The Nostradamus Traitor: 1 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Kuche still sat in his place, his face relaxed and devoid of expression: a map upon which nothing registered.

  George sent the guard off to the baggage car and began by saying Downay meant exactly what he said. “He is very determined.”

  Kuche nodded. All fanatics are determined, he said, as though he knew about these things at close hand. He then asked what the final objective was to be.

  “Himmler,” George told him. “They’re going to kill the Reichsführer.”

  Kuche smiled broadly. “So you are the stooge, Hiram.”

  George began a denial, but Kuche’s hand came up. “Don’t be foolish, Georges Thomas. Your orders like mine, are specific. You have no real part in something as ludicrous as this.”

  “I have no option.”

  “You’ve done your part. You’ve planted what you were told to plant. The Nostradamus stuff. You’ve helped push a wedge deeper between the SS and the Wehrmacht. Right?”

  He knew far too much for it to be just some casual mistake, but George remained noncommittal. He could not afford to let go yet. Still keep solo. Trust nobody even though it’s a vice.

  Behind them, the door to the baggage car slid closed with a thump which had a great deal of finality about it.

  Kuche seemed to make a quick decision. “All right,” he muttered. “I shall do as they ask. I shall also do what I can to protect you—and myself—it’s part of my duty. But for God’s sake put your trust in me and not in Michel Downay. When I tell you to run, or lie down, you do it without question, my little Hiram. Verstehen?”

  Downay’s voice behind them asked if Kuche had made any decision about seeing them through Aachen.

  The SS officer looked at him with an indifference which touched freezing point. “I have little option, but I don’t see you succeeding with this stupidity, Doktor Downay. Wewelsburg is a fortress. Himmler is protected. Besides, what’s the point?”

  “One bastard less to deal with.” Downay sounded buoyant.

  “There are others, worse, to take his place. There must be more to it than that.”

  “Himmler’s death will cause a small chaos,” Downay snapped, starting to turn away, his face filled with fury.

  Kuche shrugged. “A little chaos, like learning, is a dangerous thing. I’ll take you through though—God help me.”

  “God help you if you don’t.”

  The train rocked more violently as it slowed down. They were nearly there. Kuche said he would need his briefcase, so they gathered the things together while George’s stepfather, Roubert, organised the men—all now dressed as members of the Waffen SS.

  There was a fine drizzle falling as they pulled into Aachen station.

  36

  LONDON 1978

  “AND OF COURSE THERE was more to it than just a little chaos. There had to be.” Big Herbie got up and walked to the window which led to his small balcony. Below, people scurried home from work. Insects, Herbie thought.

  George smirked and said as Herbie knew the story, that was unfair. “Of course there was more to it.”

  “You got through the checkpoint, though.”

  “Oh yes. Like clockwork. High-precision Swiss stuff. Straight through and no questions asked. Our party had the right number of officers, noncommissioned officers, and men. Kuche had matching papers. We went through and onto the German train quite quickly. I remember shivering a bit as I saw a working party loading the boxes into another baggage car—the boxes for Himmler.”

  “And it was a better special coach?” Herbie grunted, humour dodging around the corners of his large mouth.

  “About the same.”

  “The ride uneventful?”

  “More or less. We ate. The others cleaned their weapons. We slept.”

  “And you talked again with Kuche?”

  George gave a patient nod. He had been very confused, he said. The dreams; the operation; death. “It was all a grisly affair. I think I had decided none of us had a chance of coming out alive. Of course, I should have known there was more to it than just a bunch of resistance people hitching a ride into Himmler’s castle in order to kill him. As Kuche had said—what was the point?”

  “You talked with Kuche again,” Herbie prompted.

  Yes, George went on. They had eaten and Downay asked if he would mind acting as Kuche’s guard. George agreed, and they had both been locked into one of the sleeping compartments. “They had double bunks as opposed to the French train where they were more like the couchettes you get nowadays, only a shade more luxurious. Have we time for me to go on—take you as far as Paderborn?”

