The Nostradamus Traitor: 1 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  “You see things in detail?” Kuche appeared to be taking the matter more seriously now.

  “Yes”—pretending to think about it. “I saw a castle; fighting; men getting up from death, like children playing a game of soldiers. A man limping towards the Standard-Bearer.”

  “The castle?” Kuche asked. “Did you see the castle? Could you describe it? Was it like a fairy-tale castle?”

  George had never set eyes on Wewelsburg at that time. Maybe Ramilies had described it—though it was never, he thought sadly, on the operation’s itinerary. He did not have to think about the description, however. “It was triangular,” he said. “Triangular, with big turrets. Three circular turrets—one very large.”

  Kuche remained silent, looking worried for the best part of a minute. Then, even more quietly than before, he breathed, “We shall have to take the greatest possible care, my friend. Watch out for Wald, he’s vicious, a sadist at heart. Trust nobody. Only me. You have to trust me, my friend Hiram—my friend Hiram the Wizard.”

  Big Herbie exhaled loudly again, as though trying to disperse tension.

  “I started to shake,” George told him. “I really started to shake, bones like ice, bowels turned to water. A cliché, I know, but that’s how it was. Heinrich Kuche was very definitely playing back the token to me.”

  Herbie simply said, could he go on?—just a little further, before they called it a day.

  “Aachen. I’ll tell you about Aachen.”

  “Yes, finish with that, and tomorrow morning you can fill in the gaps about Wewelsburg.”

  George started talking again, dragging them both back to that French train rocking its way towards the German border in 1941.

  35

  FRANCE 1941

  GEORGE HAD ALWAYS BEEN one for tags—biblical, Latin, Greek. Tags, dates, and lists stuck in his head like musical people carry tunes. As he lay, face turned towards Kuche, the list of instructions, discussed and detailed by Michel Downay during the early hours in Paris, filed through his head.

  About half an hour before we get to Aachen …That was when it would start, Downay had said.

  Now, following Kuche’s sudden revelation, Seneca was also breathing into George’s mind, crisscrossed with the takeover plot—It’s a vice to trust all, and equally a vice to trust none. Maman? Angelle? Now Kuche? Each, in their own way, had played back the Hiram the Wizard token. Trust all? Trust none? Trust one?

  George raised his head from the pillow and assembled a puzzled expression on his face. Who the hell was Hiram the Wizard? Some unheard-of occultist?

  Pictures slid through his mind. The Abbey. Ramilies. Trust all? No. Trust none. You’re on your own, Thomas. Play it solo. Trust none and see what happens.

  Kuche went tight-lipped and cocked an eyebrow. “If you choose not to know about Hiram the Wizard, Georges, then it’s your own stupid fault.” Rest now, he said. “You, of all people, should know that it’s going to get very difficult later on.”

  Waiting for danger was not conducive to sleep. George lay there with his eyes closed. Eventually he found a mechanism to ward off fear. Angelle. Tall; the curve of her waist in his hand; her skin and its texture; her cries. “Sounds a bit sentimental now, but—when you’re young…” In the end, even Angelle’s memory was overcome by the need to concentrate on what was to happen.

  Get the instructions clear, Thomas. Make sure you know what will take place. About half an hour before they reached Aachen. That was the strike moment. Somewhere on the train, at this moment, Downay’s men would be making their way along the corridors towards the special coach, sandwiched between an “officers only” first-class coach on one side, and a baggage car on the other. The baggage car backed onto the dining-car end of the special coach. If Downay’s contacts with SNCF had done their job the baggage car would contain the long wooden boxes which Michel Downay had carefully described.

  Georges must have dropped into sleep while ticking off the plan in his mind, for the next thing he knew Kuche was shaking him and saying they were not far from the German border. “Perhaps we should wash, and join the others.”

  In the corridor, two of the Waffen SS men played sentries; bored, glancing out of the window at the darkening landscape, swinging their Erma maschinenpistolen like boys acting big in a schoolyard. They looked very young.

