Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  'This must be it,' said the driver, slowing.

  'Watch for the turn-off. The drive must be on the right just about now,' Schiffer replied, checking his pistol, as the others did. Tension in the car mounted at once.

  They drove fast up the avenue which led to the house. The driver gunned the motor before killing it. The aggression in the men was pounding as they piled out, slamming the doors. Two of them peeled off and ran round to the back of the house. Schiffer and the driver went to the front door and the driver pounded on it. Dogs started to bark inside. Schiffer stood back and looked up. It was a huge place. How the hell could he search it all with only three men?

  The door was opened by an elderly man in a long apron. Somewhere well behind him in the house, the dogs continued to bark, but the noise came no nearer. Schiffer could tell they were confined.

  Schiffer pushed the man into the house and stood for a moment in the large, deserted hall. They heard a door bang open and shut some distance away, then running feet. The two other Gestapo-men coming in, or someone getting out? How many escape routes were there? But then their colleagues joined them, sweating in their suits, guns high in their hands.

  'Anything?' he asked them

  'Nothing we could see. We came straight in.'

  Schiffer faced the servant. 'Where are they?'

  The man babbled, 'In the drawing room.'

  'Where?'

  The man pointed to a door in the far corner of the hall.

  'Why the hell haven't they come out?' Schiffer turned to the driver. 'Go with him. Make sure those dogs are kept locked up, wherever they are.'

  He crossed the hall, wrenched the door open and crouched, gun up, scanning the interior.

  He was awed by it. It was the room of his dreams. For a split second he imagined himself there, the man he'd like to be, dressed in hunting clothes, his wife and two daughters sitting near him, cigar in hand and a cognac on the table beside his armchair. An armchair and a table stood near the fireplace. Someone was sitting in the chair, his face obscured by its wings. The person stood up and faced him.

  126

  Schiffer felt a surge of dismay and delight. He looked at his old boss. Thinner, his clothes looser on him, but not without the cold elegance Schiffer had always admired. He nodded to his men to stay by the door. He lowered his gun. All the excitement drained from him, and he felt no triumph at all.

  'You are under arrest,' he said.

  'I know.'

  'Are you armed?'

  Hoffmann pointed to the service pistol which lay on the table by him.

  'Who else is here?'

  Hoffmann's shoulders dropped. 'I want to ask two favours of you, Ernst.'

  Schiffer was taken aback. Hoffmann had never called him by his Christian name before. Schiffer thought, it's check-mate. I'm too clever for you this time.

  'Tell me who else is here first,' he said, keeping his voice even.

  'You know whose house this is.'

  'Of course.'

  'And you know about her connections.'

  'Nevertheless, in harbouring you –'

  'No-one else knows what she's done.'

  'That can change.'

  'What evidence do you have?'

  'Your presence here.'

  'I might have coerced her. You wouldn't dare torture her.'

  Schiffer was silent, then said, 'People know you were friends in the old days.'

  'A lot of people were friends in the old days.' Hoffmann paused. 'Don't arrest her. She is upstairs, with her nephew, Stefan. He is ten years old. I ask you to spare them.' He prayed that Schiffer had no real knowledge of Stefan; the secret had been well buried.

  'And the second favour?'

  Hoffmann glanced at the Walther. 'Surely you know what that is.'

  Schiffer, himself again, thought, he's played into my hands. I have all the power at last. His head swam with the thought. That fuck Adamov, I should raise a fucking monument to him when this is all over.

  He imagined the Reich triumphing at the eleventh hour, defying fate, and himself elevated to the High Table, Hitler's chosen son; and Emma, forgiving and repentant, his adoring bride. He knew what to do.

  'This is the deal I'll offer you,' he said, coming a little closer, but not too close, still wary of Hoffmann. But Schiffer wasn't in awe any more: he was in control.

  'What?' said Hoffmann.

  Schiffer couldn't let him retake the ground. He squared up. He was well aware of Tilli Cassirer's connections. If he let her go, it might even help him further. 'I will pretend they are not here,' he said, and picked up the Walther, pocketing it. 'But you must come with me.'