  Herbie consulted his watch, a big Russian Polyot, a relic from the days in East Germany. It was barely six, so he suggested a drink. “Get me as far as Paderborn tonight and you’ve really earned your keep. Send you home to Mrs. George with a good report.” He poured two liberal helpings of Gordon’s gin, opened a large tonic, and set them on the table. “So, you were locked in with Heinrich Kuche.”

  “Yes, if I’m right we both sat on the bottom bunk….”

  “How’s Ramilies, the old rogue?” Kuche asked.

  For almost the first time since George had been telling the story, filling the gaps, something nasty and suspicious tweaked momentarily in Herbie Kruger’s head.

  37

  GERMANY 1941

  “STRANGE BEDFELLOWS.” KUCHE SMILED. “How’s Ramilies, the old rogue?”

  “Who?” You’re on your own, Thomas.

  Kuche shook his head, almost sadly. Georges Thomas should not be so stupid. Ramilies had been in Hamburg during the summer of 1933, just when Hitler was in the ascendency. “He was looking for likely material. He found me, and I’ve been on the payroll ever since. Joined the SS the following year, much to the old devil’s delight, but unhappily I’ve never been given a key posting. In some ways, I’ve been a disappointment to Ramilies.”

  He went on to say that when he was ordered onto General Frühling’s staff, and became naturally mixed up with Michel Downay, Ramilies saw a way in which he could be used. “I was briefed about you in the house on the Rue Cambon.”

  That could be trouble, George thought, He had sent Angelle to the Rue Cambon. It must have shown in his face.

  “Don’t worry.” Kuche looked up, lighting another cigarette. “Are you not satisfied, Hiram? Hiram the Wizard? I’m Ramilies’ boy, I promise you; and while you’re at it, you should watch yourself with that imbecile Downay.”

  George thought about it. “Supposing I knew what you are talking about?” he said slowly. “And supposing I admitted I was already seriously worried about Downay? Where would we go from there?”

  Kuche spoke with equal care. They would try to find a way of averting what amounted to the mass suicide of everyone on the train. “Our job is complete. You’ve placed the quatrains. I’ve put them into the correct pigeonholes—the ones that will please the Reichsminister of Propaganda have gone to Doktor Goebbels. Those that will throw Himmler into a blue fit have gone to those of his aides who have ambition for the SS. As I saw it, the next logical move—if it was safe—would have been to get Downay and yourself into the Propaganda Ministry, close to the seat of power, where you might have done a lot of harm. Downay, it should be obvious now, is unstable. He is launched into something that can only bring harm to any resistance movement.”

  George asked if Downay had any idea of Kuche’s real involvement.

  “Georges, don’t be stupid. Of course he’s no idea. The man’s a romantic. The question is, what do we do either before or after the arrival at Paderborn?”

  Almost absently, George mentioned that the quatrains should now be well circulated through Soldatensender Calais. As he spoke, he realised Kuche had convinced him. Lord help them if he was wrong.

  Kuche sounded mightily surprised. “You got a message out?”

  “We had a radio. I thought you knew that. Your people put our operator out of action—cut his throat; and that of his girl friend. But you knew. You must have kn
own.”

  “The Swiss you mean? I didn’t-know there was any connection. It had nothing to do with us. A straight criminal job. When we left, they were investigating a number of lines—the girl’s regular boy friend. Christ, they had another description….”

  “And?”

  “Never mind. It would fit someone I’ve seen recently. You got the radio?”

  George told him, and how he had raised London.

  “The little act you did for us earlier? On the other train. The quatrain about the castle and the dead rising. The limping man shaking hands with the Standard-Bearer?”

  George told him about that as well. Kuche did not look happy.

  “How far are you really involved in the occult?”

  They had a lengthy conversation about that, with George filling in details of his training and the amount of time spent concentrating on the prophecies.

