by Jack Higgins
'Reichsleiter.'
'That's what I like about you, Willi, you never ask questions.' Bormann clapped him on the arm. 'And now, we'll go down to the garden bunker and I'll show him to you. I think you'll approve. In fact I have a happy feeling that he may serve my purpose very well indeed.'
In the garden bunker was the Fuhrer's study, a bedroom, two living rooms and a bathroom. Close by was the map room used for all high-level conferences. The hall outside served as an anteroom, and it was there that Ritter and Hoffer waited.
Bormann paused at the bottom of the steps and held Rattenhuber back in the shadows. 'He looks well, Willi, don't you agree? Quite magnificent in that pretty uniform with the medals gleaming, the pale face, the blond hair. Uncle Heini would have been proud of him: all that's fairest in the Aryan race. Not like us at all, Willi. He will undoubtedly prove a shot in the arm for the Fuhrer. And notice the slight, sardonic smile on his mouth. I tell you there's hope for this boy, Willi. A young man of parts.'
Rattenhuber said hastily, 'The Fuhrer comes now, Reichsleiter.'
Ritter, standing there at the end of a line of half a dozen young boys in the uniform of the Hitler Youth, felt curiously detached. It was rather like one of those dreams in which everything has an appearance of reality, yet events are past belief. The children on his right hand, for instance. Twelve or thirteen, here to be decorated for bravery. The boy next to him had a bandage round his forehead, under the heavy man's helmet. Blood seeped through steadily, and occasionally the child shifted his feet as if to prevent himself falling.
'Shoulders back,' Ritter said softly. 'Not long now.' And then the door opened. Hitler moved out flanked by Fegelein, Jodl, Keitel and Krebs, the new Chief of the Army General Staff.
Ritter had seen the Fuhrer on several occasions in his life. Speaking at Nuremberg rallies, Paris in 1940, on a visit to the Eastern Front in 1942. His recollection of Hitler had been of an inspired leader of men, a man of magical rhetoric whose spell could not fail to touch anyone within hearing distance.
But the man who shuffled into the anteroom now might have been a totally different person. This was a sick old man, shoulders hunched under the uniform jacket that seemed a size too large, pale, hollow-cheeked, no sparkle in the lack-lustre eyes, and when he turned to take from the box Jodl held the first Iron Cross Second Class, his hand trembled.
He worked his way along the line, muttering a word or two of some sort of encouragement here and there, patting an occasional cheek, and then reached Ritter and Hoffer.
Fegelein said, 'Sturmbannfuhrer Karl Ritter and Sturmscharfuhrer Erich Hoffer of the 502nd SS Heavy Tank Battalion.' He started to read the citation. 'Shortly after dawn on the morning of Wednesday, April 25th...' but the Fuhrer cut him off with a chopping motion of one hand.
There was fire in the dark eyes now, a sudden energy as he snapped his fingers impatiently for Jodl to pass the decoration. Ritter stared impassively ahead, aware of the hands touching him lightly, and then, for the briefest of moments, they tightened on his arm.
He looked directly into the eyes, aware of the power, the burning intensity, there again if only for a moment, the hoarse voice saying, 'Your Fuhrer thanks you, on behalf of the German people.'
Hitler turned. 'Are you aware of this officer's achievement, gentlemen? Assisted by only two other tanks, he wiped out an entire British column of the 7th Armoured Division. Thirty armoured vehicles left blazing. Can you hear that and still tell me that we cannot win this war? If one man can do so much what could fifty like him accomplish?'
They all shifted uncomfortably. Krebs said, 'But of course, my Fuhrer. Under your inspired leadership anything is possible.'
'Goebbels must have written that line for him,' Bormann whispered to Rattenhuber. 'You know, Willi, I'm enjoying this, and look at our proud young Sturmbannfuhrer. He looks like Death himself with that pale face and black uniform, come to remind us all of what waits outside these walls. Have you ever read "Masque of the Red Death" by the American writer Poe?'
'No, I can't say that I have, Reichsleiter.'
'You should, Willi. An interesting parallel on the impossibility of locking out reality for long.'
