by Allan Jones
“Fine, no problems. Hurry, get changed. The bridge isn’t far.” Andre fought the wheel as he spoke.
“Not so fast then,” Paul snapped, struggling to get his tunic off in the bouncing car.
Andre slowed down reluctantly and Paul stripped down to his underwear, stuffing the uniform, boots and briefcase into the heavy canvas sailor’s bag, which was weighted with heavy stones. He managed to get the end tied and his trousers on before Andre slowed the car to a stop in the middle of the bridge that spanned the slow-moving deep river below.
Paul heaved the bag out of the window then, and, with one final mighty shove, it tumbled, landed with a loud splash and sank. Andre drove off immediately, checking his mirrors and looking left to right: no-one was in sight!
Paul finished dressing, then wriggled over into the front seat and bent to tie his laces. “Nice and easy, Andre, we don’t need company,” he said.
“It’s fine. We’re on back roads all the way. I’ve never had any trouble before,” Andre explained.
Paul opened the glove box and took out the silenced pistol and laid it in his lap. “There’s always a first time; expect it,” Paul replied. “Are you armed?”
Andre patted his jacket below his shoulder. “Sure, same as you.”
“It’s tomorrow night; we have much to do,” Paul told him.
“So soon!” Andre gasped.
“Can’t be helped. Now get me back to the others safely and we’ll begin preparations.”
“You got it,” Andre said with a happy grin.
* * * *
Later that night, back at the chateau, Gunther Wessendorf eased himself into the armchair and lit up his Havana cigar. He had a decanter of the finest French cognac in a crystal glass beside him. He was feeling especially pleased with himself: all day he had rehearsed in his mind the expected conversation with Himmler when the call finally came. It was good to be in favour and especially so since he had done so little! And this evening’s entertainment was a special bonus, a real treat.
He had considered it a waste to have had Krueger’s escort shot; they were ideal candidates to test his theory in this, his latest construction in the basement cells. They were fit, well fed and strong, unlike the undernourished French weaklings. He’d reported them as having deserted, and had them arrested and brought here in secrecy where they’d been immediately drugged unconscious.
One of them was roped to a cross, naked, his weight supported by a rope under his arms linked to a pulley from the ceiling. The iron spikes and a sturdy mallet lay on the floor below the cross in readiness. The other, also naked, was bound to a chair dangling in the air above the rounded steel spike concreted firmly into the floor. A similar pulley meant that Wessendorf could operate both simultaneously.
The seat had been removed from the chair. When they were both fully conscious, Wessendorf would replace the ropes on the cross with the nails, then the one could see as he lowered the other onto the spike and guide its point into the man’s anus. Then he would release the ropes entirely and time the event to see which was indeed the slowest and most agonising death, from the comfort of his armchair. He thought the impalement would be quicker though, more exciting! If need be, he could do other things to the crucified man if it was too slow: he had knives, fire, more iron spikes waiting in readiness.
His thoughts drifted to Amelia. He had seen the terse note she had inserted between the pages of his diary summoning him to her tomorrow night. He looked forward to answering it. He would relish telling her of this night’s work, in every gory detail. He would watch as, first, the horror dawned on her, then it would be replaced by a cold fury, which would come blazing from her beautiful eyes. It was then that she was at her most magnificent! She would slap his face hard, repeatedly; she would scream abuse at him, call him a fucker, a bastard, a cunt and more; he loved to hear such words come from her. She would hit him with a riding crop to hurry his undressing and hurl him roughly over the cut-down vaulting horse. Then she would secure him so that he was helpless and abased before her.
She would begin slowly and build up the pain till his pleas for mercy became genuine, but she would ignore them and continue until the blessed tears he craved gushed forth and the cathartic remorse was achieved. Then she would release him and leave without a word, so that he could finish himself in privacy.
