Scoot blew air out of his cheeks and sighed.
There was nothing else he could do – just wait.
His arms began to really hurt just a few minutes before the door to the chamber was opened, and Scott half expected another beating. He didn’t expect Rauter and Loritz to enter with triumphant beams on their faces.
They closed the door behind them, and stood a few feet in front of Scott. Rauter said, “The gentleman in the photograph is SS-Obersturmführer Otto Günther, yes?” Scott tried not to let his emotions show. He didn’t answer Rauter, but the German wasn’t expecting an answer. “You were dealing with a traitor, Herr Cazelot. Very ingenious. Unfortunately, that has all come to an end. Now, would you like to tell me what was contained within the package that Günther gave to you.”
“I didn’t get any package,” Scott said. Keitel wasn’t in the room, and he didn’t expect these officers would like to dirty their hands with torture.
“No? That is not what Günther told me,” Rauter said, watching Scott’s face for a reaction. Scott’s face was so straight, he could’ve been playing poker. “So, do you want to tell me what was contained within the package? Or shall I tell you? Shall I jog your memory for you?”
Even at that, Scott’s face did not betray his true emotions. Had Otto told Rauter what was in the letter? Were the plans to assassinate the Führer now common knowledge? He could not believe that Otto would betray them so easily.
Scott didn’t say a word. He just stared at the upside-down images of the two Gestapo officers.
“You see, Herr Cazelot, Günther was more cooperative than you. He told us everything. He told us, for instance, that contained within the envelope was a list.” Scott would’ve frowned, but he didn’t want to give anything away. Could an itinerary be described as a list? Well, probably, but that wasn’t strictly speaking what it was. What the hell was Rauter talking about? “A list of names.” That threw Scott completely. His face contorted slightly, and he cursed himself for allowing Rauter to see his emotions.
But the Gestapo officer misread them entirely. “Ah, I see I have touched a raw nerve, Herr Cazelot. Well, tough luck, my friend. Your little murderous plot almost succeeded, but we were able to stop you.”
A list of names, Scott was thinking. What names? Whose names? What the hell was going on?
“You see, Herr Cazelot, you murdering terrorists might consider collaborators as the enemy, but we do not. We protect them, because they protect the interests of the Reich. Now, I thank you for your … assistance. It has proved invaluable.” Rauter straightened himself so quickly, it was as though he were saluting. Then he said, “Herr Cazelot, it is my duty to inform you that the Geheime Staatspolizei has reserved the right under the conditions of the Terrorism and Treason Act of 1968 to sentence you without trial. In accordance with Section 7 of the Act, the sentence given to you has been confirmed and agreed by the Commander of the English Schutzstaffel, SS-Oberstgruppenführer Röhm. The sentence is the Todesstrafe, to be carried out in the execution chamber here in the London Polizeipräsidium. In accordance with the instructions in Section 12 of the Act, the sentence is to be carried out within the hour.” Rauter turned and went to the door, followed by Loritz. As he left, he faced Scott and said, “Thank you for your time.”
Scott closed his eyes, felt the sweat dripping from his forehead. From above his head, the odour of excrement in the drain filled his nostrils.
They’d sentenced him to death.
He was to be executed within the hour.
There was to be no trial. They’d found him guilty in his absence, and with no real evidence. And for all they knew, he could’ve been a simple messenger.
Scott heaved a deep sigh, and felt the tears rolling from his eyes to his hair. He was to be killed, beheaded most probably. And he was afraid, which was understandable.
But more than that, the sentence has stirred up memories of Jenni, of the wife they had taken from him, killed, murdered. They called him a murderer, but it was the Krauts who gassed thousands of innocent people every year.
Scott tried to wipe the snot and tears from his face, but his arms wouldn’t move more than a couple of inches, and even then, the agony was intense.
Scott was only relieved that the pain would soon be over.