  Hoffmann closed his eyes briefly. 'If that is the condition.'

  Why did Schiffer suddenly feel cheap? It made him angry. In his mind, he was tearing at the faces of prisoners, ripping the whips out of his minions' hands and slashing at their backs himself, rubber truncheon to the lower spine, enough of that, never walk again, bastards, taking his anger at himself out on them.

  But he could not shut out the knowledge of what he was condemning Hoffmann to, by taking him back alive.

  'Orders,' he said, and hated the apologetic tone in his voice.

  The driver came into the room to report. 'I found an old woman, sir, wife of the bloke who opened the door. Servants here. Locked them up in the kitchen with the dogs. Only setters. Nervous not nasty. Didn't think them worth the bullets.'

  'Good. Deal with them later. Got all the keys? No way out from the kitchen?'

  'All sealed sir.'

  'Bullet in your balls otherwise.' All the men grinned at that. Schiffer, the successful, charismatic, humorous leader. 'Now, search the prisoner, empty his pockets, everything.'

  The driver did so, but, as Schiffer had expected, there was nothing except a wallet and some change. No papers, no concealed gun, nothing.

  He found himself looking into Hoffmann's eyes, and dropped his own. He could not meet those eyes. Why hadn't he had the courage to join the Resistance? But then, no-one had asked him to. He couldn't hate Hoffmann as much as he hated himself; but, as he told himself again, he had nowhere to go any more, and no choice but to continue running with the pack he had joined. As for Hoffmann, he knew part of what the man had been through, but he also knew he could no longer afford to think of it with any compassion. Schiffer didn't even realise that he'd long ago sacrificed compassion to ambition.

  He looked round the room, its size daunting him. He ought to search the whole house, but it was more important to get Hoffmann away fast. Back in Munich, among what were now his own people, his worries would be over.

  'We're pulling out,' he said to his men.

  They looked at each other. 'Just him?' one of them ventured.

  'What else?'

  'What about –?'

  'Leave it. We've got what we came for. Now,' he said, turning to Hoffmann. 'Where are your papers? You can't have got this far without them. I haven't got time to search this whole place, so if you don't cooperate I'll have to take shortcuts.' He picked up a thin metal paperknife from the large bureau by the windows.

  He was interrupted by the sound of a car arriving.

  127

  Despite his Hitler-Order, Inspector Kessler had also experienced difficulty in arranging transport, but it had still happened quickly. Schiffer watched him climb out of the black Mercedes, knowing that the hours he'd had to waste organising his own mission in Munich had all but lost him his advantage. Even now he couldn't understand what had happened; but there was no time to reflect on that. Kessler had the official mandate to arrest Hoffmann. Everything was about to be snatched from him. He watched as his enemy ran up the front steps, recognised, with a catch at his throat, Kleinschmidt lagging behind. Three other detectives accompanied Kessler and his sergeant.

  'Who is it?' said one of the Gestapo-men.

  Schiffer's mind raced. 'No idea. Might be a rescue.' He drew his own gun, and took out Hoffmann's Walther as well. 'Looks like we're going to ha
ve to fight over our bone.'

  'Worth fighting over such a big one,' said one of the men. Each of them knew whom they'd netted.

  They've seen our car, Schiffer thought; we're not going to be able to jump them. Conflicting impulses cluttered his brain; but he told himself that if he could bring Kessler down, he'd be able to explain what'd happened afterwards: tragic misunderstanding, friendly fire in the confusion. His men would back him up. And if he couldn't...

  'Handcuff him and watch him,' he said to one of his men, indicating Hoffmann, whom he pushed down into the armchair. He glanced again at the windows. There were only three men at the door. Kessler, as he had done, had sent a couple of police round to the back. Deep inside the house, the dogs had started barking again. He cursed himself for not getting hold of Tilli and the boy, but there was no time now.

  'You two, come with me.'

