The Nostradamus Traitor: 1 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  49

  ENGLAND 1941

  THEY TRAVELLED IN A stripped-down Heinkel 111. No armament and only a pilot and navigator for company. The DZ was just inland from Southport. A long trip, cutting across the western toe of England and up the Irish Sea. Information had not been confirmed. Some reports still had Hess in Scotland. Others that he was already in the south. The final decision to drop near Southport had been a compromise. There were good contacts in the area.

  The aircraft was boxed in to a stream that split for a pair of different targets. Liverpool and Manchester. George sat next to Kuche, bundled into flying gear, conscious of the amount of weaponry he carried and even more conscious of the two other men—Fenderman and von Tupfel—sitting across the fuselage from them.

  Occasionally the navigator came back to let them know where they were. There was half an hour’s warning before they made the final landfall.

  Kuche went forward and then called for George. Looking ahead through the big plexiglass nose, they could see the fairy lights and fireworks which denoted death in the air and on the ground. George had a strange feeling of detachment, as though none of this could hurt him. After all, he was going home. He was not even afraid of the jump anymore, though the two he had done at the airfield near Berlin had scared him witless—particularly the night jump.

  When it came to it, the whole thing was simple. The sensation of diving into a cold bath, the aircraft noise disappearing, changing into the close thrum of unsynchronised engines, then the gentle pull of the harness followed by the drifting sensation. He glimpsed fires and saw flares, ahead and to his right. Then the blackness came and he craned his eyes downwards, trying to distinguish the ground from the darkness.

  He saw it only at the last moment, bending his knees and spilling the air out of his parachute by pulling on the webbing. Then the jolt as he hit, knocking the breath from him, the canopy collapsing around him.

  He was on grass, and details slowly began to emerge from the blackness as his eyes adjusted. Another figure, moving within a hundred yards. George called softly and got an answering whistle.

  It was Fenderman and they were in a field bordered by low stone walls and bushes. The parachutes they buried in the bushes, both keeping ears cocked for the other pair.

  Fenderman took a compass bearing, shielding his torch with one hand as they examined the map that George carried. If they were correct it was barely half a mile to the rendezvous—across another field which would take them to the main Southport-Manchester road.

  George loosened the warm flying gear and they both unzipped the suits, opened the cases, which had been hung by webbing from their legs, and took out their overcoats and hats. They redistributed the arms and George made certain his Luger was cocked and on safety, stuck into the pocket of his overcoat. He kept his hand on the butt all the time, once they had buried the flying gear with the parachutes and started to trudge over the short grass. Fenderman was a walking bomb, carrying explosives and grenades strapped to his body.

  There was the smell of sea not far away; of earth and damp grass. It was the smell of England again.

  When they reached the road, the other two figures rose from the verge, like spectres, and came towards them. Passwords again, then Kuche motioning them to walk in pairs, taking the road that should bring them near to the village where they would connect with a telephone booth.

  It was almost nine forty-five on the night of Wednesday, 14 May. They made the telephone by quarter-past ten. Military and civilian traffic—mainly military—passed them without stopping, and Kuche made the call.

  “There’ll be a car waiting outside a public house, half a mile along the road. A Morris.” He gave them the number, and said they were to approach the driver and say they were the officers from Manchester CID. The driver would get out and give them the keys. “The target’s being held in Buchanan Castle—military hospital, eighteen miles the other side of Glasgow. Near Loch Lomond. Long drive.” He motioned Fenderman and von Tupfel to go on ahead and fell into step with George. “Let them get drowsy,” he muttered. “You volunteer to drive. Other side of Manchester we’ll stop in some quiet spot and take them. I don’t want them getting anywhere near Hess.”

  George agreed. The sooner they got it over the better, but it had to be quick and a surprise. Between them, Fenderman and von Tupfel carried most of the explosives and both the machine pistols.

