by John Gardner
'You couldn't possibly slip away from here for a week or two, could you?' said Boysie.
'Well, as a matter of fact, I have got some leave due,' said the WRAF officer, whose name was Inez.
'Well then: how about a spot of holiday? Just the two of us? I'm on leave for a month.'
'Where can we go?'
'You choose.'
'I adore the South of France,' said Inez. 'I'll have a word with the Adjutant, but I'm sure it'll be all right. I knew, Boysie, the moment I saw you, I knew: about us. Perhaps we could fly to Nice or somewhere. We might even get away tonight. London, and then the Cote D'Azur.'
'Yes,' said Boysie, gulping his pink gin and turning his head to hide the twitch that was developing down the left side of his face. 'Yes, that would be lovely.'
But Inez did not hear. She was up and across the room, talking to the Adjutant. Some of the conversation floated back:
'Honestly, Adj ... it's very urgent ... I must get off tonight ...Yes ... Oh jolly good.'
Hooked, thought Boysie. Bloody hooked again.
If you enjoyed The Liquidator you might be interested in Valley of the Assassins by Leo Kessler, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Valley of the Assassins by Leo Kessler
Section One: The Way In
Chapter One
`Sturmbannführer!’
Colonel Skorzeny, head of the SS Commando, swung round.
`Was?' he demanded.
`Die sind da!' replied the pale, scared Luftwaffe officer, who was directing the drop. `Dadrueben!’
The gigantic, scar-faced Colonel followed the direction of the man's trembling, outstretched hand.
A Fiesler Storch spotter plane hovered over the gleaming, wind-swept mountain peak at 2,000 metres. It seemed stationary, but Skorzeny knew its pilot must be lathered in sweat, in spite of the freezing cold over the Alps, desperately trying to fight the thermals. Suddenly the little monoplane broke to the right. It was about to begin the operation.
It slid across the jagged, snow-covered peak, dragging a slow black shadow across the gleaming surface, using the updraughts caused by the crosswinds to save fuel. Skorzeny licked abruptly dry lips. If the pilot did not mark the dropping zone correctly, there would be a tragedy.
Now the spotter plane was only a couple of hundred metres above the peak, coming down in lazy spirals, motor just above stalling speed. Skorzeny felt his heart begin to beat more rapidly. He knew from his own experiences that summer that if the pilot made one wrong move, he would smack right into the cruel, jagged face of the mountain. (In the summer of 1943, Skorzeny and his para-commandos had crash-landed in gliders on the top of the Gran Sasso mountain in Italy to rescue the imprisoned Italian dictator Mussolini.) But the pilot was an expert. Tilting up the nose of the little plane slightly to act as a brake, he dropped his first flare.
It came down in a fiery red ball to explode, bathing the surface of the snow in a bloody, ominous crimson. The first corner of the dropping zone had been accurately marked. Skorzeny breathed a tiny sigh of relief.
Quickly, flare after flare followed, outlining the two hundred metre square of the DZ in red. The Luftwaffe pilot had pulled it off. The DZ was well and truly outlined. But what a DZ, Skorzeny could not help thinking. The landing strip was terribly steep and narrow. If one of the paras got caught in a sudden thermal and missed it, he would be carried over the side of the mountain to . . . Skorzeny did not need to follow the thought to its horrifying end. Then the sudden roar of engines from the west told him that the paras had arrived.
Skorzeny flung up his binoculars and focussed them rapidly. The big four-engined Condor was coming in at three hundred metres, descending rapidly to one hundred and fifty. That was about the minimum jumping height for unskilled paras like the ten men in the transport. All of them had made eight jumps in the last two weeks' crash course, but even the most experienced para in the whole of General Student's Paratroop Army would have baulked at attempting what those men up there were going to do in a few moments.
The Condor swept in, its gigantic shadow wavering across the whiteness of the snow like some monstrous, silent blackbird. The exit door in the side of the plane was opened. Skorzeny could just make out the microscopic figure poised there. That would be the team leader. He could well imagine what the lean mountaineer colonel was thinking as he gazed down at the tiny landing strip on the mountainside below. The whole op must look like sheer suicide.