  He returned to the hall; but there was no cover there. The only pieces of furniture were ranged along the walls, and they were massive, couldn't be moved. They'd have to start shooting as soon as the others came through the door. It was the only moment of advantage they'd have. He made rapid calculations. Kessler had one man more; he himself had to keep back a man to guard Hoffmann. Hoffmann couldn't be left alone, even handcuffed. So it would be three men against five. And his men only had automatics. Hadn't he seen one of Kessler's carrying an MP 38? They'd be lost against even that one machine gun, and Kessler would use the gun to shoot his way through the door. He was hammering on it already.

  'Get ready.' Schiffer crossed swiftly to the door and opened it, standing back immediately. His men stood ready either side of it, close to the walls, covering the entrance.

  Kessler came into the hall, followed by the cop with the machine gun. Kleinschmidt stayed on the threshold, gun out, but looking back to the cars. Schiffer looked at him but he didn't turn round.

  A hubbub at the back of the house indicated that the two other cops had located the elderly couple and the dogs. It didn't sound as if the dogs were pleased to see them. Good, Schiffer thought, that might keep their hands tied for just long enough. But he'd have to act fast. No shooting yet.

  'Kessler,' he said.

  'Schiffer.' Kessler took a step forward. 'Is he here?'

  'I have placed him under arrest.'

  'Hand him over. I have direct authority to escort him back to Berlin.'

  It was now or never, Schiffer thought, focusing the hatred and envy he had been storing for so long. Lose the glory, lose the initiative, sink back into the shadows again, no.

  'I cannot do that,' he said, raising his right-hand pistol and shooting the policeman with the machine gun.

  128

  Kessler and Kleinschmidt pulled out their pistols and threw themselves down as the other two Gestapo-men opened fire, but in the panic and confusion, one of them shot the other in the knee.

  The driver rushed out of the drawing-room, gun up. From his position on the floor, Kessler put a bullet in the man's chest before rolling over and struggling to get up, tripping as he did so and stumbling forwards. Schiffer turned his gun onto Kessler before the other man had a chance to get any further, but at that moment the door which led to the back of the house opened. Kessler's other men appeared, and they were ready.

  The wounded Gestapo-man, howling in agony, had dropped his pistol. The other turned to face the newcomers; but the newcomers were experienced. They took in the situation and assessed it. They picked their targets. One fired at the able Gestapo-man and dropped him with a bullet which, as much by accident as good marksmanship, given the situation and the range, went through the man's left eye and out through the back of his skull, neatly, but leaving a mess on the wall. The other shot Schiffer through the back of the neck as he pointed his own guns at Kessler. He was screaming something before he went down. But the screaming stopped the moment the bullet hit him, and Schiffer's heavy body crashed into Kessler as it fell, knocking him down again. The noise of his voice continued to ring in Kessler's ears. What had it sounded like? Had he been shouting 'Fatherland'?

  That was the word Stauffenberg cried out at his death, or so he'd heard.

  There was more smoke and blood and yelling, and then another shot, after which the wounded Gestapo-man stopped howling. No-one knew who'd fired that. By the time everyone had calmed down, a few seconds, they found Kleinschmidt had reached the drawing-room and was keeping a gun on Hoffmann, still in his chair. The only Gestapo operative left alive was the driver, and they did what they could for him, which wasn't much; he died within minutes.

  'Sweet fucking Mother of fucking Christ,' said one of the Munich cops. Wiping his hands and face with his handkerchief and trying to control his trembling. 'Who were those guys?'

  'Bodyguards,' said Kessler, speaking without thinking.

  'Something we'll have to find out,' said Kleinschmidt.

  Kessler glanced at his sergeant, went to talk to Hoffmann. At first he couldn't control his voice. He looked back at his crew. Only Kleinschmidt wasn't shaking. Kleinschmidt had found a decanter of brandy and some glasses.

  'This is the last thing we should be drinking after something like that,' he said, pouring liberal shots.

  Kessler pulled himself together, looked at Hoffmann. 'You'd better have one as well.'

  'How will I drink it?' said Hoffmann quietly, no tone at all in his voice.

  Kessler turned to one of the Munich cops. 'Find the keys to these handcuffs. Search the pockets.' He nodded his head at Schiffer. 'Try that one first.'

