die Stunde X

by Shaun Stafford

  He turned to Smithers and smiled. “Open Sesame.”

  Keitel handed him a torch.

  Loritz shone it down the hole, and then nodded his head. “Aha. A ladder. I wonder where it leads? To Hell, perhaps?” He turned and smiled at Smithers again. “I wonder how far down it goes. I do not suppose you are going to tell me, are you?”

  Smithers remained silent.

  “Well,” Loritz huffed, “we’ll find out the hard way.”

  Keitel kicked him to the ground, and dragged him to the hole, which was now just over two feet in diameter. He pushed Smithers through it headfirst. Smithers cried out in terror. The cry continued for a second or two, before it was silenced by a heavy, cracking thud.

  Loritz shone the torch downwards. The light coloured dressing gown could be seen down the hole. He turned to Keitel.

  “Down the hole,” he ordered. “And kill anybody you find down there.”

  Keitel went down the hole first, followed by the other two Gestapo officers. Loritz went out into the bar and fixed himself a gin. Five minutes later, Keitel returned with a bundle of papers. He handed them to Loritz, who read them with interest.

  “These are addresses,” he said, a gleam in his eye. “Good work, Keitel. Very good work.”

  Loritz smiled.

  Addresses. No doubt they belonged to either members of Combat UK or sympathizers – or even safe houses. Loritz didn’t care. He was about to be remembered as the man who cracked Combat UK.

  73

  Röhm put down the telephone receiver and let out a deep sigh. The news from SS-Standartenführer Rauter, of the Gestapo, had been good. Excellent, perhaps, would’ve been a better adjective. It would see an end to the English plot to assassinate the Führer, and also a possible end to Combat UK.

  Röhm would be well-remembered, and well-praised by the Führer.

  The problem was, it looked as though the Führer wouldn’t be around to remember and praise him. There were those in office in Germania who wanted to oust the Führer. And they might not take too kindly to Röhm’s plans to scupper an attempt on the Führer’s life.

  So Röhm had to decide which side of the fence to stand on. Whether to side with the Führer, who was facing a crisis, and whose future policies Röhm did not necessarily agree with, or the Vizeführer, who was prepared to instigate an illegal Putsch to seize power.

  It was, on reflection, an easy decision for a man of Röhm’s character. A man who did everything by the book, who considered nobody in the Reich to be more important than the Führer himself. He would gladly lay down his life for the Führer.

  Yet the Führer was about to end the fifty years of German world superiority.

  And Röhm didn’t like that.

  So it complicated the decision.

  But Röhm’s mind was resolute on the one most salient fact – the Führer’s word was final. Eine Volk, Eine Reich, Eine Führer.

  And so it was the Führer with whom Röhm sided.

  He made his way to the Amtssitz, where the Führer was staying, along with the man who was in charge of the Führer’s security during von Stauffenberg’s absence. An absence, Röhm thought, that was becoming increasingly worrying as every hour passed.

  SS-Oberführer Scholl, of the Waffen-SS, was as concerned as Röhm about the Reichsführer-SS’s absence. But there was little they could do about it. After listening to Röhm’s news, Scholl immediately altered the Führer’s itinerary, and erased the first appointment of the day.

  “We will be arresting the terrorists at the hotel,” explained Röhm. “Early tomorrow morning. We want to be sure that they have the weapons with them. For that purpose, we will be continuing as if the Führer were still planning to visit the hospital.”

  Scholl nodded his head. “Yes, of course.”

  “But I am concerned, Herr Oberführer, that my own life might be in danger.”

  “There is no cause for concern, Herr Oberstgruppenführer,” assured Scholl. “The Vizeführer’s treacherous plot can only unfold if the Führer is assassinated in England. And he will not be. We will get the Führer safely back to Germania, together with some loyal, untainted Waffen-SS troops from here, and then the Vizeführer and his mutinous pigs from the Leibstandarte-SS Führer will be rounded up and executed.”

  “But you understand my concern?”

  “Certainly. Even the Reichsführer-SS expressed concerns of the same nature.”

