by Jack Higgins
Preston gave him a crisp Heil Hitler, turned on heel with a precision that would not have disgraced the Grenadier Guards, and went out. Devlin followed, closing the door behind them.
There was no sign of Rossman and Preston kicked the side of one of the armchairs viciously and threw his cap down on the table. He was white with anger and when he produced a silver case and extracted a cigarette, his hand trembled slightly.
Devlin strolled across and helped himself to a cigarette before Preston could close the case. He grinned. ‘By God, the old bugger’s got you by the balls.’
He had spoken in English and Preston, glaring at him, replied in the same language. ‘What in the hell do you mean?’
‘Come on, son,’ Devlin said. ‘I’ve heard of your little lot. Legion of St George; British Free Corps. How was it they bought you? Unlimited booze and as many women as you can handle, if you’re not too choosy, that is. Now it’s all got to be paid for.’
At an inch above six feet, Preston was able to look down with some contempt at the Irishman. His left nostril curled. ‘My God, the people one has to deal with—straight out of the bogs, too, from the smell. Now go away and try playing nasty little Irishman elsewhere, there’s a good chap, or I might have to chastise you.’
Devlin, in the act of putting a match to his cigarette, kicked Preston with some precision under the right kneecap.
In the office Radl had just come to the end of a progress report. ‘Excellent,’ Himmler said, ‘and the Irishman leaves on Sunday?’
‘By Dornier from a Luftwaffe base outside Brest—Laville. A northwesterly course from there will take them to Ireland without the necessity of passing over English soil. At twenty-five thousand feet for most of the way they should have no trouble.’
‘And the Irish Air Force?’
‘What air force, Herr Reichsführer?’
‘I see,’ Himmler closed the file. ‘So, things seem to be really moving at last. I’m very pleased with you, Radl. Continue to keep me informed.’
He picked up his pen in a dismissive gesture and Radl said, ‘There is one other matter.’
Himmler looked up. ‘And what is that?’
‘Major-General Steiner.’
Himmler laid down his pen. ‘What about him?’
Radl didn’t know how to put it, but he had to make the point somehow. He owed it to Steiner. In fact, considering the circumstances, the intensity with which he wanted to keep that promise surprised him. ‘It was the Reichsführer himself who suggested I make it clear to Colonel Steiner that his conduct in this affair could have a significant effect on his father’s case.’
‘That is so,’ Himmler said calmly. ‘But what is the problem?’
‘I promised Colonel Steiner, Herr Reichsführer,’ Radl said lamely. ‘Gave him an assurance that… that…’
‘Which you had no authority to offer,’ Himmler said. ‘However, under the circumstances, you may give Steiner that assurance in my name.’ He picked up his pen again. ‘You may go now and tell Preston to remain. I want another word with him. I’ll have him report to you tomorrow.’
When Radl went out into the ante-room, Devlin was standing at the window peering through a chink in the curtains and Preston was sitting in one of the armchairs. ‘Raining cats and dogs out there,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Still, it might keep the RAF at home for a change. Are we going?’
Radl nodded and said to Preston, ‘You stay. He wants you. And don’t come to Abwehr Headquarters tomorrow. I’ll get in touch with you.’
Preston was on his feet, very military again, arm raised. ‘Very well, Herr Oberst. Heil Hitler!’
Radl and Devlin moved to the door and as they went out, the Irishman raised a thumb and grinned amiably. ‘Up the Republic, me old son!’
Preston dropped his arm and swore viciously. Devlin closed the door and followed Radl down the stairs. ‘Where in the hell did they find him? Himmler must have lost his wits entirely.’
‘God knows,’ Radl said as they paused beside the SS guards in the main entrance to turn up their collars against the heavy rain. ‘There is some merit in the idea of another officer who is obviously English, but this Preston.’ He shook his head. ‘A badly flawed man. Second-rate actor, petty criminal. A man who has spent most of his life living some sort of private fantasy.’
‘And we’re stuck with him,’ Devlin said. ‘I wonder what Steiner will make of it?’
