Code of Combat

by Michael Asher

  He left everything except his rifle, passed briskly back through the forest, skulked in the trees at the edge of the drive. He could hear the woman’s steps on the gravel: he slung his rifle, waited until she was a yard past him, sprang up behind her. His left hand closed over her mouth: he grasped her arm with his right, manoeuvred her back into the trees. She blubbered, squirmed, twisted, tried to throw him off. Caine kept hold of her, pushed her further into the forest, sat her down. Keeping his hand across her mouth, he leaned forward, whispered. ‘I’m a friend. I’m here to help the countess. Nod if you understand me.’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘I’m going to let you go. Don’t scream: don’t call the Germans. I’m not going to hurt you. Nod if you understand.’

  She nodded again: Caine was faced with yet another leap of faith. He readied himself to run, let go the woman’s mouth. She spat on the ground: her eyes never left his face. He shifted, sat on his heels, faced her: she adjusted her headscarf. She had a square, mannish face: rosy cheeks, plump jowls criss-crossed with a grid of lines. Her lips were pursed in an expression of resistance: her stone-blue eyes were wary.

  ‘You speak English?’ Caine asked in a low voice.

  The woman’s head bobbed: her black headscarf fluttered. ‘I learn from old contessa – L’Americana. When they are bambini, Emilia and Ettore try make me pazza by spik Inglezi, but I know what they say.’

  Her name was Angostina: she’d worked at the villa most of her life and was currently housekeeper. She’d been married and had two grown-up sons: her husband had died before the war. One of her sons was a Fascist who had served with Mussolini’s army in Ethiopia and been captured by the British: the other was a Marxist fighting with the partisans. Two brothers, devoted to each other as children, she said: God knew she loved them both, but how, in heaven’s name would they get on together after the war?

  When Caine was satisfied she wasn’t going to sound the alarm, he moved her to the thicket where he’d left his gear, gave her bread, cheese, olives.

  ‘You help my Emilia?’ she enquired suspiciously through a mouthful. ‘How?’

  ‘I’m going to get her out.’

  Angostina stopped chewing, studied him with a touch of disdain. ‘How many you are?’

  ‘Just me.’

  She scoffed. ‘The tedeschi are many, many.’

  ‘How many . . . inside the house?’

  Angostina shuddered. ‘Twenty-five maybe. They sit in cellar, drink old count’s wine like acqua. The old count he turn in his grave –’

  ‘Who’s in command?’ Caine cut in.

  ‘The capitano is called Kaltenbraun. Face look like a fox. Last night the countess she try to escape – in villa is many hidden ways, you understand. But Emilia pass wine-cellar where they are guzzle old count’s wine like acqua, and they catch her and want to . . . you know . . . do things to her. Kaltenbraun he stop them.’ Angostina eyed him dubiously. ‘How you get her out? How you fight all Cabbage-Heads?’

  ‘I won’t fight them unless I have to. I’ll go in silently, like a thief.’

  He asked her about the secret passage Cesare had mentioned: the one that connected with a door hidden in the forest. It existed, she told him, but the door was strong, bolted from the inside.

  ‘You go out that way,’ she said. ‘But how you get in?’

  Caine enquired if any doors other than the front were being used: she shook her head – they were all sealed from the inside: the windows were barred, shuttered, locked.

  ‘Then the front door is the only way?’

  He made her describe the route from the door up to Emilia’s apartment, with all its twists and turns. He closed his eyes, memorized it, then went over it again and again until he could visualize it perfectly. What about the Germans? Where were they billeted? Where were the sentries stationed? How many would be awake at any one time? Finally, he asked her to describe the countess: he didn’t want to run the risk of snatching the wrong person, he said.

  Angostina hesitated. Caine said, ‘She’s dark, with long black hair, isn’t she? He eyes are a little slanted, like an oriental?’

  Angostina’s jaw dropped. ‘You know the countess? You meet her before?’

  Caine wondered how to explain that he’d met her in a dream. Instead, he said, ‘She’s been hurt, I think. She has bruises on her neck?’

