‘Don’t do it, Emilia,’ Ettore croaked. ‘Think of Dad. Let him shoot me: it’s my fault he got in. I was dozing: I wasn’t even holding my weapon.’
Emilia ignored him, turned to the chest, picked up the lid of the cardboard box, fitted it back on with care. She took a couple of paces towards Stengel, swung the box, tossed it in his direction. It fell a little in front of him, landed among the bones with a flat bump, a puff of dust. Stengel shoved Ettore hard towards the others. ‘Go. Go!’
Keeping his pistol pointed at them, he thrust his torch into his armpit, crouched down to pick up the box with his left hand. Finally, he thought. The Reichsführer will never forget this. His hand froze in mid-flight: he focused with horror on the half-disintegrated skull the box had landed on, the vacant eye-sockets, the gaping, toothless jaw. His eyes shifted left and right: he saw more skulls, spiny ribcages, piles of crumbling bones. His heart raced: sweat poured down his face: he began to shake. It’s them. The Jew-Bolshevik commissars. They’re here. As he stared, the bones took shape, became whole, started to grow flesh: ribcages sprouted limbs and organs – kidneys, livers, beating hearts. Skulls became faces: boat-hook Jew noses, glittering yellow eyes, rat-like front teeth, paper-thin skin stretched over cheekbones. They rose in a silent squadron, old men, young women, small children in prison-rags: emaciated bodies moving soundlessly towards him, faces leering with wry amusement.
Stengel tried to move, found that his legs were rigid, his feet rooted to the floor. From somewhere came a spine-chilling shriek that seemed to fill his ears, to echo and re-echo off the rock walls. With a new flush of horror, Stengel realized that the scream had come from his own mouth. The echoes were replaced abruptly by rumbling laughter, low at first, but growing in pitch, filling out with bass chuckles and contralto titters, till the crypt was reverberating with noise. Stengel stumbled backwards, dropped his torch, yelled. ‘It wasn’t me! I was carrying out orders!’
He raised his pistol, tried to aim with a madly jerking hand: before he could fire, two shots rang out from behind him: a panzer crashed into his back, a supernova exploded inside his head in ear-bending percussion, a gush of putrid gas, shimmering spiderlegs of light. The last thing he saw before he slipped down the long black corridor was one hundred and five Jew-demons gathered around him like vultures, poised on ribbed wings, their hands become sharp claws, their eyes burning red, their mouths full of sharp and bloody teeth.
Caine saw Stengel stagger, saw the mask of terror on his face, saw his torch drop, heard his ear-piercing screams, saw him raise his weapon, heard the bomff-bomff of a double tap that crashed and thundered in the chamber, saw Stengel lurch forward, sprawl across the bones. Caine grabbed his Thompson and torch: he crouched with the weapon in one hand, the torch in the other, saw Emilia and Ettore gaping towards the stairs, saw a figure standing framed in the oval stairwell: a dark, protuberant shape like an enormous, bloated chess-pawn – fishbowl head, pear-shaped torso, thick legs, a fat-jowled face that seemed a nebulous mask, the features vague and distorted, like an out-of-focus photograph. Caine remembered his dream, recalled the hooded figure on the endless stairs that came towards him but remained always the same distance away, recalled eyes like diamonds of fire beneath the fine veil of the winding-sheet.
‘Didn’t know if I could do it, old boy,’ a voice panted. ‘First time in combat, and all that.’
Caine blinked, recognized the scarred and mottled moonface, the button mouth, the drooping dewlaps: Major Bunny Butterfield. He was poised stolidly on the bottom step, with a haversack slung over his shoulder, a torch clipped to his breast pocket and a pistol in a miniature hand.
‘Major?’ Caine’s voice was slightly breathless. ‘How did you get here?’
Butterfield took a few steps, examined Stengel’s body in the light of his torch-beam. ‘Followed you, old chap,’ he said. ‘Sneaked off while the others were debating what to do with Savarin.’ He peered around, scanned the chamber. ‘My God, look at all these bones. It’s a proper graveyard down here.’
He picked up the box containing the Codex. ‘Is this it, then? The Codex Aesinias? By golly, I’ve suffered for this.’
Caine and Emilia moved closer to him through the bone-piles: Ettore followed. ‘It’s a good thing you came,’ Emilia said. ‘Stengel was going to kill us.’