  It went like clockwork to start with. The car was there—the only one outside the darkened public house, and the driver asked no questions, just handed over the keys to the bartered old Morris saloon and disappeared behind the building. There was a lull tank of petrol, and nobody complained when George offered to drive. They checked the maps and Kuche suggested that they rest. “When you get tired, wake one of us and we’ll take over. And for God’s sake remember the blackout restrictions and drive on the left side of the road.”

  The matt-black discs that covered the headlights of the car threw only a minute, downward beam on the road, making George drive with care and great concentration. He had memorised the route; even so, there were times when he had to stop and check their position. By midnight they were through the outskirts of Manchester. By half-past he had set the car to climb north, finding it easier now that his eyes were fully adjusted to the appalling lighting. Thank God it was a clear night with no rain or mist.

  By just after one o’clock they were in open country, moorland on either side, just visible in the gloom. Kuche tapped him on the shoulder.

  “You mind stopping. I’ve got to relieve myself.”

  George pulled over and wound down the window, letting a cold blast of air into the car. Fenderman and von Tupfel stirred and Kuche opened his door, asking if anyone wanted to join him. George said no, but the other pair began to lumber out and stretch, Fenderman shaking his head as if to throw off the fatigue.

  George leaned over and pushed the door on the passenger side open, at the same time slipping the Luger from his pocket, thumbing off the safety.

  They were going to take them now. He had no doubt about that from the way Kuche had positioned himself—furthest away from the car, his back to them, legs set apart and head down in classic pose.

  Fenderman and von Tupfel stood close to one another between Kuche and the car. They were finished first, von Tupfel turning and starting to walk back towards George, as Fenderman buttoned himself up before he also turned.

  George slid his rump into the passenger, seat and lifted the Luger, keeping it ready but out of sight. Then Kuche called loudly:

  “Halt”—cracking it in German. “Fenderman; von Tupfel; halt. Stand still and do not move, or I fire. Wormwood is over.”

  The figures froze, and George brought the Luger up, pointing it directly between the pair, who were now about a dozen paces from the car. He began to get out—preparatory to Kuche’s expected order for him to disarm one of them—when Fenderman moved: dropping to a crouch, and whirling round towards Kuche, now strolling forward with his own Luger ready.

  Kuche had the edge, being only about four paces from Fenderman. He fired twice from the hip. The first shot spinning Fenderman. The second bullet found an even more deadly target—either one of the packets of explosives or a grenade. Fenderman disappeared in a sheet of orange flame which seemed to engulf him before the thunderclap of the explosion.

  The blast knocked George sideways against the dashboard, his ears a prison of pain from the shock wave. He blinked and thought he heard a long-drawn scream of pain, which seemed to come from the centre of the explosion.

  He was aware of von Tupfel, loping, crabwise, as if wounded, towards the car, fumbling for a weapon that came up, the arm waving like a branch as the man tried to direct the barrel towards the front seat of the car. George fired twice. Then again, as the man kept coming. But the wagging arm fell slack to his side, and von Tupfel tumbled against the bonnet in a sprawl, bouncing off the mudguard and finishing in a heap beside the wheel.

  Shakily, Georg
e climbed out and kicked the man’s Luger out of the way, but there was no need: the head lolled back, the eyes glazed and staring into darkness.

  George placed a hand on the car to steady himself, and felt the slimy wetness. It took a moment for him to realise that it could be a part of either Fenderman or Kuche. Both had been ripped apart in the explosion and there was nothing left except the sharp smell of the explosion and the reek of burned flesh.

  He leaned against the side of the road and was sick.

  “So Deputy Führer Rudolf Hess was taken to the Tower of London, safe and sound,” Herbie said as though addressing the ceiling.

  “Two nights later. They took him down on the night of the sixteenth. On the night mail. Poor bugger, he’s been between four walls ever since.”

  “And you lost a good friend.”

