“Did your men discover, for instance, that the day Günther was photographed handing something to a terrorist, he had seen, and made copies of, the Führer’s itinerary for his visit to England?” Scholl asked.
Röhm’s jaw dropped, and he looked to the Reichsführer-SS as though for confirmation. Von Stauffenberg just stared impassively at him.
“Is this true?”
“I would not say it if it was not true, mein Herr,” assured Scholl.
“I think it is safe to suggest that the document Günther was seen handing to this terrorist was a copy of the Führer’s itinerary,” von Stauffenberg said. “Which means that the terrorists might have prior knowledge of the Führer’s visit to England, and also of the places he will be visiting. I think, Herr Oberstgruppenführer, that your men have been derelict in their duties. They have failed to follow the rules governing arrests. They have clearly taken short cuts, and so obviously enjoy torturing their captives, that they have shown a distinct lack of regard for procedures. And as a consequence, I will have to inform the Führer that it would be advisable to call off his visit. And under such circumstances, Herr Oberstgruppenführer, I am afraid that your name will have to be mentioned.” The colour was already draining from Röhm’s face. “In which case, it would be advisable to reprimand the officers responsible while you are still in a position to do so.”
“Mein Herr, I am devastated that this has happened. I had no idea. However, I cannot be responsible for the deficiency of my staff.”
“You are in charge of the English Schutzstaffel, Herr Oberstgruppenführer, and as such, it is your responsibility to employ men and women capable of carrying out their duties to a high standard. Clearly, the officers responsible for this reprehensible dereliction of duty were employed by you.”
“Mein Herr, I–”
“Enough,” snapped von Stauffenberg. “This blunder will be reported to the Führer. And I will seriously consider your position as the English SS-Oberstgruppenführer. I suggest you leave this office and sort your men out.”
“Heil Führer, mein Herr!” Röhm said as he stood up.
“Heil Führer.”
Von Stauffenberg watched Röhm leave the office. Scholl, who had been standing through the entire meeting, stepped up to his desk.
“Mein Herr, do you think the Führer will cancel his visit?”
“No, Scholl, I do not. But I am still obliged to report this … mistake. And I do not appreciate being the bearer of such bad tidings. Especially considering that the Führer is due to leave Germania tomorrow.” The Reichsführer-SS sighed and rubbed the side of this face. “Scholl, I think it would be prudent to check everything that the English Schutzstaffel have already checked. Let us consider it as though it were never checked in the first place. We seem to be surrounded by incompetents.”
“Yes, mein Herr.”
“I will call the Führer. Good work, Scholl. ”
“Yes, mein Herr. Heil Führer.”
“Heil Führer.”
Von Stauffenberg leant back in his chair as Scholl left the office. The Vizeführer had impressed upon von Stauffenberg that it was highly unlikely that the Führer would cancel his trip under any circumstances. The Führer was a stubborn man, but surely he was no fool.
The problem was, the Vizeführer certainly was a fool.
And von Stauffenberg had to speak to him first.
61
The hotel room was small, cheap, with a single bed in the centre above which hung, for some unknown reason, a cheap print of a view of the Lake District. To the right of the bed was a chest of drawers. To the left, a bedside cabinet, scratched and battered. At the foot of the bed and to the right was a wardrobe. Beside that was a TV stand on which stood a portable 12” colour television. The picture quality was poor, slightly green, and fuzzy.
Jerome’s room was identical to Ben’s, and he lay on the bed, fully dressed, waiting for his companion to knock on the door. It was just after nine, and Ben had said he would be knocking for him around that time. Ben’s room was on the opposite side of the corridor, and it would be from Ben’s room that the assassination attempt would be made. The Hospital the Führer was going to visit on May 1st could be seen from the window. A clear shot, nothing to obscure it. Jerome had doubted that a man-sized target could’ve been hit at eight-hundred metres, but Ben assured him it was possible. And Jerome had quickly learnt to believe it when Ben said something was possible.
Jerome thought about a lot of things as he lay on the bed. He had been thinking those thoughts all night, in fact. Thoughts of Ellen, of the girl he had been with for a whole year. Ellen, who was a German, and with whom he could not possibly have a stable relationship – not anymore. And whether it would ever have been possible for their relationship to blossom further, perhaps into marriage, was debatable. Her father was a friendly, unimposing man, but he was extremely wealthy. He was also a very protective father, and he would’ve undoubtedly wanted the best for his little girl. And a humble English factory worker could in no way be considered to be the best.
So his relationship with Ellen was already doomed from the start. And now he was being hunted by the Gestapo, it seemed to have absolutely no chance whatsoever of continuing.
And so Jerome thought about Maggie. He didn’t even know whether that was her real name, but he didn’t care. He was already in love with her. He already wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
But that might not be possible. He knew that. For one thing, if he and Ben were moved to the United States, it might not be possible for Maggie to move with them. Then again, Maggie might not want to move to the US.
Jerome had considered that.
But she had told him she loved him, and if that were true, surely she would want to spend the rest of her life with him, wherever that might take her. Surely?