Butterfield tore his eyes away from the box. ‘What on earth was going on down here? I heard the most frightful screams.’
Caine nodded at Stengel’s body. ‘He had some kind of fit. Started bawling and ranting, acted as if he could see something that wasn’t there.’
‘I hope this manuscript isn’t cursed,’ Butterfield chuckled. ‘Just think how many have died for it. I am so pleased to have it at last: it will be the pride of my collection.’
‘Your collection?’ Ettore snickered. ‘In your dreams, bud. The Codex belongs to my family. We’re moving it out of the country, not giving it away.’
‘I imagine I’m as entitled to it as Himmler. The Codex is worth an absolute mint, but it’s not the money: I’m a collector. I love old things. So much more real than people, don’t you think?’
Caine gawked at him in the torchlight. ‘You mean you’re stealing the Codex?’
‘I wouldn’t exactly call it stealing, old boy, more like spoils of war. I put my life on the line. King and country is all very well, but one would like to get something worthwile out of all this. So, if you mean, shall I be handing it in once I get back, no I shan’t. It will only end up in the collection of some better-connected gouger. That’s the way it goes. Most of the treasures in the BM were nicked from their rightful owners at some time or other. In any case, I’ve heard about the looting your 1st Regiment chaps have been up to since you first landed in Italy. Why is it any different for me?’
Caine stared at Butterfield, wondered if he’d gone bonkers: he seemed cool and confident, though, as if he was in the process of achieving some great purpose.
‘You told me the scheme came down from “A” Force, but it was yours from the beginning, wasn’t it?’ Caine said. ‘The object was always to keep the Codex for yourself?’
Butterfield blew out plump cheeks. ‘Start to finish, old chap. Got the notion when I questioned an Itie prisoner, an infantry subaltern captured in Tunisia. Distant relative of yours, Countess: told me all about the Codex, how the Nazis wanted it so badly, how they’d get it now that Musso was out of the picture. Then I found out through int. reports that the SS had dispatched a squad to retrieve it. I had to get it before them: I conceived the scheme, got it approved by the DMI.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Caine said. ‘If you wanted it for yourself, why did you give the mission to me?’
‘I thought I was for the high-jump at the time. It was an outside chance that I’d escape: I was covering all the angles. Even if they executed me, I didn’t want Himmler to get it. Then, when I came round in the partisan camp and realized that I actually had escaped, I became even more determined that I wouldn’t go back without it.’
‘You’re off your chump, Major. You must be if you think we’re going to let you walk out of here with the Codex: and I’m going to report you the moment we get back.’
Butterfield shifted the box under his free arm, stowed it in his haversack. ‘You are going to let me walk out of here, Caine. As for reporting me, how many people are going to believe an officer who put on a collaborator’s uniform and swore allegiance to Hitler? You’re a traitor Caine: whichever way you slice it, you joined the enemy. That’s taboo in the British Army, as you well know. Breathe a whisper about the Codex, and I’ll shop you, lock, stock and barrel. I’m a major and a staff-officer: I think they’ll believe me, don’t you?’
‘You’ve certainly changed your tune,’ Caine said. ‘You told Savarin it was a ruse on my part.’
‘Maybe that was your intention, old boy. Maybe you did it because I asked you to break me out. If so, I’m grateful. But I supported you against Savarin because we had to snatch
the boy to get the Codex, that’s all. I can quite easily change my story.’
‘You’ll never get out,’ Ettore cut in. ‘There are Krauts up there.’
‘Oh, I think I will, dear boy. There are Jerries around, certainly, making a noise like a herd of elephants: when I arrived they were patrolling the woods. They didn’t see me come in, and I doubt they’ll see me go out. Our departed friend here left his staff-car conveniently near, and he left the keys in it. I thought I might as well do a bunk in style.’
‘You’re going to leave us here?’ Emilia said. ‘To the Krauts?’
‘I’m sure you’ll find a way out. After all, what would you have done if I hadn’t come?’