  The housekeeper’s eyebrows arched. ‘How you know that? Yes, is true. That pazzo Stengel, he come to ask her where is the book, the one they call Codex. Always the tedeschi want the book. Emilia say she don’t know, so Stengel do things to her, mi hai capito? Terrible things – things a woman does not tell a man.’

  Caine felt suddenly livid. Stengel had molested the girl, maybe raped her. He couldn’t abide the abuse of women: the idea had sickened him ever since his stepfather had done it to his mother and sister and even boasted about it. True, he had settled his stepfather’s hash, but neither of his womenfolk had really survived the ordeal. His sister had run away, his mother had taken her own life.

  He felt a suffocating tightness in his chest, felt his fists stiffen: he wanted to rush into the villa, pull the countess out right now. He drew a deep breath, made a conscious effort to control himself: ops like this one had to be carried out with cold detachment, not blind rage. He forced himself, instead, to think about the Codex.

  ‘So Stengel never found out where the Codex is?’ he asked.

  Angostina shook her head. ‘He say he come back today, but he don’t come. He come tonight, maybe. Non mi piace to leave Emilia alone, but she make me go. If she don’t tell him about the book this time, maybe he kill her.’

  ‘But then he’d never find the Codex.’

  Angostina lodged a finger against her grizzled temple. ‘Non hai capito? Quest’uomo è proprio matto. He is completely mad. Always looking behind as if there is ghost following him, jumping like he hear voices. That devil can do anything, anything.’

  Caine fought to keep himself steady: he looked up to see Angostina staring at him.

  ‘You get through fron’ door how?’ she demanded. ‘Krauts shoot you.’

  Caine grinned uncertainly. ‘I’m going to need your help. I’m going to ask you to do something a gentleman should never ask a lady.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Take off all your clothes and give them to me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stengel’s staff-car pulled up outside the villa just before last light. By then, Caine had shifted to another position, which gave him a better view of the villa’s eastern façade. He watched the dark-bearded figure slip out of the vehicle, vanish into the shadows: his heart raced, he itched to get moving. What if Stengel murdered Emilia before he got there? Once again, he had to force himself to desist. He might be wearing a peasant-woman’s clothes, but it was still too early to start the mission. Whether he liked it or not, he had to hang fire until it was fully dark.

  The sun was a rim of liquid gold lying along the knuckle-bones of the distant hill-tops: massed clouds were collapsing steadily into a foaming whirlpool on fire with carmine and blood. The eastern side of the villa lay in a lake of darkness stretching almost as far as the forest, its lumpen outline punctuated by the elongated shadows of the cone-shaped towers. The last wild colours of the day burst through the upper foliage in brilliant asterisks of bronze and copper. The individual character of the trees faded: the forest reverted to a dark-caverned creature of the night.

  It had taken him some time to persuade Angostina to remove her clothes: it was an assault on her dignity, he understood that, but it was the only plan he had. Finally, he convinced her to accept the oilskin poncho Cesare had given him in exchange for her things: it would at least cover her modesty. She moved behind a bush, took off her garments with slow deliberation, donned the poncho, then, red-faced and giggling like a schoolgirl, handed them over to Caine.

  She wouldn’t consider returning home, though: she would wait by the hidden door in the forest for C
aine and Emilia to emerge: she wouldn’t budge until they did, not even if it took all night. Caine gave her his knapsack with the left-over provisions, escorted her part of the way, then returned to his observation point. The skirt tripped him: the clothes were like drapes, smelt of lavender. He felt awkward in female apparel but, again, it was better than wearing the Nazi stool-pigeon get-up he’d ditched in the stream. And at least he had his stolen shirt, trousers and waistcoat on underneath, as well as his prison-camp-issue boots.

  He stripped down his firearms, inspected the working parts: the Schmeisser magazine held fifteen rounds, enough for three or four good bursts. The Beretta’s ten-round mag was full: he thumbed out one cartridge to ease the spring, filled his waistcoat pockets with spare .22 rounds. There were no clips, he noted: loading a mag round by round wasn’t a good idea in a close-combat situation.