What a find she was! None of the others could take him there; she was the only one. She was so inventive! Every time there was something new; it was as if she could read his mind, and she knew instinctively what helped. He felt a slight stirring in his penis and fleetingly wondered if he should try with her; perhaps she could make that come back as she had done with the tears.
His reverie was interrupted as the man on the cross moaned; he was coming round. Wessendorf’s eyes flew to the other man’s face: the eyelids were flickering; soon he too would awake from the soporific. He stood and unbuttoned his tunic; the time was near. As he rolled up his sleeves, he felt his erection growing.
* * * *
The next night, Paul crouched behind a bush, his eyes on the steps down to the kitchen door. He had scaled the wall without incident and had made the two hundred yards to his position in just over an hour, using all the poacher’s stealth Sergeant Clarke had drummed into him. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch, then looked to his left to await the appearance of the sentries. They were on time, walking slowly, talking quietly, rifles slung over their shoulders. They passed ten feet in front of him as he held his breath and watched them disappear round the corner of the building. He counted a full minute, his eyes scanning the windows of the house. Satisfied, he walked over to the steps, descended and crouched in the shadows.
Amelia consulted her watch; she was on schedule. Wessendorf was naked and tied securely over the cut-down vaulting horse, his head dangling, his mouth gagged.
Amelia strutted in her high heels around him. She was dressed like a tart! She wore a figure-hugging, red satin basque which pushed up her breasts to show a great deal of cleavage. Her buttocks were, for the most part, exposed, save for the thong that connected front to back. Suspenders attached held up her black stockings, finishing short, leaving a patch of bare flesh on her thighs. The high-heel, knee-length, black shiny boots completed the ensemble. She pulled on some black gloves as she spoke, menace dripping from her voice.
“There now, you horrible little boy! I’ve got you exactly where I want you. Look where you are! Think about where you are, and what’s going to happen to you! Think about what you did to deserve to be where you are now!” She stopped by his head and squatted down in front of him, using her finger to lift his chin. Wessendorf’s eyes went straight to her exposed cleavage, drinking in the sight. “You deserve everything you get,” she purred at him, “and mistress is going to see that you get it.”
Wessendorf kept his eyes on her breasts, trembling with excitement. She let him for a while, then stood up abruptly and, picking up a cane from the rack, walked swiftly behind him and delivered a mighty swipe to his backside. He stiffened and groaned beneath his gag.
“I saw what you were looking at, you filthy pig!” she shouted in mock anger and delivered three more swipes, then threw the cane down, stepped forward and pulled his head up by the hair.
“That’s just for starters; there’s plenty more coming your way,” she hissed venomously. “By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be crawling at my feet, begging to lick my boots. And lick them you will, my not so brave boy!”
She threw his head down. “Now, I’m going to make you wait. Might be a long time, might be just a minute. I’m going away now and when I come back I’m going to… but I’ll let you imagine what I’m going to do to you. You know, don’t you, you know what I’ll do? But then I might have a big surprise for you! Try to think what it might be. I’m going now… goodbye.”
She backed out of the door into his office. Reaching down her cleavage, she fished out the safe key and left it on the desk, then she belted up t
he raincoat, which she donned to cover the ridiculous outfit, and made her way to the top of the service stairs at the end of the corridor. She descended quietly and was soon at the door. She prayed he was there.
She opened it a crack and whispered his name; he rose up and pushed past her into the gloom of the deserted kitchen. She locked the door, took his hand and led him to the stairs. She warned him to match her steps exactly to avoid the steps that creaked and soon they were at the top. She made him wait by the door till she checked the office, then beckoned him forward. She locked the office door behind them, then turned on the desk lamp. The blackout curtains were already drawn.
Paul shrugged off his knapsack and set up the collapsible tripod designed to keep the camera steady. He laid out the rolls of film in a row, then attached the camera. She watched him work swiftly and reached out her hand to touch his. “Take your time, we’ve got all night if need be, don’t rush it,” she warned.
