by Jack Higgins
Reichsfuhrer der SS. The cuff title of Himmler's personal staff. He clicked heels.
'At your order, Reichsfuhrer.'
'Ah, Rossman.' Himmler sat behind his desk. 'You've had the night shift? You're due to go home?'
'Yes, Reichsfuhrer.'
'I'd appreciate it if you'd stay.'
'No problem, Reichsfuhrer. My pleasure to serve.'
'Good.' Himmler nodded. 'I was with the Führer last night. He raised the matter of this conference which is to take place at Chateau de Voincourt in Brittany this weekend. Do we have a file?'
'I believe so, Reichsfuhrer.'
'Bring it to me.'
Rossman went out. Himmler opened his briefcase, took out some papers and looked at them. A moment later, Rossman came in again with the file. He passed it across and Himmler took out the contents and worked his way through them. Finally, he sat back.
'Atlantic Wall conference?' He laughed coldly. 'The Führer was concerned about this affair last night and rightly so, Rossman. There is devilry afoot.' He looked up. 'I have always been able to count on your loyalty?'
'To the death, Reichsfuhrer.' Rossman sprang to attention.
'Good, then I will tell you now of things I've had to keep very personal, very private. There have been numerous attempts on the Führer's life, but then you know that.'
'Of course, Reichsfuhrer.'
'By the mercy of God they have always been foiled, but there is evil behind all this.' Himmler nodded. 'Generals of our own High Command, men who have taken a holy oath to serve the Fuhrer are engaged in a conspiracy to assassinate him.'
'My God!' Rossman said.
'Amongst others I'm having watched are Generals such as Wagner, Stieff, von Hase.' He took a sheet of papers from his briefcase. 'And others on this list, some of whom may surprise you.'
Rossman ran his eye over the list and looked up in astonishment. 'Rommel?'
'Yes, the good Field Marshal himself. The people's hero.'
'Unbelievable,' Rossman said.
'So,' Himmler told him. 'As the Fuhrer so rightly said, we would be failing in our duty not to suspect that this conference at Chateau de Voincourt was not simply a cover for something more. Atlantic Wall conference. What nonsense!' Himmler laughed entirely without mirth. 'A cover, Rossman. Rommel himself will be present. Why does he go all the way to Brittany for such an affair?'
Rossman, who had always found it politic to agree, nodded eagerly. 'I'm sure you are right.'
'This General Ziemke, for example, who's in charge of the place. I'm sure he is involved.'
Rossman, looking for some way of involving himself to his own advantage, said, 'There is one thing in our favour about the de Voincourt set-up, Reichsfuhrer.'
'And what is that?'
That security there is in the hands of the Waffen-SS.'
'Really?' Himmler looked up, immediately alert. 'You're sure of this?'
'Oh, yes, Reichsfuhrer.' Rossman sifted through the file. 'See, the officer responsible for all matters of security and intelligence. Sturmbannfuhrer Max Priem.'
Himmler examined Priem's record. 'Quite a hero, this Priem.'
'Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords, Reichsfuhrer. The only reason he is not at the Front would seem to be the severe nature of wounds received in Russia.'
'I can see that.' Himmler tapped his fingers on the desk while Rossman waited nervously. 'Yes,' Himmler said. 'I think this Major Priem will serve our purpose very well. Get him on the phone, Rossman. I'll speak to him personally.'
****
At that precise moment, Max Priem was running through the wood on the other side of the lake from Chateau de Voincourt. He was an inch under six feet, the short black hair tousled, sweat on his face. He wore an old track suit, a scarf around his neck and one of the security guard's Alsatians ran with him.
'Remember in future,' the surgeon had told him on the day of his release from hospital. 'For a man with a silver plate in your head, you've done very well, but walk from now on. Walk, don't run. That must be your new motto.'
'Well, to hell with that,' Priem told himself, rounded the lake and went across the lawn to the main entrance in a final burst of speed, with the Alsatian, Karl, hard on his heels.
He went up the steps past the sentries, who saluted, and into the great entrance hall. He went along the corridor to the right, stopping at the cloakroom to get a towel with which to mop his face. The first office was that of his aide, Hauptsturm-fuhrer Reichslinger. Priem passed on, aware of the phone ringing in his own office. He opened the door, still mopping his face and found Reichslinger, who had come through from his own office, answering the phone.
