die Stunde X

by Shaun Stafford

  “Only the leaders.”

  “And if those leaders should be captured by the Germans? If they should be interrogated?” Nikoli shook his head. “I think we are all aware of the persuasive techniques of the Gestapo. They get their information, whatever the cost.”

  “Then, under such circumstances, it would be your jobs to strenuously deny any connection with such an assassination attempt. Sir, there are ways around every problem. It’s just a matter of finding those ways. But if we can’t solve the problem, we call the whole thing off. That’s a promise.”

  “I am not convinced it is a good idea.”

  “If you make up your mind, Sir, we can be in England by tomorrow morning,” Kitchener said, “because the quicker we get started on this, the better chance it has of succeeding.”

  “I think, Nikoli, it’s make or break time,” the President said. “We all know what this would do to the German Reich.”

  “I am not entirely convinced that it would change anything,” Nikoli muttered. “I think the Germans are firmly entrenched in their ways. They are on their third Führer, and nothing has changed. They are all, in their own way, as barbaric as Hitler ever was.”

  “They’ve never lost a Führer to an assassin,” the President reminded. “I think we can expect a period of destabilization within the Reich.”

  “It is our border, my friend, that is closest to the Reich. Soviets troops can almost spit on the German tanks. If anything should go wrong–”

  “Nothing will go wrong, Nikoli. I can assure you of that. This is what everybody wants. Everybody.”

  “I can see that you have strong emotions concerning this operation, my friend.”

  “I have indeed,” admitted the President. “But without your backing, that’s all they are – emotions. With your backing, they can be support.”

  “I will agree to this operation,” Nikoli said with a sigh, “but only because I think it is our last opportunity at world peace.”

  “I think you’re right, Nikoli,” agreed the President, “because those goddamn Germans are getting ready to kick a big, fat, lazy ass – ours.”

  Kitchener got to his feet, grabbed his briefcase, and thanked the two Presidents. His companion, who had remained silent throughout the meeting, also got to his feet and picked up a black briefcase.

  The two men said their goodbyes and left the Oval Office.

  They already had flights booked for England.

  They would be leaving later that afternoon, and would arrive early in the morning. And they would be taking death with them.

  15

  The man who had been in the Oval Office with the two Presidents and Barney Kitchener was the United States’ Ambassador to the German State of Great Britain. He was six foot tall, handsome, with the looks of a Hollywood film star. His short hair was blond, smartly combed, and despite the fact that he was roughly the same age as the US President, he looked five or six years younger.

  Although he had remained silent for most of the meeting and had let Barney do all the talking, Clark Rydell was far from being just a dumb politician. He had plenty of experience in CIA operations, mostly in the German Reich, but for the last ten years or so, he had been working in the Diplomatic Service.

  Clark had served as a US diplomat in most German states, and had been made the Ambassador to the State of Great Britain three years ago. He had seen the Nazis at work through the Reich, knew what they were capable of. For the most part, he had been sickened by the Germans. They were a hard race, difficult to deal with, and they had a distinctive way of controlling their people. They used terror – and it seemed to work. For the last fifty years, the Germans had ruled Europe with an iron fist, and often threatened the Russo-American Pact with nuclear destruction if they intervened.

  Clark had little time for Germans in general. He knew that they were mostly Nazi supporters, and he knew that most of the Nazis were opposed to change of any sort. As such, it was difficult to talk to them, difficult to negotiate with them. They had their own way of doing things, and the RAP and the other countries of the world either did it the same way, or they did not do it at all.

  Clark was married. His wife was an ancestor of two of the few Jews who had made it out of Europe before it was too late. Clark knew the fate of those left behind, as did his wife, and as did her parents. But nobody spoke about it. It was as though by not speaking about it, they pretended it never happened. His wife had confessed to him one night that it was the only way she could retain her sanity – to imagine that the Nazis had not butchered millions of Jews.