Paul looked at his watch. “I’m keen to get it done and get out of here, if it’s all the same to you. Where’s the key?”
She pointed to it and showed him the safe. He opened it and took out the bundle of contents and set it down on the desk. He looked at the pile of folders, then at his watch, and said, “An hour, no more! Go and do what needs to be done.” He realised what he had said and reached for her arm as she turned to go. “I mean, I’ll do it if you like.”
“Not a chance! I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time. Won’t be long.” She gave him a long look and walked to the adjoining door. She turned, threw off the raincoat and twirled round for him to see. His eyes widened in appreciation and he smiled as she blew him a kiss and left. Paul bent to his task and started on the first folder.
Amelia closed the door and stood there, letting him feel her presence. She could see him straining to hear the slightest sound and she kept very still. Then, accentuating her steps, she strode forward and bent to whisper in his ear. She took off one glove and raked her nails viciously down his back, drawing blood, as she spoke: “Now then, you’re really going to get it, aren’t you? You’re long overdue; you’re going to get everything you deserve. I want you to think of all the bad things you’ve done. All those people you’ve hurt and maimed. All those people you’ve murdered to satisfy your sick little twisted mind. You’re going to pay! You’re going to pay for everyone, every last one of them. Do you hear me? Are you paying attention?”Wessendorf was breathing heavily through his nose, and he nodded his head rapidly. “Good! Then I’ll let you into a little secret, shall I?”She waited, drawing out the moment, then put her mouth right up to his ear. “I’m a British spy, you stupid bastard.”
Wessendorf stiffened and turned his head in time to see her triumphant grin, his eyes wide in shock. He struggled in vain at the straps that held him secure, his desperate cries muffled by the gag. “It’s payback time,” she cried, as she strode to the rack and picked up the rubber truncheon and moved behind him. He desperately tried to turn his head to see her, still struggling at his bonds.
She beat him mercilessly, forcing a stream of mucus to fly from his nose, further impeding his breathing. His body went rigid, then jerked violently with every blow. Soon his backside was a riot of purple and black bruises. She snarled as she put all her strength into it, relishing it, remembering how it had felt! Finally, she threw the truncheon against the wall. He went limp, and it was suddenly quiet, the only sound his struggles for breath.
Amelia fetched the noose and slipped it over his head, drawing the knot against his Adam’s apple like a necktie. He realised what was happening and struggled furiously, roaring beneath the gag. She held the knot firmly and squatted down, adding her weight as she pulled down with all her strength. His body set up a staccato rhythm as she pulled harder and harder, straining every muscle, breathing hard behind clenched teeth.
His struggles grew weak till finally he was still. She held on for a full minute before she released the rope with a gasp. She took time to get her breath back before checking the body for a pulse. She felt at his neck, his wrist and beneath his groin, then she put an ear to his back to listen. Finally, she was satisfied. He was dead!
She retrieved the bag she had secreted, stripped quickly and put on the more workmanlike outfit. She heaved on the boots she had stolen from him, a surprisingly good fit, and shoved her hair under the cap. She gathered up the tart’s outfit and shoved it deep into the haversack, then bent and undid the strap pinioning his right wrist. She tied the end of the noose round his wrist, then curled his dead fingers around the rope, holding them for a while to ensure they gripped. It would look like he went too far! By the time she would have noticed, engrossed in her work, he was dead, he had killed himself. An accident!
It probably wouldn’t fool them for long, she thought to herself, but she didn’t care; she would be long gone! She shrugged the haversack on and moved to the door. She paused before leaving, and turned to look once more at the limp body. She shuddered involuntarily and left.
Paul was intent on his task, working quickly and methodically in a steady rhythm, and he looked up only briefly as she entered. She stood beside him and watched as he worked, straining to read each document as he passed them under the camera, checked through the viewfinder and pressed the shutter. It was a one-man job, her help wouldn’t speed things up, so she drifted off and sat down heavily in an armchair and watched from there.