Caine was judging the distance between himself and Butterfield: the major’s pistol was pointing at Emilia: Caine had his Thompson under his arm and his torch in one hand. He could drop the torch, bring the weapon up. He readied himself mentally for the move: Emilia suddenly launched herself at the major, hair streaking back, hands flailing, screaming, ‘Give it back, you fat bastard!’ Caine jettisoned his torch, grabbed for Butterfield’s pistol-hand. His fingers closed around the major’s wrist, encountered unexpected resistance: he was aware of Emilia raking at Butterfield’s face with her nails, of Ettore closing in behind her with his fists up, of the major trying to twist the pistol away from his grip: suddenly, the pistol went off. Caine felt the shocking impact against his ear-drums, smelt the stiff tang of the bullet, saw the dark rosette that opened up in Emilia’s armpit, saw her teeter, saw her slump down into the bone-shards with blood trickling from a wound in her neck. In that instant, Butterfield broke away, seized Ettore by the collar, stuck the pistol into his ribs, backed him away towards the stairs. ‘That was your fault, Caine. You tried to grab the pistol and it went off. You’re to blame.’
Caine brought up his Thompson: he’d made a headshot before – he’d once shot Johann Eisner at almost the same range.
‘Shoot, shoot!’ Ettore yelled.
‘He’ll die,’ Butterfield quavered: he paused to negotiate the first step. ‘I mean it this time.’
Caine settled the butt of the SMG into his shoulder. His finger was on the trigger: he was about to take first pressure when Ettore stumbled over the steps, wriggled out of Butterfield’s grip, drifted right into Caine’s sights. Caine shifted his muzzle instantly: in that moment Butterfield fired a single shot: flame speared, gasses tore, Caine ducked, came up into a firing stance: Butterfield had vanished. Ettore was poised to run after him: Caine pulled him back. ‘Don’t. You’re not armed. Look after your sister: try to stop the bleeding.’
He thrust Ettore behind him, was about to mount the stairs when he heard the trap door bang. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said.
He ran up the steps, heaved his shoulder against the closed slab: the flagstone wouldn’t budge. He shifted his attention to the mechanism opposite, humped down on the hinged arm until he felt the counterweights move: the trap door flew open. He emerged cautiously, Tommy-gun ready, found the chapel silent, empty but for its furniture and the two Schmeisser sub-machine guns Ettore and Emilia had left there earlier.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Constantine, Algeria
11 November 1943
‘You ain’t Captain Caine, you’re the devil,’ Caine said.
‘What’s that?’ Blaney asked.
‘Something one of the lads came out with after the Murro di Porco raid. Not a mark on him, but he was messed up, half crazy. Said he’d seen me on the battlefield, and that I was the devil. He was right: either that or I’ve got the devil’s curse on me. It was my fault Butterfield shot Emilia. Just like Betty Nolan was my fault. Just like the boys I lost at the Senarca bridge, just like all the other men I’ve lost through mistakes and impulsive actions.’
Blaney sighed, stared round the cell, glanced at her watch: 0604 hours: it must be almost daybreak up there in the real world. They’d sat up the whole night, and today was supposed to be the day of Caine’s court-martial.
She reached across the table, touched his hand. ‘I’m sorry about the countess, Tom. It must have been terrible for you after what happened to Betty.’
‘You’d think I’d be used to it, all the people I’ve lost. It doesn’t get any easier, though.’
‘That’s good, Tom: if you can feel that, it means you’re still human.’
‘At least she’s alive.’
He picked up the packet of Gold Flake cigarettes, shook it moodily. There was one fag left.
‘Twos up?’
She nodded: Caine lit the cigarette, passed it to Blaney. His eyes had a lost, almost dazed look, she thought.
She blew smoke, handed the fag back to him. ‘So, how did you get out in the end?’
Caine let smoke trickle through his nostrils. ‘Harry Copeland and his crew broke out of the Jerry cordon: they were a bit late, but they made the RV. Butterfield was long gone, of course. By that stage, I couldn’t give a toss about the Codex: I was concerned with Emilia. When I got back down into the crypt, Ettore was with her, trying to staunch the bleeding. She was barely conscious: the round had entered her armpit, come out of the place between shoulder and neck. She was in shock, but at least she was still breathing. We didn’t have any field-dressings, so we improvised with strips of torn cloth and the bandage I’d put on her neck earlier. I checked that Stengel was dead: Butterfield’s shots had hit him in the upper back, but there was a big exit wound in his chest: it looked as though he’d taken a round through the heart or something. The thing I’ll never forget, though, was his face: it was contorted with terror, as if he’d seen all the demons of hell before he died.