  Wald and Michel Downay sat opposite one another in the dining car. They had been drinking, the bottle almost empty, standing between them. At the far end, towards the baggage car, the sergeant lounged with the other two men, playing cards. There was no liquor at their table.

  Outside it was almost completely dark. No sign of lights. Wald said it was defeatist to speak of the blackout and the night bombing by the Tommis, but their aircraft did get through. Not many, but it was better to take care. There was bombing. Not just the Channel ports as the French were told. Cities were getting raids. Not much; certainly not like the Luftwaffe was giving to the English cities.

  Wald said he had personal experience of it. After France had fallen, just after his posting to Paris, he had been given leave to attend his sister’s wedding in Mannheim. He had even taken food from Paris. The whole family had somehow managed to get there—except for one cousin who was in the U-boats. They clubbed together with their rations, and the womenfolk prepared a great spread of food. A cold buffet. Spectacular, all laid out on a long table with the wedding cake as the centrepiece. It was almost like prewar days—“enough food to feed the whole of a Sonderkommando.”

  They had gone to the wedding, and just as it was finishing there was an alert so they were forced to stay at the town hall. No bombs, and after about one hour the “clear.” On the way home, another alert. This time the wedding party had to take shelter. A few bombs only; but uncomfortable. Almost Christmas as well, the bastards. When it was clear, they returned to the house, relieved to see that it was still intact. But a bomb had fallen nearby. On wasteland as it happened. No casualties. The bomb had shattered all the windows and the beautiful wedding feast was covered in glass. Some large splinters and millions of fragments.

  “Ruined,” he said. “We tried to pick the pieces of glass from the sandwiches and rolls, but too much was powdered. Hopeless. Swine. So near Christmas as well.”

  George stayed silent, thinking of his own run back to Dunkirk; of Angelle and the children; the glow of burning buildings in London. Michel gave him a quick look and asked how long to Aachen. Wald said, half an hour, something like that. What would happen when they got there? Would there be a long wait? Kuche said, no, if all went well they would be quickly passed through the control point. The train would be waiting. He touched his briefcase, which had not left his side during the whole journey; all the necessary documents were at hand.

  A few minutes later, Michel yawned, saying he had to relieve nature, pulling himself up and limping in the direction of the corridor and sleeping compartments.

  The train was travelling quite fast and there was a fair amount of rolling and external noise. George became alert; it was time to take care; time to separate himself from Kuche and Wald, place himself in a position where he would not be involved in any crossfire if anything went wrong. He stretched, craning towards the left, over the gangway, as if trying to see out of the opposite window. Eventually, he even crossed the gap to sit away from the two SS officers. The corridor was behind him, Kuche and Wald to his right, with Wald facing towards the sleeping compartments. The card players were at the far end so that George could see them over three sets of tables.

  He heard nothing, and the first he knew of the action was a sudden startled expression on the sergeant’s face, followed by a cry from Wald. The sergeant reached towards his machine pistol, propped near his seat. At the same moment, Wald rose, his right hand travelling towards his leather holster.

  Michel’s voice came from behind George: crisp and powerful, giving the order for everyone to stand still, snapping in German with great authority. The sergeant froze with arm outstretched, while
the pair of Waffen SS privates and Kuche remained quite still.

  George turned, flattening his back against the window. Michel Downay stood at the end of the car, flanked by two men. He leaned heavily on his cane. The men, dressed in shabby suits, held Erma machine pistols—undoubtedly the ones which had recently been handled by the two corridor guards.

  “No heroes, please.” Michel’s eyes shifted back and forth, very alert. The men behind him had dead-drop faces which said that it did not matter one way or the other to them. If necessary they would blast everyone to pieces. One of them moved forward, walking the length of the car, his eyes never leaving the trio ahead. The other went right, to cover Kuche and Wald. Michel steadied himself and began to come closer to the SS officers, calling in French to George, telling him to relieve the two men of their weapons.