  Clark knew that the Nazis carried out extensive intelligence research on all diplomats entering their country so how they hadn’t found out about his Jewish wife, he did not know. He figured that they must know about her, but that they too were trying to wipe out the memories of the past, ashamed of the fact that there were no more Jews in Europe, and that they were responsible. Perhaps, he thought to himself, they liked to pretend that the rest of the world didn’t know about their ethnic cleansing, about the Endlösung, or Final Solution.

  He knew the Germans weren’t stupid, knew they were no fools, but when there was something as shameful in your nation’s past as the Final Solution, you would probably do everything you could to wipe it from your history.

  Clark left the chauffeur-driven saloon and walked quickly up to his house, pushing open the front door and stepping into the lightly-decorated hallway. His wife was there to meet him, and he could tell by her face that she was anxious.

  She was always anxious when he left for the German Reich. The unspoken atrocities were still being committed, and only last year, two Australian diplomats were accused of espionage and executed. The Australian government lodged a complaint, but the German Reich didn’t even have the courtesy to grant them an answer. Australia, understandably, dropped the complaint.

  Clark wondered how Annie would react if she knew the full extent of his work in the Reich, if she knew he dealt with resistance fighters, if she knew that he was risking execution at the hands of the Nazis.

  She would beg him not to go, probably threaten him with divorce.

  So Clark had never told her what his work entrained, and supposed that he never would.

  “When are you leaving?” was the first thing Annie said to him.

  “Five o’clock,” he answered. She looked at the delicate gold watch on her delicate wrist, and then nodded her head.

  “Not long,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, you know.”

  “You always say that, Clark,” Annie said, dejected, as she wandered into the kitchen. Clark followed her, grabbed her lightly, and spun her around to face him. His kissed her passionately, pulled her closed to him, pressed himself against her. She responded, but only for a few moments, before she pulled herself away. “I can’t,” she said, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry, but …”

  “Annie, it’s nothing to worry about. It’s my job, and I’ll be safe.”

  “Like those two Australians?”

  “That was bad luck.”

  “Bad luck can happen to anybody,” Annie reminded him.

  “Hey, look on the bright side. The plane could fall out of the sky into the Atlantic before we even get there.

  “That’s not even funny,” Annie scolded him, straight-faced. She poured herself a coffee and raised her eyebrows questioningly at him. He nodded his head and she poured him one too. “You don’t seem to realize how worried I get.”

  “I realize, Annie, but it’s no big deal, really.”

  “You can’t trust the Nazis–”

  “That’s your father speaking.”

  “No it’s not. It’s me. I’m speaking. You can’t trust the Nazis, Clark. Jesus Christ, they kill people for just expressing an opinion.”

  “It’s their way of life, honey, and they’ve been doing it for more than fifty years. Their people are used to it.”

  “Used to it?” stormed Annie furiously. “How in the hell can you get
used to the state murdering people?”

  “Annie, come on.”

  “What? What, Clark? You don’t like me cursing your goddamn asshole friends?”

  “They’re not my friends, Annie. Let’s not get childish.”

  “They’ve killed millions, Clark, and they’re still doing it.”

  “I know, I know. But perhaps you wouldn’t be reacting so strongly if you weren’t a Jew.”

  “And perhaps you would be reacting differently if you were,” snapped Annie. There were tears in her eyes, and he realized he’d made a mistake.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, trying to hug her. She shook him away. “Annie, come on. Let’s not argue. I’m gonna be away for two months. I don’t want us to part on an argument.”

  “Why? In case you don’t come back?”

  “No, because if we argue, then all I’m going to be thinking about for those two months is us, and that means I won’t have my mind on the job.”

  “So, why don’t you take the kids and me with you?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “Other diplomats do, Clark.”

  “Other diplomats aren’t married to a Jew,” he said bluntly. Annie’s eyes widened. “Come on, Annie, you know it’s true. I’d love to take you and kids with me, but … well, it’s just not on, is it? I can’t guarantee you’d be safe. I’m not putting you at risk.”

