by Thomas Wood
The Betrayed
Alfie Lewis Thriller Book 3
Thomas Wood
BoleynBennett Publishing
Copyright © 2019 by Thomas Wood
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Thomas Wood
Visit my website at www.ThomasWoodBooks.com
Printed in the United Kingdom
First Printing: October 2019
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Part I
1
28th August 1939
Tarnow, Poland
As he charged his way down the steps leading away from the train station, Standartenführer Rudolf Schröder made no secret of his desire to leave the vicinity as quickly as he possibly could. He had barged into numerous people in his attempt to make it to his car, offering no sort of apology other than running away from his victim.
The station had been particularly busy today, far more so than he had ever seen before on any of his other previous visits, which filled him with an intense feeling of accomplishment on being able to pick this station for what he wanted it for. It needed to be out of the main cities, but busy enough so that something or someone could get totally lost in it, otherwise his cover, as well as that of the man that he had just dropped off, would be blown almost immediately.
His driver sparked up the engine as soon as he saw the man racing his way towards him, his large, athletic thighs reminiscent of days gone by, when Rudolf had spent many hours on the football field and in more recent years, thanks to a friend who had ‘enlightened’ him to the game of rugby.
Rudolf Schröder was a large, powerful man, standing at well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, which had made him a natural for the game that his young university friend had introduced him to. Owing to his long, muscular thighs, it did not take long for the Standartenführer, today dressed just like any other of the civilians that milled around the train station, to reach the car, that was about a hundred yards or so away from the bottom of the steps that he had practically leapt down.
In one swift, elegant movement, the door was opened, the Standartenführer slid himself in and the door was swiftly closed, just missing the back of his ankle as he swung it closed behind him. Breathing a sigh of relief, he shut his eyes, feeling as though they had been permanently open for the last few hours, with no respite, not even for a single blink.
He kept them closed for a while, mulling over the day’s events, and the goings on of the last few days especially. He wanted nothing more than to be as far away from here as he possibly could, but particularly away from the train station, even the five minutes that he spent there had been far too long for him.
Rudolf hadn’t liked the place one bit, especially as it was now incredibly dangerous for him to be there at that moment in time. He didn’t speak the language, he knew nothing of their customs here, but perhaps most of all, if they found out who he was and what he was doing there, he would undoubtedly be dead before he had the chance to take another breath to explain himself. They were, Rudolf told himself, a barbarous people here, one that did not know the meaning of compassion or mercy.
He felt like he had outstayed his welcome here, if there had even been one for him in the first place. Either way, he was desperately looking forward to getting home.
It had been a normal day in Tarnow and as the car began to pull away from the station forecourt, Schröder decided to take note of what was going on outside of his windows, in an attempt to calm himself down. The people that surrounded him were going about their daily business, there were women wheeling pushchairs around in the summer sunshine, parading their children around as if the sun gods would bestow upon them some sort of special gifts, for the length of time they managed to spend basking in the rays.
Children ran unruly up and down the sidewalks, occasionally launching themselves in front of the odd car or truck that trundled their way up the street, taking marvellous enjoyment out of watching the occupants lurch forward as the brakes were slammed on.
Rudolf’s patience was wearing thin today. If they happened to do that in front of the vehicle in which he was travelling, he was unsure about whether or not he would be able to maintain his composure, or whether the pistol that was in its holster under his overcoat would bask in the same sun rays that the babies were being subjected to.
To distract himself from the hindrances to his patience, he began looking above, to the sky, at first marvelling at the deep blue that it presented, before turning his gaze to the criss-cross maze of wires that skirted their way around the town, carrying messages of love, of hate or worry.
He began to daydream about the types of messages that would be sent along the telegraph cables over the next few weeks, maybe even days. He was certain that they would be of desperation and panic, and he began to wonder whether or not there would even be someone on this end of the telegraph, to be able to send or receive the messages the people had wanted. If it was him, he would be moving out of Tarnow, sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, the people here did not know the might of the machine that was soon to hit them, but their situation was not one that plagued on Rudolf’s own mind for too long.
A war was coming to Europe, there was no way of avoiding it now, the tensions had grown so much over the last few months that it was inevitable. Rudolf had heard the mutterings around the various corridors in Berlin about what was going on or what might be happening. He had seen the reconnaissance reports for various ports and airfields right the way across mainland Europe and yet, he was still in some sort of denial about how widespread the conflict might be.