They came for him twenty minutes later. They allowed him those twenty minutes to stew in his own fear, and then they lowered him carefully to the floor, cuffed his useless arms behind his back, which caused him further immense pain, and then dragged him from the chamber.
He was taken to a small room, inside which stood five men and women, each wearing only their underwear, each with their hands cuffed behind their backs. Scott noted that they had all suffered at the hands of one torturer or another. He also noted the looks of terror on their face. Nobody wanted to know that they were going to die.
From the doorway on the far side of the room came a sliding, whooshing sound, followed by a sickening metallic thud, and Scott’s fellow prisoners all jumped. Their looks of terror intensified.
Scott began to wear a look of terror himself.
Two minutes later, the prisoner at the front of the queue was taken through the door. The door was slammed shut, and thirty seconds later, the thud once again resounded through the waiting room.
After a little over ten minutes, the last prisoner in front of Scott, a woman, was taken through the door. She could barely walk, although there appeared to be little wrong with her legs. Her thighs had been covered in blood, but that seemed to have come from between her legs. Scott tried not to imagine what they had done to her, how they had brutalized her.
She screamed as the door was slammed shut, and continued to scream right up until the point where the dull, metallic thud silenced her.
It was Scott’s turn next. Two more minutes. Count to one hundred and twenty.
The door behind him opened. A swollen, bruised and bloody man was dragged into the room. Scott turned and looked as the two uniformed SS officers threw the man to the floor.
Scott recognized him.
“Otto?”
Otto looked up from where he lay, his legs twisted, distorted. Scott thought he saw him smile, but he couldn’t be certain, such was the bruised and battered nature of his face.
The SS officers guarding the two prisoners paid them little attention. They wouldn’t until the door to the execution chamber was opened.
Scott got down onto his knees and looked at Otto. He was seriously injured, worse than Scott. His legs appeared to be in a horrific state, with compound fractures up and down their entire length. Added to which, he’d been savagely beaten around the face and head.
“Otto, you okay?”
“No,” croaked Otto. Scott was certain he was smiling, so he smiled back. “I think I might’ve cracked a bone or two.”
“Sorry about this, mate.”
“Yeah,” Otto muttered.
Scott didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t lay a comforting hand on his companion. But Otto seemed to understand this.
He said, “I did my best for you.”
“I know,” Scott said. “I know.”
The door to the execution chamber opened, and the SS guards dragged him to his feet.
He was thrown onto the guillotine bench.
The bench was bloody, the head bucket into which he was staring almost full with blood. Scott heard them pulling the lever, and then closed his eyes, bracing his body for the impact.
50
Ben awoke the following morning and remembered the dreams of the previous night. He’d heard wailing sirens, seen flashing lights. As he crawled out of bed and yanked open the curtains, his eyes fell upon the scene below. In Nürnberg Platz, three houses opposite had their front doors smashed open. There were two Orpo trucks parked in the road, and Orpo officers patrolled the street.
It had been no dream.
The Gestapo had come last night and raided three houses. Ben could only guess as to why didn’t come for him �
�� he must have been the luckiest man alive.
After dressing, Ben went into the spare room to wake up Jerome, but his guest was already awake. Jerome said, “Who could sleep through all that racket? I kept expecting them to come here for me. Even after the Gestapo left, I couldn’t get back to sleep, but I daren’t leave the fucking bedroom.”
“The Orpo are still out there now,” Ben said, walking across to the window and opening the curtains. He looked down through the net curtain at the Orpo officers. They were laughing, smoking, walking around.
Ben wished he had a gun so that he could have shot them all dead. He said to Jerome, “They took five, I think.”
“Five?”
“Yeah, if I’m right. Two of them were ours.”
“And the other three?” Ben looked at Jerome, and his expression gave his answer. “Three of them were innocent?”
“If they were after Combat UK fighters, then yeah, three of them were innocent,” Ben sighed deeply. “They do that a lot, you know. They get a list of possible suspects, and pull them all in. Perhaps one or two get out.”
“They lucky ones?”