'Yes, this is Sturmbannführer Priem's office. No, but he's just come in.' He paused, then turned and held out the phone to Priem, his narrow eyes widening. 'My God, it's Reichsführer Himmler himself.'
Priem held out his hand for the phone, his face giving nothing away. He pointed to the other office. Reichslinger went through, closed the door, then hurried to his desk and picked up his phone gently.
He heard Himmler say, 'Priem?'
'Yes, Reichsführer.'
'You are a loyal member of the SS brotherhood? I may rely on your help and discretion?'
'Of course, Reichsfuhrer.'
'You have a remarkable record. We're all very proud of you.'
'What's the bastard got up his sleeve now?' Priem wondered.
'Listen to me attentively,' Himmler said. The life of your Führer could be in your hands.'
****
Priem fondled the Alsatian's ruff as it sat beside him. 'So, what would you wish me to do, Reichsfuhrer,' he asked when Himmler was finished.
'Surveillance of this conference at the weekend which I'm convinced is spurious. This General Ziemke seems heavily suspect to me and as for Rommel - the man is beyond the pale. A disgrace to the officer corps.'
In spite of having Germany's greatest war hero dismissed in such a fashion, Priem stayed calm. 'We are not talking arrests here, I take it, Reichsfuhrer?'
'Of course not. Total surveillance, a log of everyone who is present and naturally, a record of all telephone calls the Field Marshal and any other general officer make. This is a direct order, Priem.'
lZu befehl, Reichsführer,' Priem said automatically.
'Good. I look forward to your report.'
The phone went dead, but Priem still had the receiver to his ear. There was the faintest of sounds. He glanced at the adjoining door, smiled slightly, put his phone down gently and crossed the room, followed by the Alsatian. When he opened the door, Reichslinger was just replacing the receiver He turned, guilt written all over his face.
Priem said, 'Listen, you miserable little toad. If I ever catch you doing that again, I'll give Karl here permission to feed off your balls.'
The Alsatian stared fixedly at Reichslinger, its tongue hanging out. Reichslinger, face ashen, said, 'I meant no harm.'
'You are, however, now privy to a state secret of the utmost gravity.' Priem suddenly barked, 'Heels together, Reichslinger.'
'Zu befehl, Sturmbannfuhrer.'
'You took an oath to protect your Führer, a holy oath, repeat it now.'
Reichslinger gabbled, 'I will render unconditional obedience to the Fuhrer of the German Reich and People, Adolf Hitler, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, and will be ready, as a brave soldier, to stake my life at any time on this oath.'
'Excellent, so keep your mouth shut or I'll have you shot and remember - failure is a sign of weakness.'
As he opened the door to his office, Reichslinger called, 'I would remind the Major of one thing.'
'And what would that be?'
'You also took the oath.'
****
Max Priem had been born in Hamburg in 1910, the son of a schoolteacher who had been killed on the Western Front as an infantry corporal in 1917. His mother had died in 1924, leaving him a small legacy, enough to enable him eventually to enter the University of Heidelberg
where he had studied law.
By 1933 he was well qualified, but without employment. The SS, with the rest of the Nazi party, were looking for bright young men. Priem, like so many others, joined more for employment than anything else. His language ability had caused him to be recruited by the SD, SS intelligence, but on the advent of war, he had managed to secure an appointment to an active service unit of the Waffe'n-SS. When the 21st SS Paratroop Battalion was formed, he was one of the first to apply, serving in Crete, North Africa and Russia. Stalingrad had finished him. The bullet in the head from a Russian sniper. So now he sat here behind a desk, miles from the war, living in a fairy tale chateau in the midst of beautiful Breton countryside.
He went upstairs to his room, showered and changed, inspecting himself in the mirror when he was ready. Except for the silver death's head in his cap and his SS rank badge, his uniform was all paratrooper. Not the Luftwaffe blue-grey, but the field grey of the Army. Flying blouse, baggy jump trousers tucked into jump boots. A gold wound badge, Iron Cross First Class and gold and silver paratrooper's qualification badge studded his left breast, the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords hung from his neck.