  George had just started to ease his back from the window, relaxing now that the moment had come, when Wald’s hand moved, the tips of his fingers ripping upwards on the leather holster.

  His palm hardly touched the butt of the Luger. Everything after that seemed to change perspective: slow; almost stop; slow; very slow.

  Michel Downay moved in one flowing motion, as though the pain and discomfort of his crippled leg had suddenly been suspended. One gloved hand curled around the ebony cane, the other twisted the knobbed end. It flashed through George’s mind that he should have anticipated this—a sword stick. The right arm coming back, a smile behind the beard, concentration and sharpness deep in the eyes.

  The right hand moved up, the left down; feet apart, balance perfect; the right arm progressing upwards as the long steel rapier slid away from its sheath, almost liquid—like a stream of thin silver spouting from the black wood, rising and then moving down, whipping into line, the crack audible as the steel cleaved air. The arm and steel, now one perfect line from the shoulder, the tip defying the eye—straight, like an arrow.

  Wald gave a cry, a yelping screech, as the blade touched the back of his hand. Michel’s wrist gave a small flick. Then blood appeared as the tip of the blade moved in a long cross on the back of Wald’s hand. Blood flowing even more as the blade plunged, spearing, into the wrist and then away.

  Wald’s hand, so near the pistol, jerked upwards, towards his face, the other hand grasping the ruptured wrist, a look of shock and disbelief crossing his face as he dropped back into his seat, blood welling through the circle of fingers.

  Kuche huddled to his right, like someone flinching from a bomb; crouching like a child in the dark, face turned towards George, a plea in his eyes and both hands raised as far as his shoulders.

  Michel appeared unconcerned, except for a brief command for someone to give Wald a cloth to bind the wound. “We don’t want to leave too much mess; too much blood. Might not suit the next Boche brass who have to travel this way.” He grinned at George. “Now, his pistol, and Kuche’s. I’m going to open the other door. Cover them.” He stumped forward towards the far end of the dining coach.

  George felt light-headed and a little sick. Wald cursed with the pain and offered no trouble as George removed the Luger from its holster. As he did so, he glanced back along the corridor, seeing the sprawled forms of the two young Waffen SS guards whose machine pistols were now carried by Michel’s men. The door at the far end had obviously been closed and locked again after Michel had let his people in.

  Kuche, still crouching, gave George a look which seemed to say “I told you so,” and moved his hands down slowly to the buckle on his belt. Wald still rocked to and fro, clutching the damaged hand and wrist. George shook his head at Kuche, leaning over to pluck his Luger from its holster. There was death in the corridor, and he wondered how Wald and Kuche would fare now under Michel. The man was obviously determined.

  Hefting the pistol in his hand, George asked Kuche for the briefcase. By the time he had it, Michel was opening the far door leading to the baggage compartment. There were four men on the other side. The first to come into the coach was George’s stepfather, Maurice Roubert, decked out in the uniform of an SS major, the same rank as Kuche. He smiled and called out, “Georges, nice to see you. How d’you like the fancy dress?”

  “Very pretty.” He tried to sound natural and relaxed. “I saw you at the station. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  Roubert’s men followed him through, the Waffen SS sergeant and his group handing over their weapons with disconcerting meekness. They looked frightened and confused, the sergeant throwing little glances towards Kuche, who loudly asked what was to happen to them.

  George shook his head and shrugged.

  Oblivious of the moaning Wald, Kuche hissed, “Remember what I told you, Hiram. Understand? Verstehen?”

  George gave him a brief nod which meant nothing, and carried the pistols and briefcase over to the table where the other weapons were being stacked. The men who had come in with Roubert were covering the sergeant and his pair, while the two who had made the dramatic entrance with Michel Downay disappeared along the corridor from where they had originally come.

  “Smooth as silk,” muttered Roubert.

  Michel nodded, looking pleased, then turned to order Roubert’s men to get on with it—to strip the sergeant and his two men.

  “You are going to behave?” Michel limped up to Kuche, who had remained in his seat and appeared to be more relaxed.