  “Friend?” George sounded surprised. “Oh, Kuche, yes. Yes, I suppose you could call him a friend. A brave colleague anyway. We talked a lot in Berlin. Before…”

  Silently, Herbie thought about Fenderman being blown to pieces on moorland at dead of night on Wednesday, 14 May 1941, and of his widow claiming that he died at the hands of a firing squad in the Tower of London on Friday, 16. It made no sense. But, then, there were many things that made no sense, and certainly some nasty little discrepancies in George’s story. The memory plays tricks. Always trust the contemporary files rather than the memory. “George, thank you so much.” Herbie rose, as though he wanted to be quickly rid of his guest.

  “Got what you wanted?”

  Herbie gave his idiot smile saying he thought so, and George asked when he would be let into the secret.

  “Probably tomorrow, George. I drop into your office and we can talk, okay?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Herbie said that was good, and did George still live in that charming house near Hampstead Heath. George did, and, as he got into his coat, remarked that Herbie ought to come and dine with them sometime. “It’s been a shade traumatic, going through this, you know.”

  As they got to the door, Herbie grinned again. “You are a unique man for the history books, George. The one man who saved the lives of two Nazi leaders. You ever thought about that?”

  George nodded and left, making no comment, as though he would rather forget it all.

  On the dot of seven o’clock the screened call came in from Washington, and Herbie spoke for over half an hour with the Director. He did not smile once during the conversation.

  At the other end, the Director looked anxious after hearing the first few minutes of what Herbie had to say.

  At the end of the call, Herbie made two specific requests—that the Director flash an instruction for Tubby Fincher’s eyes only, and that he speak personally with the Director of the West German BND. The Director promised both would be complied with immediately, and that what was required from Tubby would be ready for Herbie within the hour.

  In fact, what Herbie needed was there within half an hour. Tubby himself bringing the bulky personal files of both the dead Harold Ramilies and the living Deputy Director—Willis Maitland-Wood.

  “Nobody,” said Tubby, “will know the files have gone.”

  At about nine, Herbie telephoned George’s private number.

  “Sorry to bother you, George. Just one point. Who came up to get you from Manchester—after the blowout?”

  “The Rammer himself. Ramilies came up.” He sounded in a hurry.

  “And you were debriefed…?”

  “At the Abbey.”

  “Ramilies again?”

  “The set—the Rammer, Fenice, Leaderer…”

  “Maitland-Wood?”

  Pause, lasting for not more than three seconds. “No. No, I don’t think Willis was around. I don’t remember it. Herbie…?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing. No, it doesn’t matter. Keep until tomorrow.”

  “Okay. What happened after the debriefing?”

  “Min. of Ag. and Fish for a spell. Resting. You know how they did things then.”

  “No. I don’t, but I can read. See you tomorrow, George.”

  He had hardly put down the telephone when it rang again. He might have known that it would be Wolfgang Alberich Rachendorf, West Germany’s man in London. He was in a state.

  50

  LONDON 1978

  “RUNG TO ASK FOR your boys back?” For the first time in an hour or so, Herbie smiled.

  “Okay, Herbie. Okay, so you pull rank on me. No names no pack drill, yes?” Rachendorf prided himself on his knowledge of colloquial English.

  “Oh, names will be named, Wolfie. Nachent and Billstein are your playmates, aren’t they?”

  “Okay. So we’ve had trouble in Bonn. We are sensitive.”

  “And Frau Fenderman?”

  “Not ours.”

  “Ah.”

  “We just wish to keep sight of her.”

  “But one of my people saw Nachent speaking to her in the hotel.”

  “No. Just marking her. The casual remark. A close view to make certain. Those two took over from our Bonn people.”

  “I think we should talk, Wolfie. Face-to-face stuff, and call in our brave American allies as well.”

  Rachendorf sounded crestfallen. “If you say so, Herbie. But I don’t know the score.”

  “There are those who will know it, Wolfie. You feel like a little night music on the teleprinter?”

  “What you want?”

