The last stop before Jena was Zöllnitz, a small village just outside the city, where they were accommodated in a warehouse. The owner of the warehouse was a woman of about thirty, Gerda Busch, tall and with a strapping physique. She was often to be seen carrying and stacking boxes and crates. She wore very short corduroy pants and would be stripped to her blouse with her sleeves rolled up, displaying sturdy bronze legs and forearms with a muscularity that many a man would have been proud of. However, her brown hair and hazel eyes prevented her from being the female German ‘ideal’. She had two assistants, young men, pleasant enough but not very communicative. All three of them were clearly ‘in the know’. Manteufel did his usual bonhomie act, which seemed to be having little effect on the men, however the woman took a particular interest in Horst, often seeking him out and engaging him in conversation.
On the day of their arrival, she explained that her brother Wilhelm owned the haulage company, a sub-contractor of the Carl Zeiss organisation, that would be providing the transport for the next leg of their journey. She would travel to see him that afternoon to confirm details. When she returned a few hours later, she brought the news that there would be a delay of several days while they waited for suitable transport. It was not just a matter of a vehicle going in the right direction, but it also had to be the ‘right’ driver.
However, their time was not wasted. Gerda provided them each with a dustcoat and set them to work in what turned out to be a busy warehouse. All day vehicles were coming and going, some delivering, others loading up. It was with some relief, after their first full day, when they were able to climb to the mezzanine floor which served as the temporary depository for small packages and also as their bedroom—complete with bunks, a small table and two chairs—hidden behind stacks of boxes.
They were just pulling off their boots when Gerda appeared at the top of the stairs. She was carrying a huge tray on which balanced a tureen of what turned out to be a delicious goulash, a loaf of bread, three plates, cutlery and a serving ladle. Having deposited the tray on the floor alongside the table, there being insufficient room on the table, she removed the small bergen she was carrying on her back. With a huge smile, she opened it and produced six bottles of Pils and a bottle opener. Taking out one of the bottles, she held it against Horst’s cheek, who gave a sigh of ecstasy. Ice cold!
As they ate their food, the two men at the table, Gerda sitting on the floor, Kelly observed the woman carefully. There was something appealing about her. She sat cross-legged eating her food and drinking her beer from the bottle, now and again tearing huge chunks from the bread, and chatting to them as if they were old friends. She reminded Kelly of a squaddie on exercise on Lüneburg Heath, talking with his mates, eating his scran and having a crafty sneck-lifter when the sergeant major wasn’t watching. Her conversation was mainly directed at Horst, though she was careful to include Kelly. He concluded that here was a tough lady with a heart of gold, but lonely. He felt sure that one day she would make some lucky man a loving wife, and some fortunate child a wonderful mother—always providing her association with the Thule Society didn’t bring it all crashing down around her feet.
On the fourth afternoon after their arrival, activity in the warehouse had slowed and they were quiet for a while. Gerda and Horst sat on a packing case together, sipping coffee, when Gerda, espying Kelly sorting shelves across the warehouse and perhaps feeling a little guilty, called to him.
“Herr Novak! Dragan! Come and have a rest, grab a coffee.”
Kelly turned, smiling, and was about to comply when something on Horst’s face stopped him. What’s he up to? he thought. “I’ll just finish off here and then I’ll take a break, thanks.”
The two on the packing case continued their conversation. Gerda was telling Horst about some of the characters who had come down the line, and Horst was desperate not to have her train of thought interrupted.
“So, who was the last one before Novak?” Horst asked innocently, nodding his head towards Kelly who was again busily engaged in sorting out shelves.
“Oh, Horst, he was the main man, the number one!”
“You mean the Führer?” asked Horst, his voice hushed, the excitement and surprise genuine.
“No, silly!” said Gerda, slapping him playfully on the shoulder. “Willy says the Führer couldn’t come down the line, he would be recognised before he had covered ten kilometres. Willy says that if the Führer escaped from the bunker, it would have had to be by plane.” The ‘Willy’ Gerda referred to was her brother Wilhelm, whom Kelly believed to be a fairly senior figure in the Thule.