An orderly clattered down the steps, brushed past Bormann and Rattenhuber and hesitated on seeing what was taking place. Krebs, who obviously recognized the man, moved to one side and snapped his fingers. The orderly passed him a signal flimsy which Krebs quickly scanned.
Hitler moved forward eagerly. 'Is it news of Wenck?' he demanded.
He was still convinced that the 12th Army under General Wenck was going to break through to the relief of Berlin at any moment.
Krebs hesitated and the Fuhrer said, 'Read it, man! Read it!'
Krebs swallowed hard, then said, 'No possibility of Wenck and the 9th Army joining. Await further instruction.'
The Fuhrer exploded with rage. 'The same story as Sunday. I gave the 11th Panzer Army to SS-General Steiner and all available personnel in his area with orders to attack. And what happened?'
The fact that the army in question had existed on paper only, a figment of someone's imagination, was not the point, for no one would have had the courage to tell him.
'So, even my SS let me down - betray me in my hour of need. Well, it won't do, gentlemen.' He was almost hysterical now. 'I have a way of dealing with traitors. Remember the July plot? Remember the films of the executions I ordered you to watch?'
He turned, stumbled back into the map room followed by Jodl, Keitel and Krebs. The door closed. Fegelein, moving as a man in a dream, signalled to one of the SS orderlies, who took the children away.
There was silence, then Ritter said, 'What now, General?'
Fegelein started. 'What did you say?'
'What do we do now?'
'Oh, go to the canteen. Food will be provided. Have a drink. Relax.' He forced a smile and clapped Ritter on the shoulder. 'Take it easy for a while, Major, I'll send for you soon. Fresh fields to conquer, I promise.'
He nodded to an orderly, who led the way. Ritter and Hoffer followed him, up the steps. Bormann and Rattenhuber were no longer there.
At the top, Ritter said softly, 'What do you think of that, then, Erich? Little children and old men led by a raving madman. So, now we start paying the bill, I think - all of us.'
When he reached his office, Fegelein closed the door, went behind his desk and sat down. He opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of brandy, removed the cork and swallowed deeply. He had been a frightened man for some time, but this latest display had finished him off.
He was exactly the same as dozens of other men who had risen to power in the Nazi party. A man of no background and little education. A one-time groom and jockey who had risen through the ranks of the SS and after being appointed Himmler's aide at Fuhrer headquarters, had consolidated his position by marrying Eva Braun's sister, Gretl.
But now even Himmler had cleared off, had refused every attempt aimed at returning him to the death-trap which Berlin had become. It occurred to Fegelein that perhaps the time had come for some definite action on his own part. He took another quick pull on the brandy bottle, got up, took down his cap from behind the door and went out.
It was seven o'clock that evening and Ritter and Hoffer were sitting together in the canteen, talking softly, a bottle of Moselle between them, when a sudden hubbub broke out. There were cries outside in the corridor, laughter and then the door burst open and two young officers ran in.
Ritter grabbed at one of them as he went by. 'Hey, what's all the excitement?'
'Luftwaffe General Ritter von Greim has just arrived from Munich with the air-ace, Hannah Reitsch. They landed at Gatow and came on in a Fieseler Storch.'
'The general flew himself,' the other young officer said. 'When he was hit, she took over the controls and landed the aircraft in the street near the Brandenburger Tor. What a woman.'
They moved away. Another voice said, 'A day for heroes, it would seem.'
Ritter looked up and f
ound Bormann standing there. 'Reichsleiter.' He started to rise.
Bormann pushed him down. 'Yes, a remarkable business. What they omitted to tell you was that they were escorted by fifty fighter planes from Munich. Apparently over forty were shot down. On the other hand, it was essential General von Greim got here. You see, the Fuhrer intends to promote him to Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe with the rank of Feldmarschall, Goring having finally proved a broken reed. Naturally he wished to tell General Greim of this himself. Signal flimsies are so impersonal, don't you think?'
He moved away. Hoffer said in a kind of awe, 'Over forty planes - forty, and for what?'
'To tell him in person what he could have told him over the telephone,' Ritter said. 'A remarkable man, our Fuhrer, Erich.'