“Not really. The Gestapo usually release them as Spitzels.”
“Spitzels?”
“Informers,” explained Ben. “They’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. They have to supply the information to the Gestapo, or they’ll get reeled in again, and … well, they’re not seen or heard of again.”
“Don’t you help them?”
“Some of them come to us,” Ben said, “but we can’t help them all. We’ve moved a few to Scotland, to Wales, to Ireland even. They’re safer there. But some don’t want to leave. And because of that, we have to cut them loose.”
“Meaning?”
“Cut them out of our meetings. And naturally, the Gestapo doesn’t like that. So …” He didn’t complete the sentence. He didn’t have to.
Jerome shook his head, partly in disgust at the Gestapo’s ruthless treatment of their Spitzels, but mostly at the betrayal of those poor, unfortunate men and women by their old comrades.
“Listen, Jerome, there’s no point in getting squeamish or sentimental. As I said, we help those who understand that their lives are fucked. We move them. We have dozens of refuges across the states of the UK, and they’re relatively safe. We’ve lost a couple in the last ten years, maybe, twenty-five people were arrested, executed. But some people just don’t want to be helped, and we can’t risk the organisation’s security just to save one person’s life. Besides, the Gestapo always end up killing their Spitzels.”
“All the same, it sounds pretty heartless,” Jerome muttered, walking across to the window. The Orpo officers were returning to their trucks, their duties obviously completed. The engines were fired up, and the trucks left Nürnberg Platz.
“It’s a heartless world, Jerome,” Ben told him.
The telephone started to ring. Ben left the bedroom and answered it. For a few moments, Jerome could hear muffled conversation, then Ben came back up to the spare room.
He said, “I’ve got to go out.”
“Where?”
“It’s about last night, I should think. While I’m gone, don’t even fart, okay? Just stay here in this room.”
“How long will you be?”
“Who knows? An hour, maybe two,” Ben said, leaving the room. Jerome followed him down the stairs. Ben pulled on his jacket. “I might be gone all morning. This shit is going to take some clearing up.”
“It’s that serious?”
“Some of those taken might talk,” Ben answered.
“That’s serious.”
“It sure is. Listen, remember what I said. Don’t go out. The Orpo might be looking for people to drag off the streets. They might have your photograph.”
“I look different.”
“Not different enough,” Ben assured, going to the door. “And I told you to stay upstairs.”
Jerome reluctantly obeyed. As he closed the bedroom door, he heard Ben leaving the house.
He was alone. Alone in a strange house, hiding from the Gestapo. And Ben was out performing damage limitation exercises.
Jerome’s mind wandered.
Ellen’s face popped into view.
Ellen’s beautiful face.
To hell with it, Jerome thought angrily. I’m not a fucking prisoner!
And he left the bedroom.
51
SS-Oberstgruppenführer Röhm climbed from the Mercedes limousine and, flanked by two Waffen-SS officers, walked up to the entrance of the Rodenbücherhalle. Once called Albert Hall by the native Engländers, it had since been renamed to honour the Second Führer, Rodenbücher.
Röhm wore a smile that made him resemble a cretin, but nobody would’ve told him that. Instead, the girl at the head of the welcoming committee nodded dutifully at him, and led him up to one of the boxes that overlooked the stage in the concert hall.
Röhm entered the box, leaving his bodyguards behind, but as he closed the door he thought he heard one of the Waffen-SS officers ask the girl what she was doing that night. Shaking his head, he took up a seat at the front of the box, next to Reichsstatthalter Klarsfeld.
“Good morning, Werner,” Klarsfeld said. He was looking down at the stage, where gymnasts were performing. “I did not have you down as a fan of gymnastics. Oh, Heil Führer, by the way.”
“Heil Führer. I’m not, but I was told that this was where you’d be.”
“Oh, I love this sport. Strong Aryan men and women, performing for the Fatherland. Do you know, this girl performing at the moment, she is only fifteen, but look at her strength – see the way she performs those back flips. So impressive.”