An item caught his eye and he paused and read the document carefully. “What is it?” she asked.
Paul held up his hand to silence her as he continued reading, then he photographed it and put it with the rest. “Tell you later.” He resumed his work, falling easily back into the rhythm.
The minutes ticked by and she felt herself growing impatient. She wanted to be gone from this place, the sooner the better. It was an evil place; she wanted to be free of its stink; she felt filthy and tainted by it.
Her impatience grew and she got up and paced, watching the dwindling pile of folders, wishing it would end so that they could go! Finally, it was done. She dismantled the camera as Paul carefully picked up the stack and moved to the safe. Something in it caught his eye and he balanced the pile in one hand whilst he reached in then pocketed the item while her back was to him. He smiled to himself as he placed the pile in the safe and locked it.
She took the key to replace it in Wessendorf’s trousers, as Paul shoved the rolls of film deep into his trouser pockets and turned off the desk light, plunging the room into darkness. He moved to the adjoining door, but she stopped him as she came out. “No, Paul, don’t go in there; it’s not a pretty sight, you don’t need to see. He’s dead, that’s it!” She gently pushed him away.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied. “Just pray no-one sees us.”
“Amen to that!” he said.
Amelia opened the door and checked the corridor. As Paul headed for the stairs, she locked the door, pocketed the key, and then went after him quietly. They reached the kitchen door and she grabbed his wrist, peering at his watch. “The guards should have passed five minutes ago; they won’t be back for another ten.”
“OK.” Paul opened the door and crept up till he could see over the stairs. He looked carefully around, then came down again. “Make for those bushes quickly, then wait for me,” he whispered, pulling her with him. He checked once more, then said, “Go!” He released her and she was gone, running in a crouch.
He waited a second, then he was off, expecting every moment to hear a shout of challenge or the crack of a rifle. He made it to her side and they paused for breath, till he led her off towards the wooded area. The need for stealth was less important than putting a distance between them and the house, so they made the woods quickly without incident; then Paul tugged at her jacket, halting her. He took off his rucksack and delved into it. “What now? Come on!” she hissed.
He looked at his watch, then seemed to be scanning the skies. “Just a
little touch of my own,” he informed her, and drew a Verey pistol from his bag.
“What the hell!” she gasped.
“Shush!” he warned. “Not long now… now listen. Another fifty yards to the wall along there, over the wall, go right, twenty yards on your left is a track through trees, fifty yards up there is the car, keys under the mat, driver’s side. If we get separated just go, get out, make your way to Henri’s. OK?”
“I’m not leaving you, never again!”
He grinned, the little light there was catching his teeth. “You won’t have to; just in case is all. Get ready to run like hell.”
He looked at his watch again and listened intently. There was silence until, at the edge of hearing, the sound of approaching engines. “Get ready.” He stood and held up the flare gun. The noise of the approaching aircraft grew louder and louder, till they were almost deafening. Paul fired the flare. The bright ball of light streaked into the sky and began its slow descent right above the now-brightly-lit house.
The three Mosquitoes swooped in perfect “V” formation, dropped their deadly mixture of explosive and incendiary bombs and streaked away into the night, their powerful Merlin engines roaring.
The entire house erupted in a ball of flame, glass flying, walls crumbling, as the mighty explosion sent masonry and roof tiles flying high into the air. The blast reached them as they turned and ran, threatening to have them off their feet. They pounded to the wall and were over it, running for the track, their way lit by the massive fireball mushrooming into the sky behind them. They reached the car and threw themselves in. Paul scrabbled for the keys, gunned the engine and they took off, without lights, down the bumpy track.
Amelia braced herself against the roof and the dash as the car hurtled along in the dark. She kept glancing back, expecting to see pursuing lights, though she was more terrified of crashing. The track evolved into a road and Paul slowed and put on the shielded lights. She relaxed and turned round to see the orange glow in the sky, still visible. “Jesus! You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”