by C. T. Wells
The pilot shivered, deciding he was better off moving. Somewhere on this wretched island would be a German garrison with a field telephone.
***
Lucas sat alone in the early hours. The drawing room was lit only by his desk lamp. He exhaled two jets of cigar smoke through his nostrils and imagined himself a dragon. He liked dragons—they were the ultimate predator—a hybrid of serpent and raptor.
Before him lay a piece of paper with names inked in his scratchy writing and a complicated network of lines interlinking them. Hugo Sperrle, Herman Goering, and Albert Kesselring—they were the targets, but they were outside his circle of direct influence. Nevertheless, he had a range of other pieces in the game which he could control.
Josef Schafer—he was the key to information. But to operate the pilot, he needed a team and Sir Frank had offered him up five résistance operatives.
Martin Alegre. Giselle Alegre. Edouard Tierney. Anton Joubert. Terese Joubert.
An annotated spider web joined these names. He had studied the files and he knew them well. He had drafted and redrafted the web of relationships and, in doing so, had progressively moved Giselle to the centre of the web.
Martin loved his sister, and would irrationally protect her. Edouard was a tragic romantic; he would love her too. The notes suggested this relationship was as yet unconsummated, which only elevated her influence. Anton was known as a lecherous, old soldier, prone to drunkenness. He would lust after her, but she would be safe in the company of the other men. All the men would do her bidding.
Officially, Martin was the leader, but Lucas concluded Giselle had the real influence. Every other person was motivated to comply with her. To protect her. Impress her. Agree with her. Therefore she would be the only radio contact with himself. And she would be the point of contact with Josef; the handler. That would consolidate her power over the group.
Lucas took another long pull on the cigar. There were still flaws in the plan. Josef Schafer could get killed any day. He would have to move fast to increase the chances of tracing the photo–reconnaissance film to its destination.
He picked up one of his favourite books from the desk—a Chinese edition of The Art of War. Lucas had long understood Sun Tzu’s maxim that war is deception. Even so, he often delved into the pages for insight. He randomly opened the text and ran his finger along the characters—it seemed all the more potent to read it in Chinese.
Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness.
Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness.
Thereby you can be the director of your opponent’s fate.
Lucas stubbed his cigar in the ashtray, watching the last tendrils of smoke drift up into the darkness. Hugo Sperrle would lose his argument with Albert Kesselring, and he would never know that Lucas Moreling had made it so.
XII
Josef Schafer climbed down onto French soil from a Heinkel transport. It was hotter in France. Sweat broke out under his uniform as soon as he hit the ground. But his clothes were already filthy, so it hardly mattered. Squinting against the glare, he waved his thanks to the flight crew. The door swung shut and the Heinkel taxied away. The propellers hadn’t stopped spinning.
With his hand over his eyes, Josef surveyed the familiar Luftwaffe airfield that was home to JG27. There were rows of sleek Messerschmitts in earth revetments. Opposite the aircraft were the refuelling trucks, anti–aircraft guns and the village of canvas tents and pre–fabricated wooden barracks that were home to the mechanics, fitters, armourers, radio technicians, cooks and all the other personnel that were required to keep the pilots of Jagdgeschwader 27 in the air. The smell of the grass strip mixed with a hint of aviation fuel made it feel like home.
He was back.
The pilots got the best treatment, and the staffel had been housed in the sprawling old manor overlooking the airfield. Once the grounds of a farming estate, the fences had been removed to make the grassy stretch into runways.
The Heinkel had attracted no attention whatsoever. Aircraft came and went from this field all day long. The German personnel were just going about their day. As he approached he recognised some of the men from his staffel kicking a football in front of the vast home that had been liberated from its French owner. Sometimes the pilots would fly sortie after sortie, and other times they would spend afternoons filling in the time until they were allowed to go into town and find a bar. Josef was surprised they were not flying, given the weather.
