die Stunde X

by Shaun Stafford

  “Come on,” Scott said, leading Otto into one of the aisles. He leant against the wall, the statue of Hitler still visible through the pillars that supported the roof. “So,” Scott said casually, all the while looking around, “What have you got?

  “What you asked for,” Otto answered, pulling a white envelope from his pocket. He handed it to Scott, who looked at it carefully. Whatever it contained, it wasn’t much. Perhaps a single sheet of paper. But that was all he had asked for. “I believe that is the document. If I have any other news–”

  “Thanks,” Scott said, and made a move to leave as he thrust the envelope into his pocket. Otto stopped him. “What?”

  “You know, I am taking a big risk here, Scott,” Otto said, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  “We’re all taking risks, Otto.”

  “Listen, what have you planned?”

  “You don’t want to know what it is, Otto,” Scott warned him.

  “I have an idea I know what it is. The thing is, if you go ahead, there are going to serious recriminations.”

  “Otto, what is your problem?”

  “I have a family.”

  “I had a family,” Scott snapped, grabbing Otto’s lapels and throwing him against the wall of the aisle. “A beautiful wife, who was carrying our child. That was until a pissed Kraut smashed his car into hers. And then more Krauts took her away and our unborn child away and … disposed of them. They even sent me the fucking bill for the coffin. So don’t tell me you have a fucking family, Otto, ‘cause I don’t want to fucking know, all right?”

  “Hey, I did not know,” Otto said, trying to smile to ease the tension. “I am sorry, Scott. Okay?”

  “Yeah, you’re sorry,” Scott said, letting go of the German. “You’re sorry, Liam’s sorry, the whole fucking world’s sorry. But what are they doing about it? Fuck all!”

  “We are,” Otto said quietly.

  “Yeah, you’re damn right we are. And we appreciate your help, Otto. But you’ve got to understand, we’re all taking risks here. You, me, Liam, and every member of...” - Scott stopped himself. “And it’s not just our lives at risk – it’s the lives of our families.”

  “And I do not want to lose mine,” Otto said. “I know … I know that is a selfish thing to say to you, when you have lost yours. But I just do not want to lose mine. You can understand that, yes?”

  “Yeah, Otto, I can. I’m probably one of the few people who can understand that. But don’t worry. There is no way this thing is going to touch you. You’re safer than the rest of us. Only Liam and me know about you, and we’re not going to talk.”

  “I … I just wanted to know.”

  “You should never doubt our loyalty, Otto. It’s us who should be doubting yours.”

  “That envelope should prove my loyalty.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said, nodding his head. “Thanks, Otto.” He patted the German on the arm, and then walked from the Denkmalhalle.

  His motorbike was still parked in the Platz, and he pulled on his helmet, sat astride the bike, and fired up the engine. By the time Otto walked from the Denkmalhalle, all that was left of Scott were a few fumes and loud humming of a distant motorbike.

  Otto didn’t have any transport to take him home.

  Instead, he caught the next bus as it pulled into the stop in Denkmalhalle Platz.

  He didn’t once look back at the memorial.

  He had thought he had checked the building all over. He hadn’t seen the man with the camera who was partially hidden behind the flags at the altar, a man who had been following Scott, and who had managed to enter the memorial via the rear entrance. He didn’t see the man with the camera walking out of one of the memorial’s many side doors, a smile on his face.

  The man worked for the Geheime Staatspolizei.

  He was a surveillance officer.

  He had caught the meeting between Scott and Otto on film.

  Otto didn’t know any of that, so that night, as he climbed into bed beside his wife, he made love to her and then slept soundly without giving a moment’s thought to the fact that he might soon be finding himself in serious trouble.

  Otto was an optimist. He believed it would never happen to him.

  He had no idea that it already had.

  41

  The city of Berlin had long since disappeared, swallowed up by the massive expanse of Welthauptstadt Germania, Hitler’s new capital. Now, it was simply a suburb of the capital. Germania was a city full of extravagant and monumental buildings, none more staggering in size and vision than the Reichstaghalle.

