by James Remmer
‘All that matters is that we get 25.5 kilos in there,’ maintained the General.
At the far end of the workshop, von Menen was busy trimming down the lead sheeting, cutting it into small, manageable pieces, weighing it and placing it into separate piles. Using the age-old process of trial and error, he soon worked out the approximate amount needed to tip the scales at the right weight.
Monday 20th November 1944
The boxes were finished; twenty piles of lead, each weighing 25.5 kilos, waiting to be smelted.
At midday, Steiger got through to his contact at Hamburg. He raced across the courtyard with the news.
‘It’s on, Klaus! Wednesday, nine-thirty; Carl and I will leave for Hamburg at first light. With luck, we’ll be back at the house by mid-afternoon. What do you think?’
‘If the operation had been scheduled for tomorrow,’ replied the General, thinking out loud, ‘then Keppler would have informed us by now… but Wednesday, that’s different. If we get a message tomorrow from Keppler saying Wednesday, then we’ll be too late.’
‘But you’ve always thought Sunday, Klaus.’
‘I still do, Hans, I still do… Keppler might be stupid, but he’s not that stupid. He’ll favour a time when the Reichsbank building is practically empty and the streets of Berlin are at their quietest, notwithstanding a visit by a swarm of Mosquitos. It has to be Sunday, and Sunday evening at that.’ The General inched up his sleeve and checked his watch, an inspiring look in his eyes. ‘Right, let’s go for it!’
Steiger cleaned out the forge, packed the core with paper and heaped on the kindling. When von Menen arrived with the first barrowload of coke fuel, they were ready to start. The General peered in the direction of the storeroom, an anxious look on his face.
‘Don’t worry, Klaus,’ said Steiger, ‘I’ve moved all the petrol to the old groom’s quarters.’
He lit the paper, the kindling wood taking hold, the coke beginning to smoulder. A moment later, a blast of air from the bellows sent a spray of sparks scurrying towards the canopy, chased by bright yellow flames. Soon, the heart of the forge was like a glowing sun.
‘Burning at 327.5ºC. That’s what it takes,’ said Steiger.
Von Menen, mesmerised by the glow of the coke, didn’t hear a word. The General just smiled.
‘What we need now is a load of sand,’ said Steiger. ‘Don’t suppose there is any, Klaus?’
The General shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Would dry, fine soil do?’
‘Better than nothing,’ said Steiger.
‘Anna wouldn’t like it one bit,’ mumbled the General, ‘but if there’s no alternative… Carl, the orangery… Some dry soil. We’ll use that.’
Two excursions with the wheelbarrow and von Menen had dumped a large pile of soil on the workshop floor. Steiger formed it into a neat rectangular mound.
‘What’s it for, Hans?’
‘I’ll show you.’ Steiger placed one of the cast iron trays on top of the mound. ‘If we empty the castings on to the concrete floor, sooner or later there’s a chance that one of the trays will crack. This way there’s a better chance of them staying in one piece.’
Steiger eased the large, heavy pan towards the side of the heat and dropped in the first piece of lead. A second lump followed. ‘I don’t think we should risk more than about five kilos at a time,’ he explained. ‘The handle won’t take the weight.’
As soon as the lead had melted, Steiger, his forehead beaded with sweat, slipped on a pair of heavy-duty leather gloves, wrapped his hands in sized offcuts from an asbestos welding blanket and eased the pan away from the heat, the molten lead streaming into the roasting tray. He repeated the process until the first pile of lead was gone.
They waited for the contents of the roasting tin to solidify. Then Steiger turned it over. A shiny ingot dropped out. He took a deep breath, heaved the ingot from the mound of soil and carried it over to the workbench. The moment of truth had arrived, the workshop full of silent trepidation.
‘It’s now or never,’ said Steiger, lowering the ingot into the box.
‘Alleluia!’ beamed the General. ‘It fits.’
‘Perfectly,’ added von Menen.
At dusk, they blacked out the windows, the work continuing beneath the faint light of a solitary forty-watt bulb. By eight o’clock, nearly half of the boxes were full.
For two hours, von Menen had said nothing, his mind on other things – Maria, Vidal and the arms shipment. The General had noticed; Steiger, too.