  He’d given some thought as to how he should carry his weapons. The SMG was his best bet for close-quarter battle: it needed to be where he could bring it into action easily. He decided to carry it, folded, in his right hand, hidden under the shawl. As for the hunting rifle, he slung it muzzle-down over his left shoulder, with the stock under his armpit. The shawl concealed all but the last foot of the barrel: he would just have to hope that, if he was spotted, it wouldn’t be noticed in the dark. Finally, he took out the shepherd’s knife he’d got from Cesare, weighed it in his hand: it was sharp, well-balanced: it would throw well. He stowed it in the waistband of his trousers.

  The redness in the west had dwindled to a ruby gleam: the sky had turned charcoal. The shadow of the villa had lost its distinct outline and almost merged with the forest. Caine was relieved to see that the Jerries hadn’t erected spotlights: the prowler teams seemed to rely on their torches – a sure-fire way of getting blotted by a sniper. Not that Caine was intending to take any potshots tonight: he would rather see Fritz coming, though, than have them creep up on him from behind.

  He waited until the darkness was almost full, then moved silently through the limb of the woods that separated him from the drive. His plan was to march boldly up to the front door as if he belonged there, relying on the night to hide his identity. He’d quizzed Angostina as to whether her arrival after dark would be remarked on: she’d done it before, she said. He tried to summon up Italian phrases he’d memorized, in case Fritz stopped him. Fritz would almost certainly be as ignorant of Italian as he was, so as long as he said something, it would do. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  He stood up, readied himself for action: the full enormity of what he was attempting hit him. This is suicide: one poorly armed man against a Waffen-SS platoon equipped with a heavy machine-gun and God knows what else. He wished he had some grenades, sticky bombs, smoke-canisters. He wished Harry Copeland were here: Fred Wallace and Taffy Trubman, too. Even Bunny Butterfield would have been better than nothing. But they weren’t here and he was, and this was the task that had fallen to him. His kit might be wanting, but he was going in regardless. What was it that the Spartan mother had told her son when he complained that his sword was too short? Take a step forward. In the end, it wasn’t the kit that counted, nor how many of you there were. It’s having the guts to challenge things, even if the whole world is against you. It’s not size but courage that makes a man. He made final adjustments to his shawl and headscarf, gripped his weapons, stepped out of cover into the darkness.

  *

  Wolfram Stengel returned SS-Mann Karloff’s salute with a nod, let himself into Emilia’s apartment, unaware that he was whistling the ‘Radetzky March’ under his breath. The room was lit by a single hurricane lamp – a matrix of wan light and gloomy patches. The countess was sitting on the sofa: as he advanced towards her, an ogre’s shadow seemed to leapfrog over his shoulders – a grotesque, elastic human shape with elongated fingers and an impossibly long nose and chin. Stengel was startled: it took a moment before he realized that the shadow was his own.

  The curtains were still open: outside, a tide of darkness was rolling in, overwhelming the last faint shards of bone-coloured light. Stengel changed course, went to look out of the window. The forecourt below him was diapered in darkness: he could make out the faintest reflection on the fender of his Horch staff-car down there. For a moment he had the impression of a furtive movement by the car: his cheek twitched: he drew the curtains, turned to Emilia.

  She wore fawn slacks, a grey polo-necked sweater, soft-soled sneakers: her gleaming black hair was tied over one shoulder, emphasizing the high cheekbones, the oriental eyes with the sleepy lid. Natural poise, Stengel thought: an aristocratic elegance. A woman like this has everything: birth, privilege, wealth. Normally, she wouldn’t look at a man like me, wouldn’t even know I existed. Well, now she has to look at me.