Skorzeny tensed. The team leader had jumped. There was a sharp, whip like crack. The team leader's canopy mushroomed out above him in a sudden burst of white. Through the twin viewfinders of his binoculars, Skorzeny could see how the tiny black figure struggled and twisted as he fought the shroud lines. Now he was only a matter of fifty metres from the DZ, but the Colonel was verging dangerously close to the side of the mountain. 'Pull, man!' Skorzeny cursed, his knuckles white with tension as they gripped the glasses, `pull, dammit!’
As if in response to Skorzeny's order, the mountaineer gave a desperate heave at his shrouds. Missing the side of the mountain by mere metres, he hit the snow, rolled over and disappeared from sight.
Skorzeny sighed and felt the sweat trickling down the small of his back unpleasantly. Now the whole stick was coming out. Dark figure after dark figure, not pulling the release ring of the 'chute till the very last moment, as they had been taught. `One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five.’ Skorzeny counted the elite of the German Alpine Corps off as they hit the DZ safely. Good Catholic that he was, he whispered an urgent prayer of thanks each time. 'Six . . . seven . ..eight —'
`Oh, my God!' the little Luftwaffe liaison officer at his side gasped. 'Look, sir! '
The ninth man had been caught by a thermal. Struggling wildly, obviously panic-stricken and completely out of control, he fought the shrouds, tugging and wrenching furiously at the lines, trying to direct the 'chute back into the red-lit square of snow. But he was out of luck.
In an instant he had missed the strip. Skorzeny saw his mouth open in a silent scream. Over the side he went. A gust of wind caught him and smashed him cruelly into the rock-face. Skorzeny could almost hear his bones snap.
Still the grievously hurt mountaineer fought for his life, trying to escape the deadly trap. Horrified yet fascinated, Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny watched the dying man's progress down the side of the mountain, snatched back and forth by invisible hands, hurled against the jagged, merciless rocks time and time again, until the body was reduced to a bloody pulp. Finally the shredded 'chute gave out. Its hopeless load fell one thousand metres, to disintegrate far below.
Skorzeny lowered his binoculars and crossed himself with shaking hands. Operation Long Knife had got off to a bad start. But the scar-faced Commando leader had no time to consider the evil omen. From the slope to his rear came the sound of a labouring motor ascending the mountain trail in low gear. He swung round on the ashen-faced Luftwaffe officer. 'Didn't you post sentries at the bottom, Herr Haupt-mann?' he demanded.
‘Jawohl, Obersturmbannführer; the little man replied, his voice shaky. 'It sounds like the courier. He's authorized.'
`He'd better be,' Skorzeny breathed. 'Or the Führer will have your head.'
But the Luftwaffe officer was safe from the German leader's wrath that particular October day. A few seconds later the camouflaged command car, bearing its authorization panel, swung over the rise to brake a few metres away from the SS Colonel. An Air Force officer in a dusty, ankle-length leather coat, pistol in one hand, leather case chained to his right wrist, sprang from the back seat and doubled towards the waiting Skorzeny.
`Leutenant Gehendges, Führer Hauptquartier,' he barked, standing rigidly to attention. 'Urgent from the Führer, sir. Your eyes only.'
Skorzeny touched his hand to his peaked cap in salute and grasped the young officer's arm. 'Over here,' he directed, leading him to one side, while the Luftwaffe Captain stared after them, wondering what the devil this whole mysterious business
was about. `Open!' Skorzeny ordered. 'And watch what you are about, Lieutenant. I don't want a one-way ticket to heaven.'
`Don't worry, sir,' the Lieutenant answered. 'I know the order well enough. I would have been minus my arm a long time ago if I didn't.' Rapidly he unlocked the chain which bound the case to his wrist; then he undid the lock in the three-stage pattern, which was constantly changed and known only to himself and his master. One wrong move and the whole case would explode. He clicked it open and extracted the sole document: a half sheet of paper, bearing the legend ‘Reichsgeheimsache’ (Roughly 'top secret'), which he had borne, chained to his wrist, halfway across Europe to this remote Austrian valley. `For your eyes, sir,' he said, and gave it to Skorzeny.
It was a radio intercept. Skorzeny saw that immediately from the jumble of code-letters at the top. Swiftly, sensing Roughly his heart beginning to beat more rapidly with excitement, Skorzeny began to read it, his parched, cracked lips moving silently with the unfamiliar English:
`Most immediate . . . Top Secret . . .’