  “But he still returned to Germania.”

  “He felt he had to. Of course, I expect the Reichsführer-SS to return shortly, but–”

  “Have you not tried to contact him?”

  “Of course,” Scholl replied rather impatiently. “There has been no answer on his personal phone, nor his cellular phone, and the secretaries at the Reichstaghalle tell me that neither the Reichsführer-SS nor the Vizeführer are available.”

  “It must be frustrating for you.”

  “It is,” Scholl admitted. “But we are here to do a job. And I intend to ensure that job gets done. The Vizeführer will not get away with his crimes.”

  Röhm, as he left the Amtssitz, was not so certain. The Führer was due to stay in England for the next three days, before returning to Germania. During that time, the Vizeführer could have his own assassin tracking the Führer. Or the Führer’s aircraft could “crash” on the return journey.

  And if the Führer was killed, Röhm would be seen as an enemy of the new regime.

  And he would be dealt with accordingly.

  Probably just as the Reichsführer-SS had already been dealt with.

  Röhm silently cursed as he was driven to his house.

  He was helpless. He didn’t know which way to turn. The decision he took now would affect his future. Either way could lead to his own demise.

  Röhm closed his eyes and rubbed them.

  The next few days would be crucial.

  74

  Jerome slept soundly that night, with thoughts of Maggie filling his dreams. They got married. They danced in the discos in New York, they sang along to the American rock songs, they walked through Central Park, they travelled to the top of the Empire State Building, they looked at the magnificent Statue of Liberty, given to the US by France, before the Germans controlled Europe. Before the Second World War.

  Before the oppression.

  He saw his father, pleading with the Gestapo officer to let him go. He saw his father in a courtroom, with a Hitler look-alike passing sentence – the death penalty. He saw the guillotine, the preferred method of execution. He saw his father’s head being severed from the body. He saw the decapitated corpse in the funeral directors, he saw the dead security guard …

  He woke up with a start, the sweat pouring from his body. He had fallen asleep with his clothes on – his jeans, his shirt, his socks. He was boiling hot. He was slightly hung-over, thirsty and dehydrated. He reached across to the bedside cabinet, found a glass of warm water, and drank it down.

  He glanced at the alarm clock, saw that it was eight-thirty. Ben had said he would be knocking for him at nine. That gave him half an hour. Jerome pulled himself to his feet, dragged himself wearily to the bathroom.

  He washed the sweat from his face, peeled off his stinking, sweaty shirt, soaked his armpits, and then stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, above which there was a window. Still hot, he reached up, opened it, and the sounds of the street outside filtered through. Footsteps, the occasional passing car, dogs barking. It was fairly quiet, really, but then the hotel was positioned away from London’s busy main streets.

  He dried his red face, brushed his teeth, scrubbing violently to rub the horrid taste from his mouth. As he turned off the tap, he heard the sound of car engines outside. Car engines and diesel engines. Then he heard shouts. Shouts in German.

  Jerome swore under his breath as he grabbed his shirt, pulled it on, and rushed quickly from the bathroom. He stepped quickly across to the window, yanked open the curtains and stared down at the street below.

>   There, his worst fears were confirmed.

  He saw the green Ordnungspolizei vans. Worse than that, he saw the black BMWs that belonged to the Gestapo, red lights flashing on their roofs.

  They had come to the hotel.

  He grabbed his jacket from behind the door, and pulled it on. He rushed to the wardrobe, yanked open the doors, threw out a pile of towels that were on the wardrobe’s floor, and revealed a small MP5K, the miniature version of the German submachine-gun favoured by the Schutzstaffel forces. He pulled back the cocking lever, clicking a 9mm round into the chamber, and flicked off the safety catch.

  The weapon was ready to fire, but only in single shots. The magazine, of which the weapon possessed two, clipped side by side, one inserted into the gun, held just fifteen rounds. On fully automatic, the weapon would empty the magazine in less than a fraction of a second. On semi-automatic, each pull of the trigger fired just one round, and that was preferable to Jerome.

