‘General von Reger speaks perfect English,’ Murdoch told her.
‘You have to get to the General, sir,’ Edmunds said patiently. ‘I am here because I speak German.’
She had a point. And she was desperate to work with the famous man with whom she had so oddly been thrown together.
‘What is happening?’ Kostitch asked.
Murdoch told him.
‘I do not like it,’ Kostitch said. ‘It is impossible to trust these people.’
‘They have trusted us,’ Murdoch pointed out. ‘And I am sure I can trust General von Reger. I have met him before the war.’
‘I do not like it,’ Kostitch said again.
‘I will be back by dawn,’ Murdoch promised him. ‘If anything happens to me, Captain Markham will continue to act as your liaison with our people. Understood, Markham?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Markham shook hands with Edmunds and looked as if he wanted to do more.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Murdoch told them. ‘Fall out for five minutes.’
Markham and Edmunds withdrew into the trees, while the German waited patiently, eyeing the partisans, who stared at him.
Edmunds returned, and she and Murdoch went down the hill. There was a driver in the car, but no one else. Murdoch and Edmunds got into the back of the Mercedes, and the officer sat in the front. The car began to move, slowly along the slippery road. ‘Ask him how far,’ Murdoch told Edmunds.
‘A few miles,’ she interpreted.
‘Scared?’ he asked.
‘Not with you, sir.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘If we’re captured, we just take off our coats. We’re both in uniform. The worst they can do to us is send us off to a prison camp in Germany. But I am sure it is going to be all right.’
He felt pleasantly excited, at the thought of seeing Paul again. Having lost two of his sons, he was suddenly realizing how much he valued the remaining two — even the illegitimate one. Who was also an enemy! But that was a whim of Fate. Paul would be forty-two, now. And clearly a man destined for high command — except that there would be no command left at all, when Germany had lost the war. But if Paul was one of those who cooperated in the elimination of Hitler before the final defeat, it might be possible to make something of his life, after all.
They drove into a village, where there were a great number of German soldiers, heavily armed, and prepared for action; machine guns were emplaced and even some mortars. The swastika flag drooped from the pole above the main building — once an inn, Murdoch estimated — and there were several cars as well as trucks parked in the little square before it. Of any previous inhabitants there was no trace.
The car came to a halt before the shallow steps, and the officer opened the door for Murdoch and Edmunds. They got out, and the two soldiers beside the door presented arms. ‘The natives appear to be friendly,’ Murdoch said.
The officer opened the door for them, and they went inside. ‘He says the General is waiting for you upstairs,’ Edmunds translated. ‘But I am to stay here.’
Murdoch nodded. ‘The General speaks perfect English,’ he reminded her. And the meeting would necessarily have to be a very private one, for a variety of reasons. ‘I’ll try not to be too long.’
He went up the stairs behind the officer, who opened a door for him, clicked his heels, and saluted. And was dismissed by the man standing behind the desk. The officer waited for Murdoch to enter, then closed the door on him.
Murdoch stared at Paul von Reger. They had not seen each other for nearly three years, but he did not think either of them had changed, except that Paul now wore the uniform of a general instead of a colonel, and possibly there were a few more streaks of grey in his own black hair. As had happened the last time, Paul did not look pleased to see his father.
‘I saw you get out of the car,’ he said in English. ‘Are you mad?’
‘I hope not.’
‘You, here in Yugoslavia, fighting with those thugs in the mountains, who rape and murder helpless women?’
‘Those thugs seem to think there are more raping, murdering, thugs in the towns than in the mountains, Paul,’ Murdoch said. Will you not shake my hand?’
‘No,’ Paul said, and sat down behind the desk. ‘You are seriously compromising us both.’
‘I don’t see how. No one knows our relationship. And it is important that I speak with you.’
‘Then speak,’ Paul said. ‘And quickly. Then leave, while you still can.’
Murdoch sat down. ‘You must realize that Germany has lost the war, Paul.’
‘Indeed?’
‘You have been crushed at Stalingrad, defeated in North Africa. Soon there will be an invasion of Europe itself. You cannot hope to resist the combined armies of Britain, the United States and Russia. You can hope for nothing from Japan, which is also on the road to defeat, and even less from Italy. What have you got to go on fighting for?’
‘So you would have us surrender. I believe you have been in Yugoslavia several months. You are out of touch with the news, Father. Perhaps you have not heard that Churchill and Roosevelt have announced that they will accept only unconditional surrender.’
‘I did hear that. But I am sure they mean unconditional surrender from a Germany ruled by the Nazi Party. