The Girl with the Silver Stiletto

by Vic Robbie

  ‘Wouldn’t, old man.’ Pickering attempted to restrain him.

  Don’t stop me.

  He shrugged him off and went over. Ronnie was barely alive, her eyes showing a mixture of fear and bewilderment. The medics moved aside to enable him to get closer, and one of them looked grim. Blood trickled out the side of her mouth and ran down her chin and with every heave of her chest more bubbled out. He held her hand and caressed her cheek, and she appeared to relax as if that brought her some comfort. Those eyes that had captivated him when they first met flickered wanting to know what was about to happen. And she attempted a smile, a brave one to cover her pain. She mustered all her remaining strength and struggled to sit up. And she was trying to speak.

  He stroked her cheek again, and tears welled. ‘Don’t,’ he whispered and bent forward and kissed her forehead. With determination, she used her elbows to raise herself although the effort caused more blood to flow from her mouth.

  She’s dying. ‘You’re going to be okay,’ he lied.

  She shook her head and forced out the words: ‘He’s on that plane. I always knew it.’ Her body trembled briefly and stiffened and her eyes closed and her face appeared to harden like marble. A medic pushed past him and felt for a pulse. His head dropped, and he looked away.

  Alena’s gentle tug distracted him, and she reached up and kissed him as if attempting to draw out the grief like a poison. And, from behind, Freddie wrapped his arms around his waist, and they were all crying.

  ‘We’re all together at last,’ he whispered, enveloping them in his embrace.

  41

  The runway lights were blinking as the plane climbed into a bank of cloud and, as long as Natalie could still see them, she kept a hold on reality. But for how much longer?

  After opening the aircraft’s door, she had kept Klein and his men at bay by threatening to throw Freddie to his death. But once she released the boy, Klein had used the butt of a gun to loosen her grip before pulling her in. And a henchman slammed the door shut, sealing her last hope of escape. Concerned about the commotion in the cabin, the captain insisted they should abort the flight. But Dr Graukwitz informed them of the woman passenger’s history of mental illness and claimed that in her panic she had tried to leave on take-off. Insisting they would restrain her for the duration, he reassured them he would take full responsibility as her personal physician. After a discussion, it was decided that any further disturbance would necessitate landing at the nearest airport.

  The Avro Lancastrian’s configuration was unusual with seating for nine passengers running the length of the fuselage and facing starboard. And they forced her into a seat near the back and secured her to the arm rests.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ she asked Klein.

  Surprised she wanted to know, he snorted: ‘Chile, but it’s of no importance.’ His triumphant grin signalled her race was over.

  Two seats separated her from two of Klein’s henchmen, looking uncomfortable and nervous. But they glared at her like attack dogs that would kill once let off the leash. Next sat Klein with another space, which had been for Freddie, to his left then the doctor. And at the front, an elder man whom she thought she recognised.

  They droned on, buffeted every time it cut through the stacks of cloud that looked like grotesque sculptures in the moonlight. Her stomach churned with uncertainty, and it hurt. Most times the aircraft flew with a crew of six, including two pilots, a radio operator and a flight engineer. But Klein insisted on dispensing with the steward and stewardess, so they were not disturbed. Out of the corner of an eye, she watched, wondering what she could do. Klein’s men kept silent, fearing their superiors would overhear their conversations. The elder man spoke to no one. Every so often, he stared ahead, and she saw his reflection in the window.

  How and when would they kill her? Her predicament was hopeless. Müller’s colleagues had dropped enemies from planes when flying over the jungle although she hoped the aircrew would not allow that on this flight. The Nazis would have to wait until landing in Chile to deal with her. Whether she would be conscious was another matter. With an SS doctor on board, they could drug and restrain her, which might be appropriate for someone mentally deranged. The end could come without her knowing about it.

  Suddenly, she felt at peace, and her face lightened as she relaxed. She could be proud of her actions, making the ultimate sacrifice to help Freddie escape. Perhaps it made up for the misdeeds she had committed. At last, she had settled her debts. She knew she meant the boy no harm and her involvement with Solomon and the Nazis was just buying time. But still, there had to be more.

  With the lights in the cabin switched off and only a reading lamp burning above the senior Nazi, it highlighted and magnified his reflection. There had been no mention of him, and the first time she met him was when they were being ushered into cars for the airport. There were five vehicles. Müller, Mengele and Steinling took one, followed out of the compound by another packed with minders. Klein and the doctor accompanied the patient in another. She and Freddie shared with two henchmen, and the last car full of Nazis followed.

  On arrival, they had led Freddie away, and when she objected, the henchmen restrained her. They took Freddie to meet the patient, who listened to what he said and smiled with almost an expression of affection. And she noticed one side of his face was as impassive as stone. The man talked animatedly, and once Freddie laughed, and the man nodded agreement and ruffled Freddie’s hair with a hand that trembled.

  Something about him was familiar, like a dream of vivid images impossible to recall the next morning. She moved to get a better view. Around sixty, she guessed. His face was twisted by a stroke or another trauma. The eyes were light blue and had the sharpness of a younger man. White hair and a hint of black in the eyebrows. As if sensing he was being watched, he looked straight at the window. Now she knew where she had seen him before – in a uniform preaching to his devoted followers.

  She shut out her surroundings to concentrate on the image and recoiled. Fear and a sense of dread swept over her, controlling every part of her body. Her stomach protested as though turned inside out. Sweat stung her eyes. Her forehead was hot, but the rest of her was cold. She shivered, intimidated by an evil she feared more than death. Sickness rose in her mouth, and she swallowed to keep it down. Memories of the executions of the villagers flooded her mind; the dead demanding attention. Images of her mother and father and brother and sister, lips moving as if appealing for help. She couldn’t stop it, and she vomited down her blouse, bringing her back to the present.

  ‘Klein,’ she called softly, wiping her mouth with a hand, and then louder until he turned.

  ‘What do you want?’ His response was hushed so as not to disturb his superior.

  ‘Need to go to the bathroom, cheri.’ She attempted a rueful smile and nodded at her bound hands.

  He stared for a time, questioning whether he cared if she soiled herself. She would die anyway once they landed in Chile. After a calculation, he struggled out of his seat and walked along the aisle, stepping over the legs of his sleeping henchmen.

  ‘Leave that there,’ he ordered when she stretched for her shoulder bag. Repulsed by the sickness running over her breasts, he pushed her towards the toilet behind a curtain at the rear of the cabin.

  ‘Two minutes and don’t close the door.’

  ‘It’s difficult.’ She held up her secured hands.

  ‘Not my problem.’

  ‘Please, I’m not going anywhere.’

  He reached into a pocket and extracted a knife, flicking it open and cutting her ties.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him, but he wedged a boot in the opening so it couldn’t close.

  The article she had taken from the shoulder bag before boarding was concealed in her brassiere. And to cover any suspicious noises, she flushed the toilet.

  ‘Finished?’

  He stuck his head through the gap in the doorway.

  Pulling the door shut on his neck
, she plunged the stiletto into his left eye, slicing through to the brain and killing him in an instant. She lowered him to the floor and dragged him inside. Feeling in his jacket, she couldn’t find his pistol. She pulled the curtain back an inch and realised no one had noticed. The henchmen still slept. The doctor’s eyes were closed, and the elder man read.

  There might still be hope. If she could make it to the cockpit and explain to the pilot, he could protect her until they landed. If the authorities in Santiago were alerted, the Nazis would be powerless. Maybe not the best of plans but her only chance.

  She needed to move fast before the others awoke and blocked her path. She crept down the aisle and, as the plane lurched, lost balance almost tripping over the leg of one of the sleeping Germans. As she sneaked past Graukwitz, he looked up at her, surprise rippling across a confused face. He struggled to get up, but the white-haired man confronted her. Now the opportunity to rid the world of this abomination supplanted any thoughts of escape. An awakened henchman lumbered towards her. She would have to be quick. As her target grabbed her sleeve, she steadied, raising the stiletto high above her head. The doctor put a hand on her shoulder, but the henchman pushed him away. All she saw now was his face and with all her force brought the knife sweeping down on his head. But he deflected the blade with a book before falling down on the seat. The henchman was on her, and she spun slicing at him and ripped his neck open. Running the last few steps, she pushed past the radio operator who was getting to her feet, and burst into the cockpit, closed the door, locked it, and leant against it.

  ‘What in Christ’s name are you doing?’ The captain shouted, moving his attention away from the blinking dials, his face a montage of surprise and trepidation. And his colleague seemed transfixed by the intrusion into their domain.

  Fists pounding on the door distracted her. ‘Help me, please,’ she pleaded.

  ‘You can’t come in here,’ the captain said, having regained his composure.

  ‘These men are Nazis; they’re trying to kill me.’

  They exchanged worried glances.

  ‘Please, let me stay until Santiago, cheri, and then you can hand me over to the police there. Anyone, apart from those bastards.’ She motioned with a backwards jerk of the head.

  ‘Not possible,’ the captain said with an air of condescension that angered her. ‘Retake your seat, and we’ll resolve the problem when we’ve landed.’

  ‘It’ll be too late by then. I’m staying here.’

  ‘You’ve been ill, perhaps you should rest,’ the co-pilot interjected in a softer voice.

  There was another knock then a coaxing voice. ‘Natalie, this is your doctor. Please open up. I know you’re frightened and believe we will hurt you. But I promise I will take care of you.’

  The captain forced a smile. ‘There, Natalie, you’ll be in safe hands.’

  ‘They want to kill me.’

  Graukwitz’s voice came through again directed at the pilot, more guttural this time. ‘Captain, my apologies. We had Natalie sedated, but the medication has worn off. She is suffering delusions of paranoia, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I know now who your patient is,’ she shouted.

  The doctor raised his voice. ‘Captain, open it at once, or we will have to break it down. She is a danger to us all.’

  An undulating cloak of white covered the mountains and sparkled in the moonlight. And its beauty entranced her, its serenity the opposite of her life. Strife. Turmoil. Death. Momentarily, it transported her back to a field above her village in the June of 1940 when she lay in her boyfriend’s arms having eaten, drunk and made love. For a fleeting moment, she had known contentment, wishing it could last forever. But within an hour German soldiers swamped the area like a grey plague, their brutality wiping out a community that should have lived.

  Just as quickly, she snapped out of it. They would soon break through, and the co-pilot was out of his seat and moving closer. She couldn’t allow the white-haired man to live. She had to strike back for her family and those who had died at his hands. That would be her legacy.

  Decision made, the silver stiletto never felt more of an extension of her being than now. Millions of innocents died in the war. She would be their avenging angel. Several more deaths would be worth the sacrifice to end the killing. She glanced through the windshield at the snow-wrapped mountains.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered and stepped forward, thrusting the stiletto deep into the captain’s right ear. And, with blood pumping out of his eardrum and turning his white shirt red, he fell onto the controls. His colleague scrambled to regain control, but the weight of the body sent them into a steep dive.

  She heard shouts from behind as the plane swung wildly. A wall of snow was approaching faster by the second. She sighed. At last, she was free.

  42

  Asuncion, Uruguay, August 19th, 1947

  He rose to his feet, exaggerating the stiffness of age, and bowed a farewell to his companions clustered around some chessboards in the bar in a village less than fifteen miles from the city. Although a recent newcomer, it had not taken him long to fit in. Henry Miller played good chess and was an agreeable companion, always willing to buy the drinks. A quiet, contemplative man who enjoyed his beer and his jokes but didn’t bore you with endless stories of his accomplishments.

  As a stranger living in a comfortable villa on the edge of the village, he intrigued the locals. A rumour spread that the famous American novelist of that name was in their midst. But this Henry Miller was a more prosaic individual, having made his money as a manufacturer of houseware in Chile. Those at the bar never heard him utter the mildest of profanities, not even when concentration dropped resulting in a beginner’s mistake. He was no American. A trace of German laced his accent, not unusual as many Germans had emigrated to South America in the late nineteenth century.

