The Nostradamus Traitor: 1 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Frühling laughed, and George hoped that he detected the laugh of an uneasy man. Frühling muttered something about it being superstitious nonsense then, turning to Wald and Flachs, told them to “Take him apart.”

  George’s stomach flipped. He clenched his fists, waiting for the first blow, thinking Frühling was speaking in physical terms. But Wald took out his cigarettes and offered one to George as the door softly closed behind Frühling.

  “You see”—Wald sat on the edge of the table—“even the highest-ranking officer here cannot believe you. Come, Thomas, let’s talk properly. Don’t you wish to save your skin? There are ways, you know. A few answers and then a word in the new Reichsführer’s ear…”

  “There will be no new Reichsführer.” He found himself believing it now, as a man will start believing a lie repeated again and again. “Nothing will change me, because nothing can change the inevitable.”

  “Then it is inevitable that you will die tomorrow. Like Reichsführer. Himmler.”

  “If I’m dead tomorrow, there is a strong possibility, Herr Wald, that you will also be dead—and Flachs here; and Frühling, Downay, Streichman, and anybody else embroiled in your maniac plan.”

  “Then talking is pointless?”

  “Completely. I’ve nothing to tell you. I am an historian and an occultist. I know a great deal about divination—why else would the British send me to help Downay? They had regarded him as an expert and a man of honour willing to help his country against a common enemy. It must be obvious to you that they would never trust me with military information. I’m only an amateur soldier—at best an interpreter of dreams.”

  Wald said it was a great pity. “If you are such an expert, then you already know that you will die tomorrow, in the courtyard, when Himmler’s car arrives.”

  George licked his dry lips. “I have no knowledge of what will happen. No details, except that Reichsführer Himmler will not be assassinated, either here or anywhere else.”

  Flachs was genuinely disconcerted: nervous. He began to speak, then the door opened and Frühling came in followed by Michel Downay. They both looked angry.

  “So,” Frühling barked. “So, now we know.”

  George opened his mouth to ask what it was that they knew, but Frühling cut across him—

  “I have just received a message from France”—fine globules of spittle spraying around his mouth. “For some time now, we have known of an illicit and illegal radio transmitter which purports to be an official Wehrmacht station. It broadcasts under the name of Soldatensender Calais. This afternoon Soldatensender Calais broadcast a programme concerning the prophecies of Nostradamus. They admitted the prophecies showed that the Führer would inevitably rule the whole of the Western world. Then they added a quatrain which pointed to possible upsets in the chain of command. The prophecy …” He turned towards Downay, who read slowly from a notebook:

  “The one who carried the flag

  Will unseat the Great King of Germany

  In one blow, aided by those with the skulls

  Who are dressed in black.”

  “One of your amazing predictions, George Thomas. A quatrain now being beamed from an illegal radio station. Our troops are out. They will find this station.”

  Well done, Leaderer, thought George. He’s got them going—believing it’s coming from inside France. “Michel, as an expert, surely there’s not much sense in that quatrain,” he tossed towards Downay. “Would anyone dare think of the Führer as the Great King of Germany? I wouldn’t. He is the great leader. The one Führer. So to whom could the Great King refer? King Heinrich I?”

  Frühling frowned and puffed out his cheeks. Mouth open, as he caught George’s meaning. “It’s one of yours though,” he shot at George. “It links you directly to them.”

  “Yes, it’s one of mine.” Now, the final card; the last ace. “Who knows that you have received this message, Herr Oberstgruppenführer? Several people, I’ve no doubt. So how do you explain matters to those who come here after Himmler has been assassinated? How do you defend the fact that you allowed me complete freedom? Enough freedom to walk up to the Reichsführer and murder him? You’ve read my quatrains. You’ve got Downay here—an expert. I am here. Now that you have this evidence, I should be suspect; detained. Your head will roll anyway, Frühling, It will roll even sooner if one hair on Himmler’s head is damaged.” He paused, counting three to himself like he always did before answering a question at school. “But Himmler’s head will not be damaged. It is an impossibility, isn’t it?”