They ran through the rain as Radl’s staff car approached and settled themselves in the back. ‘Steiner will cope,’ Radl said. ‘Men like Steiner always do. But now to business. We fly to Paris tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’ve important business in Holland. As I told you, the entire operation will be based on Landsvoort, which is the right kind of end-of-the-world spot. During the operational period I shall be there myself, so, my friend, if you make a transmission, you’ll know who is on the other end. As I was saying, I’ll leave you in Paris when I fly to Amsterdam. You, in your turn, will be ferried down to the airfield at Laville near Brest. You take off at ten o’clock on Sunday night.’
‘Will you be there?’ Devlin asked.
‘I’ll try, but it may not be possible.’
They arrived at Tirpitz Ufer a moment later and hurried through the rain to the entrance just as Hofer, in cap and heavy greatcoat, was emerging. He saluted and Radl said, ‘Going off duty, Karl? Anything for me?’
‘Yes, Herr Oberst, a signal from Mrs Grey.’
Radl was filled with excitement. ‘What is it, man, what does she say?’
‘Message received and understood, Herr Oberst and the question of Herr Devlin’s employment has been taken care of.’
Radl turned triumphantly to Devlin, rain dripping from the peak of his mountain cap. ‘And what do you have to say to that, my friend?’
‘Up the Republic,’ Devlin said morosely. ‘Right up! Is that patriotic enough for you? If so, could I go in now and have a drink?’
When the office door clicked open Preston was sitting in the corner reading an English-language edition of Signal. He glanced up and finding Himmler there watching him, jumped to his feet. ‘Your pardon, Herr Reichsführer.’
‘For what?’ Himmler said. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’
Puzzled and also faintly alarmed, Preston followed him downstairs and along the ground floor corridor to the iron door guarded by two Gestapo men. One of them got the door open, they sprang to attention, Himmler nodded and started down the steps.
The white-painted corridor seemed quiet enough and then Preston became aware of a dull, rhythmic slapping, strangely remote, as if it came from a great distance. Himmler paused outside a cell door and opened a metal gate. There was a small window of armoured glass.
A grey-haired man of sixty or so in a tattered shirt and military breeches was sprawled across a bench while a couple of heavily muscled SS men beat him systematically across the back and buttocks with rubber truncheons. Rossman stood watching, smoking a cigarette, his shirt sleeves rolled up.
‘I detest this sort of mindless violence,’ Himmler said. ‘Don’t you, Herr Untersturmführer?’
Preston’s mouth had gone dry and his stomach heaved. ‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer. Terrible.’
‘If only these fools would listen. A nasty business, but how else can one deal with treason against the State? The Reich and the Führer demand an absolute and unquestioning loyalty and those who give less than this must accept the consequences. You understand me?’
Which Preston did—perfectly. And when the Reichsführer turned and went back up the stairs he stumbled after him, a handkerchief to his mouth in an attempt to stop himself from being sick.
In the darkness of his cell below, Major-General of Artillery Karl Steiner crawled into a corner and crouched there, arms folded as if to stop himself from falling apart. ‘Not one word,’ he said softly through swollen lips. ‘Not one word—I swear it.’
At precisely 02.20 hou
rs on the morning of Saturday 9 October Captain Peter Gericke of Night Fighter Group 7, operating out of Grandjeim on the Dutch coast made his thirty-eighth confirmed kill. He was flying a Junkers 88 in heavy cloud, one of those apparently clumsy, black, twin-engined planes festooned with strange radar aerials, that had proved so devastating in their attacks on RAF bombing groups engaged on night raids over Europe.
Not that Gericke had had any luck earlier that night. A blocked fuel pipe in the port engine had kept him grounded for thirty minutes while the rest of the Staffel had taken off to pounce upon a large force of British bombers returning home across the Dutch coast after a raid on Hanover.
By the time Gericke reached the area most of his comrades had turned for home. And yet there were always stragglers, so he remained on patrol for a while longer.
Gericke was twenty-three years of age. A handsome, rather saturnine young man whose dark eyes seemed full of impatience, as if life itself were too slow for him. Just now he was whistling softly between his teeth the first movement of the Pastoral Symphony.
Behind him, Haupt, the radar operator, huddled over the Lichtenstein set gave an excited gasp. ‘I’ve got one.’
