die Stunde X

by Shaun Stafford

  “Herr Standartenführer?”

  “You know a man called Ross Varley? Executed?”

  “Yes, mein Herr. Why?”

  “That’s him in there,” Rauter explained, a bemused look on his face. “Did you not recognize him?”

  “I did not look that closely, mein Herr,” Loritz answered, regarding his superior’s cigarette with an annoyed look. “Besides, he had his head attached to his shoulders the last time I saw him.”

  “Hmm.” Rauter turned to Löhr. “So, Herr Kriminaloberinspektor, what happened here?”

  “Earlier this evening, Varley’s son turned up,” Löhr said. “Said he wanted to see his father’s body. Herr Meredith told him that was not possible, that the casket has been sealed in the presence of an officer from the Geheime Staatspolizei.” Rauter nodded his head. “Anyway, this Varley’s son got nasty, Herr Meredith threatened to call the Orpo, and the man left.”

  “So, he came back?” Rauter said, turning to the chapel of rest. Through the open door, he could see the leg of the naked corpse and the face of the dead man. “And this security guard caught him?”

  “That is how it looks.”

  “How do you think he was shot?” Rauter asked.

  “Looks like a struggle broke out,” answered Löhr, pointing to the bodies in the room. “That is the guard’s gun.”

  “So the guard shot himself?”

  “Probably,” Löhr said, shrugging his shoulders. “These Engländer security guards are poorly trained. Anyway, the gun is not in the guard’s hand now, but maybe Varley picked it up, perhaps he panicked.”

  “If his prints are on that gun,” Rauter began, “then we have definite proof that a murder was committed.”

  “Pardon me, but I did not think you people needed proof.”

  Rauter smirked. “We do not,” he assured. “I have not yet decided whether we will deal with the case yet. If we leave it in your hands, you will need the proof.”

  “Herr Standartenführer,” Loritz said, “his father was issued with a Schutzhaft Order.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “He made treasonable remarks. That was why he was executed.”

  “So, he was a dissident,” Rauter said, nodding his head and squinting, as though he were ruminating over a tough problem. “Mmm. A dissident. So, this young Varley, he is clearly a dissident also.”

  “So, you will be taking over the case, Herr Rauter?” asked Löhr.

  “I think we will, Herr Kriminaloberinspektor.”

  “I will clear my men out.”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  “No problem,” Löhr said, smiling tightly. “Heil Führer,” he added, saluting perfunctorily.

  “Heil Führer,” Rauter returned. He turned and looked at Loritz. “You have an address for this Varley?”

  “Yes, mein Herr. His son was also there yesterday when we took his father into custody.”

  “What did you make of him?”

  “He protested about his father’s arrest.”

  “Nothing unusual about in that,” Rauter mused, taking a long drag from his cigarette, and then tossing it on the floor. He crushed it underfoot as Löhr and two detectives came out of the chapel of rest. They didn’t speak. They walked down the corridor and disappeared through the door at the end. “Get a team together, go round and pick up this Varley boy.”

  “Yes, mein Herr. Should I have a team come over here?”

  “No, we have finished here,” Rauter said. He started to walk down the corridor. Loritz followed. “I will be at the Polizeipräsidium. I will want to interview this Varley boy myself.”

  “Certainly, Herr Standartenführer.”

  Loritz left the building. Rauter remained behind, glancing up and down the long corridor. The old man came out of the chapel of rest, followed by a couple of assistants. The assistants walked past Rauter, but Meredith paused in the corridor.

  Neither man spoke for a few moments. Rauter lit another cigarette and then broke the silence.

  “Have you cleaned up in there?”

  “My assistants are seeing to that,” explained Meredith, as the two men returned carrying a casket between them. “Do you wish to take the guard’s body away.”

  “No, no,” answered Rauter, watching as the men entered the chapel of rest. “”We do not need it.”

  “Not for evidence?”

