Hitler's Angel

by William Osborne

  From the Chicken House

  This is TERRIFIC. I mean, teenagers recruited by the Secret Service to be parachuted back into Occupied Europe. Romance, chases and escapes – nail-biting tension and the strangest and most intriguing mystery OF ALL at the heart of it! Well, who wouldn't adore this, the most thought-provoking and original thriller of the year? William Osborne's day job is writing scripts for Hollywood, and this is quite simply the best movie I have ever read.

  Barry Cunningham

  Publisher

  For C, D, E, F.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  DUNKIRK, FRANCE - 1 JUNE 1940 - 3:06 P.M.

  The boy's lungs were burning and his eyes streaming with tears.

  He had to get to England. It was now or never. The smoke was all around him, acrid cordite and sulphurous petrol. He kept on running, every breath a sharp stab in his chest. He had to keep going, had to reach the water's edge, had to get beyond the upturned burning vehicles and the dead and dying men lying on the beach. He kept his eyes fixed on the hundreds of boats of every shape and size anchored in the water: barges and sailing yachts, naval destroyers and passenger liners. It seemed every boat in Britain had made the journey across the Channel to help its soldiers escape the advancing German army.

  He stumbled over discarded equipment, soldiers’ canvas packs, ammunition boxes and piles of guns. Then the boy heard the sharp roar of aeroplane engines at close range. He turned. Three Messerschmitt fighters were racing straight towards him, and they were no more than twenty metres above his head.

  The water was only about two hundred metres away now. He was so close. The boy tripped and stumbled as the planes flashed overhead. Suddenly he realised he'd lost his money belt. Its zipped compartment contained his whole life, everything he had managed to snatch from home the afternoon he had made his escape: photos of his parents and brother, his identity card and German passport, the last of his money.

  He crawled over the sand on his knees, searching for it, machine-gun fire kicking up columns of sand around him. Something glinted a few metres away. He snaked towards it on elbows and knees. It was his father's gold wristwatch, which had been tucked inside the belt for safe-keeping. At least he had found that. The Nazis had taken everything else.

  There was a sudden blast of whistles along the foreshore and the sound of orders bellowed above the explosions and gunfire. The rescue boats were leaving.

  He sprinted the last few metres to the water, plunging into the surf. Another wave of German planes circled to the west, lining up for an attack. He spotted a small wooden riverboat with a green hull and white trim. It was only about fifty metres away but it was already completely overloaded with troops. Its skipper, a duffel-coated man with a pipe clenched between his teeth, was pulling up the anchor.

  The boy waded out. Within a few metres he was out of his depth. He was a strong swimmer and the cold water revived him. He lifted his head to check his position and saw a plume of black exhaust appear from the back of the riverboat as the skipper engaged the propellers.

  “Bitte warten Sie!” the boy shouted at the top of his voice.

  But they didn't understand. They weren't going to wait for him. The boat was beginning to move forward on the swell, the captain looking to manoeuvre through the burning wreckage of other sinking boats.

  The boy knew if he let go of his father's watch he could gain a little more speed, but he refused to do it. It was all he had left. Instead he plunged his head into the water and kicked harder. He had to keep going. He had to make it.

  And then his arm struck the side of the boat and he pulled his head up. The boat was so overloaded it was only a foot above the water. He grabbed the rope around the side with one hand, fighting for breath, and found himself being dragged along.

  A plume of water erupted in front of the boat. A bomb. The skipper spun the wheel. The boy thought his arm would be torn from his shoulder as the boat rode into the swell from the bomb's impact. His head slammed against the hull.

  “Hilfe! Hilf mir!” he yelled. He felt his grip on the sodden rope weaken, knew he couldn't hold on much longer. His head sank beneath the waves.

  Suddenly strong hands grabbed him under his armpits and he found himself being hauled up over the side of the boat. He opened his eyes. He was lying on his back on the deck, gasping for breath, retching. A group of British soldiers was staring down at him. They were all bandaged and bloodied. He smelt cigarette smoke. One of them kicked him lightly in the ribs.

  “Hilfe? You said, ‘Hilf mir.’ What are you, a Kraut?”

  The boy nodded and staggered to his feet. “Please, I am also from Herr Hitler escaping.” He had to convince them to take him with them. “Victory for England!” he shouted desperately. Then his eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward on to the deck.

  LONDON - 1 JUNE 1940 4.30 p.m.

  A fourteen-year-old girl with long chestnut hair leant right out of the passenger window of a black car as it hurtled down Haverstock Hill towards the centre of London. In large white letters on the car's bodywork were the words “Blood Transfusion Service”. The girl was proud to be finally helping with the war effort. She gripped the door-frame with one hand and rang a large brass bell for all it was worth with the other.