Jerome tried not to think of Maggie for time being, because he had a niggling doubt as to whether he would ever see her again. Yet her beautiful face kept springing into his mind, time after time after time.
He sighed, closed his eyes, and thought about …
There was a knock at the door, and he sprang to his feet. He walked gingerly across the room, and rested a hand on the doorknob. “Who’s that?”
“It’s me,” Ben said impatiently. “Stop arsing about and let me in.”
Jerome unlocked and opened the door, and Ben stepped into the room.
“You’re a bit late,” Jerome told him, consulting his watch. Ben raised an eyebrow and then took a seat on the bed.
“Five minutes?”
“I thought you people worked to a strict schedule.”
“We both will, come May 1st,” assured Ben, “but until then, it’s business as usual, albeit in a shitty hotel.”
“You picked it.”
“For a reason.”
“Why didn’t we just move in the day before the assassination?”
“Tomorrow?” Ben asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’d be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it, seeing as how we’re already here. Besides, they might not have any vacancies tomorrow, or else the Gestapo will come in and stop them from taking anybody else in.”
“What happens if they do come in?”
“The Gestapo? Well, if they do, they’ll no doubt move me out of that room, seeing as how it’s got such a wonderful view of the hospital. In which case, I’ll just break in an hour before the Führer’s due.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t mean that. I meant what will we tell them? Why are we staying here?”
“We’re not using our real names anymore,” Ben told him, “and in your case, you’re no longer using the name Jed Visick.”
“We’re not?”
“No.” Ben had booked the two rooms, so Jerome didn’t know what names had been used. Ben fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a passbook and handed it to Jerome. “Here, I got them earlier.”
“You’ve been out?”
“Only down to reception. I already had a passbook, but you did
n’t. I had one made up for you in a different name.”
“Jesus.”
“So, we’re holidaying from York,” explained Ben. “We’re down here for the May Day festivities. Now, remember, don’t spin too complicated a yarn if they ask you questions. And don’t volunteer any information. If you read through that, you’ll see you work at the Volkswagen Autofabrik in York. So any technical questions about work, you should be able to answer.”
“But what if they check?”
“That passbook is in the name of John Brecon,” explained Ben. “Now, he’s a real bloke in York. He’s also a member of Combat UK. And for the purpose of our operation, he has taken the week off work and gone into hiding. So you’re here for a week, and you go back on Monday, May 2nd.”
“Right.”
“You have no children, you’re not married, and you have no distinguishing features. You have no parents, no brothers or sisters. You’re a bit of a loner. Should be easy for you to remember.”
“Sure.”
“I’m off out.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter where,” Ben said, standing up.
“I thought we were supposed to be partners?”
“Some things you don’t tell your partners, do you, Jerome?” Ben said as he went for the door. “Like Ellen?”
“Yeah, yeah. But what happens if–”
“If the worst comes to the worst, and I’m not back here by May 1st, you can presume that I won’t be back at all. In which case, you get to the HQ in the Pig and Whistle. Liam will sort you out. But I’ll be back,” Ben assured as he left the room.
Famous last words, thought Jerome.
Then he thought about Ellen.
He watched from the window of his hotel room as Ben left, and then pulled on his coat.
He too had to go out.
He had to see Ellen.
62
He had to enter the Krankenhaus Goebbels to find Ellen, because at nine-forty-five, she was still on duty. He had a rough idea whereabouts in the hospital she worked, because she had showed him one day, but all the same, he had problems finding the ward where Ellen was stationed.
And when he did, she wasn’t there.
He asked the ward sister, but she simply shrugged her shoulders. He said, “Well, is she at work today?”
The sister, large and overweight, with a face that was more masculine than his own, replied, “Who knows?”
The answer mystified Jerome. But he couldn’t make too much of a scene, because he was here under a false identity, and besides, perhaps somebody, one of Ellen’s colleagues, might recognize him. Perhaps she had shown them a photograph of him.
All the same, Jerome wanted to know where Ellen was, so he persisted. He asked the sister, “Could you find out where she might be, please?”
“When I have a moment,” the sister told him, disappearing into the ward – a German-Only ward.
Jerome, sighing deeply, and sweating profusely, left the ward’s entrance, and walked into the cafeteria of the hospital, which was just down the corridor. The cafeteria was crowded, but most of the people were visitors – relations and friends of the infirmed. He saw a few members of staff, but their numbers were insignificant.
Jerome paid for a coffee, and took a seat by the windows, which stretched from one wall to the other. All around him was a cacophony of noise; shouting children, shouting women, shouting men, each one vying to be heard. And most, if not all, was in German.
Jerome stirred his coffee, rested his head in his hands, and stared out of the window and across the garden that was in the courtyard of the hospital. The courtyard was a square, some hundred metres in either direction. A lawn occupied most of the space, and a flower bed bordered it. At the moment, it wasn’t too colourful, but Jerome had little doubt that, come summer, the flowers would be blooming. In the centre of the lawn was a statue in black marble of Doktor Joseph Goebbels, the first Nazi Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. His twisted, smug face stared down at Jerome, and his right hand, which was held aloft in Nazi salute, seemed to be raised in order to smite him.