He had just finished it as the lean Storm Troop Edelweiss Colonel came limping into sight, his coveralls ripped, 'chute bundled up against his chest, defeat etched on his harshly handsome features. Behind him trooped the rest of his mountaineers, equally depressed at the loss of their comrade.
Instinctively Skorzeny knew that these men would not welcome any joyous outburst at this particular moment. Although his own mind was racing with the knowledge that everything was finally paying off after all these long, anxious weeks of waiting and uncertainty, Obersturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny said, almost casually, 'It's on. They're coming at last…
Chapter Two
`Well?' Winston Spencer Churchill demanded, the sweat pouring from his startlingly white body, and turning his loosely worn khaki safari shirt a dark brown. 'What news, Thompson?'
The burly Special Branch man frowned and looked at his master, who was well into his second whisky, although it was only eight o'clock on this burning hot Cairo morning. ‘Not too good, sir,' he growled, telling himself the Chief looked very run down, and that the booze and cigars were not going to help much either.
'Elucidate,' the PM said, dipping the end of his double corona in the glass of whisky and sucking it pleasurably. `Intelligence maintains they are going to have a crack at you, sir,' he began, dabbing his moist brow, and wishing the slow fan above his head would do more than just stir the stifling air.
`It won't be the first time that Intelligence has been wrong. Besides, you know better than anyone, Thompson, how often they've had a go at me in the past — and how often they have failed.'
`I know that, sir,' the Inspector replied, his frown deepening. 'But that was always at home, where we could control the situation more effectively. Over there we're going to be in foreign parts and you know what that lot are like, even if they were friendly towards us, which they aren't.'
The Great Man smiled. 'Thompson, are you not the typical Englishman! A chauvinist to the nth degree. Here we chase their king off his throne, force his playboy of a son to succeed him, then divide the country into zones of occupation. And you think they should like us. Remarkable!' He took another deep draw at the big cigar.
Inspector Thompson was not appeased. 'The Yankees are taking the threat seriously, sir,' he persisted. `Cairo's swarming with those FBI chaps of theirs, ready to fly over. And you can bet your bottom dollar that Uncle Joe will have thousands of soldiers on guard.'
The Great Man nodded his understanding. `Ah, my dear Thompson, but they come from a different world than ours — they are used to violence and counter-violence. Don't you think?'
Thompson said nothing. Instead he towered over his master, his shirt black with sweat, glowering at him. The Chief was just trying to provoke him, and he was not going to be provoked. The situation was far too serious.
`All right,' the Great Man said. 'Let me have it then, Thompson. What is our security over there like?'
`The short answer, sir, is bloody. There is one infantry company to guard the Embassy, and if I know the British Army they'll be too busy getting their brasses polished and their webbing blancoed to bother particularly about your security.'
`You malign His Majesty's Militia,' Churchill replied with a faint smile. 'And that from an ex-Guardsman. It won't do, Thompson!'
The Special Branch man did not seem to hear. 'As for the Embassy itself,' he continued, 'I've heard from people over there that it's wide open. A one-legged midget with a bad heart could scale the wall that runs round the place, anywhere — and remember this, sir, that place is supposedly swarming with spies.'
A flicker of doubt crossed the Great Man's face. Only the week before the man he had flown 5,000 miles to see had threatened to cancel the meeting if the British could not provide sufficient air cover to ward off any enemy suicide mission that their air force might attempt to carry out. A squadron of Spitfires had been hastily scrambled to keep Stalin sweet. 'But we have a cover plan, Thompson,' he said, sucking the end of his cigar with gratification.
`Cover plan!' Thompson said scornfully. 'With all due respect, sir, who do you think that will fool? We've sent out a handful of brass-hats from Cairo GHQ with Turkish money in their pockets and dumped them somewhere near the Turkish border to make the enemy think you're off to welcome the Turks into the war. Won't work, sir. All the enemy have to do is to check the presence of the GHQ's best chef and his staff at this moment.'
‘The Embassy?' the Great Man ventured.
`Exactly, sir. And why is the cook there? Because the Embassy is expecting a very important person — you.' He pointed his big forefinger almost accusingly. 'Find the chef, the valet, the chauffeur, and the Chief won't be very far behind. Even the most inept of spies can work that one out. I'll give you twenty-four hours in that place and they'll know you're there. And remember this, sir, you're going to spend nearly a whole week there. There'll be more than enough time for them to plan and carry out an attack on you.' He paused and let his words sink in.