  His villa was a mile’s stroll along a narrow dusty road, and he set off at a sedate pace. He savoured the fifteen minutes of exercise when he could think, away from the distractions of his work. An occasional villager passed wishing him a good day, and he reciprocated, doffing his Panama and uttering a few pleasantries. The best place to hide was in plain sight. If he had kept to himself, it would have fuelled gossip. By coming out and joining them, he showed he was not a man of mystery, just a retired gentleman.

  His pace picked up as he neared the villa. Earlier that morning a courier had delivered a letter from his contact in the secret police in Buenos Aires. The message would confirm his worst fears. And because of that, he had put off opening it by spending a few hours socialising with his new friends.

  The bile rose in his throat, and his face was becoming distorted by the hatred burning within him. He had to hide here like a hunted animal because of that fucking whore Natalie and the boy’s bitch of a mother. His footsteps slammed down like lids on their coffins. It rankled with him that they had destroyed all his plans, especially that black hure from French Intelligence. He had built his career on his ability to assess all eventualities and plot a careful route through any problems. He always stuck to the codes of his service and his loyalty to the state or whoever ran it was unswerving. Had he let standards slip? Could he have made a mistake? A lack of foresight? Most nights, the question kept him awake, bathed in sweat and consumed by a guilt that refused to evaporate. If he had taken another path, would it have been different? At times, he convinced himself he had been right unlike those weak fools around him.

  Now he would accept whatever was in that letter. Once confirmed, he would confront reality and plan the way forward. He almost broke into a trot on the path to his door. Inside, he cast away his hat and double-locked the doors. Although there was no one else in the house, he checked each room before entering his bedroom. Opening a wardrobe, Heinrich Müller studied his uniforms, running his fingers over them and fingering their texture. He stopped at one in black with the double flashes of lightning and the oak leaves on the collar. Would his uniform of a Gruppenführer in the SS
be appropriate to read the most important message of his life?

  No, that would be a futile gesture. This was not the time for melodrama. Read it, digest it and act on it. Everything on the periphery, including irrational feelings, should be ignored. As trained, he steeled himself to show no emotion.

  He made his way into his office, closing the blinds against the late morning sunshine. The package lay on the desk, and he paused and gulped in a draught of air. He switched on a lamp, and the pool of light focused his thoughts. Annoyed that his hand was shaking, he picked up the envelope and pierced it with a knife before ripping it open. The letter fell out, and he unfolded it and smoothed it. He chided himself for his hesitancy. He already knew what it would say. He had heard the radio reports. It would be confirmation of his failure. He and Mengele should have been the decoys, and the Argentine secret police, knowing Mario and his people employed an informer in their midst, would leak plans of their escape to Uruguay. By the time the French agents received the information, they would be out of reach. Especially with their backup car positioned to stop pursuers. And, while the French concentrated on them, the other party would fly out to Chile unnoticed. Someone somewhere had screwed up.

  He took a deep breath and checked his hand. It no longer shook. He read the letter fast, his soul and his spirit sinking with every sentence and, when finished, slammed it face down. He found a cigar and puffed several times before sitting down again. He reread the letter, but he hadn’t misunderstood the message.

  The boy, Freddie, was alive and protected by French Intelligence who had spirited him out of Argentina to an unknown destination in either France or England.

  The Avro Lancastrian took off with four crew and six or seven passengers. Four hours out of Buenos Aires and over the Andes all contact was lost. Despite days of extensive ground and aerial searches, which involved flying backwards and forwards over the area and to the north and south at high altitudes, there were no sightings of the plane, wreckage or survivors. It had disappeared. At first, there were hopes that the plane, whose last radio contact with Santiago air control was five minutes before scheduled arrival, was off course and may have landed somewhere else. As a month had passed since this incident, they discounted that theory. It divided professional opinion. And no definitive answer was offered as to the cause. But the experts were unanimous that all souls aboard were lost.