  “Yet you had the dream and came out, involuntarily, with the words?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting if you were the only one among us who had a genuine gift.”

  “It was a dream. My bloody brain’s chocked full of the rubbish.” Then: “Paderborn?” he asked, meaning what were they going to do?

  Kuche nodded and repeated, “Paderborn, and Wewelsburg.”

  They were left alone for the best part of two hours, before Roubert came to say that food was ready. In that time they had formulated only a rough plan, which involved cutting themselves off from the main group, either when they arrived at Paderborn, or later, inside Wewelsburg castle itself.

  During the meal—bean soup again, followed by some kind of sausage served hot with unchristenable vegetables—Michel Downay appeared to be preoccupied; Kuche remained outwardly calm, but George had the unpleasant feeling that his stepfather, Roubert, had been detailed to watch him. The man’s eyes rarely left him, and once, when he made an excuse to go to the lavatory, George found Roubert waiting outside as he emerged.

  The train stopped several times, including a long wait in a siding at Cologne. At around eleven o’clock it again slowed and came to a standstill.

  They were drinking—all of them, including Kuche. A bottle of raw brandy, which Michel seemed to be swilling down like water. He cursed as the train came to a jolting standstill, then left the table and walked up the carriage towards the baggage car—in the same position it had been on the French train.

  Stepfather Roubert was distracted, in conversation with Kuche—an uneasy alliance—but George took his chance, left the table, and followed Michel, pausing to pass the odd word with the other men who sat dotted around the dining car.

  There was the usual concertina link between the carriages: a galley to the right and a lavatory on the left. Also stowage space for luggage, now occupied by the pile of weapons filched from the Germans.

  Heinrich Kuche’s Luger lay there with the Erma machine pistols. George casually picked it up and stuck it in his waistband. He already had Wald’s Luger in his hip pocket.

  Michel had not returned from the baggage car, though the door was pulled back slightly. George glanced through, but could see nothing, so went back the way he had come. Halfway down the carriage, Roubert turned from the table where he was talking to Kuche. It was as though he had only just realised George was missing and he asked, abruptly and loudly, what his stepson had been doing.

  “Sniffing out Michel. He’s been gone a while.”

  “Don’t worry about Michel. He’ll take care of himself.” And, as though on cue, Downay appeared at the baggage-car door, limping down towards them. They were holed up in a siding outside Essen, he said. Looked as if they would be there for a short time. There was talk of not arriving at Paderborn until the early hours. Perhaps, it was suggested, they should rest.

  By now, George was seated again, next to Kuche and sliding the Luger over towards him under cover of the table. There was a slight pressure on his hand, a silent message of thanks, and the Luger was taken.

  George felt Michel’s eyes on him and looked up. The Frenchman was smiling, eyebrows raised quizzically, as though he held the key to some riddle. George asked if he still wanted him to act as Kuche’s watchdog. He did not reply at once, taking another glass of the raw brandy. Then:

  “We’ll just rest here. In the open where we can all keep our eyes on him. Rota system. The chef de train is amiable enough. Says he’ll inform us about what’s happening.”

  They stayed at a standstill for around three quarters of an hour. At one point, George leaned across Kuche and tried to peer through the corner of the blackout blind. Nothing but pitch darkness outside. Roubert told him to leave it alone.

  “We don’t want some officious pig reporting us for not observing regulations, eh?”

  Michel’s head lolled against the back of his seat, but he stayed awake, still casting his odd smile at George from time to time and talking in bursts to Kuche.

  For the second time, George began to feel drowsy—the same thing he had experienced on the French train. The others seemed to be a long way off. He was sweating, as though knowing what was to come—the same strange hallucinatory business. The cave and its damp walls, the cold and the fact that it was night. There was fear all around as though he was cut off from all human contact, surrounded by wild beasts.