  “Jesus,” Annie said, cradling her head in her hands. “Jesus, Clark, do you have to go? It’s so goddamn dangerous.”

  “I’m sorry, Annie, but it’s my job.”

  “Well, maybe you should stop thinking about your job so much and start thinking about your family. Do you realize that for the past five or six years, you’ve only been home for a month every year? Flying visits, that’s all we get.”

  “I’m sorry, Annie, I really am, but you knew what my work involved when you married me.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes I wish you still worked for the CIA. I used to see you more!”

  “Believe me, Annie, what I’m doing now is far less dangerous. I’m a goddamn ambassador, not a spy. It’s all paperwork and tedious goddamn meetings with boring Germans. It’s the safest job ever.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it.”

  “Annie, you know I love you, don’t you?” he asked, holding her tightly. She looked up at him, into his grey eyes, and had to smile. She couldn’t help it. “That’s better,” he said, wiping her tears away. “I’ll be back at the end of May – maybe sooner. And I promise I’ll reconsider my career options.”

  “You mean you’ll leave, retire?”

  “I said I’ll reconsider,” Clark told her with a smile.

  “I love you, Clark Rydell.”

  “I know.”

  Clark held his wife tightly and tried to imagine what it was like for the Jews in the Forties, when the Nazis were dragging them to the concentration camps, separating husbands and wives, mothers and children, gassing those deemed worthless and unable to work.

  In the Forties, he probably wouldn’t have had the chance to kiss Annie goodbye.

  He held her tightly and, like the rest of the world, tried not to think about it.

  16

  Ben Fabian, like most of the workers at the Volkswagen Autofabrik, drove a Volkswagen, his a battered Golf, purchased four years earlier brand new at a discount price. Now it was getting rather long in the tooth and the model had since been superseded twice by updated versions. But it still ran and was reliable.

  Ben climbed into the driver’s seat and reached across the ragged interior, unlocking the passenger door. It was yanked open by Jerome, who then climbed in beside Ben and leaned back in the imitation leather seat, letting out a deep sigh. Overhead the skies were blue, but it wasn’t that warm. The sun was preparing to lower itself behind the massive bulk of the factory, and the car was cast in shadow.

  Ben fired up the engine – it took a couple of attempts, but finally it spluttered into life. He slipped the car into reverse and pulled out of the space, narrowly avoiding two newer Golfs as their drivers attempted to move quickly out of the car park.

  “Jesus, I swear this place gets worse every day.”

  “Perhaps it’s your driving,” Jerome said with a smile. Ben turned and faced him, then rammed the car into first, and moved off with a light screeching of the tyres. “See.”

  “At least I can drive, Jerome, old son,” Ben said, as he turned out of the car park and onto the main road. “Which is more than can be said for you.”

  “I’ll learn.”

  “You’ll learn,” scoffed Ben. “Well, the world will be a far more dangerous place then.”

  “It couldn’t get any more dangerous,” muttered Jerome as they passed an Orpo traffic patrol, a green Audi, its blue roof lights flashing as it pulled behind a civilian car. The scene disappeared quickly from view before the Orpo officers climbed out of their vehicle.

  “Hey, don’t get all miserable again.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just, well, it keeps coming back to me. What’s my dad doing now?”

  Ben kind of had an idea what Ross Varley wasn’t doing right now – and that was breathing. But he said, “Maybe your Mum will have some news.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Jerome miserably. But his father had been taken yesterday morning, and they’d heard nothing since them. Besides, the only news Jerome expected to hear was that his father dead, executed, and he was not particularly relishing receiving that.

  “You should think positive,” Ben said.

  “Yeah, well, I find it easier to give that advice than take it,” Jerome said, resting his elbow on the window frame. “I mean, have you ever lost any of your family to the Nazis?”

  “No,” Ben answered quickly, as he pulled up onto a dual carriageway. On either side of the road stood hundred foot high pillars, each topped with a Reichsadler and a flagpole. From the flagpole flapped the Hakenkreuz. “I mean, I’m not gonna bullshit you, Jerome, because I don’t know how you feel, and I hope I never fucking do. But, well, I’m here for you, yeah, mate?”

