Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  Kessler awoke abruptly. Shouting, and shots somewhere down the corridor outside. Then, running feet. Stopping outside his door.

  'Kessler?'

  'Yes?'

  'Get away from the door. Well away.'

  Numbly, he obeyed, going to one side, under the window.

  'Done?'

  'Yes.'

  Gunfire again. Someone was shooting at the lock. The wood splintered around it. Whoever it was kicked hard from the outside. More wood splintered, and the lock fell away, allowing the door to swing open. Standing in the aperture were Hanno Heyme and two large men. All were dressed in overalls.

  'Good morning,' he said. 'Welcome back.'

  134

  Hoffmann knew the surrounding countryside fairly well and made his way across it, skirting farms, for farms meant dogs.

  He tripped over a root and sprawled, fearful in the moment of falling that he might have sprained his ankle. He must go slowly.

  Had Tilli and Stefan managed to get away? The Maybach was well-known locally, but it was still a stupid, ostentatious car. She would have to have the devil's luck to get to the border in it now. Or maybe that wasn't the plan. Tilli was very far from being a fool.

  There was nothing he could do now. He took comfort in the thought that Kessler, at least, was still in a position of command. He'd be able to control things. And Schiffer was dead. He could breathe a more easily in the knowledge that both his most promising protégés had been neutralised as threats.

  There were roads he had to cross. On some of them a few people straggled, locals, going about their business as best they could. And a few outsiders, pushing bicycles, pulling handcarts, overloaded with suitcases and furniture, chairs, tables, curtains even, looking vulnerable and ridiculous in the open air. The master race on the run.

  Climbing a bank on the side of such a road, he saw a spire he recognised in the distance. Scheinfeld. He was off course, after all.

  ***

  They were driving through a battered and confused city. It had been another good raid for the enemy. Kessler saw people huddled in front of piles of rubble. Some were alive but, in passive panic, unable to move. Some twisted in the dust, trying to get rid of the pain of their wounds. Others, bunched up, did not move at all. Under the sun, the colours were vivid.

  They'd bundled him fast out of the building and into the car. Two men in plain clothes had lain dead in the reception hall of an anonymous building that might once have been an unassuming hotel. The driver was skilful, avoiding obstacles with ease, and they reached the suburbs in ten minutes.

  The first leaves were falling. A short driveway, and a solid, limestone merchant's house. Pillared portico. High double doors. They stopped at the back, hastened inside. Kessler had noticed an oldish NSU army motorbike following them, uniformed rider. But he'd stuck close, no-one had bothered about him, and before they'd entered the house, he'd pulled up behind the car and switched off. Fake outrider, give them a dash of officialdom, sensible, thought Kessler. The outrider followed them into the house, tossing the bike's keys into a bowl on a table by the back door.

  A large room. Heavy furniture, stuffy, relieved by the sunlight through the net curtains. Honey-coloured wooden floors and Turkish carpets. Kessler collapsed on a sofa.

  'Too early for a drink?' asked Heyme.

  'Not today.'

  'Guessed as much.'

  Kessler took the schnapps and downed it in one, letting its heat hug him. He had another, took a cigarette, inhaled deeply.

  'What the hell is going on?' he said.

  Hanno leaned forward in his seat. 'You're lucky. You've got the same guardian angel as Adamov, and believe me when this is over, he's going to call in his debts.' He smiled. 'They've evacuated the place. The raids. Getting too hot for them. Taken the other prisoners God knows where. Your friend Kleinschmidt was working himself into quite a lather about it all. His masters were getting impatient and he didn't have time to take you somewhere safer to beat the truth out of you.'

  'So what's happened?'

  'They sent a big bunch of secret police out into the wilds a couple of days ago - '

  'I heard. Did they find anything?'

  'They found an abandoned car. Happens all the time. A Maybach. Big bugger. Suitcase in it, full of men's clothes and some books. Nothing else.'

  Kessler thought, clever Tilli. 'Is the Gestapo still on the case?'