  “Gretchen Weiss.” Herbie thought he could hear a slight intake of breath at the other end of the line. “Gretchen Weiss who worked for the Americans—sister to Hildegarde Fenderman, widow of this, our present, parish.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your people must have a complete record—even without her passport. Say you meet me here, at my place ten-thirty tomorrow morning, and you bring with you information gleaned from Bonn during the night.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “All things are possible, Wolfie. I want Gretchen Weiss’s movements in and out of the Bundesrepublik throughout the fifties and sixties, until she was taken ill in the early seventies. We know she went over to see her sister. I want to know how often she came over here as well. I’ve no doubt she did.”

  “I’ll try…”

  “You owe me, Wolfie, after crossing me with your two leash hounds.”

  “A precaution only.”

  “Precaution my ass. Sisters associating between East and West. One left and still running, Yes? Still running and trying to make contact over here. We’ve got a dreamer in London who’s been at it for a very long time. We want him, Wolfie. I think the Americans want him as well. Probably you do. It’s time for power-sharing. Tomorrow at ten-thirty.” He gave the address and then signed off.

  After flashing Scotland Yard to page Vernon-Smith, Herbie made his next call. Hank, his man at the American Embassy, who was at home. The conversation was very similar to that which he had just had with Rachendorf. The American still seemed worried, punctuating the talk with a lot of “Okay, okay, Herbie, so maybe we didn’t give you everything.” In the end, he promised to be at the St. John’s Wood flat at ten-thirty in the morning.

  A final call—to Schnabeln, still watching the hotel. “I shall be making a call to her around nine in the morning,” Herbie told him. “She might possibly try to run for it so keep your eyes glued. Don’t let her get near a station, airport, or embassy. Lift her if you have to. Then drive her around and call me.”

  He had just got back to the files again when Vernon-Smith came on. There was no doubt who was giving the orders. Herbie went through it twice, and Vermin only queried one point, asking if he needed higher authority, “Your Deputy Director for instance?”

  Herbie maintained that if Willis Maitland-Wood even had a whisper, the whole of Whitehall would not only have Vernon-Smith pounding a beat, but would also see to it that the beat was six feet under some bog.

  On the whole, Vernon-Smith appeared to take it seriously.

  Big
Herbie returned to the files. The first essential was easily checked. It concerned recruitment during the thirties. Harold Ramilies—the Rammer—had spent most of his time laying down stock from his post at Oxford University (George Thomas’ name was actually mentioned eighteen months before the lad joined the Army in late 1939). Willis Maitland-Wood did his drives farther afield—in Europe: Austria, Czecho, Poland, and Germany itself.

  During the years 1932, 1933, and 1934, Ramilies took short holiday, mainly in the Lake District. In 1934 he did visit France for a month. He went nowhere near Germany. Maitland-Wood, on the other hand, spent the summer of those years roaming around Austria and Germany.

  Pieces of the jigsaw began to fit. Herbie went back to George Thomas’ file and looked at his movements in the field after the war—during the fifties and early sixties. More pieces fell into place, though it was still circumstantial—a fairy story from which Herbie knew he would get reaction only if he told the tale directly to his customers. Or, perhaps, led them into situations which put them at grave disadvantage.

  Already someone had made an attempt to at least frighten Frau Hildegarde Fenderman, if not kill her. Was it the same person who had tried to put the mockers on himself outside the flat, by driving at him full tilt?

  He built himself his fifth drink of the evening, deciding that it should be his last of the day. Tomorrow was going to be a full and ferocious period.

  The gun, which he now kept close permanently, lay on the table near the telephone, which rang at ten-thirty, as he had arranged with Tubby Fincher.

  “You finished?” Fincher asked.

  “Near as I’ll ever be. You want to collect now?”

  Tubby said the two personal files should be back that night, so Herbie told him to come over. He was there within minutes, which meant he had phoned from nearby and was edgy.

  “You’d better have someone with you tomorrow.” Tubby held the case full of files as though it was covered with germs.

  “I have my own boys—Schnabeln and Girren. Vermin’s looking after the law. Who is there?”