'For God's sake, Major.' Hoffer put out a hand, for the first time real anger showing through. 'Keep talking like that and they might take you out and hang you. Me, too. Is that what you want?'
When Bormann went into his office, Rattenhuber was waiting for him.
'Did you find General Fegelein?' the Reichsleiter inquired.
'He left the bunker five hours ago.' Rattenhuber checked his notes. 'According to my information, he is at present at his home in Charlottenburg - wearing civilian clothes, I might add.'
Bormann nodded calmly. 'How very interesting.'
'Do we inform the Fuhrer?'
'I don't think so, Willi. Give a man enough rope, you know the old saying. I'll ask where Fegelein is in the Fuhrer's hearing later on tonight. Allow him to make this very unpleasant discovery for himself. Now, Willi, we have something far more important to discuss. The question of the prominent prisoners in our hands. You have the files I asked for?'
'Certainly, Reichsleiter.' Rattenhuber placed several manilla folders on the desk. 'There is a problem here. The Fuhrer has very pronounced ideas on what should happen to the prominenti. It seems that he was visited by Obergruppenfuhrer Berger, Head of Prisoner of War Administration. Berger tried to discuss the fate of several important British, French and American prisoners as well as the Austrian Chancellor, Schuschnigg, and Haider and Schacht. It seems the Fuhrer told him to shoot them all.'
'Conspicuous consumption, I would have thought, Willi. In other words, a great waste.' Bormann tapped the files. 'But it's these ladies and gentlemen who interest me. The prisoners of Arlberg.'
'I'm afraid several have already been moved since my visit, on your instructions, two months ago. Orders of the Reichsfuhrer,' Rattenhuber told him.
'Yes, for once Uncle Heini moved a little faster than I had expected,' Bormann said dryly. 'What are we left with?'
'Just five. Three men, two women.'
'Good,' Bormann said. 'A nice round number. We'll start with the ladies first, shall we? Refresh my memory.'
'Madame Claire de Beauville, Reichsleiter. Age thirty. Nationality, French. Her father made a great deal of money in canned foods. She married Etienne de Beauville. A fine old family. They were thought to be typical socialites flirting with their new masters. In fact her husband was working with French Resistance units in Paris. He was picked up in June last year on information received and taken to Sicherheitdienst headquarters at Avenue Foch in Paris. He was shot trying to escape.'
'The French,' Bormann said. 'So romantic'
'The wife was thought to be involved. There was a radio at the house. She insisted she knew nothing about it, but Security was convinced she could well have been working as a - pianist?'
He looked up, bewildered, and Bormann smiled. 'Typical English schoolboy humour. This is apparently the British Special Operations Executive term for a radio operator.'
'Oh, I see.' Rattenhuber returned to the file. 'Through marriage, she is related to most of the great French families.'
'Which is why she is at Arlberg. So - who's next?'
'Madame Claudine Chevalier.'
'The concert pianist?'
'That's right, Reichsleiter.'
'She must be seventy at least.'
'Seventy-five.'
'A national institution. In 1940 she made a trip to Berlin to give a concert at the Fuhrer's special request. It made her very unpopular in Paris at the time.'
'A very clever front to mask her real activities, Reichsleiter. She was one of a group of influential people who organized an escape line which succeeded in spiriting several well-known Jews from Paris to Vichy.'
'So - an astute old lady with nerve and courage. Does that dispose of the French?'
'No, Reichsleiter. There is Paul Gaillard to consider.'
'Ah, the one-time cabinet minister.'
'That is so, Reichsleiter. Aged sixty. At one time a physician and surgeon. He has, of course, an international reputation as an author. Dabbled in politics a little before the war. Minister for Internal Affairs in the Vichy government who turned out to be signing releases of known political offenders. He was also suspected of being in touch with de Gaulle. Member of the French Academy.'
'Anything else?'
'Something of a romantic, according to the security report. Joined the French Army as a private soldier in 1915 as some sort of public gesture against the government of the day. It seems he thought they were making a botch of the war. Flirted with Communism in the twenties, but a visit to Russia in 1927 cured him of that disease.'
'What about his weaknesses?'
'Weaknesses, Reichsleiter?'