  It did not last long, nor were there any real hallucinations like the imagined nightmare pictures before. This time, he was pulled out of it by one of Michel’s people bringing a tray of coffee to the table. He shook his head and looked down at the coffee, reaching out and skipping the vile muck, then resting his head on the back of the seat, closing his eyes.

  At once, the image of the coffee cup came into his mind, transformed straightaway into the caldron, the coffee swirling and going milky. Then the images taking hold. First it was Madame Roubert, Maman, who appeared to be crying and raising her arms in anguish. She was flanked by two figures who seemed to be dragging her away. Behind, there were houses and streets. Paris. Then, Angelle, running and in great danger, as though something terrible was at her heels. Lastly and most horrible, came a whole montage of pictures which included Michel laughing as Joseph Wald walked towards him, the blood still dripping from his hand, his lips moving until he joined Michel in laughter.

  “Georges. Georges.” Someone was calling his name and he opened his eyes to see Michel leaning across the table. The train was moving faster now, picking up speed.

  “You’ve been asleep.”

  George looked around. Roubert and Kuche were not in the carriage and Michel’s people were asleep—except for one young man who stood at the far end of the coach with a machine pistol.

  George spoke (“It just came. Like the previous time”):

  “The kingdom stripped of its forces by fraud,

  The fleet blockaded, passages for the spy;

  Two false friends will come to rally To awaken hatred a long time dormant.”

  He recognised immediately that it was not original. The words belonged to Michel de Nostradame himself.

  “So?” Downay queried.

  “So, I don’t know. What I do know is that Angelle is in danger—she’s running from something. Also, your friend Roubert’s wife—my mother—has been arrested.”

  “How do you know?” He did not seem impressed.

  For a second, George wondered if he was going crazy, or that, somehow, the coffee had been drugged (he remembered the last one happened just after drinking coffee). “I saw it.” His speech was firm, no slurring. Also he found himself believing in the dream or whatever it was. “I saw it. She’s been arrested in Paris. Where’s my stepfather now?”

  He was looking after Kuche. “You’re not trying to convince me that you’re a genuine seer, Georges?”

  “I don’t know what I am.” Then, with a final plunge of concern, George asked him if what they were doing was really necessary.

  “You mean Himmler? What we are going to do to him?”

  “The whole thing. To me it has become pointle
ss.”

  “Too late for second thoughts now, Georges Thomas. I said before, London’s little plot had only a limited life anyway. An act like this will be more useful.”

  At that moment, Roubert returned with Kuche, who flicked a look of warning at George.

  Ten minutes later, the train stopped again and Michel went off to investigate. They were just down the line from Paderborn, but would not be taken in until first light.

  First light was a long time coming. In the meantime, Downay gave orders. Everyone was to behave as they had done at Aachen. There would be people meeting the train to take them to the castle at Wewelsburg. In the event of any trouble, Kuche would die—quickly. The rest would cover and make it look like sudden illness. Michel tapped his cane. The main object, he kept repeating, was the castle. Once there, they would carry out the orders he had already given.

  He wished everyone bon chance. Weapons were checked, and George joined in, heaving Wald’s Luger from his pocket and making certain it was cocked and on safety. He even offered to stay close to Kuche, but Michel said that Roubert would be doing that from now on.

  They came into Paderborn station just after six in the morning, tired and nervous, the tension crawling from man to man like obscene lice.

  There was a group of Waffen SS on the platform, and a slim officer wearing a greatcoat, with its collar turned up, paced to and fro, trying to gauge where the carriage would stop. Behind the pretty little station buildings, there was a line of transport: two large Mercs and a pair of Opel trucks.

  38

  LONDON 1978

  “GEORGE, THE DREAMS.” HERBIE Kruger swallowed the last of his gin and placed the glass firmly down, as if to indicate there would be no more. “The hallucinations?” He was thinking mainly that the Nostradamus quatrain which George had, involuntarily, quoted, was the one Claus Fenderman had scrawled on the final letter to his wife.