For a moment there was silence in the room. The three Regers stared at each other, and Murdoch gazed at them in a mixture of horror and consternation.
Then Reger spoke again, in a lower voice. ‘I have given you an order, Colonel von Reger. This woman is a traitor to our family. She has betrayed me, and she has betrayed you, and she has betrayed your brothers and sisters. She is no better than that despicable girl Annaliese. But far worse than that, she has betrayed the Reich. She has betrayed the Fuehrer.’
‘But if the enemy did not listen to her...’
‘That is immaterial. Will she not betray us again? If I do not shoot her I must hand her over to the Gestapo. They will interrogate her, and, if she survives, place her in Ravensbrueck Concentration Camp. Either way, she is lost to us. But she was lost to us from the moment she took that train into Holland. What is more, if she is handed over to the Gestapo, the taint of her crime will affect every one of us. Do you wish that?’
Margriet gave a moan and sank back into her chair, blood still staining her chin.
‘So,’ Reger said, ‘it is a choice of having her die now, with some dignity and privacy, or in agony in a Gestapo cell, or of starvation and beatings in a camp. I have made that decision, and given you an order, both as your father and as your commanding officer.’
Paul gazed at him for a few seconds longer, then he went to the door, opened it, and snapped an order in German.
‘You cannot do it,’ Murdoch said. ‘Reger, you cannot execute your own wife.’
‘I have that right more than anyone else,’ Reger said.
‘You have interfered sufficiently in my life. This is the result of that interference. Now be quiet.’
Murdoch drew a long breath. ‘I will accept your challenge.’
Margriet groaned.
Reger stared at him, then laughed. ‘In the hopes of saving Margriet’s life? How romantic. But it is too late. She will be shot.’
The room was filling with soldiers, and they were dragging Margriet to her feet. She seemed to have gone into some kind of a coma as she realized what she had done, what was going to happen. There was only one hope of saving her now.
‘Paul,’ Murdoch said in English. ‘You cannot murder your mother.’
‘I must obey orders, Herr General. As given me by both my superior and my father.’
Margriet was being dragged to the door.
‘That man is not your father,’ Murdoch said.
Paul frowned at him.
‘He is a liar as well as a coward,’ Reger snapped.
‘I am your father, Paul,’ Murdoch said.
Paul’s frown deepened, then he looked at his mother; but she was already through the door and being taken downstairs.
‘Ask her,’ Murdoch said. ‘Quickly, before it is too late. Or better yet, look in a mirror.’
‘You are a swine,’ Reger remarked. ‘Trying to disrupt my family to the last. It will not work, Mackinder. But you will see your paramour die.’ He gave orders in German, and Murdoch was seized by two of the soldiers and marched downstairs behind Paul, who was following Margriet. They emerged into the courtyard, where a firing squad was already assembling in the gloom of the night — the men were obviously unaware of the domestic drama upstairs, and were only concerned with carrying out their duty and executing a traitor. It was obviously a duty they had carried out before, despite having been in Breda only about forty-eight hours; there was a heavy wooden stake erected on the far side of the yard, against a blank wall — both the stake and the wall had been chipped by bullets.
Margriet was marched across the paving stones to the stake, and her wrists bound behind her back and to the wood. She stared in front of her at the men facing her, and past them, at Paul, Reger and Murdoch just emerging into the courtyard. Murdoch felt a hundred years old. But there was nothing he could do, if Paul would not believe him. Instead he remembered that sunlit day on the veldt, when he and this woman had hidden from their Boer pursuers in the waterhole, and she had gone into the water to bathe...and the tragedy of her life had begun.
The Captain in charge of the execution was waiting, bandage in hand, looking at Reger for confirmation of the sentence.
‘Proceed,’ Reger said.
The Captain stepped up to her.
‘Margriet,’ Murdoch called. ‘You have nothing to lose.’
‘Take that man inside,’ Reger snapped.
But Margriet had heard. Her head jerked as she stared at him, and the Captain hesitated. ‘General Mackinder is your father, Paul,’ she said, not shouting, but speaking in a strong, clear voice. ‘General Mackinder...’