'Very pretty,' he said softly. 'Nothing like keeping up appearances.'
He went out on the landing as Maresa, Anne-Marie's maid, passed with a stack of towels. 'Is General Ziemke with the Countess, do you know?' he asked in excellent French.
She curtseyed. 'I saw him go into her suite five minutes ago. They ordered coffee.'
'Good. Your mistress returns tomorrow?'
'Yes, Major.'
He nodded. 'Go ahead, get on with your work.'
She walked away and Priem took a deep breath, then walked across the landing above the great hall and went up the steps leading to the Countess de Voincourt's bedroom.
****
At Cold Harbour, it was raining steadily, mist draped across the trees, shrouding the Abbey in mystery as Genevieve and Julie, wearing yellow storm coats and sou'westers, walked down to the village.
'So much for the weather forecast,' Julie said. 'They always get it wrong, those people.'
'But what will happen?' Genevieve said.
'God knows. They'll come up with something.'
They came to where the Lili Marlene was tied up to the quay. Hare came out of the wheelhouse and up the gangplank. 'Going to the pub?' he asked.
'That's right,' Julie said. 'I've got to get lunch ready.'
Hare smiled at Genevieve. 'Are you over last night?'
'Just about.'
'Good. I'll join you. Craig and Munro went in a little while ago with Grant. I think they're having a council of war.'
Inside The Hanged Man, they found the three men sitting at the table by the window. Munro looked up. 'Ah, there you are. We're just having words. Join us.'
Craig said, 'As you may have noticed, the weather isn't too good. Tell them, Grant.'
The young pilot said, 'We were supposed to have a moon tonight and dry weather. Ideal conditions, but this stinks. You see, it isn't just the visibility. We land in ordinary fields. If they get waterlogged by heavy rain, it would be impossible to take off again.'
'So what happens?' Genevieve asked.
Craig said, 'There's an outside chance, according to the Met. people, that it might clear by seven or eight this evening.'
'And if not?'
'You have to go, my dear, we can't delay,' Munro told her. 'So, if there's no plane it will have to be a fast boat and a passage by night, courtesy of the Kriegsmarine here.'
'Our pleasure,' Martin Hare said.
'Good, we'll leave it till seven this evening, then make the decision.'
Julie stood up. 'Coffee, everyone?'
Munro sighed. 'How many times do I have to remind you, Julie, I'm a tea person.'
'But Brigadier,' she told him sweetly, 'I'm always reminded of what you are every time I look at you,' and she went into the kitchen.
****
Priem knocked on the door, opened it and went into the ante-room. Chantal was sitting in a chair by the bedroom door. She was, as always, thoroughly unfriendly.
'Yes, Major.'
'See if the Countess will receive me.'
She opened the door, went in and closed it. After a while, she returned. 'You may go in now.'
Hortense de Voincourt was propped up against pillows. She wore a silk gown and a kind of cap covered the red-gold hair. She had a tray in front of her and was eating a buttered roll.
'Good morning, Major. Did I ever tell you that you look like the Devil himself coming through the door in that preposterous uniform?'
Priem liked her immensely. Always had. He clicked heels and gave her a military salute. 'You are as radiant as the morning, Countess.'
She sipped champagne and orange juice from a tall crystal glass. 'What piffle! If you want Carl, he's reading the paper on the terrace. I will not allow a German paper to be read in this house.'
Priem smiled, saluted again and went out through the french windows. Ziemke was seated at a small table on the terrace, a glass of champagne in front of him. He was reading a two-day-old copy of a Berlin newspaper. He looked up and smiled.
'I see from the front page that we are winning the war.' Priem stood there, looking at him, and Ziemke stopped smiling. 'What is it, Max?'
'I've had a phone call from Reichsfuhrer Himmler.'
'Really?'
'Yes.' Priem lit a cigarette and leaned on the parapet. 'It seems that Chateau de Voincourt is a hotbed of conspiracy. Not only yourself, but most other Generals who stay here including Rommel himself, are suspected of designs on the Fuhrer's life.'
'Dear God!' Ziemke folded his paper. 'My thanks for telling me, Max.' He got up and put a hand on Priem's shoulder. 'My poor Max. A hero of the SS and yet you're not even a Nazi. It must make life terribly difficult.' 'Oh, I manage,' Priem told him.