  “You want another drink, George?” Herbie was getting one for himself, and George said, just a small one and was it time to eat?

  Half an hour or so before the meal would be ready. “Those dreams, George? I’m not disbelieving you, but are you sure it went like that?”

  He nodded. Yes. Vivid. The details had stayed with the years.

  “They haven’t been embellished—not purposely, but with hindsight, you understand?”

  There was no embroidery, George assured him. “I know what you’re thinking, Herbie, but I had those dreams; just like that. Then, in the following year, Heydrich was assassinated in Prague.”

  “Rather as you describe in the dream. We’re speaking with hindsight now, George.”

  He took no notice. “And in 1945, a rather shabby civilian admitted to a British officer that he was Heinrich Himmler. He then bit on his cyanide capsule and perished. I shouldn’t expect you to believe the dreams took place, there in Wewelsburg, in 1941. But they were the dreams, and that’s how it happened. I can’t explain it. Those dreams were the last of the odd experiences.” He accepted the second drink, pensive. “However you account for them—and one shrink has put forward a theory—they gave me courage; confidence. I was able to play the role with more panache. To the end that at least one person had faith in what I was saying.”

  Herbie did not smile. The worry was growing in his mind as they entered the last phases of this, the first part of George Thomas’ story. “Your ploy didn’t work though, did it?”

  George smiled thinly. He had not really expected to con them out of having a go. “No, they swept it aside like the garbage it was. Swept it aside and then told me exactly how the job was to be done.”

  44

  WEWELSBURG 1941

  “YOU WILL BE DISPOSED of in the general carnage. In many ways it will be glorious. A classic ritual—the bullfight, or an uneven gladiatorial massacre.” Frühling was disconcertingly offhanded. George was reminded of some latter-day Nero.

  “What if your Gestapo wants to question me about this wireless station? Its location? What did you call it—Soldatensender Calais?”

  “Then they will have to get a good medium and question you through him. One rap for yes; two for no.” It was not really a smile on his face. Nor particularly evil.

  “Your Reichsminister of Propaganda? What of him?” George tried. “Goebbels had an interest in me. Couldn’t he get a little restive if I’m plunged into oblivion?”

  Frühling sighed, hunching his shoulders—a mockery to show he was not interested. “Possibly, but we have right on our side in the person of Oberstgruppenführer Heydrich. I really don’t think there will be much trouble.”

  Ramilies’ voice again, into George’s ears from the Abbey—Most of Heydrich’s colleagues, and the officer corps of the SS, don’t just dislike him, they hate and fear him. He has a following, of course. Probably the most dangerous man in Germany if we did but know it.

  “No, Thomas.” Frühling still spoke. “I do not think you have much real talent for the occult. If I’m wrong, then you are at liberty to return and haunt me. At the moment we are busy, preparing for the arrival of the little chicken farmer, Himmler, tomorrow morning. A drama in which you have a part to play. Unhappily, Kuche cannot be allowed to do the job by himself, as he so generously offered. Even I am not that stupid.”

  George felt his throat go dry. When he spoke there was a hoarse croak, at first. He
asked if he was allowed to know what would happen.

  Frühling gave a small nod. He sat at the table, flanked by Wald and Flachs. Downay stood by the door. He still had his notebook in one hand, the ebony cane in the other.

  Frühling performed a little parradiddle on the table with the ends of his fingers. They were beautifully manicured, and he spoke now with a voice so buttery that it reminded George of autumn afternoons, toasting crumpets in front of the gas fire in his rooms at Oxford. He had a great longing to be back in Oxford as he heard Frühling outline the plan.

  It would be a classic ambush. The whole operation was entrusted to only a few faithful people, who could be relied upon to keep the faith when it was over. This meant the elimination of certain innocent soldiers. Not ideal, but necessary. The rest, the faithful, would be silent to the grave.

  He ticked off the names of those concerned on his fingers—himself, Streichman, Wald, Flachs, Downay, the two Unterscharführen—the sergeants—who had been present earlier, and George’s stepfather, Roubert.