Murdoch was forced into the building, and the door closed. He was taken upstairs, but before he had gained the office from which he would have been able to see the yard he heard the ripple of gunfire. He reached the window in time to see the Captain putting his revolver to Margriet’s head and squeezing the trigger. But the once beautiful woman was already an unrecognizable mass of bones and blood.
Reger and Paul had both watched the execution. Two men so steeped in the savage duality of Prussian militarism and Nazi fervour they had no spark of humanity left. They were no different to Chand Bibi — perhaps they were worse. Thus he had to combat them with the same white-cold hatred he had known eleven years ago.
The door opened and Reger came in, followed by his son. Paul had given no sign of believing his mother. Nor did he show any remorse for what had just happened.
‘Take this man out,’ Reger said. ‘Have him sent to Germany.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Murdoch said. ‘You and I have some unfinished business.’
Reger stared at him.
‘I have accepted your challenge, Herr General,’ Murdoch said formally.
Reger looked at Paul, who said nothing. Then he laughed. ‘You are mad. I will kill you.’
‘Then you will have avenged the wrong I have done you,’ Murdoch said quietly.
Reger gazed at him for several seconds longer, then he looked at Paul. ‘You will attend?’
‘Yes,’ Paul said. ‘But General Mackinder has no second.’
‘I will do without a second,’ Murdoch said.
‘You will fight with swords?’
‘I will fight the general with any weapons he chooses,’ Murdoch said,
‘Very well,’ Paul looked at Reger.
‘We will find a place,’ Reger said. ‘There is no need to bring anyone else.’
‘General Mackinder may try to escape.’
‘And will you let him?’
Paul opened the door. Murdoch followed him down the stairs. Reger came behind, led him on to the street, gestured towards the command car. His driver stood to attention, opened the door for him; it was, Murdoch noted, the same driver who had acted as chauffeur for them on their last visit to Germany. Murdoch sat down and Reger sat beside him; he had drawn his revolver and kept it pointed at Murdoch. Paul emerged from the building a moment later, carrying a military greatcoat under his arm; the coat was stiff and clearly wrapped around the two swords. He sat in the front seat beside the driver, the engine was started, and they moved off behind dimmed headlamps.
‘Any convenient place,’ Reger said.
They drove out of the city and along the bank of the canal. As earlier in the evening, there were only German troops to be seen, only German planes flew overhead.
‘Your armies are being defeated, one after the other,’ Reger said. ‘You have nothing to live for, Murdoch.’
Murdoch made no reply. He only really wanted to live for another few minutes, anyway.
Paul was pointing, and the car was pulling off the road into the shade of a stand of trees next to the canal. Here they were reasonably concealed, and yet the night was light enough for them to see each other. The chauffeur opened the doors for them, and Murdoch stepped out. He might have wished he was not quite so exhausted from his ordeal of yesterday and the all-day drive, but he did not think it was going to affect the outcome. Reger, as
Margriet had said, was undoubtedly the more practised swordsman. But Murdoch knew he was the younger, fitter man — even if he was considered too old for combat by the British army. And far the more deadly, when he meant to kill. He knew this of himself now, and had no regrets for it.
Reger removed his belts and tunic, pulled his gloves back on. Murdoch did likewise. Paul presented him with a choice of swords, and he took the one nearest him. Paul looked into his eyes. ‘May the best man win, General Mackinder.’
‘Thank you,’ Murdoch said, wondering just what thoughts were going on behind those cold blue eyes.
Paul gave the other sword to Reger, and said something in German. No doubt he was wishing him good fortune as well. Then he stepped aside and stood by the chauffeur, who was watching the scene with impassivity.
Reger advanced, testing the ground with his boot. Murdoch presented the heavy cavalry sword. Reger’s blade touched his, and then moved forward rapidly. Murdoch jumped backwards, moving to his right. Reger followed him, face set with determination, but also still flushed with anger, and perhaps, Murdoch thought, with anxiety — he must know that both he and Paul were going to suffer a reaction when they realized what they had done.