There was a murmur of voices inside and Chantal appeared a moment later. 'An orderly left this, General.'
Ziemke read the signal, then laughed out loud. 'The cunning bastard. Still the chicken fanner at heart. He's buying your services in advance, Max. Listen to this. "From Reichsfuhrer SS to Max Priem. In recognition of services to the Reich above the call of duly, by special order of the Führer, you are promoted to the rank of Standartenführer from this date. Heil Hitler."'
Priem took it from him, bemused, and Ziemke pushed him into the bedroom. 'What do you think, darling?' he said to the Countess. 'Max here has been promoted twice at the same time. He's now a full Colonel.'
'And what does he have to do for that?' she demanded.
Priem smiled ruefully. 'I look forward to your niece's return. Tomorrow, I think.'
'Yes, we're going to need her to entertain Rommel at the weekend,' Ziemke said. 'I thought we should have something special this time. A ball more than a dance.'
'An excellent idea,' Priem said.
'Yes, Anne-Marie has been staying at the Ritz,' Hortense de Voincourt said to Priem.
'I know,' he told her. 'I've rung three times, but she's always out.'
'What do you expect? Shopping in Paris is still shopping in Paris in spite of this dreadful war.'
'Yes, well I must be about my duties.' Priem saluted and went out.
Hortense looked up at Ziemke. 'Trouble?'
He took her hand. 'Nothing I can't handle and not from Max. He's caught in the middle.'
'A terrible shame.' She shook her head. 'You know something, Carl? I really like that boy.'
'So do I, liebling,' and he took the champagne from the bucket and refilled her glass.
****
Towards evening it was already getting dark at Cold Harbour, rain drumming relentlessly against the window of the kitchen. Julie and Genevieve sat opposite each other at the kitchen table and the French woman was shuffling a pack of Tarot cards. The gramophone was playing a man's voice, very appealing, backed by a swing band. The song was 'A Foggy Day in London Town.'
'Very appropriate
considering the weather,' Julie said. 'Al Bowlly. The best ever for me. He used to sing in all the great London nightclubs.'
'I saw him once,' Genevieve told her. 'I had a date with an RAF pilot. It was back in 1940. He took me to the Monseigneur restaurant. That was in Piccadilly. Bowlly was singing there with the Roy Fox band.'
'I'd have given anything to see him in the flesh,' Julie said. 'He was killed in the Blitz, you know.'
'Yes, I know.'
Julie held up the Tarot cards. 'They tell me I have a gift for these things. Shuffle them and give them back with your left hand.'
'You mean you can foretell my future? I'm not sure I want to know.' But Genevieve did as she was told and handed back the cards.
Julie closed her eyes for a moment, then spread the cards face down on the kitchen table. She looked across. 'Three cards, that is all you need. Select one and turn it over.'
Genevieve did as she was told. The cards were very old. The painting was dark and sombre, the title in French. There was a pool guarded by a wolf and a dog. Beyond it, two towers and in the sky above, the moon.
'This is good, cherie, for it is in the upright position. It tokens a crisis in your life. Reason and intellect have no part - only your own instincts will bring you through. You must, at all limes, flow with the feeling. Your own feeling. This alone will save you.'
'You've got to be kidding,' Genevieve told her and laughed uncertainly.
'No, this is what the card says to me,' Julie told her earnestly and reached to put a hand on hers. 'It also tells me you will come back from this thing. Choose another.'
The card was the Hanged Man, a replica of the sign which hung outside the inn on the quay.
'It does not mean what you think. Destruction and change, but leading to regeneration. A major burden is removed. You go forward as your own person for the first time, owing nothing to others.'
There was a pause. Genevieve took a third card. It was reversed, a knight on horseback, a baton in his hand.
Julie said, 'This is a man close to you. There is conflict for its own sake.'
'Would that be a soldier?' Genevieve asked.
'Yes.' Julie nodded. 'Probably.'
'A crisis that only my own instincts will carry me through. Change, a major burden removed. A man, possibly a soldier, interested in conflict for its own sake.' Genevieve shrugged. 'I mean, what does it all add up to?'