  “In cases such as this, Herr Meredith, where the Geheime Staatspolizei assumes responsibility for a case, evidence is the last on our list of collectables,” Rauter said with a smile. Then he walked off.

  There was work to do.

  And he was looking forward to it.

  25

  They came under cover of darkness.

  Goebbelsstrasse was the scene of police activity for the second time in as many days. The green Mercedes trucks with their cargo of Orpo officers sealed off each end of the street, and allowed the three black BMW M3s of the Geheime Staatspolizei to pull through their cordon.

  As before, the BMWs stopped outside 52 Goebbelsstrasse, and the occupants climbed out. This time, they all brandished MP5 submachine-guns. This time, they were taking no chances.

  Three of the Gestapo officers ran along the side of the house and around the back to prevent those inside from escaping that way. Loritz and the other five Gestapo officers went to the front door of the house, and Loritz rang the doorbell. He didn’t have his ID ready – he didn’t envisage any need for such formal identification.

  The Varley household would remember him, and if the boy was inside, they would know who was at the door, and they would know why.

  The door was answered by the woman he had understood to be Ross Varley’s wife. Loritz held up the MP5. The woman gasped, and took a couple of steps back.

  “Frau Varley, we are looking for your son,” Loritz explained, pushing his way into the house. Keitel and two other officers followed him. Two more remained outside. One of the officers rushed through to the rear of the house and let the officers round the back in, and they proceeded to search the ground floor.

  Keitel ran upstairs with the other officer.

  “What’s going on here?” Frau Varley asked, confused, holding her hands to her head. Another woman appeared from the room behind her.

  “Who are you?” snapped Loritz, aiming the gun at her.

  “I’m Abigail’s sister–”

  “Name and papers!”

  “Mary Foster. My papers are in the room, in my coat pocket.” Loritz gestured to one of the officers standing in the hallway, and he followed the woman into the front room to retrieve her papers.

  “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” asked Frau Varley.

  “You son is wanted by us.”

  “You said that. But why?”

  “He committed a murder earlier this evening,” Loritz answered laconically. From the stairs, there was a shout, and Keitel came down, lugging a young boy under his arm. The officer with him followed behind. “Did you find him?”

  Keitel’s face as he dumped the boy on the floor gave Loritz his answer.

  “Where is your other son, Frau Varley?” he asked calmly as Mary Foster returned with her papers and a teenage girl in a dressing gown. He took the papers and flicked through them. “Where is your Polizeiliches Fuhrungszeugnis, Frau Foster?”

  “My what?”

  “There should be a certificate here that states you have no criminal record,” explained Loritz slowly, as though he were speaking to an idiot. “Where is it?”

  “I was … arrested,” Frau Foster answered, smiling weakly. “Once.”

  “For what?”

  “I took part in a demonstration–”

  “A student demonstration?”

  “Yes.”

  Loritz nodded his head. He handed the papers back to the woman and then turned to Frau Varley. “If you know the whereabouts of your son, you must tell us.”

  “A murder,” murmured Frau Varley. “Where? Who?”

  “A
guard was shot dead at the officers of Meredith’s Funeral Directors. Your son committed the murder.”

  “You have evidence?” Frau Foster demanded to know.

  Loritz smiled. “Frau Foster, evidence is the one thing that the Geheime Staatspolizei does not need.” The woman’s eyes widened and she swallowed. Clearly, she hadn’t realized Loritz was Gestapo – she obviously thought he was just a Kripo officer.

  “How do you know it was my son?”

  “These questions are not helping us in our search, Frau Varley. Now, where is your son?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did he leave here?”

  “About five-thirty this evening,” answered Frau Foster.

  “Where was he going?”

  “He said …” The woman paused, as though carefully considering what she was about to reveal. “To Meredith’s,” she finally said. “He told me he was going to Meredith’s.”

  “Did he return here?”

  “No.”

  “Where else could he go?”