  Nevertheless, he grabbed three more magazines, and stuffed them in his jacket pockets. He rushed to the door, pulled it open, peered out into the corridor. It was empty. But if the Gestapo were coming into the hotel, it wouldn’t remain empty for long.

  He stepped across the corridor, knocked on Ben’s door. There was no answer. He knocked louder, but still there was no answer. Frowning, he tried the handle. It was locked.

  “Ben?” He rattled the door, banging loudly on it. “Ben?” Up the corridor, another hotel door opened, and a fat German, wearing only a bathrobe, peered out, his bright red face contrasting with his brilliant blond hair.

  “Was tun Sie dort?” he asked.

  Jerome turned to him, raised the MP5K, and shouted angrily in German, “Mach es dir selber!” The German, upon hearing the crude statement and seeing the gun, backed into his room and closed the door.

  Jerome banged on Ben’s door again, but he was beginning to realize that Ben wasn’t there. Probably he was out on one of his walkabouts. He looked at his watch. Almost ten-to-nine. If he was out on a walk, surely he would be back at any time now? In which case he would see the SS activity for himself.

  He heard the footsteps from the other end of the corridor, where the stairs were, and turned to look. People were coming. He couldn’t see them yet, but he could hear them, shouting in German as they rushed up the stairs.

  Jerome started to run along the corridor in the other direction. He was almost at the end when he heard somebody shout, “Halt!” Turning, he let loose with the MP5K, firing five rounds in quick succession.

  He heard the shouts behind him, and rolled to the ground, crawling the last few feet to the corner at the end of the corridor.

  The Germans opened fire with their MP5s – they were set on automatic, and their 9mm rounds crawled their way up the carpet towards him. As he pulled himself around the corner, a round caught him in the foot, flicking his leg forward, and it was only then that he realized he hadn’t put any footwear on.

  As he hauled himself fully around the corner, he glanced down at his throbbing foot, saw the large wound – blood, muscle, bone, all protruding from a hole in the top of his foot perhaps two inches in diameter. Cursing and wincing, he looked away. The Germans were still shooting, their bullets harmlessly hitting the wall opposite Jerome.

  Then they stopped.

  “Jerome Varley!” a German shouted. “This is the Geheime Staatspolizei. You are under arrest. Throw your weapon out.”

  Jerome answered by cocking out his head, taking careful aim, and blowing away one of the Germans with a perfect double-tap shot. The Germans responded with more firepower than Jerome had ever seen in his life. There were probably fifteen Gestapo officers at the other end of the corridor, and it seemed as though each of them had emptied a thirty-round box into the corridor wall opposite Jerome.

  Naturally, all their rounds had missed their intended target.

  Jerome looked around and could see one route of escape for him to his left – the building’s fire escape. But surely, he thought, they would have that covered. They might even be making their way up it right now.

  With that thought in mind, escape seemed to be even more urgent. But there seemed to be no way out. To his right, on the other side of the corridor, was another doorway, marked PRIVATE. As far as Jerome could see, he had no other option but to try it. It had to be an improvement on his current situation.

  He tried to stand, but his foot wouldn’t allow it. He used the gun to prop himself up, but that was too short. He finally got onto one foot, his good foot, and looked across the corridor to the door. He would have to run eight feet or so to reach the other side, and during that time, he would be exposed to the Gestapo’s fire.

  The best thing for him to do would be to draw their fire and get them to empty their weapons, and then, as they reloaded, rush across the corridor. But then, he was relying upon them all emptying their weapons at the same time. Plus, he was now crippled with his foot injury.

  All the same, it was the only option open to him.

  He checked his magazine – he still had a few rounds left. So he looked around the corner, took aim, and squeezed off a couple of shots. He caught one of the Germans in the chest, and barely had time to withdraw his head before they returned fire, tearing out chunks of the wall where his head, seconds before, had been.

  Blinking the plaster dust from his eyes, he waited for the Germans to cease fire. Seconds later, they did, and he immediately started to rush across the corridor. Plainly, he realized as he was halfway across, they hadn’t emptied their weapons.