He walked across the grass towards them and someone kicked the ball out of play. Josef deftly trapped it and stabbed it back towards them with his instep, hiding the pain it caused in his ankle.
The ball rolled through the group untouched, as eyes turned on Josef and widened with surprise.
‘Shaka!’ called Wolfe Schiller. It was his nickname; a corruption of Schafer, and a reference to the Zulu warlord. They never let him forget his African heritage.
He grinned back at them. It nearly split his swollen lip. He looked at them, his comrades: Wolfe Schiller, Jurgen Brandt, Dietrich Hofacker, Oskar Wedermeyer.
‘What’s happening? You’re burning daylight playing football. This is good flying weather!’ He extended a hand to the summer sky.
The muscular Brandt jogged over and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘We’re waiting for a big operation tomorrow morning … what happened to you?’
Oskar Wedermeyer looked at Josef as though he were a ghost. ‘We thought you were dead.’
‘Well, I’m pleased to see my death didn’t interrupt your football practice.’
The men gathered around as though he were the paymaster. They pressed him for the story of how he had survived. For a couple of minutes, Josef regaled them with the fictitious version involving spending three days on the run in southern England.
‘I tried the Pervitin,’ Josef said, ‘when I was rowing. I think it works. I went for hours.’
‘I use it every flight, now.’ Brandt flexed a powerful arm. ‘It makes the best even better.’
‘Yes, but it leaves you with the worst headache you can imagine,’ Josef replied.
‘I have a solution for that. When you feel the headache coming, just take another tablet.’ Brandt grinned proudly like he had the whole world sorted out.
‘What happened to your mouth?’ Wolfe was angling his head to look at Josef’s swollen lip.
‘Crashed into a tree while I was running away from the English. Should be right in a couple of days.’
‘Let me see.’ Wolfe moved closer to inspect the split and bruised lip.
Suddenly Josef didn’t want their attention. ‘It’s nothing. It won’t stop me flying. If I can get hold of another 109, that is.’
The pilots glanced around amongst themselves, but no–one said anything.
‘How did you take the fishing boat?’ asked Brandt.
Josef slapped his holster. ‘Walther, here, can be very persuasive.’
They laughed.
‘But, even so, I couldn’t convince the captain take me ashore in France. We agreed that I could row myself ashore on Guernsey.’
Wedermeyer nodded. ‘When did you make it there?’
‘Just before dawn this morning. They got me on the daily mail flight to Paris HQ. The crew detoured to drop me off here. But that’s enough of my war stories for now. I’ll make them more heroic later on. Any chance of some coffee and eggs?’
An hour later he was fed, washed and shaved. He stretched out on his bunk in his quarters in the old servant’s wing of the manor. The officers had the main rooms of the house but, as a junior flying officer, he had been assigned a spartan little room that might have once housed a maid or a butler. Josef didn’t mind, though. It was better than a tent and it was just a relief to be back amongst the brüderschaft. Feeling safe for the first time in days, he soon fell asleep.
***
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The Gestapo agents walked warily through the streets of Caen, one on each side of the street. They never walked together in the Occupied Zone. There were known résistance activists in this part of the city, and they had to cover each other.
Inspekteur Eberhard Reile scanned the neighbourhood as he walked through a quarter of the city showing the signs of occupation. Some of the shops were boarded up—chocolatiers, florists, tailors—the ones who had no work in hard times. And yet, one man’s crisis is another’s opportunity. Not far from this part of town, the horse butchers were doing a roaring trade.
Across the street was his partner, Kriminalrat Willi Boelcke. He was a painful companion, but he had his uses. When it came to interrogation, he truly was a magician. Boelcke’s eyes flicked around the vacant streets just like his own. Reile saw Boelcke undo the buttons on his trenchcoat as they walked, making it easy to access the big 9 mm Mauser he carried against his body.