  The Reichstaghalle had been constructed in the mid-Fifties, part of Adolf Hitler’s massive rebuilding projects. It had taken twelve years to complete, and was the largest building in the whole of the German Reich, bigger than any cathedral still standing, or any previous government building, and easily three times the size of the Reichstag it replaced. Situated on Der Parlamentstrasse in Germania, it towered over the surrounding buildings, and could be seen from the main approach roads to the city.

  An ominous black dome rose seven hundred feet from the centre of the Reichstaghalle, atop which was placed a giant Hakenkreuz that cast shadows of its image across the stately lawns and gardens of Reichstaghallepark behind the building.

  To the front of the building, a courtyard was situated, with a broad, gravel road lopping around a wide, long lawn. Visiting dignitaries entered the building via the front entrance, and therefore their cars delivered them to the front courtyard. For those who visited the Reichstaghalle regularly, there was another, safer route into its lofty offices. A tunnel entrance to the rear of the building led to an underground car park which was guarded by troops from the Waffen-SS.

  A security cordon surrounded the Reichstaghalle for four-hundred metres, and prevented vehicles and pedestrians from getting close to the building. Nevertheless, in the Seventies, fanatics from the terrorist group Vierte Reich had managed to breach the cordon, and then attempted to drive a carload of explosives down the tunnel.

  The car was stopped by a Waffen-SS Einsatzgruppe, or special action group, three-hundred metres from the building, and the bomb detonated outside, killing twenty-six people, including half a dozen Einsatzkommandos. The Reichstaghalle itself remained undamaged.

  The gleaming black Maybach limousine transporting the Reichsführer-SS entered the gate to the Reichstaghalle and crunched up the gravel driveway to the courtyard. Behind it, four BMW M3 escorts followed, each one containing three armed officers from the Waffen-SS.

  At the courtyard, the Maybach could have pulled around to the rear of the building and entered via the tunnel. But the Reichsführer-SS wasn’t about to use the ‘tradesman’s entrance’. He ordered his driver to stop right outside the front entrance, and opened the door himself, stepping out onto the gravel of the courtyard.

  He was a tall man, burly, with thinning, fair hair, and deep blue eyes. His vision, slightly poorer than when he joined the Schutzstaffel some thirty years earlier, needed correcting, but the glasses he wore helped to make him look even more distinguished.

  He wore the dress uniform of the Schutzstaffel – black, with white trimmings. The insignia on his lapels told everybody that he was the Reichsführer-SS, the most powerful man in Germany after the Führer and the Vizeführer. In fact, some might’ve said that the Reichsführer-SS, who was in charge of the whole of the security forces throughout the German Reich, had the power to overthrow the Führer.

  Heinz von Stauffenberg was not a man who thought like that.

  His grandfather before him was a loyal supporter of Hitler, until he died in mysterious circumstances. The von Stauffenberg family was out of favour for a few years after that, and Heinz was the first offspring since his grandfather to join the SS.

  He waited for two of his escorts, both SS-Oberführers, to leave the Maybach, and then began to climb the steps to the Reichstaghalle.

  He was expected. However, the staff at the Reichstaghalle had been expecting
him at the rear entrance. Therefore, they weren’t at the front entrance to meet him.

  By the time they had realized their error, Reichsführer-SS von Stauffenberg was already climbing the majestic stairway that led to the main offices on the fifth floor. Von Stauffenberg did not believe in using elevators to rise to the next level. He did not believe in taking short cuts.

  The Vizeführer’s secretary, dressed in a grey SS uniform, hopped to her feet as he entered her large office, and immediately saluted. “Heil Führer!”

  “Heil Führer,” von Stauffenberg snapped impatiently. “Is the Vizeführer in?”

  “He is expecting you, Herr Reichsführer.”

  “Thank you,” von Stauffenberg said, as he pushed his way past her, instructing his two adjutants to wait in her office.

  The Vizeführer was sitting behind his desk when von Stauffenberg stormed into his office, throwing the door shut behind him. He didn’t wait for the command to be seated, but instead sat down opposite the Vizeführer, who was watching him a bemused expression.

