The tallest of the two, at more than six foot, was slender, and had a short beard. His brown hair, which was rather long, was usually slicked back using gel. Today was no exception. In his hand was a cigarette, and he occasionally took a drag and tapped ash onto the slightly curved floor of the concrete tunnel.
His companion was shorter, less than five and a half feet in height, but was of considerable build, the muscles in his chest and stomach rippling beneath the cotton of his blue tee-shirt. His hair, by contrast to his companion’s, was shorter, curly and fair in colour. He wore a shoulder holster over the tee-shirt, inside which was a Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol. His companion was also armed, but his weapon was hidden beneath the light jacket he was wearing.
As they approached the end of the tunnel, there were more lights. The tunnel curved slightly to the right, blocking off their immediate view, and as they rounded the corner, they saw the concrete wall that marked the tunnel’s end.
An Old Glory hung from the rounded ceiling, damp, slightly stained, but undeniably American. At the other end, beneath the house in Ostmünchenstrasse, the Union Jack hung, a symbol of Britain, one that was supposed to have died more than fifty years earlier.
A ladder hung in the middle of the tunnel, disappearing upwards through a gaping hole in the ceiling. On either side of the ladder stood US Marines, their uniforms a comfort to the two men. Unlike the Marines guarding the building, who only had batons to protect themselves with, these Marines were armed with M16 Carbines, smuggled in from the US.
One of the soldiers stepped up to the two men as if to block their passage. He wore the insignia of a lieutenant. “Can I see your identifications?” he asked in a Texas twang.
The two men handed over their papers, and the lieutenant inspected them thoroughly. He had been expecting two men, he knew their names and had been shown photographs of their faces, but he was taking no chances. The light in the tunnel was deceiving, and the soldier was suspicious of German technology. Paranoid was probably a better description. Who knows, the lieutenant would tell his colleagues and the men who worked for him, how advanced the goddamn Krauts are? And it was a reasonable question.
To make certain that the two men standing before him were indeed the two men who were supposed to come along the tunnel, the lieutenant shone his torch in their faces.
Satisfied, he said, “Y’all can go up now,” and handed back their papers.
“Thanks,” the tall man said, as he started to climb the ladder. When he was halfway up, his shorter companion started after him. Within a couple of seconds, they had disappeared through the hole in the ceiling of the tunnel, and were standing before a spiral staircase in a poorly lit, narrow, dank stairwell. The staircase would take them back to the surface, which was almost three-hundred feet above them.
The taller man led the way. The shorter man followed.
30
Clark Rydell watched anxiously as the trapdoor in the floor of the basement was opened, and the two casually dressed men stepped out. He was always anxious when they used the trapdoor. He always feared that the people who would come up through it would be the Germans, armed Germans from the Waffen-SS. If that should happen, there wouldn’t be much hope for him, or indeed for anybody in the embassy.
But the two men were expected, and Clark greeted them enthusiastically, shaking their hands. “Liam, Scott,” he said with a smile that betrayed his relief. “How are you?”
“Fine,” the tall one, Liam, said, smiling half-heartedly. The walk along the cold, damp tunnel had been long, and all he wanted to do was sit down and rest his legs. Clark led them through a doorway in the basement to a small meeting room.
A table was positioned beneath a single bulb that hung from the low ceiling. Around the table were six chairs, one of which was occupied by a man both the Englishmen recognized as Barney Kitchener.
Barney smiled at them cheerfully, and gestured for them to sit down. Liam sank down on the uncomfortable wooden chair. It did little for his backside, but at least his weary legs were satisfied.
“So,” Barney said, “how are you two guys?”
“Knackered,” Liam answered, “if you must know.”
“The long walk getting to you?” asked Barney, watching as Clark sat down beside him. “I would’ve thought you were fit enough to handle that.”
“We were up all night,” Liam explained.
“Anything we should know about?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Barney said, nodding his head. “Well, we’ve, uh, got some news for you.”
“Haven’t you always?” Liam asked, lighting up a cigarette. He tossed the packet of cigarettes and the lighter on the table. Nobody took them. Nobody else wanted to smoke. “What is it this time?”
“This is good,” Barney said, grinning.
“You always say that,” Scott muttered.
“What is it?” Liam wanted to know. His expression was one of impatience, his face screwed up, his mouth curled into a sneer.
“Before we speak,” Clark said, “I want to make it clear that the information we give you is to remain a confidential matter just between the four of us.”
“We know how to keep things confidential, Clark,” Liam hissed. He puffed from his cigarette, tapped the ash into the ashtray in the middle of the table. “The thing is, is this going to be worth our while?”
“I think so,” Clark said, nodding his head.
“We have received information concerning the German Führer,” Barney said.
“What information?”
“He’s planning a visit to England.”
“When?”
“May the First, this year.”
Scott wanted to know, “Is this for real?”
“It’s good information,” Barney assured him.
“Where does it come from?” Liam asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“So, the Führer’s visiting England. What do you want us to do about it?”