  The detective looked uncertain, but located the keys in Schiffer's jacket pocket, unlocked and relocked them with Hoffmann's wrists in front of him, put a glass of brandy in his hands. Everyone drank, someone passed round cigarettes.

  'Anyone else in the house?' asked Kessler, taking Hoffmann's glass away. Hoffmann hadn't touched the drink. He seemed to have shrunk in the chair, drawn into himself.

  'Old couple. Servants. Couple of gundogs. Left them locked in the kitchen where we found them.'

  'Christ, what are we doing to do about this fucking mess?' said a Munich cop.

  'We clear it up,' said Kleinschmidt .

  'There's blood all over the wall out there.'

  'As best we can.'

  'There'll be questions when we get back.'

  'We'll take care of it.' Kleinschmidt caught Kessler looking at him and added, 'It'll come out, but it'll be all right, sir, don't worry. In any case, we've got what we came for.' He glanced over at Schiffer. 'Whoever he was, that gentleman went rather beyond his brief I'd say, wouldn't you?'

  Kessler switched his gaze to Hoffmann, but Hoffmann didn't meet his eye. He still seemed to be looking inward, waiting for something, perhaps even listening for something.

  'There's a car round the back,' said the policeman who'd killed Schiffer. 'Big bugger, hidden behind a hedge. Might easily have missed it.'

  Kessler was thinking fast. 'Calm yourself down, then go and take a look at it, soon as you're ready. He was still shaking himself, though less badly now. He had a pretty good idea about the car.

  'Better search the bloody house too,' suggested Kleinschmidt, 'I suppose.'

  'Yes,' Kessler agreed, wishing his sergeant hadn't chosen a moment like this to be conscientious. He turned to the other cop, 'Go upstairs, see if there's anyone else.'

  'On my own?'

  'Take the machine gun.' Kessler paused, looking at the two policemen. 'Christ,' he said, 'Let's all have another brandy first.' Luckily, no-one was eager to make a move, so there was still time, or so, at least, he hoped. It was all he could do.

  Kleinschmidt looked at him, then shrugged his shoulders, grabbed the decanter. Five minutes later, unable to hold them any longer, Kessler nodded at his colleagues. One set off towards the back of the house. The other, more reluctantly, made for the main staircase, pausing to pick up the MP 38 from where it had fallen.

  129

  'We'll just leave it,' Kleinschmidt said, once they were alone. He got up heavily an
d drew Kessler aside. 'They started it. They're not in uniform - and you're right, how were we to know they weren't here to protect our friend?' He paused. 'And no-one's going to say anything about how you and Schiffer know each other.' He nodded his head in the direction of the dead policeman. 'Schreiner was the only one to hear you, and he's dead. The others were round the back. I'm not going to say anything - why should I?'

  Kessler was silent. What Kleinschmidt was saying made sense.

  'Let's see what the Obersturmbannführer's got on him,' Kleinschmidt continued. 'Bet he hasn't official papers for this. This was our arrest.'

  'Go and keep an eye on Hoffmann,' said Kessler. 'I'll go through their pockets.' This was a job he needed to do himself.

  'Take everything they've got, if you want,' said Kleinschmidt; 'No-one in the world's going to bring this back on us.'

  Kessler had pulled a leg muscle badly at some point during the mêlée, and limped back to the hall. He knelt by Schiffer, lowering himself painfully to his knees, and rolled him onto his back. He tried not to look at the face, but couldn't help it, noticing the expression of angry surprise in the clouding blue eyes. Schiffer's skin was blotchy, and blood had seeped over the white collar of the shirt and the knot of his dark blue tie.

  The trouser pockets yielded the expected keys, handkerchief, loose change. In the jacket, Schiffer's ID, cigarettes and a lighter, and his wallet, full of notes, bulging, and notes on scraps of paper. Two or three addresses among them. One of these Kessler caught Kessler's eye and he pocketed it after glancing swiftly round. Just a street name and number, but it rang a distant bell. Then he moved to the other dead Gestapo-men.

  He was getting to his feet when the cop who'd gone to check the back of the house came running. 'The car! The car's gone.'