“It depends who gets the guns and who gets the death.”
Ben smiled and threw open his arms. “This, Jerome, is the excitement you’ve been looking for.”
“I never was that excited about death, Ben. I’d like to know what I’m getting involved in.”
“I can’t tell you anything. Not yet.” Ben looked Jerome in the eyes. “If you don’t want to come, that’s okay. But you’ll have to stay here alone. I can get somebody from the resistance to come round to feed–”
“I’ll come,” Jerome said with a sigh. “I’ve got nothing else.”
“Great. I’ll tell you what the job is nearer the time.”
“When will that be?”
“A few weeks.”
“A few weeks?” Jerome was astounded.
“It’s a big job. And we both have to be prepared.” Ben walked to the door. “Now, let’s get something to eat.”
Ben smiled at Jerome.
Jerome smiled back, but as soon as Ben left the room, the smile disappeared.
Ellen’s face was all he could see.
And he missed her so much.
54
When Jerome awoke early the following morning, he recalled the conversation he’d had with Ben the previous evening. It was difficult not to, really, considering the topic discussed was to change both their lives.
Ben had said that the mission was so dangerous that it was possible that he might not be able to return to work, to return to his normal routine. For Jerome, such a diverse outcome would not alter the standard of his own life at present one little bit. He was already a fugitive.
Ben called up the human resource manager and booked himself two weeks off. He was asked the usual questions, such as where he was going, where he could be reached, but Ben simply replied that he was going on a camping holiday in Scotland, and it would be difficult for anybody to reach him. After that, the pair of them had breakfast.
Ben didn’t say much that morning as they waited for the telephone call. There wasn’t much to talk about. They had already discussed what their job entailed – Ben would be the shooter, and Jerome was there to watch his back. From that, Jerome deduced that Ben would be assuming the role of a sniper.
Jerome was excited at the prospect of going to Scotland, of going through basic and advanced weapons training. The events of the past week or so seemed to him like a blur, as though he hadn’t really lived them, as though he had been watching a dramatisation of his life on television.
Every so often, however, his father’s lifeless corpse would spring into his mind, and he would have to close his eyes, compose himself. And then he would think of the rest of his family. Of his mother, of Nicole and Campbell, and of his Aunt Mary. The Gestapo had taken them – what they had done to them he didn’t know.
He didn’t really want to know.
The telephone call came through at nine-thirty, and Ben answered it, nodding his head and muttering to the voice on the other end. Finally, he said his goodbyes and put down the receiver.
Jerome looked at him expectantly. “Well?”
“We’ve got forty-five minutes to pack and get to the Heydrichbusbahnhoff,” Ben told him.
Within twenty minutes, they were in a taxi on their way to the station, which was a good thirty minute walk away, but a much faster drive. They arrived five minutes later, jumped out of the taxi, took their luggage from the boot – Ben had two suitcases, Jerome had one – paid the driver, a German, and walked the short distance to their terminal.
The bus arrived ten minutes later, a long, tall, comfortable coach. It was red and white, and bore the logo of the Englischebusfirma, Ebuf, which was a small cartoon coach with a smiling face. Jerome and Ben looked at each other – they had both been expecting a chartered bus, an English bus, not a regular coach that carried regular passengers.
But Ben seemed to recognize a friendly face already on the coach, and nudged Jerome. The two of them, at the head of a queue of a dozen or so people, handed their luggage to the porter, and he stowed it in the coach’s cavernous trunk as they climbed aboard.
Ben gave his name and address to the driver, as did Jerome, and they showed their papers. The driver searched amongst a pile of documents to his left, and found their tickets. He confirmed that they were who they said they were, and punched the tickets before handing them to Ben and Jerome.
He, too, was a German.
Jerome had the feeling he was walking into a trap. He could see that Ben, although more at ease than Jerome, was still slightly on edge.
Ben led them towards the rear of the coach, where a woman sat in one of the seats. Ben gestured for Jerome to sit in the seat opposite, next to the window, and sat next to him. Jerome had the feeling that it was this woman who was the friendly face Ben had apparently seen.
She was reasonably young, mid-twenties, with short, spiky, black hair that gave her a slightly boyish appearance. With her clothes – casual jeans, a baggy tee-shirt, an old jacket and trainers – she resembled the street trash that they Orpo had been clearing up a few days before. Her face was pale, and she wore glasses, but there was a dash of colour on her lips, which were bright red. Her actual body was rather frail – she appeared short, and looked as though she weighed no more than a bird.
She looked at Jerome through large, luminous brown eyes, and he thought to himself that she was not unattractive. Certainly, she was a little rough around the edges, but she had a certain appeal.
She suddenly spoke, which unnerved Jerome. “Hello, Ben.” She was no longer looking at him, but had fixed her owl-like gaze on Ben.
“Maggie,” Ben said. “Meet …” He paused, trying to recall Jerome’s cover name. “Jed Visick.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jed,” Maggie said, outstretching her arm and shaking his hand. Her hand felt dainty in his, and was slightly cool to the touch. “I’m Maggie. Maggie Reddish.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Jerome said, a smile on his face.