He refused to believe that it would be anything near to what the continent had experienced twenty years ago, and remained confident that, if anything was to happen, then the might of the German empire, already proven itself in battle in recent years, would be able to quell any sort of opposition that may stand in its path.
And, if in the unlikely event of the German Reich being itself crushed, he knew that he could always rely on his contacts, the ones he had spoken to now two weeks ago, to get him out of any sort of trouble with Germany’s enemies.
The very car journey that he had made this morning, would do wonders for his prospects in this regard, he was sure of it. The war had been coming for months now, years even if you count the discontent that had festered in the Fatherland for many years, until the Führer and his party had risen up to save Germany.
But Rudolf, like many of his counterparts back in Berlin, had not wanted war. He had wanted Germany to be restored back to its former glory, but not to watch it send thousands upon thousands of the younger generations to their certain death. That is why he had resolved to do something about what he saw as the impending doom.
Schröder had found it relatively easy to come up with a plan to do something, along with many of his co-conspirators, and not just from his
native country either, there were many in on this plot, many who would welcome an avoidance of war.
He had found it easier still to find someone to do what he was requesting, it was just a matter of identifying and nurturing someone who had the abilities to do the job. Naturally, Rudolf had found himself a young man, resolute in his outlook on the world, but malleable enough so that an SS Standartenführer might be able to use him in some subtle way.
Stefan was a young lad, just shy of his twenty fifth birthday, and he had been the ideal candidate for Rudolf, although he had been totally unaware of the potential part he could play in history.
Rudolf had kept his eye out at the local Gewerkschaft Deutscher Arbeiter, a local agency that helped get the unemployed back into some sort of work. Stefan was perfect for the job, not because he was just desperate for money - had that been the only criteria, all of them would have been put forward for the job - but because of his heritage.
Stefan had both German and Polish blood in him, his mother of the Fatherland, his father from the Polish city of Wroclaw. He was a quiet kid, but once Rudolf had aligned himself with him, he realised that he had untapped potential, manifesting itself in an unspent rage that burned deep within Stefan’s psyche.
His father had been killed during the tumultuous times of the Great War, his mother subsequently moving them back into Germany to be closer to her family members. Stefan had hated the move into the Fatherland, which Rudolf saw as understandable. He had become a social outcast; his mother was a pureblood German whereas her offspring was tainted with blood from the other side of the border.
He was a troubled soul, which made what Rudolf was going to ask him to do that much easier, he saw it as some sort of catharsis to his troubles. Of course, Stefan wouldn’t know the exact nature of what he was going to be doing, but Rudolf was certain that the offer of money, enough for him to get away and start his life elsewhere, would be more than enough to take his mind off what he was actually doing.
Standartenführer Schröder didn’t particularly like to think about all the ins and outs of what he was instigating by being in Poland himself but, as the car rounded yet another bend, the journey littered with right angled bends and turns, he reasoned with himself that what he was doing was necessary. If successful, which he was convinced it would be, it would end up saving hundreds of lives, if not thousands. He didn’t consider the consequences of it all being a total failure.
He hadn’t been met with stiff opposition like he had expected, which could only have meant that all of his counterparts, compatriots and foreigners, saw the same potential for saving lives as he had done. Either that, or this was all one massive stitch up, to get rid of one of the more popular SS officers from within the ranks of the superior force.
“We are almost there now, Sir,” said Karl, Rudolf’s driver and adjutant. He felt an overwhelming sense of elation at the news, as he simply couldn’t wait to hop on the overnight train that would see him waking up back in the Fatherland again. Relations between the two nations were fragile, but not so tense that the trains had ceased to operate over the borders, something which Rudolf had planned to take full advantage of, making sure that Karl also had a ticket with him.
Karl too, was looking forward to getting out of Poland. When he had joined the Schutzstaffel back in 1936, he was under the assumption that he would always be behind a desk, safely indoors and away from any kind of fighting. This notion seemed to back itself up when he was assigned to Standartenführer Rudolf Schröder, one of the best brains in Berlin when it came to internal security. He had not, for a minute, imagined that he would be in a foreign country, driving as fast as he could to make a train that would get him back into his home nation.
Rudolf let out a sigh of relief as he scratched at his eye balls, unconsciously beginning to tap his foot on the carpeted floor of the car, unknowingly infuriating his driver as he did so. Rudolf began to dream wistfully of home, and the almost certain granted leave that he would be given as a result of this particular venture out into foreign territory.