  “It depends. You were a trusted man, Downay.”

  “And now I am forced to trust you. He’s no good to me”—nodding towards Wald—“so you will take us through the control point without making any fuss.”

  “What’s the point in that?”

  “We are all going to Wewelsburg.”

  Kuche gave a short laugh. “Yes? And what good will that do you?”

  “You will take us through, or…”

  “You’ll kill me? Like those two in the corridor?”

  “It can be arranged.”

  Kuche laughed again. “I am an officer of the SS. Death is my cap badge.”

  “Very melodramatic, but I’m willing to take the risk of trusting you to get us through. If anything goes wrong we shoot ourselves out of it.”

  “So I lose either way.”

  The two men reappeared from the corridor, now dressed in the uniforms of the pair of young men they had killed. They dragged the corpses gently down the gangway, between the seats and tables, towards the door to the baggage compartment.

  Kuche watched, showing neither surprise nor disgust. He asked if that was how they were all to be treated.

  “It is necessary.” Michel spoke as though they were merely files. “But your own people have a fair record of sudden death. You are soldiers aren’t you? You expect to die?”

  “By the hands of other soldiers. Not terrorists.”

  “Terrorists? Merde. What’s the difference? Your troops, were they not terrorists when they raped my country?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, George saw the German sergeant and his men being pushed into the baggage car at gunpoint. His stepfather followed them through and carefully closed the door. George tried not to listen to the unmistakable sounds of death and violence.

  “You’ll take us through?” Michel asked of Kuche again.

  “It might prove interesting. As an officer of the SS my duty is to take whatever action is available to see that you are stopped.”

  “We shall have to risk that.”

  George laid a hand on Downay’s arm, pulling him to one side. One of Roubert’s men, now wearing the sergeant’s uniform, came back through the door to the baggage car and walked straight to where Wald was hunched, prodding him with a machine pistol.

  “Your turn now,” he grunted, forcing the injured officer to his feet.

  Wald looked briefly towards Michel and George, muttered some curse, and allowed himself to be pushed towards the baggage car, bent double, clutching his still-bleeding hand.

  When they had disappeared through the door, George, raising his voice, as though he wished to drown any sounds
that might float back into the dining car, asked Downay if it was really going to be safe with Kuche.

  They moved a few paces away.

  “Who knows?” The thin smile again, behind the beard. “My training, Georges, tells me that Kuche is no fanatic. It would not have been safe with Wald.” He nodded in the direction of the baggage car, his tone giving the impression that Wald was already no more. “Kuche, though, has a complicated make-up. I don’t think he’s so keen to die for his beloved Führer. Not just yet, anyway.”

  “Could I speak with him? Alone, I mean.”

  “If you like.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but Roubert came up at that moment and said they should see the arrangements which had been made in the baggage car.

  Leaving Kuche under guard, they went forward and into the long, dirty car with its piles of cases, trunks, and boxes. Standing apart, near the door to the special coach, was a pile of wooden crates, like those used for packing weapons, each with a thick rope handle at each end. They were covered with official stamps and insignia, and all were labelled in transit to Reichsführer Himmler, Schloss Wewelsburg, Paderborn.

  Six of the boxes had been firmly secured, the lids nailed down. The seventh was open and empty. It was no coincidence that the boxes would, at a push, each take a human body.

  Michel grimaced, muttering that they were all stowed away safely—“All except Kuche.” Then, as if suddenly remembering, asked George why he wanted to speak alone with the German.

  “I might just convince him not to do anything silly when we get to the control point at Aachen.” He did not mention that Kuche’s talk of terrorists had made him nervous, for in his own way the SS man had spoken the truth. At the Abbey the Rammer said that part of the brief some had been given was to operate like guerrilla forces. There were those who had specifically been ordered to organise like the Sinn Fein structured themselves against the English in Ireland. Does one fight terror with terror? he mused. There was that, and the Hiram token, which—since Downay’s display of complete ruthlessness—had begun to play on his mind.