Well, he should know, thought Horst. “So, who was this mysterious number one?”
Gerda laughed. “Dying to know, are we?” she asked.
She was teasing him, but Horst didn’t mind. Little mind games like this often led to more being said than was intended.
“I am now!” he said, smiling. “Ten minutes ago, I couldn’t have cared less.”
“He was a policeman,” she said conspiratorially.
Horst’s pulse quickened, but outwardly he remained calm and displayed surprise and puzzlement. “A policeman?” he queried. “Why would a policeman come down the line? Both the East and the West are crying out for ex-policemen, he could have secured a really good job either side of the partition.”
“Yes, but this one was a special sort of policeman,” said Gerda. She then silently mouthed the single word, “GE-STA-PO!”
Horst set his face grim and nodded knowingly. Putting his hands around his neck, he imitated the act of hanging.
“Exactly!” said Gerda nodding, “And not just any Gestapo, this was the top man!”
“Don’t tell me!” said Horst, dropping his head into his hands. “I’ve heard of him, let me think … I’ve got it … hold on, Müller, isn’t it? Eric Müller!”
“Almost,” said Gerda looking smug. “Heinrich Müller.”
Horst pulled a distasteful face. “To be honest, Gerda, I never liked the Gestapo, but he was one of ours, so we have to look after him, I suppose.”
“I’m with you there, Horst, I have never met a man who frightened me before, but he did. I told Willy that he smelled of evil, but he just laughed at me and said that the only thing he smelled of was soap. I tried to explain that it wasn’t a physical smell, it was just that every time I was anywhere near him, my skin crawled.”
“I’ve never met the man, fortunately,” Manteufel lied, “but if his reputation is anything to go by, he’s an evil man, so I can understand your reaction. I assume everyone did their duty and he made it to Argentina or wherever?”
“Well, that’s just the thing. Usually, Willy lets me know what the final outcome is, but this time he confirmed that he had reached Austria and after that, he said he couldn’t say what had happened. I wasn’t sure if that meant that he didn’t know, or if he couldn’t tell me for reasons of secrecy. I couldn’t get anything out of him. I don’t think he went across the water, Horst, I think he is still in Austria or Italy.”
“Very strange,” said Horst.
The conversation then drifted on to what a woman should wear for the upcoming festival. Horst assured her that whatever she wore, she would easily be the best-looking woman there. It wasn’t entirely just flattery. He immediately received another slap on the shoulder from a very embarrassed Gerda, which nearly knocked him off the crate.
For the rest of the afternoon shift, Horst was burning with impatience to impart his news to Kelly, but an opportunity never arose. It wasn’t until after their evening meal, when Gerda had departed with the empty dishes and bottles, that they were alone together. Kelly stooped and picked up an empty bottle she had missed and placed it on the table.
“Do you know what they call that in the Royal Marines?” he asked, pointing at the bottle.
Horst pretended total puzzlement. “Hang on, don’t tell me, let me guess, er, um, an empty bottle?” he hazarded.
“No! It’s called a dead marine.”
“Because it’s no longer any effing use!”
Horst shook his head and looked sorrowful. “You are a sick man, Dan Kelly, remind me to get help for you when we get back.”
“I will,” Kelly said laughing. After a short lull, he said, “Horst, you’re not getting a little too close to Gerda, are you?”
Horst looked at him with an expression which said, why am I sitting here with the village idiot?
“Sorry, Horst, stupid of me. Forget I even asked.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Horst, “she’s a fine woman, it’s just that, well, she talks too much.” He spoke in a monotone with a deadpan face, then slowly turned his head towards Kelly, displaying a wide grin and a twinkle in his eye.
“You German dog!” exclaimed Kelly. “You’ve got something! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I haven’t had an opportunity until now. Müller came through here!” Horst related the conversation he had had with Gerda.