In the same moment base took over smoothly and the familiar voice of Major Hans Berger, ground controller of NJG7, crackled over Gericke’s headphones. ‘Wanderer Four, this is Black Knight. I have a Kurier for you. Are you receiving?’
‘Loud and clear,’ Gericke told him.
‘Steer nought-eight-seven degrees. Target range ten kilometres.’
The Junkers burst out of cloud cover only seconds later and Bohmler, the observer, touched Gericke’s arm. Gericke saw his prey instantly, a Lancaster bomber limping home in bright moonlight, a feathered plume of smoke drifting from the port outer motor.
‘Black Knight, this is Wanderer Four,’ Gericke said. ‘I have visual sighting and require no further assistance.’
He slipped back into the clouds, descended five hundred feet then banked steeply to port, emerging a couple of miles to the rear and below the crippled Lancaster. It was a sitting target, drifting above them like a grey ghost, that plume of smoke trailing gently.
During the second half of 1943, many German night fighters began operating with a secret weapon that was known as Schraege Musik, a pair of twenty millimetre cannon mounted in the fuselage and arranged to fire upwards at an angle of between ten and twenty degrees. This weapon enabled night fighters to attack from below, from which position the bomber presented an enormous target and was virtually blind. As tracer rounds were not used, scores of bombers were brought down without their crews even knowing what hit them.
So it was now. For a split second, Gericke was on target, then as he turned away to port, the Lancaster banked steeply and plunged towards the sea three thousand feet below. There was one parachute, then another. A moment later, the plane itself exploded in a brilliant ball of orange fire. Fuselage dropped down towards the sea, one of the parachutes ignited and flared briefly.
‘Dear God in heaven!’ Bohmler said in horror.
‘What God?’ Gericke demanded savagely. ‘Now send base a fix on that poor sod down there so someone can pick him up and let’s go home.’
When Gericke and his two crewmen reported to the Intelligence Room in the Operations building it was empty except for Major Adler, the senior Intelligence officer, a jovial fifty-year old with the slightly frozen face of someone who had been badly burned. He had actually flown during the First War in von Richthofen’s Staffel and wore the Blue Max at his throat.
‘Ah, there you are, Peter,’ he said. ‘Better late than never. Your kill’s been confirmed by radio from an E-boat in the area.’
‘What about the man who got clear?’ Gericke demanded. ‘Have they found him?’
‘Not yet, but they’re searching. There’s an air-sea rescue launch in the area, too.’
He pushed a sandalwood box across his desk. It contained very long, pencil-slim Dutch cheroots. Gericke took one.
Adler said, ‘You seem concerned, Peter. I had never imagined you a humanitarian.’
‘I’m not,’ Gericke told him bluntly as he put a match to his cheroot, ‘but tomorrow night that could be me. I like to think those air-sea rescue bastards are on their toes.’
As he turned away, Adler said, ‘Prager wants to see you.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Otto Prager was Gruppenkommandeur of Grandjeim, responsible for three Staffeln including Gericke’s. He was a strict disciplinarian and an ardent National Socialist, neither of which qualities Gericke found particularly pleasing. He atoned for these minor irritations by being a first-rate pilot in his own right, totally dedicated to the welfare of the aircrew in his Gruppe.
‘What does he want?’
Adler shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say, but when he telephoned, he made it plain it was to be at the earliest possible moment.’
‘I know,’ Bohmler said, ‘Goering’s been on the phone. Invited you to Karinhall for the weekend and about time.’
It was a well-known fact that when a Luftwaffe pilot was awarded the Knight’s Cross, the Reichsmarschall, as an old flyer himself, liked to hand it over in person.
‘That’ll be the day,’ Gericke said grudgingly. The fact was that men with fewer kills to their credit than he had received the coveted award. It was a distinctly sore point.
‘Never mind, Peter,’ Adler called as they went out. ‘Your day will come.’
‘If I live that long,’ Gericke said to Bohmler as they paused on the steps of the main entrance to the Operations building. ‘What about a drink?’