“Erich, I did not come here to discuss little girls bending over and opening their legs,” Röhm snapped. “This is rather more important.”
“Ah yes, our purge. Care to fill me in?”
“We believe we hauled in a substantial number of Combat UK terrorists,” Röhm gloating, “and that we have dealt their organization a crippling blow.”
“A crippling blow?” Klarsfeld said with a smirk, turning from the gymnast to look at him.
“Almost three hundred men and women were arrested last night,” Röhm explained, “and the guillotines were busy – very busy.”
“But how many of them were actually members of Combat UK, and how many were innocent associates?”
“The theorists are working on a fifty-fifty split. I myself am more optimistic. I would say probably eighty percent. We got a lot of them to talk, gathering more evidence. And we found a mole in the SS.”
“A mole?”
“A traitor. An Obersturmführer by the name of Günther, working for the Sicherheitsdienst. He was giving information to the terrorists.”
“What kind of information?” Klarsfeld asked with a frown.
“A list of collaborators.”
“A hitlist?”
“I believe so.”
“And how are these so-called collaborators being protected?”
“Orpo units are regularly patrolling the streets where they live, and we have Gestapo teams in surveillance vehicles. Nobody on the hitlist was particularly important to the Reich, so the Gestapo officers have been instructed to wait until an attack has been launched, and then arrest the men responsible, if possible. Of course, if the collaborators get killed in the process …”
“That is an unfortunate by-product,” muttered Klarsfeld. “You know, Werner, that I do not like to see innocent people suffer.” He removed his glasses, fiddled with them. “It is … well, it is bad for public morale.”
“We should not be concerning ourselves with public morale, Erich. What should concern us is the Führer’s safety in England.”
“Yes, yes, naturally. But your dragnet has undoubtedly reeled in a few people who might even have been Nazi supporters.”
“Engländers can join the Nazi party, Erich, and some actually have done so. None of the people executed in this latest purge were
party members.”
“And that makes them criminals?”
“It makes them … different. There are, what, twenty million people in England, including children? There are approximately five million English members of the Nazi party. All from good Aryan stock. And those people are rarely under suspicion.”
“Perhaps,” Klarsfeld said with a cheeky smile and a cocked eyebrow, “the terrorists are aware of the fact that party members are rarely under suspicion.”
“Perhaps,” admitted Röhm, the wind taken out of his sails somewhat after the optimism of the previous night’s operation. “But I would like to think that the terrorists would never consider signing up for the Nazi Party and singing the Horst Wessel Song! They hate us. They have even been known to target English Nazis.”
“Not Combat UK. You are talking about minority groups. The English Reds, the Royalist Freedom Fighters, the Communist Popular Front. They are splinter groups who pose no real threat. Combat UK is an altogether different story.”
“Please, Erich, do not tell me my job,” Röhm snapped. “You concern yourself with political matters, and I will deal with matters of security–”
“But this is a political matter. The reason there is so much unrest in this State is because of operations such as this one. Innocent people should not be executed with a trial.”
“And innocent Germans should not be murdered. You see, Erich, all Engländers have murder in their minds – they are all potential terrorists.”
“In your opinion.”
“No, that is a fact. And the only time this State will be secure will be when there is a substantial German population. The Germanization of all German States is of paramount importance. I would even go so far as to advocate mixed marriages between Germans and Engländers from good Aryan stock. It would eventually lead to the natural extermination of the indigenous population.”
“Werner, those beliefs died a long time ago.”
“No, they did not,” argued Röhm. “You have to remember, Erich, that the Deutsches Reich is the most powerful nation in the world. We are far more powerful than the Russo-American Pact, and far greater than the third world countries of Africa and South America. And that is because of the extensive Germanization of the outlying States in the Reich. In other States – Austria, Poland, France, Spain – the German population outnumbers the indigenous population two to one. Which is why, in those States, there are few security problems.”
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