‘I carried Emilia up to the chapel, laid her on the carpet. For a while I just sat there, knowing there was nothing more I could do, holding her, stroking her hair, listening to her breath. Ettore sat slumped in a corner, shattered. He’d had a pretty rough time that day: started out being transported to his own execution, saw his friend badly wounded, his sister shot, the Codex carried off by a chap who was meant to be an ally. Emilia had been mother and father to him since their parents were killed, and he was terrified of losing her.
We sat there, half expecting the Jerries to come in, but they never did: we heard their shouts from time to time. Since Stengel’s car wasn’t there, they probably thought he’d gone, turned their attention elsewhere. Then we heard a firefight start up: the crack and thump of rifles, the tack-tack of Schmeissers, the bump of Spandaus, followed by the pop-pop-pop of Vickers “K”s and the whack of No. 36 grenades: when I heard that, I knew Harry and the others were there. We’d moved Emilia to the door, ready to carry her into the forest if necessary. A jeep skidded to a halt outside, Wallace on guns, Harry Copeland at the wheel. “What kept you?” I said.
‘They’d taken casualties: Several of the 2nd Regiment lads had been hit: Bill Harris was the worst – a round had taken off half his jaw. Anyway, the ding-dong was still going on: we loaded Emilia on to a stretcher sharpish, mounted up, took off, ran the gauntlet of Jerry fire with our guns ripping, RV-ed with the other jeeps on the road. We had to keep moving while it was still dark: Cope had worked out a good return route across the mountains: we had no way of knowing which way Butterfield had gone, so we gave up any idea of retrieving the Codex. How he got back, I don’t know.
‘The bad news was that neither Furetto nor Roy Cavanaugh made it out of the contact. Cavanaugh died from his wounds: Furetto was hit in the crossfire, died instantly. Harry had no choice but to leave their bodies behind. As for Savarin, they just let him go: God only knows where he is now. The good news, though, was that they also acquired a prisoner in the shoot-out – SS-Sturmbannführer Karl Grolsch. He was in quite a bad way: he shouldn’t even have been in the field. On top of that, he had a new gunshot wound in the face which Fred Wallace had given him before he and Copeland snatched him from under Hun noses. They stuck him in the front jeep with a weapon to his head, yelled at the Jerries that they’d snuff him if they didn’t let them through. That w
as how they got out. Grolsch wasn’t in much of a state to talk, and we weren’t in much of a mood to question him. We could have shot him, but as a Waffen-SS Feldkommandant, we thought he might be useful to Intelligence: as a war criminal, responsible for the execution of British POWs, we reckoned he should be put on trial. We patched him up and kept him going.’
Blaney pricked up her ears. ‘So Grolsch survived? Where is he now?’
‘All I know is that they brought him here to Constantine. Why?’
‘Because he’s the only witness to your recruitment to the BFC. He should have been asked for a deposition.’
‘It won’t make any difference, Celia. I am a traitor, just as Stengel said. I put on that uniform of my own free will: I’m pleading guilty.’
Blaney smoked the last of the cigarette, stubbed it out in an ashtray made of a tin-lid already brimful of ash and dog-ends.
‘How do you know you did it of your own free will?’ she asked bluntly. ‘You said you can’t remember what happened. You recall walking through a mirror, which is impossible for most mortals, and coming to in a room with a naked girl in your bed, whom Amray claimed you had . . . made love to . . . although you have no memory of it. Assuming you’re telling the truth – and I’m sure you are – that seems strange. You’ve got a good memory for detail, but you don’t remember that? Doesn’t it strike you as odd?’
‘Maybe I just don’t want to remember. The fact is that I did swear an oath to Hitler, and I did put on that uniform. Those are acts of treason, irrespective of why I did it.’
‘I’m your advocate, Tom: don’t condemn yourself to me. What I need is a defence.’
Caine watched her steadily. ‘I can’t give you one, Celia. I’m sorry. Don’t think I’m not grateful for your help, but the fact is that I should never have done it. I’m a decorated SAS soldier: me just putting on a collaborator’s uniform was a victory for the Hun.’
Blaney sighed: she couldn’t deny the truth in that. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Tell me what happened when you got back to the forward-base.’
Code of Combat Page 30