In between passengers walking along the aisle, Maggie asked, “So, you two are off to Scotland?”
“Sure are,” Ben answered. “You?”
“Visiting relatives,” Maggie said with a smile. She leant back in the seat as the coach’s engine was fired up, and Jerome looked at her. She appeared so gentle, so feminine, yet there was something distinctly ominous about her. She closed her eyes, and Jerome presumed the conversation was over.
Ben nudged him. “What you thinking?”
“Oh, nothing important,” Jerome answered.
“No,” Ben said, looking at Maggie, “nothing important.”
The bus pulled out of the station, and made its way to the Londonzentrumautobahn. They travelled until they turned onto another autobahn, the main London-Edinburgh road, otherwise known as the A1, four lanes running in either direction. The inside lane was for buses, coaches and lorries – the second lane for overtaking, or for cars and motorbikes, and the outer two lanes for cars and motorbikes travelling at speed.
As the coach’s engine thrummed beneath them, Jerome started to doze. Bus journeys always made him sleepy. He was awoken some time later by Ben, who nudged him anxiously in the side.
“Jed,” he hissed. It took a few moments for Jerome to realize that Ben was talking to him. Then he saw that the coach was pulling to a stop in a service station, and he noticed the three green Orpo units parked to the side of the coach. The officers were standing outside their vehicles.
“Shit,” Jerome hissed under his breath. He noticed that Ben and Maggie were both wearing anxious expressions.
“Remember,” whispered Ben, “Jed Visick.”
The doors to the coach opened with a hiss, and two Orpo officers stepped on. They saluted the driver, who was wearing a Hakenkreuz lapel badge, and was therefore labelled a loyal party member. Then they started down the coach, one officer on either side, taking papers from the passengers and checking them.
They reached Ben and Jerome.
“Papers,” the officer snapped.
Ben handed his papers over. “Herr Fabian, what is your business in Scotland?”
“Holiday.”
“And where will you be staying?”
“Campsites, mainly.”
“Your address is …?”
“Seven Nürnberg Platz,” answered Ben. The officer handed him back his papers and turned to Jerome.
“Papers?”
Jerome gave his forged papers to the officer, who then inspected them. As he did, Jerome glanced out of the window and saw a Gestapo BMW pull up, its red lights flashing. He tensed up as two men jumped out and disappeared from view. He looked at Ben, who was wearing a blank expression.
“Your name?”
“Uh, Visick. Jed Visick.”
“And your address, Herr Visick?”
“31 Frankfurt Boulevard.”
“And your business in Scotland?”
“Holiday,” Jerome answered. “Same as my friend here.” His heart was pounding in his chest. He looked to the front of the coach, saw the two Gestapo officers climbing aboard. The Orpo officer handed him back his papers, and moved to the row behind.
Jerome gulped, and looked at Ben. He could see that some of the colour had drained from his friend’s face, but that he was trying to maintain as normal an expression as he could.
But the Gestapo officers seemed to be working their way down the bus. They weren’t asking to see papers, but they were looking at every face, and showing a photograph to the passengers.
Jerome’s disguise was adequate, but it was possible they could see through it. He looked at Ben in a panic, but Ben didn’t look back. Jerome turned to the front of the coach, saw the Gestapo officers getting closer. At that moment, something landed in his lap, and he looked down to see a pair of sunglasses.
Frowning, he picked them up and turned his head. Maggie gave him a half smile, then looked away, the smile disappearing. Jerome tugged on the sunglasses, frowning as the lenses strained his eyes – they must’ve been prescription sunglasses. Then he started to read the copy of the Volkischer Beobachter he had brought with him.
The Gestapo officers reached Ben and Jerome, and stared intently at their faces. Jerome glanced up momentarily, but kept his face at an angle that would’ve made it difficult for the officer to identify him.
“Gutenmorgen, mein Herren,” the officer greeted politely, and with a smile. “I am with the Geheime Staatspolizei, and I wondered if you could help me.”
“Yeah, sure,” Ben said.
“Can you tell me whether you have seen the man in this photograph?” He showed them the eight-by-ten print he was holding. It was a photograph of Jerome, when he had black hair and his goatee beard and moustache. It was only then that Jerome realized how different he looked now.
But still his heart pounded in his chest almost so loud that he feared the German would hear it.
“No, never seen him,” Ben answered. The officer looked at Jerome questioningly.
Jerome shook his head and said, “No, sorry, his face doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Never mind. Thank you for your time, mein Herren,” the officer said, and moved along to the next row.
Ten minutes later, the coach was back on the autobahn, and travelling north. And within a few minutes, Jerome’s rapid heartbeat had slowed sufficiently to allow him to drop off to sleep once more.
He didn’t wake until they were near the Scottish border. And then they had to go through another security check. This one, however, was easier than the first – there were no Gestapo officers.
Jerome settled back and slept the rest of the way.
Strangely, it was the best sleep he’d had in days.
55
Two weeks after the purge that had seen so many of Combat UK’s numbers arrested and executed, along with scores of innocent civilians, SS-Standartenführer Rauter went to the SS-Oberstgruppenführer’s office in the Polizeipräsidium to deliver a report.