“At least we know we are on the right track. Even more important to get into Austria now,” said Kelly.
A little later Gerda climbed into the mezzanine, looking rather sad but trying to smile. “It’s on! Tomorrow a truck will come to the yard at five in the morning. Be ready.”
She moved towards Kelly and embraced him. “I will miss you two reprobates.” She then turned her attention to Horst. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him considerably longer.
After Gerda had left, they began to prepare themselves to bed down for the night. Horst suddenly said, “I really do like Gerda, she’s a special person. I so hope she finds what she is searching for.”
“Me too, Horst,” said Kelly, “me too.”
Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny
At 5 a.m. sharp, a Tatra T111 swung in through the big double gates of the warehouse compound. Gerda, who had been waiting with Kelly and Manteufel, had run down and opened them as soon as she had heard the growl of the approaching vehicle in the distance. The driver swung his lorry in a sharp curve then expertly backed into the warehouse. Jumping down from the cab, he barked a morning greeting before opening the back doors of the vehicle and extracting a long crate from the base of the load, which left the other packages undisturbed. Leaning into the space created, the driver pulled out another similar package, creating, in effect, a long tunnel.
Looking around, he greeted each of his passengers briefly with a shake of the hand, then pointing to the tunnel, he said, “Crawl down there. When you come to a package blocking your way, push it to the right, do you understand? There is space there for it to slot in. You will then come to a cavity in which you will be able to sit upright or lie down, whichever you prefer, and there are two mattresses to absorb the road bumps. There are also bottles of water, and don’t worry, there is plenty of ventilation. Our first stop will be at the DDR border between Eisfeld and Rottenbach. If you value your lives, don’t make a sound. We usually get through quite quickly as we use the route regularly. After that we are in the BRD, heading for Nuremberg, where I know of a quiet truck stop in the forest. You can get out there to stretch your legs and eat your lunch. We then travel down to Munich where there is a safe warehouse similar to this. That will be our overnight stop. Tomorrow morning it will be non-stop to Salzburg. Is all clear? Good! Climb in and we’ll get going.”
As they moved towards the vehicle, they were intercepted by Gerda who thrust a packed lunch into each of their hands. She embraced Kelly and kissed him on the cheek. Moving to Horst, she held him close and kissed him fully on the lips.
“Try to come back this way, Horst, will you?”
“I’ll try, but it depends on what my next job is,” replied Horst, already hating himself for the lie.
Kissing her again, he moved to the lorry and crawled into the tunnel, followed by Kelly. The driver replaced the packages then swung the doors closed. As the vehicle turned right out of the compound, Gerda walked slowly and sorrowfully down to the gates. No point in locking them; she would have to open them again in a couple of hours. She watched as the taillights of the carrier faded into nothing before turning back towards the warehouse. Gerda knew in her heart that she would never see Horst Manteufel again.
* * *
Kelly sensed their approach to the border. It was slow stop-start for a while until they finally stopped and the engine was switched off. Kelly heard voices.
“Papers!” A pause. “Company?”
“Spedition Busch, carrying for Carl Zeiss, Jena.”
“Cargo?”
“Optical equipment, medical equipment, medical supplies.”
“Step down and open up the back.”
Kelly heard the driver’s door open and slam closed again, then steps as the driver and guard walked to the rear of the vehicle. The rear door opened and there was the sound of someone rummaging.
“How do you tell what’s in this package?”
“See that number in the corner of the despatch label? If I go to my sheets in the cab, I can look up that number and it will tell me exactly what is in that package. You can open one if you want, but my boss says I must get a signed inspection form if you do, otherwise I’m in real trouble. You see, it’s sterile equipment. Once opened, it has to be thrown away.”
“That won’t be necessary. Drive on!”