  “Heil Führer,” he said with a smile.

  “Heil Führer,” muttered von Stauffenberg.

  “You know, Heinz, you really should use the elevators. That is what they are there for, after all.”

  “I did not come here to discuss damn elevators, Herr Vizeführer,” rasped von Stauffenberg. “I came here to discuss the Führer’s proposed visit to the Deutscher Staat von Grossebritannien.”

  “Heinz, it is not a proposed visit,” the Vizeführer assured as there was a knock on his office door. He raised a hand apologetically, and then bellowed, “Come in!”

  His secretary entered and meekly asked, “Herr Vizeführer, should I prepare drinks–”

  The Vizeführer waved her away unceremoniously and impatiently, and she left, closing the door behind her. “Damn girl. She has no idea of protocol.”

  “Then why do you not fire her?”

  “Because she has long legs and wears short skirts,” the Vizeführer answered with a hearty laugh. “Now, what was I saying? Ah, yes, the visit is not simply a proposed excursion. It will take place. The flight plans are being logged as we speak.”

  “But England is not a place I would recommend the Führer to visit. It is not safe. Surely you can see that, Herr Vizeführer.”

  “It is a State of the Deutsches Reich, Herr Reichsführer,” the Vizeführer said pompously, “and as such, the security should be as well-controlled there as it is here in the Fatherland.”

  “But it does not work like that, Herr Vizeführer,” von Stauffenberg said. “With all due respect, I would not have taken you for such an ignorant man as to believe such a thing. We have a fraction of the SS officers and staff there that would be required to maintain a high level of security. And we have practically no Wehrmacht presence at all. Added to that, there is a potentially volatile partisan group–”

  “As I understand it, Heinz, Combat UK is a ragged group of imbeciles who have limited their attacks to SS officers who are off-duty. They are terrorists, Heinz, and terrorists have neither the skill nor the intelligence required to mount a serious offensive.”

  “That is not the case, Herr Vizeführer. I know for a fact that Combat UK are regrouping. They have experienced gunmen, they have sophisticated firearms–”

  “Herr Reichsführer, the Führer’s visit to the Deutscher Staat von Grossebritannien will go ahead as planned, and there is nothing you can say that will prevent it. I think you know that once the Führer makes up his mind about something, nothing will change it.”

  “But it is potentially dangerous, Herr Vizeführer. I really must protest.”

  “If you feel, Herr Reichsführer, that you are incapable of guaranteeing this safety of the Führer during this visit, then perhaps it would be … prudent of you to resign, and allow some other officer to take your position.”

  “Such as SS-Oberstgruppenführer Schaemmel, for instance?”

  “His name would be on the list replacements, certainly,” the Vizeführer said, smiling.

  “I would like to speak to the Führer,” von Stauffenberg said, “and express my doubts to him personally.”

  “The Führer is at the Hauptquartier in Bayer,” the Vizeführer explained with a smile. “I do not think it would be wise to visit him there. Your protests have been duly noted, Heinz, but for now, it appears as though you have nothing else to say, so I would appreciate it if we could draw this meeting to a conclusion. Unless there is something else you wish to tell me?”

  “I shall be visiting England myself prior to the Führer’s visit,” said von Stauffenberg, getting to his feet.

  “Naturally.”

  “I shall be compiling a report based upon my assessment of the security situation in England. I would appreciate it if I could hand that report the Führer myself.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Thank you for your time, Herr Vizeführer,” von Stauffenberg said, walking to the door and putting on his cap. “Heil Führer,” he said with a salute.

  “Heil Führer.”

  Von Stauffenberg walked from the Vizeführer’s office, wearing a larger scowl than when he had entered. A visit to England for the Führer would be extremely hazardous.

  And if the Führer was assassinated, or even if his life was threatened, heads would roll, from the very top to the very bottom of the Schutzstaffel. And Reichsführer-SS von Stauffenberg’s would be the first to fall from its shoulders.