Röhm sat behind his desk, his piercing blue eyes staring at Rauter as the junior officer entered. He leaned back in his chair.
“Ah, Herr Standartenführer what news have you for me?”
“Heil Führer,” Rauter said. Röhm muttered the reply. “Herr Oberstgruppenführer, it is my duty to inform you of the state of the operation.”
“I take it no attempts have been made on the lives of any of the collaborators mentioned by Otto Günther?”
“No, mein Herr.”
“Any suspicious activity at all?”
“None, mein Herr.”
Röhm looked skywards and sighed, resting his chin in his hands. “Well, Herr Standartenführer, it appears as though we have wasted enough man-hours on this futile operation. It is not proving to be as … fruitful as we had at first presumed. Inform the targets that their lives have been threatened, and that they are to report, immediately, any suspicious activity to your office. Do not tell them that we have had their homes under surveillance. And call your men in.”
“Certainly, mein Herr.”
“That will be all.”
Rauter saluted and left the office.
Röhm picked up his telephone and dialled the Reichsstatthalter’s number. He was put through to the Governor’s secretary, who put him directly through to Klarsfeld.
“What is it, Werner?”
“I have received word from my men,” Röhm said. “It appears that no attempts have been made on the lives of the named collaborators.”
“Well, let us be grateful for small mercies.”
“I am of the belief that we have scared the terrorists off,” Röhm said. “I have recalled my men. There is no need for them to watch the targets anymore.”
“That is your decision, Werner.”
“Have you heard any further news from Germania?”
“Nothing,” answered Klarsfeld. “As far as I am aware, the Führer is still to be expected at the end of this month.”
“I do not like this, Erich.”
“But I thought you had managed to cripple Combat UK?”
“Perhaps I have,” Röhm said, “and perhaps that is why they have not attacked the collaborators. Perhaps we have executed all of their gunmen. But I doubt it. No, we have dealt them a cruel blow, but they are far from finished.”
“Perhaps you should gather some more suspects.”
“There are no more – at present.”
“None?”
“We have exhausted current intelligent sources – we are seeking out new sources, but so far, we have uncovered nothing of significance.”
“So you must wait?”
“That is it. But for how long, I do not know. And that concerns me.”
“A plot to assassinate the Führer would require a lot of planning, Werner, and so far, Combat UK have no idea that he is coming to England. By the time they do know, it will be too late. It is the crazies you should be concerning yourself with – those groups known to use suicide bombers.”
“The English Reds have used two suicide bombers, and the Royalist Freedom Fighters have used one,” Röhm said, “but the last time either of them struck in such a way was more than twenty years ago. People do not want to die for their cause anymore.”
“Well, I cannot see Combat UK succeeding.”
“Maybe not. But we will be doing our utmost to gather further intelligence prior to the Führer’s visit. Even if we have a handful of suspects, we will take them in. I want to minimize the threat from terrorists.”
“From all terrorists, Werner,” Klarsfeld said, “and that includes the small groups.”
“I think I may have told you before, Erich, to leave the security of the State up to me.”
“And I said you were quite welcome to the responsibility,” snapped Klarsfeld. “but it is my duty to maintain a healthy government in this State, and it is difficult to do that when your men are rounding up innocent civilians and killing them.”
“Erich, such things are perhaps regrettable, but they are necessary. I am not killing English men and wom
en simply for the sake of it. There are reasons behind such executions, as well you know.”
“All I know, Werner, is that I have the English People’s Representative calling my office on a daily basis to complain about the mistreatment of English people.”
“That man is an idiot. He is of no concern.”
“Not to you, maybe.”
“His position, Erich, is purely for decoration,” Röhm said. “We do not kowtow to such imbeciles. This is a German State, and as such, it will be governed in accordance with German law. And German law stipulates that the Schutzstaffel shall use whatever methods it deems necessary to maintain a level of security–”
“I do not need a lesson in German law, Werner.”
“And I do not need a lesson in diplomacy.”
“Then let us agree to differ … again.”
“Is that not what we always do lately, Erich?” Röhm said wearily. “When did you turn so moderate? Anyway, I cannot stay chatting to you all day. I have important business to be getting on with. I thought you might like to know how the operation was going.”
“And now I do.”
“Sure. And if you have any further news about the Führer’s visit …”
“I will be sure to let you know,” Klarsfeld said.
Their conversation over, Röhm replaced the handset and then ran his hands through his short, fair hair.
They had stopped the terrorists from murdering collaborators. All they had to do now was ensure that the Führer would not be molested during his visit to the DSvG.
That, he knew, was going to be infinitely more difficult.
And if he failed, he feared he might end up the same as the Combat UK terrorists had, with his head severed from his shoulders.
56
Jerome looked out across the fields that surrounded the farm, and to the hills in the near distance. From those hills, men and women watched the farm, watched the skies, watched the surrounding roads. Nobody got within fifteen miles of the farm without those people knowing about it.
And if anybody did get close to the farm, those staying there had to quickly hide in the basement, which was a hundred metres below the surface. Over the last fortnight, Jerome and the other current residents of the farm only had to use the basement during the day once. However, they spent their nights in tiny rooms down in the basement.
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