  'Put ten more men on it and they're fanning out, south-west and south-east of Iphofen.'

  'You are well informed.'

  'Three of them are in our outfit.'

  'Doesn't sound like you'll need me after all this is over.'

  'Serious crooks are always well organised.' Hanno laughed. 'Look at the fucking Russians. But you can never have too much insurance.'

  'Where's Kleinschmidt now?' he asked again.

  'Alas,' said Hanno. He pushed a copy of the VB across the table:

  BRUTAL MURDER OF WELL-LOVED PARTY LOYALIST AND SECURITY CHIEF

  Standartenführer KLEINSCHMIDT, A., was found in the early hours of the morning in the Isar, where his body had washed up against a wharf. He had been brutally murdered, and the callous killers had stripped him and rammed 30cm lengths of sausage - allegedly salami - into his mouth and a lower orifice prior to strangling him. This disgraceful crime will be investigated and swiftly solved, and its perpetrators punished with the full vigour of the law!!!

  His death will be deeply regretted by the Party, of which he had been a loyal servant since 1940, and his mother and sister, who survive him in his home town of Köpenick, Berlin. Funeral with full Police and Military Honours to be held on Tuesday, 15 August.

  'There will be reprisals,' said Kessler.

  'Not a chance. Who're they going to hang it on?'

  'Why do that to him anyway?'

  'You didn't know him that well.' Hanno smiled.

  'I've another question.'

  'Yes?'

  'Do you know what's going on inside Dachau?'

  'No. Who're we talking about?'

  'A friend. A friend who's been compromised.'

  'A Jew?'

  'A Political.'

  'Oh.'

  'That is – a relative of a Political.'

  'What?'

  'Someone arrested under the Associative Guilt Programme.'

  'Just when you thought they couldn't get any crazier, eh?' Hanno smiled again, but not with his eyes. 'Something to eat?'

  'I'd better get going. They'll be after me.'

  'But you must be hungry. Where're you going anyway? Dachau? Leave here unprotected and you'll end up there quicker than you can fart.'

  There was something in Hanno's voice which Kessler didn't like.

  'I've got to –'

  'Find your friend. Who is she?'

  'What?'

  'Come on. It's how you asked the question. I haven't just fallen off the Christmas tree, you know.'

  Kessler was silent.

  'Look,' Hanno said. 'You'll have to trust me a little. Otherwise what progress will you make? Think about it. You are in my power and in my debt. Look at the balance sheet. Have I let you down? Did I let dear old Maxie Hoffmann down?'

  'What else did you take out of that Gestapo place?' asked Kessler. 'You obviously knew there were only a couple of guys guarding it. Any files left that might have been useful?'

  'You know what, Inspector, if you want help, you shouldn't ask so many questions. You should be a little more grateful. And you shouldn't be so transparent. The only major Political you're connected to is Hoffmann. You've been with him for a decade. As far as we know, the only relative he's got left is his daughter. Doesn't take a Wernher von Braun to figure out that she might very easily have been arrested under the Sippenhaft laws.' Heyme uncorked the schnapps and poured two more, offered cigarettes.

  Kessler accepted both, but he felt outgunned and cornered. 'You're right,' he said.

  'Better!' beamed Hanno. 'Now, food! We've got suckling pig, dumpling
s, Bratkartoffeln, salad, real coffee. Slightly heavy breakfast, but you've been through a lot. And you shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach.'

  Kessler drank anyway, inhaled his cigarette, and felt better, and then immediately worse. He retched.

  'It's not drugged; it's just that you're feeling weak,' said Hanno, reading his thought. 'But we'll see you right.' He went to the door, opened it and shouted, 'Kleist!'

  A minute later, one of the two men from earlier that morning - already an age ago - came into the room. Dressed in a suit and tie now, he looked even bulkier than he had in overalls. How had these guys avoided military service?

  'Get them to fix our friend a meal.'

  Kleist nodded and left.

  'Now,' said Hanno. 'We know that some of the prisoners have been moved out, but not the ones in striped pyjamas. Special treatment types. Don't know who, or why, or where, but it's likely that Emma Hoffmann was one of them.'