  “Hold on tight,” yelled her driver, Judy, a plucky young woman from Mill Hill, as the car shot over Regent's Canal bridge. A double-decker bus appeared directly in front of them and they swerved to pass it, meeting a black taxi coming the other way. The bell-ringer squeezed her eyes shut as the driver floored the accelerator, and ducked back in before the two cars collided. A traffic policeman was frantically blowing his whistle and waving them through a junction. The girl grinned from ear to ear. She'd just started working on the “Blood Run” with Judy on her Wednesday half-day from school. Judy was great, she was nearly twenty and drove like the wind. The girl had started this job as a way of repaying the Brits for saving her and family, but now she realised it was very exciting too!

  Less than ten minutes later the car skidded to a halt at the entrance of St George's Hospital at Hyde Park Corner. It was a chaotic mass of activity, ambulances arriving with wounded and others departing, their bells jangling. Hospital staff jos
tled between patients and visitors. Soldiers sat smoking at their guard posts, surrounded by sandbags. Buckingham Palace was just a stone's throw from the hospital, so the whole place was bristling with anti-aircraft guns.

  The girl jumped out and ran to the back of the car to open the boot. Resting inside was a large wooden ice chest and some crates. The girl swung up the lid of the chest. Inside were thirty large glass bottles filled with dark red fluid, and they were still all intact. Relieved, the girl deftly selected eight bottles and filled two crates. She sprinted for the entrance.

  “Urgent blood! Emergency, urgent blood!” she shouted like a market trader, and the crowd outside parted without complaint to let her through. Her voice, high and clear, had just a trace of an Austrian accent.

  Inside, a nurse was waiting for her by the theatre. “You took your time,” she said, sounding harassed.

  “Sorry,” the girl said, feeling a little stung. They'd got here as quickly as they could.

  “No, I'm sorry,” replied the nurse, sighing. “It's just that we need the blood pronto.” She took the crates from the girl and pushed the theatre's swing door open with her hip. The girl caught a glimpse of the surgeon inside. There was blood on his rubber apron.

  “Is it bad?” she whispered.

  The nurse paused at the door. “They're bringing the wounded up from the coast on the trains,” she said, quietly. “This one's lost both legs. Still, this should save him. See you.”

  The door swung shut.

  Back outside Judy had turned the car round and was revving the engine impatiently.

  “Mein Gott, it is big mess in there,” said the girl, clambering back in, glad to be away from the carnage inside. “Where to now?” she asked.

  “Whitechapel,” Judy replied, stepping on the accelerator, and the car shot back out into the traffic. “Just be thankful you're not at Dunkirk, duckie, or back in Austria. Them Nazis ’ave got us on the run, but we're not beaten yet. Churchill will save us, you mark my words.”

  CHAPTER 2

  25 MAY 1941 - ONE YEAR LATER

  The Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, strode briskly up the path leading directly from the River Thames to the Tower of London. His visit was supposed to be incognito, but in spite of a common beige gabardine raincoat and a dark Homburg hat pulled low, he was an unmistakable figure. The guards in kilts and bearskins who were guarding the entrance of the White Tower saluted crisply as he approached.

  At Churchill's side was another man. At least twenty years younger, he was tall with a pronounced nose, his receding hair a mousy brown. His eyes were grey, with dark shadows beneath them, perhaps from lack of sleep. He wore the uniform of an admiral of the Royal Navy, but was in fact a key member of the London Controlling Section, the Prime Minister's ultra-secret intelligence and operations group, dedicated to defeating Adolf Hitler by covert means.

  The admiral showed one of the guards his identification. It seemed perhaps a little unnecessary, given whom he was accompanying, but nevertheless the guard observed strict protocol and inspected the document carefully before saluting smartly once more and unlocking the heavy oak door.

  “Well, MacPherson,” Churchill said as they stepped inside, “perhaps we will find a way of profiting from this strange business.”

  A minute later they stood in a small soundproofed anteroom staring through a two-way mirror on the wall. In the cell beyond the mirror a dark-haired man limped from one wall to another with the help of a cane. His hair was still jet black, shorn at the sides, and his eyebrows were thick, almost meeting above his piercing eyes. Rudolf Hess, Deputy Führer of the Third Reich.

  Admiral MacPherson couldn't help but feel a strange sense of wonder that the second most powerful man in Nazi Germany had flown solo from Germany by night, parachuted into Scotland, and was now imprisoned here in the Tower of London. It was a very strange set of circumstances indeed. His unexpected arrival had stunned not just the British but, if the press were to be believed, the Germans as well.

  Hess had managed to break his ankle when landing in Scotland, and it was now in a plaster cast. This didn't seem to stop his pacing, and he shot an occasional look at the mirror, his brow furrowed. He appeared to be deep in thought.

  “Is he insane?” Churchill wasn't wasting any time.

  “We don't think so,” replied MacPherson. He had just read a report of the latest interrogation to discover the reasons for Hess's defection.

  “Well, his ideas sound pretty far-fetched. He might have defected because he didn't agree with Hitler's invasion of the Balkans. But to have organized some incredible plot to depose the Führer so he can save his life? And that somehow this girl will set the ball rolling?” Churchill shook his head.