‘No, thanks,’ Bohmler said. ‘A hot bath and eight hours sleep are my total requirements. I don’t approve of it at this time in the morning, you know that, even if we are living backwards way round.’
Haupt was already yawning and Gericke said morosely, ‘Bloody Lutheran. All right, sod both of you.’
As he started to walk away, Bohmler called, ‘Don’t forget Prager wants to see you.’
‘Later,’ Gericke said. ‘I’ll see him later.’
‘He’s really asking for it,’ Haupt remarked as they watched him go. ‘What’s got into him lately?’
‘Like the rest of us, he lands and takes off too often,’ Bohmler said.
Gericke walked towards the officers’ mess wearily, his flying boots drubbing on the tarmac. He felt unaccountably depressed, stale, somehow at the final end of things. It was strange how he couldn’t get that Tommi, the sole survivor of the Lancaster, out of his mind. What he needed was a drink. A cup of coffee, very hot, and a large Schnapps or perhaps a Steinhager?
He walked into the ante-room and the first person he saw was Colonel Prager sitting in an easy chair in the far corner with another officer, their heads together as they talked in subdued tones. Gericke hesitated, debating whether to turn tail, for the Gruppenkommandeur was particularly strict on the question of flying clothes being worn in the mess. Prager looked up and saw him.
‘There you are, Peter. Come and join us.’
He snapped his finger for the mess waiter who hovered nearby and ordered coffee as Gericke approached. He didn’t approve of alcohol where pilots were concerned. ‘Good morning, Herr Oberst,’ Gericke said brightly, intrigued by the other officer, a lieutenant-colonel of Mountain Troops with a black patch over one eye and a Knight’s Cross to go with it.
‘Congratulations,’ Prager said. ‘I hear you’ve got another confirmed kill.’
‘That’s right, a Lancaster. One man got clear, I saw his chute open. They’re looking for him now.’
‘Colonel Radl,’ Prager said.
Radl held out his good hand and Gericke shook it briefly. ‘Herr Oberst.’
Prager was more subdued than he had ever known him. In fact, he was very obviously labouring under some kind of strain, easing himself in the chair as if in acute physical discomfort as the mess waiter brought a tray with a fresh pot of coffee and three cups.
‘Leave it, man, leave it!’ Prager ordere
d curtly.
There was a slight strained silence after the waiter had departed. Then the Gruppenkommandeur said abruptly, ‘The Herr Oberst here is from the Abwehr. With fresh orders for you.’
‘Fresh orders, Herr Oberst?’
Prager got to his feet. ‘Colonel Radl can tell you more than I can, but obviously you’re being given an extraordinary opportunity to serve the Reich.’ Gericke stood up and Prager hesitated, then stuck out his hand. ‘You’ve done well here, Peter. I’m proud of you. As for the other business—I’ve recommended you three times now so it’s right out of my hands.’
‘I know, Herr Oberst,’ Gericke said warmly, ‘and I’m grateful.’
Prager walked away and Gericke sat down. Radl said, ‘This Lancaster makes thirty-eight confirmed kills, is it not so?’
‘You seem remarkably well informed, Herr Oberst,’ Gericke said. ‘Will you join me in a drink?’
‘Why not? A cognac, I think.’
Gericke called to the waiter and gave the order.
‘Thirty-eight confirmed kills and no Knight’s Cross,’ Radl commented. ‘Isn’t that unusual?’
Gericke stirred uncomfortably. ‘The way it goes sometimes.’
‘I know,’ Radl said. ‘There is also the fact to be taken into consideration that during the summer of nineteen-forty, when you were flying ME one-o-nines out of a base near Calais, you told Reichsmarschall Goering who was inspecting your Staffel, that in your opinion, the Spitfire was a better aircraft.’ He smiled gently. ‘People of his eminence don’t forget junior officers who make remarks like that.’
Gericke said, ‘With all due respect, might I point out to the Herr Oberst that in my line of work I can only rely on today because tomorrow I might very possibly be dead, so some idea of what all this is about would be appreciated.’
‘It’s simple enough,’ Radl said. ‘I need a pilot for a rather special operation.’
‘You need?’
‘All right, the Reich,’ Radl told him. ‘Does that please you any better?’