‘We’ll call it a day,’ said the General, tactfully. ‘We’re tired. If we continue, we’re sure to make a mistake. We’ll restart at, say, ten in the morning?’
Steiger nodded. Von Menen said nothing.
‘Ten suit you, Carl?’ asked the General.
‘Fine, except that I have some business to attend to late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll leave as soon as it gets dark. In the meantime, what do we do about this lot?’
‘The same as yesterday,’ replied Steiger. ‘I’ll bunk up in here. There’s enough warmth and it’ll save us having to clear everything away.’
‘Don’t forget, Hans… the light switch by the door doesn’t work. You’ll have to use the secondary switch in the storeroom, just around the corner.’
‘I know,’ grinned Steiger. ‘It took me the best part of fifteen minutes to figure that out last night.’
Tuesday 21st November 1944
Von Menen took the ferry to Travemünde and motored up the coast, arriving at Neustadt just before six o’clock. He left the Delahaye in a side street and walked the rest of the way, the sky inky black, rooftops hardly visible.
The whitewashed end-of-terrace house was in total darkness, the curtains drawn. Von Menen made his way down the passageway towards the only entrance, his footsteps short, his breathing quiet, Vidal’s instructions humming in his head: ‘Good evening. My name is Javier Gomez. I’m a Spanish ex-patriate collecting on behalf of wounded members of the Spanish Blue Division, serving on the Russian Front.’ Reply: ‘My husband was with the same division. He was killed last June.’
He knocked lightly on the door. It moved inwards slightly. Something was wrong. Von Menen checked the street again – still empty, eerily quiet, not a soul around. Nudging the door open with his flashlight, he stepped inside.
The sink-tap, dripping merrily, was playing a thin metallic beat on the base of a pan. Moving silently through the kitchen, von Menen made his way into the hall. A door on the left was slightly ajar. As he neared it, a clock chimed, a cat let out a frightening shrill, shot into the hall and bolted into the kitchen.
Heart racing, the pit of his stomach turning in silent panic, von Menen gathered his thoughts and gingerly pushed open the door, the beam of his flashlight sweeping ahead of him, left, right, over a russet-brown rug and along the skirting, a polished brass coal scuttle glinting back at him. Suddenly, he froze, a cold chill crawling through his veins. A woman, prostate across the hearth, dark hair, slim, skirt high above her knees, eyes wide open in deathly panic, a black stocking around her neck, the loose ends trailing across her chest.
“Grace Martens”. Dead.
Von Menen coasted into the courtyard, heart pounding, a dozen more knots in his stomach.
At the edge of the blacked-out workshop window, he saw a faint chink of light. His father and Steiger were still at work.
‘It’s me,’ he called, pushing open the door.
‘My God, Carl, you look terrible,’ said Steiger.
‘I feel terrible. I’ve just got back from Neustadt. I went there to see a contact of Vidal’s, thinking that if I got a message to him now, assuring him that everything’s proceeding favourably, it might take the heat off Maria.’
‘And?’ asked the General.
‘She was dead – strangled. Only about twenty-five, I re
ckon.’
‘You’d best sit down,’ said Steiger. ‘I’ll go and fetch some brandy.’
‘Thanks, Hans, but I’m okay.’
‘Any idea who…?’ asked the General.
‘None at all. But one thing’s for sure, from now on I’ll be working blind, praying to God that Vidal thinks everything’s okay.’
The General placed a hand on his son’s shoulders. ‘Look, we’ll figure something out, I’m sure of it.’
Von Menen prisoned his face with his fingers. ‘It’s Maria I’m worried about,’ he said, ‘desperately so. Hell, what a frightening mess.’ He took a deep breath and shook his head. ‘Anyway, what’s the progress with you two?’
‘One more box left.’
‘No news from Keppel, I suppose.’
‘Nothing.’
It was nearly eight o’clock. Steiger was just about to nail down the lid on the very last box when Yeremenko jumped to his feet, pricked back his ears and whimpered.
‘Quiet, Yeremenko,’ whispered the General.
‘What is it?’ said von Menen.
‘The dog’s heard something. I did, too. A car, I think, in the distance.’