  Nine millimetre rounds hit the ground and wall around him, and he was certain he’d be hit, so he dived the remaining three feet to safety. He didn’t pull his legs around the wall fast enough, and they were both hit by 9mm rounds. Yelping in agony, he dragged them around the wall, leaving behind a trail of blood on the carpet.

  He daren’t look at the damage to his legs. He felt that if he did, he might just give up there and then. Instead, he lay on the carpet gasping, trying to gather his senses which had been all but blown away by the shock of being shot in the legs more than half a dozen times.

  He tried to crawl, but his legs wouldn’t move. They hurt like hell, and wouldn’t obey his commands. He tried to drag himself along the carpet on his elbows, but it made his legs hurt more.

  But he knew he had to. He was so exposed where he was. And it wouldn’t take the Germans long to realize that he was wounded – badly wounded. He took a deep breath and started to haul himself along the carpet, closing his eyes as he exerted himself. He reached the door marked PRIVATE, and realized that he now faced another dilemma. The door handle was two feet above his head. He’d have to get onto his knees at least to reach it.

  He put down the gun and tried to pull himself up. The agonizing pain in his legs stopped him, and he flopped back down onto the ground. Behind him, he could hear the Germans, barking orders in their own language. They weren’t talking to him anymore. He wasn’t worth talking to. They knew that they had him. Like a cornered rat. And like all cornered rats, he was going to go out with all guns blazing.

  He managed to sit up with his back against the door and grabbed his gun. He fumbled in his pocket for a thirty-round magazine, and took the two fifteen-round clips from the weapon. He slid the new clip into place, and flicked the weapon onto fully-automatic fire.

  As he did so, he saw the fire exit door at the other end of the corridor open, and a number of Orpo officers entered. Quickly, he opened fire, catching the first three of them in their chests, blowing them to the ground, before his gun was empty. He yanked the dry clip from the gun and stuck in a fresh one. As he pulled back the cocking lever, more Orpo officers entered, and they opened fire.

  The rounds slammed into the door around him, each one causing the door to shudder. It took Jerome a few moments to realize that he’d been hit, that the bullets weren’t just hitting the door – they were passing through him first before slamming into the wood behind him.

  He
gasped when he saw the blood splashing up as more rounds pummelled into him. The gun dropped from his hands, and he flopped over onto his side. More bullets hit him, and he vaguely heard a female voice screaming, “Feuerpause! Feuerpause!” The Orpo officers obeyed, and their guns fell silent.

  Jerome gasped, passed out.

  He came to seconds later, and thought he was already in heaven.

  Ellen stood over him. As his blurred vision cleared, he realized she was wearing a flak jacket and was holding a gun. It was aimed at his head.

  Ellen said, “Hello, Jerome.”

  “Ellen …” The word came out all wrong, sounded like a hoarse gasp. Blood spewed from his lips. But thankfully, there was little pain. It was as though all of his senses had been numbed. He blinked, tried to clear some of the blood from his eyes.

  “Where is Fabian?”

  Jerome grunted. Why was Ellen asking such a senseless question? What was she doing here, more to the point? He looked at her, saw the gun again. He saw the identification card clipped to the front of the flak jacket. He saw the Hakenkreuz on the laminated card, saw Ellen’s photograph. He saw the legend underneath the photograph – Geheime Staatspolizei. Gestapo.

  His mind was confused. What the hell was he thinking? Ellen, a Gestapo officer? He tried to lift up a hand, but it wouldn’t move.

  “Ellen,” he gasped hoarsely. “Gestapo?”

  “SS-Unterscharführer Brauchitsch,” explained Ellen, “Geheime Staatspolizei. You are under arrest for treason and acts of terrorism–”

  “Ellen …”

  “Where is Ben Fabian?” snapped Ellen. Jerome thought he could see the tears in her eyes. “You stupid bastard! Where is Ben Fabian?”

  Realizing this was no dream, no nightmare, Jerome used all his effort to snarl, “I don’t know, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you, you fucking bitch!” Ellen got down to her knees and moved her face closer to his.