They ducked down a lane criss–crossed with washing lines hung with faded clothes. Reile noticed how clean the streets and gutters were. In his opinion, the French had always been undisciplined with refuse. Now there was so little to go around that nothing went to waste. And the truly desperate picked over whatever was cast into the gutters and lanes.
Someone had splashed the words Vive Le Spectre in red paint on a wall. He sniffed with disdain. Le Spectre was a product of the French imagination. A supernatural force supposed to instil fear in the Germans occupying their country, to haunt them with fears of retalitation.
It was juvenile. But the presence of the graffiti suggested there was an active element in the neighbourhood, and they may be closing in.
As they walked, Reile kept scanning the upper storey windows. Yes, there could be armed résistance anywhere, but what really concerned him were the stories of night–buckets being emptied on the heads of Germans below. He was appalled by such stories; why wouldn’t the French just accept they were now part of a greater empire? It was in everyone’s best interests to acknowledge that fact.
An unusual tip–off had brought them to Caen. Yesterday he had been contacted by a landlady. She owned an apartment block and had telephoned to say she had information that may be helpful.
He assumed it was just another denunciation. Neighbours with grudges and feuds had quickly realised their opportunity to point the finger at an old enemy. Reile had been sent to various addresses to arrest people declared to be Jews or Communists or Homosexuals. It was tedious. They were probably no real threat to the Reich, but that wasn’t for him to decide. He tackled it methodically, working out which denunciations were genuine, and which were acts of retaliation or attempts to ingratiate the informant to the occupying force.
The address they were seeking was a brick tenement with a smoke–stained art–deco façade. The whole place was showing signs of deterioration. A few windows were broken. Flakes of red paint fluttered down from the front door when he used the tarnished brass knocker. It would be home to students and working class people; not professionals or anyone with enough inherited wealth to carry them through difficult times.
The landlady had an apartment on the ground floor. She looked like she had lived fifty hard years. Heavy lipstick and powder couldn’t conceal the wear and tear. There was a streak of grey about two centimetres either side of the part in her blonde hair. Reile estimated it was about eight weeks since she had been able to buy hair dye. You could still get it on the black market, but it evidently cost more than she could afford. When she spoke, her upper lip crinkled from years of smoking. She was gushing in her welcome, and excessively thankful for what the Germans were doing to eliminate crime in the cities. Then she offered an ersatz coffee in a stained mug.
Reile declined the drink. He would not delay an investigation for the sake of appalling coffee. He asked what had prompted her to contact the authorities.
She explained there had been three students occupying one of the upstairs apartments. A brother and sister, and a friend. Or so they said. She said she did not know whether any of them were living in sin. She evidently thought the Gestapo might have been interested in policing the sexual morality of her tenants and she genuflected to emphasise her own piety.
‘Tell me about them.’ Reile noticed Boelcke tapping his foot impatiently and scanning the street through the venetian blinds. He didn’t like this neighbourhood.
The landlady explained that the young man named Edouard had always paid the rent on time. They had kept to themselves and she confessed she didn’t know their full names. Reile knew she would have accepted a few more francs each week to ask no questions. She evidently kept no records.
Recently, Edouard had told her they were moving to the country where they could get work during the harvest. He had paid two months rent in advance and she saw the brother and sister leave by motorcycle.
Shyly, the landlady admitted she had planned to lease the apartment while they were gone.
Reile feigned sympathy. ‘I understand. You have to be resourceful in times such as these.’
The landlady went on to say that, when she went in to clean the apartment, she had found something she had to report. She produced a small cardboard box and set it on her kitchen table. Reile got a little more interested in the case when he opened the box and found fifteen bullets. German manufacture. 8x57 mm. Used primarily in an infantry rifle.
This was much more interesting than accusations of political or moral opposition to the Reich. French civilians in possession of German ammunition. Very serious. Reile asked to be shown the apartment.