“To be forewarned is to be forearmed, as they say, and with this knowledge, you will have time to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?”
“We want you to assassinate the Führer,” Barney said. Instantly, the two Englishmen fell silent and stared in disbelief at the Americans. A cold, unnerving atmosphere filled the room.
“You are kidding?” Liam said, stubbing out his cigarette. “I mean, this is a fucking joke, right?”
Barney shook his head. “We’re deadly serious, Liam. Never been more serious, in fact.”
“Killing the Führer would be a crazy idea.”
“No, it’d be a good idea,” corrected Barney. “You see, we believe the Vizeführer will be an altogether easier man to deal with. He won’t be as fanatical, and he certainly won’t be as dangerous.”
“How can you be sure?”
“We can’t,” Clark answered honestly. “It’s just a theory.”
“We’re taking a chance,” admitted Barney, “but we think the odds are in our favour.”
“How can you say that?”
“Hitler’s Vizeführer, right up until the month before he died, was a harmless politician, with little military experience. Hitler replaced him with Rodenbücher as he lay on his death bed. Rodenbücher was a Wehrmacht general, with a background in the SS, and was easily as insane as Hitler himself.. Rodenbücher went through the same ritual. In fact, Rodenbücher had three Vizeführers. The first two were basically yes-men. The last one, appointed two weeks before Rodenbücher’s death, wasn’t. There was speculation that the present Führer even assisted in Rodenbücher’s demise so that he could assume power without further delay. Now, a man like that is hardly going to have a dangerous man backing him up. He’s going to continue with the policy of having harmless imbeciles in position, until just before he dies. But so far,” Barney said with a grin, “all the Führers have been gambling on knowing when they were going to die. Now, that isn’t always going to be the case. A Führer could dro
p down dead from a heart attack, with their harmless Vizeführer still in position. We can go one step further, and say that a Führer could be assassinated, with the same consequences. A harmless Vizeführer who would assume the position of Führer. A man we could deal with. A man without a solid conviction to hold the German Reich together. The Reich is only as strong as its Führer.”
“And that’s the theory?” Liam said, raising an eyebrow.
“A theory remains a theory only until it becomes a fact,” Barney said, “and we aim to make this a fact.”
“Why don’t you assassinate him yourself?”
“If we performed this assassination, if a hint of our involvement leaked out, it would probably result in a war of catastrophic consequences,” Barney replied. “A nuclear confrontation that neither side could win.”
“And if we assassinate him, we all know the consequences,” Liam snapped. “When the Germans first arrived in Britain, they rounded up every police officer, every teacher, every member of the Home Guard, every soldier who hadn’t been killed in the Dunkirk massacre, every Navy seaman, every RAF pilot, and they gassed them, shot them, beheaded them. They killed thousands in the first month. And since then, they’ve gone on to kill hundreds of thousands more. We know that every time we kill an SS officer, the Nazis round up a hundred innocent civilians and execute them. What do you suppose they’ll do if we kill the Führer? How many innocent civilians will have to suffer the consequences? Hundreds? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands?”
“The ball’s in your court, Liam,” Barney said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s up to you.”
“You can choose to do what you wish with the information,” Clark said. “The United States government would be … grateful, as would the Soviet government, and indeed, all of the exiled governments of Europe.”
“If you haven’t the nerve for such an operation–” Barney started, but Liam held up a hand.
“We have the nerve, the resources, and the experience to plan and execute such an operation, Barney, but I don’t know if the end justifies the means.”
“I’m not gonna bullshit you, Liam. We understand that the Nazis will not take this lying down. There will undoubtedly be, as you say, retaliatory killings. Thousands of them, in all probability. But we’re hoping that in the place of the present Führer and his military and political aides will be a new regime. A Fourth Reich, so to speak.”
“But you can’t guarantee we won’t get more of the same?”
“Or worse,” Scott added.
“How can we give you such a guarantee?” asked Barney with a smile. “We cannot. It is, as I said, a gamble. Are you willing to take such a gamble?”
“I don’t know.”
For the next few moments, there was silence, as the four men thought things over individually. There was lots to consider. Liam looked at Scott, who shrugged his shoulders. To kill the Führer would indeed be a massive coup for Combat United Kingdom, but at what cost?
“We’ll leave it in your hands,” Clark said, finally breaking the silence.
“There was one other thing,” Barney added. “We know that the Führer is due to arrive on or around May First. What we don’t know are the exact details of his itinerary. Our source was moved along before they had a chance to come up with that information.”
“We have a source of our own,” Liam assured, “and if there’s an itinerary for such a visit, we’ll find it.”
“Then we have nothing more to discuss,” Barney said, getting to his feet. He held out his hand. Liam stood and shook it. “Thanks for listening, Liam, Scott.”
“Thanks for talking,” Liam said.
And the two Englishmen left the small room and disappeared through the hole from which they had materialized.
Clark felt slightly hollow, but said nothing. Barney already knew of his reservations. Besides, it was in the hands of the resistance fighters now.