* * *
Manteufel and Kelly sat on opposite sides of a wooden bench in a turn-off from the main road in the Feuchter Forst, a large forest east of Nuremberg. The driver sat on another bench a little way off. Kelly was examining his packed lunch—a thick layer of German smoked cheese between two slices of black bread neatly cut into two, and an apple. He removed the fruit and looked at it in distaste. Manteufel, who was at that very moment biting into his own apple, stopped and removed it from his mouth, examining it carefully.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked, apprehensive in case he had missed something.
“I don’t like them,” said Kelly. “Well, that’s not strictly true. I quite like the taste, but they give me gas, terrible gas.”
Manteufel’s face was immobile for a moment then he screwed it up. “Gas! In a confined space! Here, give me that quickly, I don’t know what Gerda was thinking, giving you an apple. Apples in packed lunches should be illegal. Here, have half a cheese sandwich in exchange.”
Kelly laughed as he accepted the exchange and happily bit into his sandwich. Kelly liked German cheese, but he still felt that no country made cheese quite like Britain. For a sandwich, Cheddar was hard to beat, and for an after-dinner cheese, what could come near Stilton?
After their picnic lunch they made use of the primitive facilities in the truck stop, then prepared to board again. The driver looked around, carefully checking that they were not observed, then removed the packages that formed the tunnel to allow the two to crawl down to their hidden den.
The gentle rocking of the big truck was very relaxing. The Tatra T111 was a very reliable Czechoslovakian-built truck with a massive V12 engine, but could only cruise at around forty to fifty miles per hour—definitely not a vehicle for those in a hurry—so their journey was of necessity slow. Manteufel quickly succumbed to the rhythmic swaying, but Kelly was too preoccupied with the riddle of the disappearing policeman to sleep. Eventually, however, he gave in and allowed his eyes to close.
A change in the sound of the vehicle and a number of gear changes roused them both from their nap. It must mean that they were now navigating in a built-up area. A glance at his watch told Manteufel that it was three and a half hours since they had left Nuremberg, so this must be Munich.
The vehicle seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time travelling slowly, surrounded by other vehicles, before they picked up speed again. They cruised for another ten minutes or so before they slowed and eventually turned sharply before stopping. Voices could be heard above the engine noise and, after a brief conversation between the driver and another pers
on, they moved a short distance and stopped again. The driver killed the engine, signalling that they had reached their overnight stop.
When Kelly and Manteufel alighted from the vehicle, they found themselves in the compound of a warehouse not dissimilar to Gerda’s. The driver directed them into the warehouse where they were met by another suit who introduced himself as Sepp Hartmann. Manteufel was escorted away with the driver to ‘have a beer with the boys’, while Kelly was taken by Hartmann to a side office.
“Have a seat, Herr Novak. May I call you Dragan?”
“Of course,” said Kelly sitting.
Hartmann lounged in a tattered brown upholstered chair. “Please excuse the state of this office, it’s not mine,” he said, crossing his legs and resting his feet on the desk. “Call me Sepp, it’s my middle name. My first name is Maximillian, but I hate it. Half the men in Bavaria are called either Ludwig or Maximillian. What is this obsession Bavarian parents have in naming their poor innocent sons after long-forgotten kings? They weren’t exactly paragons to be respected—they were all mad, Dragan, completely mad. How embarrassing internationally to have your king declared insane by his own government! Ah well,” he sighed, “we all have a cross to bear. Could you use a beer?”
“I certainly could!” said Kelly smiling.
Hartmann sprang up and walked to the door. Opening it, he called, “Maxi! Any chance of a couple of cold Löwenbräu Pils, my friend?”
“See what I mean?” he asked as he returned to his chair. “Maxi. What did I say?” He raised his eyes to the ceiling.
After the beers had been delivered, Hartmann sat sipping his and looking rather contemplative. “Do you ever watch football, Dragan?”
Kelly thought quickly. I’d better be careful here, I’m not sure what this man is up to. He’s either a very accomplished interrogator or he’s as mad as one of his legendary kings.
Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2) Page 15