The landlady showed them through. It was basic: compact, clean. Spartan furnishing. No personal effects remaining. But for Reile, it was so impersonal it only aroused his suspicions. People always leave traces of themselves, unless they’re trying very hard not to. Where had she found the box of bullets? In the corner of a wardrobe in one of the bedrooms. It had been tucked away out of sight. They both knew bullets were rarely kept without a gun. And why would someone take the gun without taking the ammunition?
He dismissed the landlady and stood silently in the centre of the room. Boelcke knew better than to make any noise.
Quite suddenly, Eberhard Reile knew they would find the gun. It was an investigator’s intuition, but he had learnt to trust it. He had also learned to question it. It was how you knew something that led you in the right direction. Intuition was fed by the senses, often subconscious. Bring it up to the surface and you knew where to look. He stood still and closed his eyes. Over–reliance on sight could derail an investigation. He inhaled slowly through his nose, and he had it. ‘That way, Willi.’
Boelcke stepped towards the corner that his superior had indicated.
‘Low down.’
Boelcke took another step and a floorboard creaked.
‘There!’
A flick knife appeared in Boelcke’s hand. The blade sprang open. Crouching down he prised up the loose floorboard and gave a low whistle. They saw a long object wrapped in linen. Withdrawing the object from the floor cavity, Boelcke carefully unwrapped it. It was a Mauser rifle. A Karabiner 98k Kurz model. Fitted with a Zeiss telescopic sight.
‘How did you know where to look?’
‘Anti–rust grease. It’s been recently applied to the action before the rifle was put in storage. A very faint odour when wrapped up like this and tucked away. Easily missed in a home. Overpowered by cooking smells, coffee, cleaning products or human sweat—all the things that surround us. Nevertheless it is a distinctive smell, something like petroleum, and more easily detected in an empty room.’
Boelcke sniffed at the weapon.
‘You’re familiar with it. You notice that odour when opening a gun cabinet. Some hunters would claim a well–greased rifle could scare off a deer before it’s even been seen.’ Reile tapped his nose. ‘Very sensitive.’
Boelcke grunted his agreement.
&nbs
p; ‘It also tells me the person who possessed this rifle is, firstly, competent with weapon maintenance and, secondly, possessing a disciplined temperament.’ Reile squatted to examine the weapon. There were all sorts of résistance operatives who stashed clubs and knives or hoarded gasoline for Molotov cocktails. Those people rarely took on armed Germans with such primitive weapons. But this was a sniper rifle. An assassination weapon. It was a difficult thing to come by and it implied that the occupants of this flat were somewhere higher up the echelons of résistance cells.
It was the sniper’s telescopic sight that made it rare. Reile knew that Mauser Werk had produced well over two million 98k rifles since 1935. But the standard infantry rifle had basic iron sights—ruggedly equipped for use by soldiers who could probably not maintain sophisticated optics in the field. Furthermore, it wasn’t possible to simply attach a telescopic sight to the standard rifle without interfering with the process of operating the bolt.
A much smaller number of the rifles were specially modified for sniper use. They were customised by hand by a specialist armourer.The Zeiss scope was mounted high enough to enable smooth operation of the bolt action and the safety. These modifications made it exceptionally rare—and an unlikely weapon to fall into enemy hands. Some 98k rifles had been exported prior to the war, but probably not the sniper variant. A standard 98k cost just 70 reichsmarks. This one might have been worth several hundred. It was a German–made weapon issued to a German sniper, and snipers tended to treat their rifles as though they were lovers. They were not left lying around for the French to pilfer. But what was a sniper rifle doing here?
There had been rumours of an assassination plot aimed at Hermann Goering who had recently toured France inspecting fighter bases. He had been through Caen only days ago. Reile had heard that the Luftwaffe chief was notoriously difficult for the SS to protect. Unpredictable. Spontaneous. Given to flamboyance. And, put bluntly, he was a large man who made a large target. Was there a connection between this weapon and the suspected attack on Goering?