Steiger tiptoed into the storeroom and switched out the light. The General eased back the blackout curtain and glimpsed through the window.
‘It’s totally black out there; can’t see a thing. Maybe I was hearing things.’ He replaced the curtain and patted the dog on the head. ‘Switch the lights back on.’
Steiger flicked down the switch and made his way back to the workshop. Suddenly he stopped. ‘You’re right, Klaus,’ he whispered. ‘There’s someone out there. I’m sure I heard footsteps.’ The dog was back against the door, whining faintly, nose to the floor.
‘Hush… Lights,’ whispered the General.
Steiger picked up his Schmeisser, glided back into the storeroom and switched out the light again.
‘I still can’t see anything,’ murmured the General.
‘I can’t see anything from this window, either,’ said Steiger, softly. ‘Perhaps it’s a fox.’
A moment later, Steiger threw on the light as the workshop door burst open, Yeremenko barking loudly. Steiger flattened his body against the storeroom wall, the Schmeisser still in his hands. The General saw the Luger. Von Menen saw the face, gasped and felt the kick of a mule in his stomach.
The spectre from hell gazed into von Menen’s eyes like a red-hot poker, almost reaching the back of his skull. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, shaking his head. I just don’t believe it… It was you, at Neustadt, trying to make contact with an Argentine agent.’
Von Menen gathered his senses. ‘Dead Argentine agent,’ he said; ‘dead after you’d finished with her, anyway.’
‘Dead or not, you were there.’
The dog barked again. ‘Quiet, Yeremenko!’ shouted the General, an askance eye on the open door to the storeroom. ‘Carl, do you know this man?’
‘Yes, his name is Heinz Müller, used to be with Schellenberg’s outfit, but he’s with the Gestapo now. We crossed paths in Buenos Aires. He once tried to kill me. He must have—’
‘Followed you,’ interrupted Müller.
Shaking his head in apology, von Menen looked at the General. ‘Sorry, Father; I saw no one, I suspected no one. The street was empty. It was pitch black.’
‘So you are the illustrious General von Menen,’ Müller said. ‘Father and, perhaps, accomplice of the traitor Carl von Menen.’
‘Traitor?’ snapped the General.
Müller sniggered. ‘What other motive would your son have for visiting a known agent of a foreign power?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘Well, von Menen?’ asked Müller.
‘Your suggestion is quite preposterous. She was an official contact of the German Foreign Office.’
‘Rubbish. She is, or rather was, a contact of a known Argentine agent who worked at the Blohm and Voss yard at Hamburg, found in unauthorised possession of detailed drawings of the new electro U-boat. He was arrested two days ago. But that can wait… My immediate concern is this.’ He motioned his hand, a wide sweep across the workshop, scooping up the puzzling scene. ‘All those boxes? Very strange. Very intriguing.’ Slowly, his grin transformed into an ugly scowl. ‘Both of you move over to the door! Now!’ he snapped.
‘Why?’
‘Because I need a telephone.’
‘Ah, you’re alone,’ said von Menen, straining at the leash, wanting to rush forward and grab the Luger.
‘The telephone is out of order,’ said the General calmly, tugging at the back of his son’s jacket. ‘Instead of taking us to Berlin to be shot, why don’t you just shoot us NOW!’
At that, the light snapped out.
‘DOWN!’ bellowed Steiger.
The General crashed to the floor and von Menen fell flat across the dog as the Schmeisser opened up, a hail of nine-millimetre parabellum driving into Müller’s chest, shards of brick zipping across the room, ricocheting off the wall and playing a tinny tune on the canopy of the forge.
The noise faded, the workshop silent again, a waft of burned cordite drifting in from the storeroom.
‘You okay, Father?’ asked von Menen breathlessly.
‘Yes, you?’
Von Menen felt hurriedly about his body. ‘I think so.’
Yeremenko struggled free and crouched behind the General.
‘Good boy, good boy… it’s okay,’ said the General.
Steiger ambled into the room, ejecting the empty magazine and stuffing it beneath his belt. ‘A product of Hitler’s Germany,’ he said, nodding at the lifeless heap on the floor. ‘There are ten good reasons why this country’s in such a mess, and he’s nine of them!’