'Come now, Willi, we all have them. Some men like women, others play cards all night or drink, perhaps. What about Gaillard?'
'None, Reichsleiter, and the State Security report is really most thorough. There is one extraordinary thing about him, however.'
'What's that?'
'He's had a great love of skiing all his life. In 1924 when they held the first Winter Olympics at Chamonix, he took a gold medal. A remarkable achievement. You see, he was thirty-nine years of age, Reichsleiter.'
'Interesting,' Bormann said softly. 'Now that really does say something about his character. What about the Englishman?'
'I'm not too certain that's an accurate description, Reichsleiter. Justin Fitzgerald Birr, 15th Earl of Dundrum, an Irish title, and Ireland is the place of his birth. He is also 10th Baron Felversham. The title is, of course, English and an estate goes with it in Yorkshire.'
'The English and the Irish really can't make up their minds about each other, can they, Willi? As soon as there's a war, thousands of Irishmen seem to join the British Army with alacrity. Very confusing.'
'Exactly, Reichsleiter. Lord Dundrum, which is how people address him, had an uncle who was a major of infantry in the first war. An excellent record, decorated and so on, then in 1919 he went home, joined the IRA and became commander of a flying column during their fight for independence. It apparently caused a considerable scandal.'
'And the earl? What of his war record?'
'Age thirty. DSO and Military Cross. At the beginning of the war he was a lieutenant in the Irish Guards. Two years later a lieutenant-colonel in the Special Air Service. In its brief existence his unit destroyed 113 aircraft on the ground behind Rommel's lines. He was captured in Sicily. Made five attempts to escape, including two from Colditz. It was then they decided that his special circumstances merited his transfer to Arlberg as a prominento.'
'Which explains the last and most important point concerning the good Earl of Dundrum.'
'Exactly, Reichsleiter. It would seem the gentleman is, through his mother, second cousin to King George.'
'Which certainly makes him prominent, Willi. Very prominent indeed. And now - the best saved till last. What about our American friend?'
'Brigadier General Hamilton Canning, age forty-five.'
'The same as me,' Bormann said.
'Almost exactly. You, Reichsleiter, I believe, were born on the 17th of June. General Canning on the 27th of July. He would seem typical of a certain kind of American - a man in a perpetual hurry to get somewhere.'
'I know his record,' Bormann said. 'But go throug
h it again for me.'
'Very well, Reichsleiter. In 1917 he joined the French Foreign Legion as a private soldier. Transferred to the American Army the following year with the rank of second lieutenant. Between the wars he didn't fit in too well. A troublemaker who was much disliked at the Pentagon.'
'In other words he was too clever for them, read too many books, spoke too many languages,' Bormann said. 'Just like the High Command we know and love, Willi. But carry on.'
'He was a military attache in Berlin for three years. Nineteen thirty-four to thirty-seven. Apparently became very friendly with Rommel.'
'That damn traitor.' Bormann's usually equable poise deserted him. 'He would.'
'He saw action on a limited scale in Shanghai against the Japanese in 1939, but he was still only a major by 1940. He was then commanding a small force in the Philippines. Fought a brilliant defensive action against the Japanese in Mindanao. He was given up for dead, but turned up in a Moro junk at Darwin in Australia. The magazines made something of a hero of him, so they had to promote him then. He spent almost a year in hospital. Then they sent him to England. Some sort of headquarters job, but he managed to get into combined operations.'
'And then?'
'Dropped into the Dordogne just after D-Day with British SAS units and Rangers to work with French partisans. Surrounded on a plateau in the Auvergne Mountains by SS paratroopers in July last year. Jumped from a train taking him to Germany and broke a leg. Tried to escape from hospital. They tried him at Colditz for awhile but that didn't work.'
'And then Arlberg.'
'It was decided, I believe, by the Reichsfuhrer himself, that he was an obvious candidate to be a prominento.'
'And who do we have in charge of things at Schloss Arlberg, Willi?'
'Oberstleutnant Max Hesser, of the Panzer Grenadiers. Gained his Knight's Cross at Leningrad where he lost his left arm. A professional soldier of the old school.'
'I know, Willi, don't tell me. Held together by guts and piano wire. And who does he have with him now?'