Clark followed Barney as he climbed a staircase that led to the embassy, and tried to think about his normal duties for the rest of the week. He knew, however, that he was going to have trouble concentrating.
31
Ben was satisfied as he pulled into Nürnberg Platz that he hadn’t been followed from the Volkswagen Autofabrik. There had been no vehicles that had remained behind him, none that had turned into Nürnberg Platz immediately after him, and as he waited for over a minute in his car which he had parked right outside his house, none turned down the road.
He had driven home on his normal route, presuming that if he were being followed, any deviation would’ve announced to those pursuers that something was amiss. In the event, it appeared that his suspicions were unjustified, and he grabbed his lunchbox and flask and stepped out of his Golf.
He stepped up to his front door, fished his keys out of his pocket and, looking around one last time, unlocked the door. As previously arranged, Jerome did not rush out to greet him. Ben had sensed that the fugitive hidden in his house had watched his arrival through the net curtain in the window of the spare room upstairs, but Jerome made no movement or sound to announce his presence.
Ben picked up the three letters that had been posted through his door, and walked into the house, shutting the door behind him. He took the letters into the kitchen, tossed them onto the nearest work surface along with his lunchbox and flask, and removed his boots.
He took a carton of milk from the fridge, gulped down a large swig, and then went upstairs to find his guest. Jerome, as arranged, was waiting in the spare room, sitting on the bed. The sun was already dropping down to the horizon, and the room was poorly lit. He saw Jerome as a darkened, shadowy figure, his expressions distinguishable, but slightly fuzzy.
Jerome wasn’t smiling.
“How you doing?” Ben asked, taking another swig of milk and finishing the carton.
“Someone called.”
“You didn’t answer it?” Ben snapped urgently.
“No, of course I fucking didn’t.”
“Nobody would call me during the day,” Ben said, sitting down on the opposite end of the bed. “We had the Gestapo in today. They’d know I was single, and that my house should be empty. I reckon they probably called on the off-chance that you’d answer. I’m surprised they didn’t come round to fit a bug somewhere in the house.”
“If they did, I’d be fucked.”
“We’d both be fucked,” corrected Ben.
Jerome asked, “What did the Gestapo want?” but he knew it was a stupid question even before he’d finished speaking.
“They wanted you,” Ben replied, as if it were necessary. He pointed a finger at Jerome as if to emphasize his answer. “Asked the entire fucking shop floor if they knew where you were, who you hung around with.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Well, I didn’t tell them you were here, for a start,” Ben replied with a wry smile and a jerk of his shoulders. Before he had a chance to think over and reconsider, he blurted, “But I told them about Ellen.”
“What?” Jerome shouted angrily. He sprang to his feet, ran his hands through his hair. “Shit, you know the fucking Germans. They’ll crucify her for this!”
“Would you keep the fucking noise down,” Ben hissed. “Don’t worry, I think it stunned them. Her old man’s name must carry some weight.”
“Yeah,” Jerome mumbled, recalling his meeting with her in the park when the Orpo officers had questioned them. He started to calm down, shook his head, swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take this out on you. You’re helping me, and I really appreciate it.”
“I know,” Ben said calmly, nodding his head. “I understand.”
“You know, all last night, I kept expecting the Orpo to raid the house,” Jerome said. “I didn’t know whether I could trust you. I hardly got any sleep.”
“Listen, there’s one thing you should about me, Jerome, and that’s that I hate the fucking Krauts.”
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
“And I have
to confess, at first, I had my suspicions about you,” Ben said. “The Gestapo, the SD, they have pretty fucking complex methods of surveillance and undercover work. I had you pegged for one of them, to start with.”
“But they took my father away.”
“It’s been done before,” assured Ben. “Complex cover stories. And I have a few secrets of my own.”
“What kind of secrets?”
“Secrets,” was all Ben would say. “But I saw the reactions on the faces of those Gestapo officers. They wanted to find you – desperately. Like it was personal. I could see that. You’re for real, Jerome. They really do want you.”
“What the hell did you think I was?”
“One of them,” Ben said. “A fucking Kraut. I mean, you’ve already been pegged as a Kraut-lover.”
“Ellen was born in England. She’s just as English as we are.”
“Maybe,” Ben supposed, “but then, maybe not. Her parents are German. And I’ve met her once – her accent is pretty fucking German too. Berlin, if I’m not mistaken.”
“How the fuck would you know?” Jerome asked loudly. “For starters, she only has a slight accent. And what makes you the fucking expert on German accents?”
Ben stood up, put a finger to his mouth. “Keep the noise down, Jerome, for fuck’s sake. I have neighbours, and they might wonder why I have a visitor when nobody’s come through my front door since I got home from work.”
Jerome breathed deeply and fell silent. For the next few moments, neither man spoke. The silence was shattered by the chirping of the telephone, startling both men, and causing Jerome to jump visibly.
“Jesus!”
“I’ll go,” Ben said, as though there was any alternative. He left the room, pounded downstairs, and yanked the handset from the wall in the hallway. “Hello?”
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