Jerome shuddered. The flag that flapped on the pole beside the statue shook in the wind. All around him was Nazi propaganda. There was no escape. He tried to imagine an England without Nazi influence, an England that would’ve been if Germany hadn’t invaded more than fifty years ago, but he couldn’t.
He had no idea what freedom could be like, because he had never experienced it.
All he knew was Nazi control.
All he knew was the Nazi police state.
A hand rested on his shoulder and he spun his head around, thinking in that split second that his life was at an end. He stared into Ellen’s face, saw her frowning. Her nurse’s uniform was ruffled, as though she had only just pulled it on and hadn’t had the time to straighten it.
As he stared at Ellen’s face, he saw her beauty. In her own way, she was more beautiful than Maggie. It was a kind of natural beauty that effervesced all around her, even when her expression was black, as it was now. And he hadn’t often seen her expression black.
He smiled at her. “Ellen.”
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” she hissed, sitting down beside him, and looking around anxiously as the other patrons in the cafeteria.
“I had to see you.”
“The Gestapo have people in this hospital,” she told him.
“I didn’t know that.”
“You will have to leave.”
“I want to speak to you, Ellen, I have–”
“Not here,” snapped Ellen, looking around. She wore a smile that was plainly false to Jerome, but that hopefully looked perfectly normal to the scores of people in the canteen.
“Where?”
“Let us go for a walk,” Ellen said.
“You can’t just take the time off.”
“I can,” she assured him. “It is my lunch break.”
“A little early?”
“It is the way my shift pattern works,” she explained.
Outside the hospital, they walked for a few metres, seeming to head in no particular direction. It was Jerome who thought of a place to go – a place where he would feel safe.
He hailed a taxi, ushered Ellen inside, and told the taxi driver, “Take us to Frankfurt Boulevard, the Pig and Whistle.”
The German driver acknowledged him, and the taxi started to move.
“Why … why are we going there?”
“Where?”
“The Pig and Whistle.”
“You’ve heard of it?” Jerome asked, surprised.
But Ellen replied, “No. It sounds like a bar, that is all.”
“It is,” he answered quietly. “And I’ll feel safe there.”
Ellen nodded – she didn’t ask him why.
The taxi pulled up outside the Pig and Whistle some fifteen minutes later, after carving a path through the busy London traffic. The driver seemed to be an expert at such a task, and he made it look easy.
When Jerome paid him, he gave him a five Reichsmark tip. The driver smiled at him as they climbed from the car, and then the taxi was gone.
They stood outside the pub, which had been open for about an hour. A thought had just occurred to Jerome, and he was considering his next move. He should’ve thought about it sooner.
What if Ben was inside the pub? He hadn’t said where he was going, but it was conceivable that he might have gone to the pub.
It was too late to alter his plan. He took Ellen’s arm and led her into the Pig and Whistle.
The pub wasn’t particularly busy. Half a dozen punters stood at the bar, glasses in their hands. Jerome didn’t recognize them as members of Combat UK, but then he couldn’t possibly remember or know them all. But they didn’t look in his direction for more than a second or two – no piercing, accusing stares.
Jerome pointed to a table well away from the bar, and Ellen took a seat. Then he ordered a pint of lager and an orange ju
ice. He took the drinks to the table and sat down.
“Why do you feel safer here?” Ellen asked him as she sipped from her drink.
“Because …” Jerome paused, gave it some thought, before he said, “Because it’s English. Through and through.”
“And you like that?”
“I’m English, remember.”
“You are of English ethnicity,” Ellen corrected him. “You were born in a German State. That makes you German. We are all German.”
“Except, some of us are more German than others.”
“Did you drag me halfway across London to argue with me? Because if you did, then I’m wasting my–”
“No, I’m sorry,” he apologized, resting a hand on hers. He smiled – weakly. She could sense that he was going to tell her something she didn’t want to hear. He saw her tense up. “Listen, Ellen, me and you, we … we had some fun. We … well, I thought I’d fallen in love with you.”
“I love you,” Ellen told him.
“Yeah, but I realize now that it was just … infatuation. I didn’t really love you – I couldn’t. You’re a German.”
“What difference does that make?”
“It makes a lot of difference, Ellen. I could never have married you, you know that. Your father wouldn’t have allowed it for one thing.”
“I do not need my father’s permission.”
“Hear me out,” Jerome said, raising a hand. “That was before – this is now. Now, things are a hell of a lot different, aren’t they? You and me, we could hardly have a relationship, with me being wanted by the Gestapo.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying …” He looked skyward, as though for inspiration, but there was no god to help him. The Nazis had taught him that at school. “I’m saying that we should … should finish seeing each other.” He looked at Ellen. He had never before seen an expression on her face like the one she wore at that moment. A look of sheer hatred. It seemed to disintegrate as he stared at her, as though she didn’t want to show him her true emotions.
“We can still see each other. I do not mind–”
die Stunde X Page 27