  “I don’t know,” Abigail answered. There were tears rolling down her face, but Loritz felt no sympathy. He looked around at the rest of the family. The two children were staring at him blank-faced, probably seeing a Gestapo officer up close for the first time. The sister was giving him a look of disgust. Loritz simply smiled at her.

  “So, you have no idea where your son could be now?” he asked.

  “No. No idea.”

  “You are not helping him by covering up for him.”

  “She’s not covering up,” Frau Foster snapped. Loritz looked at her and arched a blond eyebrow over a blue eye. The woman fell silent.

  “Wait here,” Loritz instructed Keitel, and he strode from the house and entered one of the BMWs, grabbing the RT handset from the dashboard and asked to be patched through to SS-Standartenführer Rauter.

  There was a brief delay, and Loritz looked up and down the street. He saw faces in brightly lit windows. He saw men and women standing in doorways. He even saw a few children in gardens. They were all staring at 52 Goebbelsstrasse.

  Like vultures circling a dying man in the desert.

  “Loritz?” It was Rauter.

  “Mein Herr, the boy is not here.”

  “What about his family?”

  “They are here, yes, of course.”

  “What do they say?”

  “Nothing. Nothing, they do not know where he is.”

  “Bring the family in.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  “There is Frau Varley’s sister in the house–”

  “Bring her too.”

  “I was going to suggest that, Herr Standartenführer. What is to be the family’s fate?”

  “Have an Ordnungspolizei van take them to Konzlag Chigwell. I will contact the Commandant myself to prepare for their arrival.”

  “Yes, Herr Standartenführer.”

  “And tomorrow, I will question each of the family members myself. Rauter out.”

  Loritz could almost see the Standartenführer smiling as he made that remark. He replaced the handset and looked back at the house. Then he climbed out of the BMW and signalled to the Orpo for them to bring a truck down. He’d been anticipating this, so he had briefed the officer in charge.

  As he walked back up the front path to the house, the family seemed to know their fate.

  26

  It was nine-thirty AM. The sun had risen, but was partially hidden behind clouds. The air was cold, and a stiff breeze chilled it further.

  The Pan Am flight dropped out from beneath the clouds and started it final approach to London’s Flughafen Goering. Within a couple of minutes, it had touched down, and seconds later, was taxiing to the terminal assigned to the 747.

  Although the aircraft could carry a full complement of 660 passengers there were no more than 200 people aboard.

  Ten of those were diplomats, ready to take over a two-month tour in the United States’ English embassy. Two of them had another task in mind – one of those was the Ambassador himself.

  Clark Rydell unfastened his seatbelt as the doors to the 747 were opened. Grabbing his briefcase, he got to his feet, and looked around the luxury cabin for his staff. All of them sat alone in double seats. The US could afford to hire the entire luxury cabin for its diplomats, and Pan Am didn’t mind, because they were never inundated with bookings to the German Reich. It was hardly a tourist destination.

  Barney Kitchener, burgundy briefcase in his hand, his jacket slung over his shoulder, walked along the aisle to meet Clark, a smile on his face. Clark knew that Barney was looking forward to this trip, to accomplishing the task they’d been sent to perform.

  Clark only wished he could share Barney’s enthusiasm – or at the very least, his optimism.

  “Ready for work, Ambassador?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Clark answered, watching as his staff filtered out of the luxury cabin and down the spiral staircase. Barney put down his briefcase, pulled on his jacket, and fumbled around in its inside pocket for his passport and papers.

  “You know, you should lighten up, Clark.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re still in the Company,” reminded the Ambassador. “Things like this come easy to you.”

  “When you’re running the risk of having your head removed, Clark, nothing comes easy,” Barney said. “You know, you didn’t have to come this time. I reckon they’d have understood.”

  “Yeah, but I’d already arranged it,” Clark said, looking around the deserted cabin. “It might’ve compromised the objective if I’d pulled out at the last minute. The Germans might’ve gotten suspicious.”

