung.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Erich Mueller leaned forward to grasp his wife’s hands.

  “I can hardly believe it, Hilde.” His voice was trembling with emotion. “But it’s true. My dream has come true. We’re here, together, and soon I’ll be free. I’ll be able to lead a normal life… with you. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  She tried to smile, but it died on her lips. Her gaze slid away from his eager blue eyes.

  The laugh of excitement was choked in his throat.

  “What is it? What’s the matter Hilde?”

  She shook her head dumbly, trying to stop the tears.

  “It will be alright,” he said. “You’ll see. The British don’t bear grudges. The past is past, Hilde. I can do a deal with the British, and they’ll fix things with the Federal Government. We’ll soon be going home together, I promise.”

  The tears would not be denied, and Mueller’s own eyes were moist as he took her in his arms.

  “What is it Liebchen? Is it Kristen? If she’s ashamed of what I did in the war I’ll make it up to her. Her husband need never know I was in the SS. It will be all right, I tell you.”

  “It’s not that.” She sniffed. “I feel so… so…” She pushed her husband away and stepped back as the door opened.

  The Director came in, smiling broadly. He was followed by Dingle and Jones.

  “Well now, Herr Mueller, are you convinced that you’re in West Berlin?”

  The German threw up his hands and smiled back.

  “I’m convinced, Herr Direktor.”

  “Good. Now I’d like you to meet Mr. Dingle and Mr. Jones who are going to assist me in… er… interviewing you. So if you’ll excuse us Frau Mueller? We shouldn’t be long, and there’s a comfortable waiting-room next door, on the left.”

  Before the door closed behind her, Glyn Jones was already setting up the tape recorder.

  *

  The Director glared at Mueller.

  “Are you trying to tell me that the list is at the bottom of some Austrian lake?”

  “The Blindsee. Yes. The list is there in a long blue envelope, sealed with Hitler’s personal seal. There are various other documents, but they won’t particularly interest you.”

  “In a safe?”

  “Yes. I told you. In a safe.”

  “Then we’re wasting our time,” said Dingle. “The contents will be ruined. Even the best strong-rooms aren’t waterproof. A chap from Chubbs told me that.”

  “This safe is,” said Mueller confidently. “It was specially made on the Führer’s instructions. It’s airtight, waterproof and fireproof. Those papers will be as fresh as the day they were locked inside.”

  “You’d better be right Mueller,” the Director said harshly, “or there’ll be no deal for you.”

  Fear flashed momentarily in the German’s eyes. Then he recovered his poise.

  “You’ll find the list all right, Herr Direktor – but you must hurry. Don’t forget the SSD know where it is, and they have a start on you. You can’t blame me if they get there first.”

  “Hmmm…” The SS(0)S chief stroked his chin. “But they can’t have much of a start, if any. If we make sure our West German friends deny them access, they’ll have to go the long way around – probably through Czechoslovakia. Where exactly is this lake… what’s it’s name?”

  “Blindsee,” answered Mueller. “It’s in the Tyrol.”

  “Ah! So it’s in Western Austria?”

  “That’s right. South of Munich, just over the border.”

  “Good! How heavy is the safe?”

  “About a hundredweight.”

  “And exactly where is it?”

  “From the north-eastern tip of the lake I walked along the northern shore for twelve meters…”

  The Director looked at Dingle inquiringly.

  “About thirty-nine feet sir.”

  “Then I rowed a boat due south for a distance of about sixty meters,” Mueller continued, “and my men heaved the safe overboard.”

  “How deep is the water at that point?”

  Mueller shrugged. “As far as I remember from the chart, about nine meters.”

  “About thirty feet,” Dingle put in helpfully.

  “I know, I know,” said the Director testily. “Well, you’re the diving experts. I seem to recall that you did some underwater antics in the North Sea a few years back.” He stared disconcertingly at Dingle and Jones. “Do you think you can raise this damned safe before the East Germans get there?”

  Jones’s belly rumbled noisily under a sudden attack of nervous indigestion.

  “The lake will probably be frozen over at this time of year sir,” he said.

  “Then you’ll have to cut a hole in it, won’t you?” The Welshman licked dry lips and tried to swallow. The last time I dived, sir, I got water in my foot and it went rusty.”

  “Jones, are you refusing to dive?” asked the Director ominously.

  “Oh, no sir!” Beads of sweat stood out on the Welshman’s brow. “It’s just that I remembered the rust in my foot sir. And that was after only a short while, see? So I thought that after nearly thirty years the safe would be so rusted that water would have leaked in and its contents would be spoilt. That’s if we can even find the thing…”

  Jones’s voice trailed off as the Director swung his huge head to face Dingle.

  “Well?”

  “I doubt if the safe will be corroded sir. Glyn’s foot got rusty in sea water. The lake will be fresh water.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Well, salt water is notorious for causing rust. But lakes are surrounded by vegetation. Leaves and other bits and pieces sink and form a stagnant slud
ge at the bottom of the lake. The sludge is de-oxygenated which helps to prevent rust, of course. The safe will have sunk into the sludge, so I doubt if the metal will be decomposed.”

  “Very clever,” muttered Jones. “One day, James, you’ll be the bloody death of me.”

  “What’s that?” asked the Director sharply.

  “I said in the muddy depths it’ll be hard to see.” The SS(0)S chief raised his eyebrows. “He has a point there James.”

  “No problem sir.” He grinned at Jones. “We can use lights and underwater metal-detectors.”

  “Right! make a note of all the equipment you need. I’ll get our German friends to lay it all on at Munich, with transport of course. You can fly to Munich and pick it up there.”

  He turned to the German.

  “Is there anything else we ought to know, Herr Mueller?”

  “No. I think you have…”

  Mueller broke off as the door crashed open and Jason Ritchie strode in.

  “That bastard Kohner,” he said. “He’s escaped!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  2 p.m.

  “All the border crossing points are being watched,” said the Director. “If Kohner tries to cross they’ll have him.”

  “I doubt if he’ll try,” said Jones. “He’s probably away from Berlin by now, and he’ll go home by a roundabout route.”

  “Yeah. We’ve lost him,” Ritchie agreed. “And I had some questions to ask that sonofabitch.”

  “We’ll get him again,” said the Director confidently. “I’m willing to bet you he’ll join us at the lake.”

  “Say! What’s with this Blindsee place?” The American demanded. “Will someone fill me in now the excitement’s died down?”

  “Of course, my dear chap,” replied the SS(0)S chief soothingly. “We’ve found out what Kohner and the SSD wanted with Mueller.”