  Emilia didn’t get up: despite Stengel’s vicious assault, despite the bruises on her neck and mouth, she didn’t seem afraid of him. It was as if she’d made peace with herself. This irritated Stengel: if he’d had her begging for mercy, he would have felt more certain. The partisan ambush on Grolsch’s convoy yesterday had unsettled him: they’d done it with a certain cunning, blocked the track with an overturned cart and a dying horse. The Sipo-SD escort had been slaughtered, except for a couple of men who’d run away, and Grolsch, who’d been wounded in the upper chest. The great hope of the British Free Corps, John Amray, had ended up with his head almost severed. Butterfield had disappeared; so had the other SAS officer – the trustee, Caine. He might have guessed that Caine’s recruitment to the BFC wouldn’t work, despite Amray’s hopes: the man had obviously seen it as a chance to get away. On the other hand, he’d been in SS uniform: in view of what the partisans had done to Amray, he couldn’t entirely rule out the possibility that Caine had fled to avoid the same fate.

  That aside, the fact was that four SAS saboteurs had got away in the past few days. Of course, special handling was a Gestapo matter, and the responsibility was Grolsch’s but, as senior SS officer in the area, it wouldn’t look good for Stengel, either. For the past twenty-four hours, Sipo-SD patrols had been scouring the forests and hills for partisans. The back-up squads had arrived too late, though: trails had gone cold. The question that kept coming back to him was: how did the partisans know that the convoy would be there, at that time, at that place? It had been a special-handling convoy, and secret. They must have had inside knowledge, he thought.

  At least the incident hadn’t affected his search for the Codex. Butterfield was gone, but he’d wasted too much time on that Dummkopf. He was sure the countess knew the location of the Codex, and now he had the means to prise the secret out of her: the imminent execution of her brother, Ettore.

  He placed his hat on the table, smoothed his whiskers. ‘So, my dear countess,’ he said, ‘Kaltenbraun tells me you were wandering about outside your room last night. Didn’t I say that you were confined to your quarters?’

  When Emilia didn’t answer, he went on. ‘The problem with wandering about is that these vulgar enlisted men might get the wrong idea. They may try to take advantage of you.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances with the vulgar enlisted men.’

  Stengel picked up the photo of Ettore he’d examined on his previous visit. ‘Please remind me of something. Where was it you said your brother was to be found?’

  Emilia crossed her arms. ‘In America.’

  ‘Ah yes, in America. America is a very long way off, isn’t it?’

  The countess was eyeing him more calmly than he’d anticipated. He put down the photo, swung round on her. ‘So how do you explain the fact that our troops arrested your brother two days ago at Orsini?’

  She showed no surprise. Of course, she knew already: Kaltenbraun told her.

  ‘It’s not him,’ she said. ‘Ettore is a common name in Le Marche – so is Falcone, for that matter. You arrested the wrong man.’

  Stengel smiled. ‘Yet the youth we detained bears an uncanny resemblance to the one in your photo: they might be twins.’

  He paced
over to her, grabbed the third finger of her left hand, forced it up so that the ring she wore there almost touched her nose. ‘The Falconi family crest,’ he sneered. ‘One of an identical pair . . . been in the family for generations. Isn’t that what you told me?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  Stengel slipped a shiny object into his hand, held it up between thumb and forefinger. It was a ring, bearing the double-falcon-and-laurel-wreath crest of the Falconi: it was a perfect match for the one on Emilia’s finger.

  ‘The youth we picked up not only just happened to look like your brother, he also just happened to be wearing a Falconi family signet ring, of which, you tell me, only two exist.’

  Emilia tried to wrest her finger out of his clutch: he closed his hand round hers, squeezed it with a crushing grip. His eyes blazed. ‘You lied to me, Countess. Your brother is not in America. He has been here all the time, with the partisans. He was involved in the murder of two of our men a week or so ago, while helping British saboteurs to escape. He will, of course, be shot. You are invited to his execution.’

  He let go of her hand: he’d been hoping for a hysterical reaction. Instead, two large tears appeared in the corners of her eyes: her lips trembled.

  ‘He’s only sixteen,’ she said.

  That was all. Stengel was aware that Kaltenbraun had forewarned her, but still he felt disappointed.

  ‘I agree he’s young,’ he said. ‘If you tell me where the Codex is hidden, I may suggest he gets a reprieve.’

  Emilia examined her fingers, sore from Stengel’s crushing grip. She poked tears from her eyes, watched him steadily. ‘I’ve already told you, I don’t know where the Codex is.’