  Those ranks who acted as orderlies and servants would be going about their usual duties in the castle. Afterwards, they may well have suspicions, but would be in no position to make trouble. This left the men who had come from Paris—both sets—and the Waffen SS garrison, numbering some twenty-five men. They could not be allowed to survive and were already detailed to act as the guard of honour for Reichsführer Himmler’s arrival.

  Frühling sighed again: a man unhappy with the terrible decisions of command. He rose and walked to one of the windows, motioning George to follow him.

  “Even from here”—he pointed down into the courtyard—“you can see that this enclosed triangle of stone can be sealed off. One simply closes the main gate and locks all the doors leading to the yard. This will happen when the Reichsführer’s cars enter the main gate. That gate will close. All doors will be locked, except for one. The one at the foot of the great north tower where we met you on your arrival this morning. The Reichsführer will expect to be greeted there.”

  George could see the door and the tower to the right. To the left, the long, angled buildings rose with one of the two smaller towers visible. It was really starring to get dark now, the light turning the grey walls into an unhealthy black, a brooding and cruel colour.

  “Imagine”—Frühling gave a small cough as though about to recite an epic poem—“the guard of honour drawn up just below us here. Standartenführer—Colonel—Streichman and myself standing in the doorway of the north tower waiting for the Reichsführer. The two cars drive in through the main gates. They close. As the cars come to a standstill, the guard of honour presents arms. That will be the signal. Now, can you see the door set in the centre of the west wall?”

  George strained forward. He could just make out the entrance.

  “That door will suddenly open and two men will appear to propel themselves into the courtyard towards the Reichsführer’s car. One will be an SS officer, the other a bedraggled civilian. In fact, they will be pushed—hurled—through that small door, which will be immediately closed and locked behind them. Both will be armed, though their weapons will not be loaded. Can you imagine the small consternation this will cause? Yes, well, in this moment of alarm and uncertainty, Streichman and myself will retreat inside the tower, and that door will be locked.” As an aside, dropping his voice, almost confidentially, he added, “You realise, of course, that it will be Kuche and yourself who will arrive unexpectedly in the courtyard. You will be thrown into the arena by your old friend Michel Downay and one of the sergeants. They have their orders.”

  The courtyard would now contain all those who were either to eliminate one another or be eliminated.

  “The killing ground,” George muttered.

  “Quite. Who knows what will happen when you are precipitated into the yard? Some fool may try to seize you. Someone may even open fire. Within a few seconds we shall know—and we’ll only leave it for a few seconds. You’ve come up against the MG thirty-four? No doubt you have. An excellent weapon, with a high rate of fire. Most accurate.”

  George had come up against the MG 34 all right. First during training—the lectures on enemy weapons: The MG 34 is a clever weapon: too crafty by half. Treaty of Versailles stopped Jerry making heavy machine guns so they came up with this compromise all-purpose job. Very high rate of fire; six to eight hundred rounds a minute. Too high for accuracy on the ground. How they had deluded themselves in the days of the phoney war. During the battle of France the accuracy of the MG 34 had looked pretty good to George; and the heavy ripping noise it made was one of the most unwelcome he had ever known. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve come up against the Maschinengewehr thirty-four.”

  Frühling hardly paused for breath. There would be three MG 34s. One mounted on the battlements just below the north tower, and operated by Wald. He would deal with the first car—presumably the Reichsführer. He would also most probably deal with George and Kuche at the same time. Flachs would have the second gun, mounted on the battlements just below the tower they could see from the window—to the left. He would open up at the guard of honour and the second car. Roubert was to be situated below the other small tower, out of sight from the window at which they stood, but to their extreme left. He would have a roving commission. “He is the general cleaner. Three MG thirty-fours all pouring fire into that courtyard should deal with any living thing in a very short space of time.”

  George asked how he was going to explain slaughter on that scale.