  42

  Scott waved goodbye to his companions and left the pub, helmet in hand. His Kawasaki was parked in the car park, alongside two other motorbikes. He quickly found it beneath a pool of illumination, coming from an overhead streetlight, and straddled it, inserting the ignition key. He pulled on his helmet, took his leather gloves from his pocket and put them on. Then he zipped up his leather jacket. It wasn’t a particularly cold night, but he would feel a chill riding along one of the autobahns that ran through London’s centre.

  The autobahn … the biker’s dream. He could open the throttle, lean into the corners and go.

  Scott looked once more at the pub as he pushed the starter and the bike’s 750cc turbo-charged engine whined into life, almost barking like a dog as he twisted the throttle. He had delivered the envelope Otto had given him the previous night at the Denkmalhalle. Liam would arrange a meeting with Ben, who was to carry out the operation, and then they would forget all about it until it was over. If Ben was successful, all well and good. If he wasn’t … well, there was no real hardship in such an outcome. The closer they got to assassinating the Führer without killing him, the better. It would probably be more acceptable, Scott thought, for Ben to be caught in situ with the gun in hand, without actually firing a bullet. That way, the Nazis probably wouldn’t react so violently when it came to retaliatory executions.

  That was what concerned Scott the most. The retaliatory executions which would undoubtedly take place. They always did whenever they killed an SS officer, or a collaborator or an industrialist. And having lost a wife himself, the one person who meant everything to him, Scott could understand how such brutal slayings were devastating to the English community. They lowered morale, and at the same time, alienated the organization. People weren’t so enthusiastic to support a group when that support only brought them misery and suffering.

  Some English people even blamed Combat UK for the deaths. On the one hand, Scott was offended, but the more he thought about it, the more he could see their point.

  Scott turned out of the car park and into the narrow street beyond, a street which, mercifully, hadn’t seen a name change after the Nazis’ occupation in the Forties. It was as though the Germans had forgotten about a few of the streets. Either that, or they didn’t deem it worthwhile to rename them because they were so far off the beaten track.

  Nevertheless, the road in which Scott lived, which was almost five miles away, had been renamed Wittstockstrasse in 1945. Before that, it was called Stamford Lane. The houses that lined Stamfo
rd Lane had been demolished in 1944, and new ones were built in their place. The renamed road had been resurfaced the same year, and the new residents of the government-owned properties moved in shortly thereafter.

  Scott had moved into number thirty, eight years ago, with his wife, Jenni. They planned to lease the house for fifteen years, by which time they would’ve paid enough for the ownership of the house to be handed over to them. Number thirty was one of only six houses in a street of fifty that were still owned by the government.

  Now, and with his wife nothing more than a memory, Scott didn’t think he would be around when the fifteen years were up.

  The Kawasaki turned off the narrow street and into a wider road, part of Himmler Platz. Scott took a left at the crossroads, and found himself on the slip road leading onto the Londonzentrumautobahn. The street lights laid down patches of orange that flickered past his eyes as he reached the autobahn and opened up the throttle, the speed rising rapidly from thirty to sixty within a couple of seconds. Seconds later, he was doing over a hundred miles an hour, leaning into the corners, savagely overtaking the few cars he saw on the road as though they were stationary.

  Within a matter of a couple of minutes, he decelerated from 130mph as he approached another slip road. This was the one that would take him to Wittstockstrasse. The slip road rose and then cut across the autobahn on the wide bridge – Wittstockstrasse was to the left of the autobahn. Scott flew up the slip road, his speed still around the sixty mark, and he only decelerated to forty as he reached the corner that would take him onto the bridge.

  As he reached the centre of the bridge, he slowed down, stopped, and sat astride his bike, the engine throbbing beneath him. He could see the lights of the city centre from his position. Amongst the skyscrapers that the Germans had built, he could also see some of the old monuments of London. The top of St Paul’s Cathedral, now the Adolf Hitler Denkmalhalle; the Houses of Parliament, now the Reichstag Deutscher Staat von Grossebritannien; he could even see the Amtssitz, which had, at one time, been Buckingham Palace, home of the British Royal Family, who now resided in America. The Royal Family, who were now history as far the English were concerned. Part German themselves, they’d refused to cede to Nazi demands, and become their puppet figureheads.