  'Emma?'

  'I've worked on this side of the fence all my life. Thirty years. Since I was thirteen. I can remember what it was like during the first show. And the Twenties. Good times. Good pickings. But we always knew how to survive, and we stayed fat. How? Organisation and information.'

  'You should be in charge.'

  'We are in charge.' He stretched, yawned. 'And you're one of us now, like it or not. Stray, and you're dead. Don't think you can outwit us.'

  Kessler knew he had no choice but to play along - tomorrow things might be different, and the world had never been more uncertain than it was at present. He wondered how soon he could get away. He calculated the time he'd been out of action. He needed to find Emma, somehow; but he had no lead yet. Maybe there was another priority. 'Can you help me with transport?'

  'What do you want - blood? You're going to have to lay low. Food and sleep first. Decide what to do next tomorrow. Anyway, there's things I need to discuss with you - you might as well start paying us back right away.'

  'Where's Adamov now?'

  'Why do you want to know?'

  'Where is he?'

  'He's gone. Soon as he could walk. All Adamov had was stuff we already knew. You are much bigger game. When you've eaten and rested, you and I are going to have a long conversation.'

  'What about?'

  'What the Kriminalpolizei is up to. Everything you know.'

  'No. Later. Now I've got to get away.'

  Heyme leant forward again. 'You aren't going anywhere. You're staying with us. When the dust settles, we'll get you reinstated. They'll need bright young cops with experience, and they won't ask questions.' He sat back. 'We've been running quite a little recruitment drive here in Munich.'

  135

  Kessler knew that the drink was affecting him. He took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt. He still had no tie, belt or shoes. He settled the glasses back on his nose. He looked at the door. Where was Kleist? Where were the others?

  'I've got to find Emma, ' he said.

  'No-one knows where she is.'

  Kessler looked round the room. It was another prison. 'I think I need some air,' he said, smiling, and getting to his feet.

  Heyme started to get up too, but before he could, Kessler seized the half-full bottle of Doornkaat and hit him hard on the side of the head with it. It was a good blow. Heyme fell back down on the sofa, didn't even make a sound.

  Fighting to keep his breathing steady, and straining his ears for the slightest sound, Kessler took off Heyme's shoes and put them on - too big, but manageable. He bent over and rummaged in his jacket for his pistol, found it, and slipped it into his own pocket. Kessler had no money and no papers. He took Heyme's wallet as well. He hoped that Heyme's papers would cover him somehow. The risk was huge. But what mattered most was to get away.

  He went to the door and listened.

  Not a sound. He opened it. The hall was deserted, the heavy woodwork frowned down on him. Stairs led up to a galleried first floor, and down to a half-basement where the kitchen probably was. From beyond a closed door opposite, men's voices, subdued, and the occasional shout. Playing cards. He crossed the hall, his feet slipping about in Heyme's shoes. Reaching the back door, he looked into the bowl. Several sets of keys. Two clearly belonged to doors; but the other two looked more promising. He took both. Then he froze. He could hear footsteps coming up the stairs from below. He could smell food. It smelt delicious. He couldn't believe how hungry he was. He put his hand on the knob of the back door and turned. It gave. As swiftly and as silently as he could he opened the door and slipped through.

  The morning air was keen still. He made his way to the bike. The first set of keys didn't work. From the house he heard a yell. He tried the second, forcing himself not to jab the key at the lock. Finally he got it in. Turned it. Kicked the engine alive.

  He got moving just as they started shooting from the house.

  136

  There was a drab-looking house in Bern, off the Bundesgasse, not far from the Käfigturm; but its interior was anything but drab. It was larger than it looked from the outside, and it was one of the main bureaux of the Office of Strategic Services in the city. Thin, fraught young Americans moved through long rooms lined with desks laden with typewriters, telephones and teleprinters, under the aegis of their foul-mouthed, genial boss, Allen Welsh Dulles, whose own office, to their relief, was elsewhere in the city.