  “Yeah, but the Krauts, they’re always suspicious, aren’t they? That’s why we don’t get any diplomatic immunity in the Reich.” Barney picked up his briefcase as a stewardess came into the cabin. “Well, I supposed we’d better get going. Heil Führer!” he said with a large grin.

  Clark smiled back, though he didn’t feel like smiling.

  At the customs point at the airport, there was no special queue for the diplomats. They had to line up with the rest of the passengers. They had no special status in the German Reich. They had no immunity from prosecution, and their luggage could be searched at any time.

  The customs officers wore black trousers, white shirts and black ties. On their heads, they wore black peaked caps bearing a silver Reichsadler. The only thing that gave them away as part of the Nazi regime were the crimson Hakenkreuz armbands that they wore.

  Clark led the diplomats into one of the queues, and placed his briefcase on the low counter in front of him. The single, but heavy, suitcase he carried remained on the floor beside him. Clark would lift it onto the counter if asked – but not until.

  The customs officer looked at him, then down at the black briefcase. “Your papers,” he demanded, not even looking at Clark. Clark handed over his passport and travel documents. The customs officer took them from him, and he caught a glimpse of his blue eyes. A typical Aryan man. He must be disappointed, mused Clark, to be working as a lowly customs officer, instead of being in the armed services or the SS.

  Clark watched him flick through the passport, noting the previous countries the Ambassador had visited. Then he looked through the travel documents. Looking up, one eyebrow cocked, he tapped the top sheet.

  “You are Herr Rydell, the American Ambassador, yes?”

  “That’s right – I have my staff with me.”

  “Herr Rydell, we have been expecting you,” the customs officer said. He pointed to a door beside him. “If you would take your staff through there, their papers will be checked.” Clark nodded his head, and turned to his staff. They had obviously all heard the exchange. He led them to the door, which the customs officer opened, and they entered a small room on the other side.

  Two men in black Schutzstaffel uniforms were waiting. One of them stepped up to Clark and stretched out a hand. Clark shook it.

&
nbsp; “Herr Rydell, I am SS-Oberführer Ludwig. We have been expecting your arrival. We have set aside this facility for the specific purpose of efficiently processing you and your staff.”

  “Thank you, Herr Oberführer,” Clark said politely, although he had a feeling he knew what Ludwig meant when he said processing. He also had a feeling he and his staff wouldn’t like it. “That really wasn’t necessary.”

  “If you would follow me,” Ludwig said, “and bring your suitcase. Your staff may wait here until called.”

  Clark was led through a door on the opposite side of the room, and then along a corridor. From here, he was shown into another room, and offered a seat. Clark put down his briefcase and suitcase, and sat down. Ludwig sat down opposite him. A small table separated the two men. Behind Ludwig was a large mirror, and doubtless behind that, Clark guessed, were more SS officers watching the interview.

  “If we could hurry this up, Herr Oberführer–”

  “Herr Rydell, what is the nature of your business here in the German Reich?”

  “I’m the US Ambassador to the German State of Great Britain.”

  “The true nature of your business, Herr Rydell,” Ludwig said with a smile.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What is your objective here?”

  “I really don’t understand.”

  “Oh, come come, Herr Rydell, we are not fools.”

  “I wouldn’t have the audacity to suggest you were, Herr Oberführer, but I’d have to say you’ve definitely got your wires crossed.”

  “So, tell me the nature of your business here.”

  “I’m the Ambassador for–”

  “And what do your duties entail? After all, your people are not welcome here, are they? You have no diplomatic immunity. There are no real diplomatic relationships between our two countries. Why would you come here?”

  “I negotiate with the Governor, deal any disputes concerning US citizens who might be in this State–”

  “Do you have a hidden agenda, Herr Rydell?”

  “My duties are set out in the travel documents, Herr Oberführer. They are the same as any other Ambassador working in the German State of Great Britain. If you would care to–”