‘You read the cue brilliantly, Hans,’ said the General, bending over Müller to count the bullet wounds. ‘Nine out of sixteen. Not bad.’
Von Menen dropped down on the nearest stack of boxes. ‘Christ, Hans, between Father’s “Now!” and the first round, it seemed like a lifetime. My heart was in my trousers.’
‘The first time it happened to me, Carl, something else was very nearly in my trousers,’ joked Steiger. ‘Anyway, we’ve got to find Müller’s car and get rid of him.’
Von Menen delved into Müller’s jacket, fished out an ignition key and made for the door. ‘It can’t be so far away. I’ll take a look.’
‘Mind yourself, Carl,’ shouted Steiger. Make sure there’s no one else around.’
Von Menen reappeared fifteen minutes later. Müller’s body was still lying on the floor, stripped clean, his clothes and possessions adding fuel to the dying forge.
‘The car’s outside,’ von Menen said. ‘A black Opel. It was about 100 metres down the drive. I’ve taken everything from the inside: maintenance books, Gestapo log book, fuel book, etcetera.’ He held out a wad of papers.
‘Best stick them on the fire,’ said the General.
Von Menen did so, then nodded at the body. ‘What are we to do with him?’
‘Hans has an idea. The lake, down by the shooting hide, where the banking is shuttered… the water is at least four metres deep.’
Von Menen made off in the Opel, windows down, Müller propped up in the passenger seat, Steiger following in the Steyr; no masked headlights, no moon, just the fear of pressing darkness and sudden deep water. It was all on instinct. Only by luck did they find the hide.
The Steyr right behind, von Menen inched the Opel gingerly towards the banking, released the handbrake and jumped out. Steiger did the rest. A low gear, a gentle nudge, a groan of reluctance and the Opel tipped over the edge. The sound of bubbles and then silence.
Müller had been unceremoniously laid to rest.
The next morning, von Menen and Steiger le
ft for Hamburg at first light. Two hours later, Steiger telephoned the General.
‘We’ve got it… same colour, same fittings and no divisional markings. There’s a new hood, too, just like mine. I’ve got spare number plates, as well… We’ll be back soon.’
At one o’clock, von Menen drew up in the courtyard, Steiger following in the new Steyr, parking it in the garage block next to his own. The bodywork looked the same – field grey paint, soft canvas hood, lights, mirrors, tyres and tow-bar.
‘Hans, this is going to hurt you a great deal more than me,’ the General warned.
Steiger closed his eyes, raised his hands in supplication and grimaced as the blacksmith’s hammer crashed down on the boot lid, the front near side door and finally, the front wing.
‘That should do it,’ said the General, stepping back to admire his handiwork.
Steiger opened his eyes and shuddered. ‘Well, Klaus, I know rank has its privileges, but…’
‘An absolute necessity, I’m afraid. They’ve got to look as identical as possible.’
‘They will do when I’ve replicated the old girl’s number plate and added a touch of ageing… a few scratches here and there, some mud and a smidgen of axle grease.’
*
Friday 24th November 1944
Von Menen and the General hurried over to the garage block. They found Steiger admiring the finished article, the two Steyrs indistinguishable from each other.
‘Did I hear a motorcycle?’ asked Steiger.
‘You did,’ replied the General. ‘The courier’s been. It’s on for Sunday night. They’ve met our entire logistical requirements: seventy men, a detachment from Field Gendarmerie and one from Coastal Artillery; ten Opel trucks, two Kübelwagons and two motorcycles. They’re travelling down from Hamburg on Saturday evening. We’ve to rendezvous on Sunday at Jägerstrasse, 15h00.’
‘Well, we’re as ready as we ever will be,’ said Steiger. ‘Both engines are running as smooth as silk. I’ve increased the tyre pressures to compensate for the extra weight and worked out the configuration for the boxes. There’s just one thing…’ Steiger walked over to his own vehicle, pulled out a roll of camouflage netting from the boot and dumped it in the footwell of the second Steyr. ‘You’ll need this, Carl. After you’ve parked up, drape it over the vehicle and weigh it down. There’s a full-length animal-skin coat in the back, too. It’ll be damn cold in that wood.’