For what seemed an eternity there was no sound save the faint whirr of the ceiling fan and the soft tramp of the sentries outside. The Great Man, looking like an outsize Buddha, seemed sunk in his thoughts, as he sucked pensively on his cigar, pondering the situation. Finally he spoke. 'But I must go, Thompson. You understand little of the great issues involved. We have passed the zenith of our strength. My Chiefs-of-Staff inform me that the barrel is just about scraped clean. We cannot continue the war, and still exert power, much longer. We must have victory in 1944 or be overshadowed, even submerged by our erstwhile allies. And God knows, Thompson, little holds us together except our determination on victory. But what then? Ah, what indeed?'
Thompson said nothing. The most powerful individual in the whole great British Empire, was no longer aware of his presence. He was addressing a hidden audience of his peers: those English families amounting to perhaps a dozen, the Sackville’s, the Cecil’s, the Churchill’s and the rest, who ran half the world, justifying his actions, rendering an account like any good managing director should.
`England must sway them while it still has the big battalions on its side,' he continued. 'Perhaps, soon, the two giants of East and West will join hands to impose a strategy on the Allies of which we disapprove, which will prevent us from realizing our natural destiny. That must not happen. I . . . I have not become the King's First Minister to let it happen, for it might well mean the end of the British Empire.' The PM's voice rose, and, in spite of himself, Thompson felt that familiar shiver. How often had that great voice, speaking over the radio, been the only hope in the black years that were behind them?
The Great Man looked directly at his bodyguard, fire in his eyes. 'Thompson,' he declared, 'we will go to that place, whatever the danger. We will go because we must go. And we will go, even if we must die at the hand of an assassin there.'
Thompson bent his big head in defeat. There was no way out. Winston Spencer Churchill, Prime Minister of Great Brita
in, had made his decision…
Chapter Three
It was snowing. The first snow of the year, soft, gentle and silent. All day there had been the soft tinkle of the bells as the big-bosomed Austrian peasant women had brought their great lumbering cows down from the lush high meadows where they had fed all summer. Now the remote mountain village was still, the peasants tucked away safely behind the shutters of their painted wooden houses, watching the cascade of falling flakes, and knowing that soon they would be snowed-in.
Stormtroop Edelweiss sat hunched in the commandeered farm-kitchen, faces brick-red from the heat of the green tiled oven that reached right up to the beamed ceiling, frozen, battered hands clutching the hot steaming rum grogs, talking little, waiting obviously for the CO, Colonel Stuermer, to begin the briefing. Stuermer, the commander of the German Army's elite reconnaissance and assault mountain troop, took his time. Twenty years of climbing, everywhere in Europe, Asia and South America, had taught him that one should never rush men, either on the mountain or afterwards in camp. Haste meant danger, and this day his men certainly needed time to recover, after yet another audacious paradrop onto the steep mountain slope. Most of them had suffered bruises and sprains again. His second-in-command, Major Gottfried Greul, pushing on up the treacherous slope with that same brutal, energetic zest which had made him the idol of the pre-war Hitlerjugend (Hitler Youth) and the pet hate of the international mountaineering teams with which he had climbed, had fallen twenty metres, and was now sporting his right arm in a sling.
Yet in spite of their obvious exhaustion, Stuermer knew that after twenty-four hours' rest they would be ready for the tremendous task ahead of them. Most of them present, with the exception of the two young smooth-faced lieutenants ¬Hager and Willems — who had just been posted to Stormtroop Edelweiss, had been with him right from the start. From Narvik in '40, the campaigns in the Finnish Tundra in '41, to the storming of Mount Elbrus in '42, they had climbed and fought in the lonely mountains of the North, far away from the main body of the Wehrmacht. But then, Stuermer told himself, as his eyes swept the subdued men crowding the kitchen all around him, they were all individualists, lonely men, happy only when they were lost in the solitude and splendour of the high mountains, who did not take kindly to the discipline of the field-grey amorphous mass of the regular army. Hand-picked as they were, they were all professional pre-war mountaineers or Bavarian or Austrian mountain boys, who had learned to ski and climb before they could walk. In the whole of the German Army, there was no finer unit. If any outfit in the Wehrmacht could pull off the assignment the Führer had landed him with, it would be Stormtroop Edelweiss.