Murdoch let him come on, circling to left and then right, while Reger chased him, the sword flailing in the darkness, but seldom making contact. Sweat poured out of Reger’s hair and soaked his tunic. Murdoch was also wet with sweat, but his breathing was in much better shape, and he knew that every second brought his victory closer.
After several futile exchanges, Reger stopped, panting. ‘Stand and fight, damn you,’ he shouted. ‘Paul, make him fight.’
Paul made no reply, and after a moment, while the two adversaries faced each other, chests heaving, Reger gave a shout and came on again. But Murdoch calculated that he was nearly out of strength as well as breath, and this time stood his ground. Reger’s skill was undoubted. The blades clashed and Reger disengaged in time for another thrust, far more quickly than Murdoch. But the lunge lacked strength: the arm wielding the sword was too tired. Murdoch swayed out of the way and allowed their bodies to cannon together. The impact left him winded, and Reger bereft of defence. Murdoch stepped back, and brought up his blade. Reger stared at him, and for a moment Murdoch hesitated. RSM Yeald was the only man still alive whom Murdoch had known longer than Reger. Then he remembered that only yesterday he had watched Yeald’s daughter die.
And that Reger had just killed his son’s mother.
Reger stared at him, and realized his fate. His lips twisted in a snarl. ‘Damn you,’ he said. ‘Damn you!’ he shouted, and lunged for a last time. But Murdoch easily swept the blade aside, and drove his own point deep into Reger’s chest.
*
Reger hit the ground with a thump, carrying Murdoch’s sword with him. Murdoch stepped back; blood had spurted over his glove and shirt sleeve.
He stared at the dead man, and heard a click. He turned his head to gaze at the revolver in Paul’s hand. ‘German honour?’ he inquired.
Paul’s face twisted. ‘Having just murdered my mother,’ he said, ‘I do not wish to have to kill my father.’
Murdoch stared at him. ‘You mean you knew?’
‘I know, now.’ He pointed at Reger’s body. ‘The truth of what you have said is confirmed.’
Murdoch could not resist a bitter laugh. ‘Trial by combat? Isn’t that a little pagan?’
‘Nazism is more than a little pagan, Father,’ Paul said. ‘Do not misunderstand me. It is my life. Adolf Hitler is my leader. His victory, and Germany’s, far transcends personal feelings. But,’ he added, watching Murdoch’s expression, ‘I believe my...foster father wronged you, as he wronged my mother. Having just found you, I would like to start with a clean slate, as it were. Do you wish to return to the British?’
‘Can I?’
He nodded. ‘I will arrange it. You have parachuted before?’
‘No,’ Murdoch said.
‘Are you afraid to do so for the first time?’
‘No,’ Murdoch said.
Paul nodded. ‘Then we will drive to the airfield.’ He gestured towards the car, and Murdoch got in. Paul sat beside him, and the chauffeur took his place behind the wheel. It occurred to Murdoch that the young man had shown no more emotion towards the death of his father than that of his mother.
‘Are you just going to leave him there?’ Murdoch asked.
‘It is best.’
‘But...won’t there be repercussions?’
‘Of course. But none I cannot answer. My father insisted on personally escorting you from Breda. This will have been observed by my people there. Where he was taking you, I do not know. But, having reached this spot, he commanded me to let you out, with him, and return in two hours’ time. I did not know his purpose. I was doubtful of it. But he was at once my father and my commanding officer, so I obeyed.’
‘My God,’ Murdoch said.
‘When I returned, as instructed, I found my father dead. And you had disappeared. I will ask you to support this story when you regain the British lines.’
‘And the chauffeur?’
Will not betray us. He works for Count von Reger. I am now he.’
‘Ah,’ Murdoch said. He had never known such a cold-blooded man. But...there was warm blood in there, somewhere. His own. ‘Yet you are taking a great risk,’ he remarked.
‘You are my father,’ Paul von Reger told him.
*
Murdoch had no answer to that. A few minutes later they reached the airfield. By then Paul had given Murdoch his father’s greatcoat to wear, and his father’s cap.