  “We have a way, Thomas. It will not concern you, because you will be part of the debris.” He shrugged. “Perhaps, when you opened fire at the car, or Kuche opened fire at you—or the car, whichever way we tell it—some dunderhead gave the order to shoot. Panic does strange things. Causes accidents. Leads to tragedy. Panic breeds panic. Don’t worry your head about it. Now”—his hand descended on George’s shoulder in an almost fatherly fashion—“there is still the last chance that only Kuche will emerge from that little door. It depends on you. Have a talk with Wald and Flachs. Co-operation sometimes works miracles. Talk.”

  His grip tightened and then the hand was removed. He turned away and walked stiffly to the door, followed out by Michel Downay, knuckles white on the head of his ebony cane. Downay looked hard at George as he left, the eyes dead of any feeling, all sparkle gone and no trace of hatred in its place. Oddly they seemed almost defeated eyes.

  Wald and Flachs started off lightly, as they had done before. Their questions were simple, some of them the same as they had been earlier—operational organisation, names, training establishments, airfields, from which agents might be dispatched. It was straight question and answer stuff now, as though they wanted confirmation about what they had already told George they knew. Added to all this, there were new queries—how a propaganda radio could be run from within occupied France? What were the lines of communication? What further arrangements were in the pipeline? Again they wanted names.

  George said he did not know and, if he did, he would not tell them. In any case it could help neither his cause, nor theirs. Tomorrow was a good day for Reichsführer Himmler. The stars and the prophecies were clear. Tomorrow would be a day of disaster for them.

  “I suppose you can give us an accurate weather forecast as well?” gibed Wald at one point.

  Clouds had been gathering. George had seen it in the gloom, standing by the window with Frühling. Tomorrow, he said, it would rain.

  Then, he thought, one last try. One final gambit—this time entirely from his own imagination. George looked hard at Flachs, whom he now certainly considered the weakest link.

  “In the triple castle where lurk the cunning ones,

  A triangle becomes wet with rain following thunder.

  The blood of the deceivers will mingle with the rain.

  He, who was to be overthrown, will triumph.”

  “Keep your predictions for the next world, Thomas.” As he said it, Wald struck George across the mouth
with the back of his hand. It was the start of a painful night.

  45

  LONDON 1978

  THE STEAK AND KIDNEY pie was excellent. “If you ever go private you could be a chef, Herbie,” George said.

  “If I ever go private I won’t need to do another day’s work in my life,” Herbie grunted. Then: “Bad that night at Wewelsburg, was it?”

  George said that the memory does not carry pain with any clarity, but yes, it was bad. Herbie nodded, he had been on both sides of interrogations—soft and hard. It was a good job that the memory did not carry pain, though physical pain, he thought, was infinitely preferable to the mental variety. He had used it and seen it used. It held more terror than the ancient instruments of torture.

  George remembered the night in retrospect as a horrible dream. “The worst of Bosch put into action.” Some parts were more unpleasant than others—Wald beating him in the kidneys with his fist; Flachs doing indescribable things to his feet and hands; Wald telling Flachs to go easy because the patient had to be able to walk in the morning.

  “If I allow myself to think about it, I can taste the blood and tears.”

  “But you got through?”

  Yes, said George, he got through with the help of Angelle. Through it all, he centred his mind on her. “She cried all the time, and I tried to think it was for me and the anguish. The thought of another human being, the hope for them, the chance that you may see them again, can take away a great deal. Angelle got me through because she was there—miles away.”

  Herbie became a little embarrassed as George continued. Talking about that night of physical torture seemed to unleash flood gates, things recalled, pent up inside him for years.

  “They threw water over me at one point, and gave me raw spirit to drink—to revive me for another dose of the same questioning. Angelle’s face was there all the time, floating above me. I found that my memory of her was tactile. I could feel her flesh on mine, the smoothness of her skin and the taste of her nipples mixed with the blood; the taste of her mouth on mine mingled with the salt of my tears. My cries became a joint cry. Herbie, I fashioned my loins on her; her cheek against mine, her hair in my eyes. The pain was her pain also.”