  In a large, net-curtained room on the second floor three people sat round a low table, leaning forward in their armchairs, their tea, neglected, growing cold as they talked. They had reached the end of a long road.

  General Richter, tired after a heavy debriefing, had let Emma tell most of the story. He had to admit to himself that, in retrospect, the worst part of the whole adventure had been the interrogations at the hands of the eager young Americans, one of whom was sitting discreetly in a corner, pad and pencil on her lap. That one, he knew, spoke fluent German, French and Italian. Russian too, probably, for all he knew. These American spies were pros, he'd give them that.

  He and Emma had had an easier drive to the Swiss frontier than they'd deserved. People had given up. Road-blocks were ill-kept, if they were kept at all. The only real dread was of SS patrols, but they'd been fortunate. Richter's uniform answered most questions, the girl was his niece, under his protection, they were driving back to his country house near Badenweiler, where he would leave her before ending his leave and resuming his frontier patrol duties. The fact that he had indeed been on frontier patrol for a time and had papers to prove it forestalled any other enquiries; and in the short time he had spent as a prisoner, no-one had inspected his uniform closely, so no-one had found the thousand dollars in tens, fives and ones that had also been sewn into its jacket lining. Transferred to a wallet, those bills had smoothed the rough passages, and the jeep had enough fuel for the journey.

  He'd thought that the frontier might be a problem, but the guards who manned it were so used to their SS colleagues crossing with despatches, that a well-heeled and generous regular army general presented them with no problems. Clearly no word had reached them of his escape, but that didn't surprise him. He reckoned the news would take another twenty-four hours to reach them.

  Safe in Switzerland, Richter felt obscurely disappointed. He knew, of course, that they'd keep him here far longer than they'd keep Emma. He knew that more interrogations lay ahead of him, and that in the meantime he'd be kept under hotel-arrest; but that was nothing. He didn't have to lie any more. Whether they chose to believe him or not was out of his hands.

  Emma told her part of the story well. She didn't embellish. She was serious and concentrated, even if, for her, it had been far more of an adventure. But she would not be parted from her violin. The violin meant everything to her.

  The American girl - how old was she? - twenty-five? Americans always looked younger than they were - took notes occasionally. Hans Brandau, the third person at the table, bent forward, forearms on knees, immaculate white cuffs exposed an exact centimetre beyond
his dark jacket sleeve, watched Emma as she talked.

  No-one had news of Hoffmann. No-one knew anything about Tilli or Stefan. The courier taking the travel permits to Tilli's mansion had, they learned, been detained by the police at Würzburg. He'd been lucky that it was regular police who'd picked him up. He was Swiss, but able to disguise his Swiss-German accent completely, even able to put on a convincing Freiburg burr. His own papers were in order - a clerk to the Freiburg Judiciary - and they let him go, after questioning, and double-checking with the phone number he gave them. A Doctor Martens answered, vouched for him, seemed impatient. They apologised and hung up. But their investigation had taken time. When the courier finally arrived at Tilli's mansion, it was deserted. He had destroyed the documents and returned to base.

  After the meeting, Brandau left them and made his way to an office in another part of the building. He took his place at a desk opposite a burly man in his fifties, harassed behind a battery of red files.

  'Well, Hans?' said the man, in English.

  'No reason why she shouldn't go, I think. We've arranged an affidavit with Kara von Wildenbruch's mother in New York. Frau von Wildenbruch knows the situation - we sent someone to talk to her personally, and it seems by some miracle she had a letter from Kara all those years ago. And we've checked her own background, just in case. No problem there.'

  'Did you tell her about her daughter?'

  'What was there to tell? She's heard nothing for a decade. She wasn't surprised.' He paused. 'Of course I didn't tell her everything.'

  The man reached for a pad and scribbled on it. 'I'll sort out the details.'

  'General Richter stays, of course.'

  'We'll keep him here until it's over. I want him under our eye just in case. After that, we'll turn him loose, with a pardon, if he's clean. He'll probably lose his army pension, though.'