He longed to see his wife and his daughter again, this time for much more than simply watching them both sleep as he made it in after another long night at the office. He had nothing to remember them by on his person right now, he was completely clear of anything that might lead to his body being identified, he had only memories of them playing together in the small courtyard that was at the back of the block of flats in Berlin that they called home.
As he sat back in the leather chair, relaxing his muscles half an inch each second the car’s engine was still roaring, he vowed to himself that he would get a photograph of the two of them as soon as he got back, so that he had something to look at if he was to be sent away again.
His daughter was gorgeous, the prettiest girl in the whole of the Reich he reasoned, her piercing eyes and blonde locks that would be done no justice by the sepia toned snap of a photographer’s camera. All the same, as soon as he made it back to Berlin, he would get one taken and developed, and he would keep it in his suitcase every time he went away.
At the thought, he wondered how Stefan was getting on with the suitcases that he had left in his possession, back at the train station.
2
Stefan had long been an outcast in society, and it was a future that he had learnt to accept a long time ago, after years of pleading from his mother to think of the alternative. He had made a promise to himself when he was a thirteen-year-old schoolboy, to try and get through life by keeping his head down, until such a time when he might be accepted for who he was. That meant agreeing with things that people said about him, but also doing things for other people to try and build up some favour.
He had long been in a No Man’s Land - a half German, half Pole living in Germany - especially since the rise of Hitler and the resulting anti-Polish sentiment, which had made his residence in Germany a particularly dangerous one. He could not, even now, understand why his mother insisted on staying in the awful country, which is why, Stefan told himself as he watched the German soldier leave him at the entrance to the station, that as soon as this was over, he would collect his money, and start his life all over again in Poland.
Stefan felt at home here, like he was among his kind and less of an outcast than he was in Germany. He had tried to make sure that he looked exactly like a Pole, gathering up the few clothes he had that he thought would make him look like a Polish gentleman.
It had been a long time since he had worn a suit, but it felt good to finally have an excuse to wear one, instead of the overalls and boots that he had become so accustomed to wearing as he did odd jobs around the town that he lived in, for next to no money. The German had bought him a hat to complete the image, instructing him to pull it low over his face, in case anyone might recognise him from when he previously lived there.
Stefan was not stupid, he knew that that wouldn’t be the reason for the headgear, but that it was far more likely to be for his own safety. Whatever it was in the cases would be of a great importance to some of the authorities, and it would make his life far easier if he wasn’t arrested further down the line after being recognised by an official.
As Stefan gave it some more thought, he realised it was probably for the German’s safety also; if he avoided the authorities, then he was far less likely to give up the description of the SS man who had paid him so much interest, getting alongside him like some sort of pseudo-father.
The suit and hat nevertheless made him feel good, like he was playing the part that the Standartenführer had wanted him to play, however ill-fitting the suit was.
It was loose around his body, not so much that it was plainly baggy, but there was a noticeable gap to Stefan between the fibres of his clothing and his own skin, only coming into contact with one another if he was to push down on his stomach or press at his sides.
It was only then, as he shuffled the waistband of his trousers around on his hips, obviously secured with a leather belt, that he realised how muc
h weight he had lost in recent months.
His family was poor, even poorer after he had lost his job on the railways, and it became increasingly difficult to fund a regular evening meal, quite often opting instead for a meagre mug of coffee as his only sustenance before going to bed.
Today was different though, thanks to a full three course meal courtesy of the SS Standartenführer, who had become his best friend. Standartenführer Schröder had become a permanent fixture in Stefan’s life, to the point where he was almost looking forward to meeting up with him again, once he had done what he had come to the station to do.
Schröder was going to a meeting a few blocks away, shortly after he had dropped Stefan, if the rate that he flew down the stairs was anything to go by. He would come back, with his driver, in around two hours’ time, to pick Stefan up and take him back home to his mother, hopefully pockets stuffed full of Reichsmarks to begin his journey up the social standings.
The full stomach, courtesy of Rudolf was most welcome, but it did not bolster Stefan’s strength so much that he could pick up the two suitcases with ease. They were heavy, and they tugged at his arms to the point where he thought they were being stretched or, at the very least, his arms were being slowly wrenched from their sockets.
He clutched hold of them passionately, holding fast to the very direct instructions that he had received a few hours ago from Rudolf, stopping only every now and then to let the ground take some of the strain, before quickly snapping them up again like an Olympic weightlifting champion.
Every time he plonked them down on the ground, he felt as if he let Rudolf down a little bit more, spurred on by the idea that he was watching him from somewhere, or that some kindly older gentleman would help the weak pauper struggling with his luggage.