  “I agree, it does sound less than rational.” MacPherson shrugged. “But it is clear he felt it was achievable – with our help.”

  “Well, whatever harebrained plan the man thought up is irrelevant now. He has made his bed and he will have to lie in it. In the meantime the only matter that concerns us is this child.” The Prime Minister paused. “Admiral, do you believe she is who he says she is?”

  MacPherson nodded. “I do. We have gone over the facts with him a dozen times. Besides, he has no reason to lie.”

  “In that case, she is invaluable.” Churchill turned to the door. He had made up his mind. “Come along, MacPherson, we have work to do.”

  They walked back down the path towards Traitors’ Gate, where the river launch had waited on the incoming tide to take the Prime Minister back to Westminster.

  “Are we managing to keep Herr Hess's whereabouts secret from Schellenberg's agents in London?” Churchill asked.

  “I'm confident of that, Prime Minister,” replied MacPherson. “So far as the German security service is aware, the Deputy Führer was moved from here to Windsor five days ago. We have a serviceable double there to keep their spies occupied.”

  “Excellent work, Admiral.”

  “You really think this girl can help us?” asked MacPherson, as they approached the boat.

  Churchill glanced up at the barrage balloons before he answered. “In the last month, Greece has fallen, Crete has fallen, and the Afrika Korps have us on the run in the Western Desert, so perhaps Egypt and the oil fields of Arabia will fall, too. Hitler's U-boats are sinking half a million tons of shipping a week in the Atlantic and our planes are being shot out of the sky faster than we can build them.” He took out a cigar and rolled it between his fingers. “Not only that, but the Americans steadfastly refuse to declare war on Germany, so we stand alone. And we are losing, let us make no bones about it. Having this girl will give us a victory we badly need, a propaganda victory. It will stiffen our side's morale, win the hearts and minds of decent people in Germany, and deal a blow to the Führer that will strike at his very core.”

  “He'll never let her out of Germany alive if he so much as suspects our intentions,” said MacPherson.

  “Then you must ensure he does not get a whiff of our plans, Admiral. This matter is above top secret, for your eyes only. Time is short. I assume you have agents on standby for instant action?”

  “Of course, Prime Minister,” he replied, smoothly.

  “Good chap. I knew I could rely on you.” Churchill patted him on the arm and stepped on to the gangplank.

  MacPherson saluted the Prime Minister smartly, but already his mind was spinning.

  He didn't have agents on standby. Not the kind he would need, anyway. German-speaking agents were thin on the ground, to say the least, and the ones they had were already known to Hitler's security services. Now he had no more than two weeks to find and train top-class operatives that could get into Germany and back out again – with the most precious cargo in the Reich. How on earth could it be done?

  CHAPTER 3

  RUTLAND – 2 JUNE 1941

  The boy was running as fast across his school's cobbled courtyard as he had across the bullet- riddled sands of Dunkirk a year ago.

  He reached
the entrance to the chapel tower and took the stone steps three at a time. It wasn't easy. The treads were narrow, worn in the middle, and he was wearing studded cricket boots, which made him slide. He was still wearing his cricket whites, too, the knees scuffed green from a fumbled catch earlier in the afternoon. The air was stifling and he was dripping with sweat. He reached the door to the roof, and slammed back the bolt with the side of his hand. He gasped in pain as his knuckles, skinned red and raw, slid along the rough wooden door. Behind him he could hear the clatter of other cricket boots.

  He stumbled on to the roof of the chapel. The English countryside lay spread out around him, the playing fields and cricket pitch away to the left. He heard a shout behind, and turned. Four members of his team were advancing towards him. The captain, Catchpole, was wielding a cricket bat.

  “I'm really going to kill you this time,” he said.

  “Just leave me alone, Catchpole,” said the boy. His accent had improved considerably since he had been dragged from the water at Dunkirk, and he was almost a young man now, taller and thinner. On arrival in England he had given the authorities the name of his father's English friend, a chemistry professor at Cambridge, who had greeted him kindly then sent him to this place. He must have thought he was being generous.

  “Why should I, Nazi boy?” sneered Catchpole. If there was one insult he hated above all the ones that were hurled at him, it was “Nazi boy”. And they knew it. The boy looked around for some kind of weapon, but there was nothing to hand. It was fight or run, and as there didn't seemed to be anywhere to run to, fight it was, even though he knew he would take a beating. He raised his fists and planted his feet anyway, waiting for their charge.

  Then his eye caught something behind them. New scaffolding up the side of the tower. A rope hung from it.

  As the youths charged, the boy darted to his right and was past his pursuers before they could turn and give chase. He reached the end of the roof and climbed on to the crenellated parapet. The scaffolding was about two metres away; the ground beneath many more. He could make it. He threw himself forward across the gap, landing with a thud on wooden planks, then grabbed hold of the rope. He turned. Catchpole was standing on the parapet, looking at the gap. He didn't seem in any hurry to jump.