  “Yeah.”

  For the next half a mile, the two of them travelled in silence, before Ben reached down and flipped on the radio. A jaunty pop tune, tinny-sounding, bounced from the speakers. The words were sung in English, but the tune could not mask the fact that the song was proclaiming an undying support for Nazi indoctrination.

  Jerome had heard US pop tunes at school. Smuggled, black market compact discs were swapped around. To be caught with one was punishable by imprisonment, but the students didn’t seem to mind taking the risk. Even those who avidly patrolled the school corridors in their Nazi Jugend uniforms expressed an interested in the ‘corrupt, capitalist music’, but Jerome had suspected that some of them were just attempting to find the ringleaders of the black-marketers.

  But as Jerome listened to the blatant Nazi propaganda, packed up as a dumb pop song, his mind drifted back to those CDs, and their hidden, forbidden delights. Rock songs with hard tunes, meaningful political lyrics, and the ‘rap’ tunes made by the blacks in the US. He also thought about the English protest bands of the Eighties, whose members were arrested within weeks of their formation, and whose fans were arrested along with them. He actually still possessed a handful of the CDs from that era – illegal CDs, of course, possession of which carried a stiff penalty.

  Jerome thought about the Gestapo visiting his house, about them taking away his father. If they’d searched the house that day, he’d probably be with his father right now.

  Jerome shuddered as the car turned off the dual carriageway, and then pulled to a stop. He looked up, saw the reason behind the delay, and his heart jumped into his throat.

  “What the fuck?” he heard Ben mutter.

  Two green Ordnungspolizei trucks were slung across the road, with only space between them for a single car to pass. In that space stood four armed Orpo officers, their MP5s aimed at the lowly VW Golf. The lights on the roofs of the trucks were flashing, and somew
here in the distance, Jerome heard a wailing siren.

  “What is this?” he asked nervously, looking at Ben. The older man shrugged his shoulders, but stiffened visibly as one of the Orpo officers approached the car.

  “Officer?” he said, after winding down his window. “Is there a problem?”

  “What is your destination?” the officer asked, leaning down and looking in the car, front and back. His eyes fell upon Jerome and then he looked back at Ben.

  “Goebbelsstrasse, to drop my friend off, then Nürnberg Platz,” answered Ben.

  “So, you need to come down this street, yes?”

  “Well, yeah, we do, really,” Ben said. “Is there a problem?”

  “When the officer up there waves you through, drive between the trucks,” the officer ordered. Then he straightened up and moved to the car that had pulled up behind Ben’s Golf. Ben wound his window up and turned to Jerome.

  “What the fuck’s going on here?” Jerome asked.

  “No idea,” Ben said. One of the Orpo officers standing between the trucks waved to Ben, and he slipped the car back into gear and moved off. “Reckon we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Ben drove the Golf slowly between the two trucks and past the Orpo officer waving his hand. Finally, they were on the other side of the impromptu roadblock. It wasn’t difficult to see what the security operation had been mounted for.

  The street was one of the old London roads, its houses derelict, and home to dozens of down-and-outs. Men, women and children, as well as drug addicts and other outcasts. Homosexuals, half-castes, half-Jews, gypsies, and their families, who had evaded capture by the Nazis. Homeless student dissidents. There were, Jerome knew, countless other similar streets in London, streets that had been cleared of their previous tenants, and had seen the arrival of the street-people. Every couple of years the Nazis did their best to round up the street trash, and every couple of years hundreds managed to evade capture.

  The fifteen armoured vans parked up the side of the street, and the hundreds of Orpo officers told Jerome that this time, the Nazis didn’t intend to leave any behind. Overhead, an Orpo Tiger attack helicopter buzzed, and Jerome saw the machine-cannon slung beneath its belly twist and turn with the motions of the pilot’s helmet.