‘I often fly,’ Paul explained. ‘It is something I would do, to pass the hours until it is time to return to my father.’
His total confidence was almost frightening. He left Murdoch in the car with the chauffeur while he went off to speak to operations. Neither man said anything — they both had too much to think about — and a few minutes later Paul returned, got into the car, and they drove across the strip towards a waiting plane.
‘This is called a Stuka,’ Paul said. ‘It is slow, but sure. We use them as dive bombers. Give the mechanic the proper salute, and then get into the rear seat, and strap yourself into the parachute.’
Murdoch obeyed, threw his arm out in front of himself and barked, ‘Heil Hitler!’ then climbed into the rear of the cockpit, sat down and thrust his arms through the straps of the parachute, carrying the centre one between his legs to buckle on to the belt. Paul got into the front, and the mechanic closed the Perspex hood. The chauffeur saluted and then drove away, back to the parking apron; he was apparently going to wait for his new master’s return. Murdoch found the morality of this new Germany almost as frightening as their confidence in their destiny. But he would be a fool not to take advantage of it, and it was time to concentrate on the ordeal which was rushing at him.
The engine roared, and Paul taxied across the field. Seconds later they were airborne, flying south. Murdoch wondered what would happen if they were intercepted by British or French aircraft, but he presumed there was little chance of that in the darkness. Paul did not fly high, and even at night it was easy to make out the country beneath them, and what was going on. Murdoch’s breath was taken away by the huge masses of armour moving along the roads to the west. His information before leaving The Hague had been that the main battles were taking place on the French border, but beneath him was more armour than he had ever seen before.
He recognized the line of the Albert Canal, and realized they were in Belgium, south of Antwerp. Antwerp was burning. And so was Brussels, judging by the glow to the south. Paul turned west, and a few minutes later they could make out the flashes of guns firing beneath them.
‘That is the Dyle River,’ Paul said on the intercom. ‘That was the line your troops were holding. But they are pulling back.’ He flew on a few minutes more, and beneath them was darkness. ‘Prepare to jump,’ Paul said. ‘Undo your safety belt. I will do a roll and releas
e the hood. We are two thousand feet up. Count to seven before pulling your cord. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Murdoch said. ‘May I say thank you?’
‘It is my duty,’ Paul said. ‘We will not meet again, except in combat. I will wish you good fortune, Father.’
Before Murdoch could reply, the plane was rolling and the hood sliding back. Paul was hanging in his harness. Murdoch instinctively grabbed at the dashboard as he started to fall, then took his hands away, and counted instead. The feeling of floating through the air was mesmeric, and he discovered he had reached seven before he was really aware of it. Then he pulled the cord. For a moment nothing happened, and he wondered if he was about to die in this most bizarre of situations. Then there was a jerk on his shoulders, and he was truly floating, looking down into the darkness. He had no idea what was beneath him. The rumble of gunfire was still audible, but far to the east now.
The ground came upon him far sooner than he had expected. He saw a tree, looming out of the darkness, and tensed himself. He missed it, but then there was another tree, and he realized he was travelling to the east at quite a speed — there was a fresh westerly breeze. A cow lowed and his feet actually kicked the poor animal in the back. This helped to break his momentum, and a moment later his feet struck the ground. He ran for several yards, dragged on by the parachute, then tripped and fell. Still he was dragged, until he came up against a stile, where he was covered by the still inflated chute.
He caught his breath, feeling as if every bone in his body had been broken, and painfully began reeling in the parachute, hand over hand, taking advantage of every lull in the breeze. Fifty bloody nine, he thought, is a bit old to be taking up new pastimes as vigorous as this. But at last he got it all down, and packed against the stile, and could start taking off the belts.
Now he heard voices, speaking Walloon, he guessed, and a few minutes later two men stood over him, one armed with a shotgun and the other with a pitchfork. They looked distinctly hostile, so he struggled to his feet and took off Reger’s coat.
‘I am an English officer,’ he said in his best French. ‘Where are the nearest British troops?’
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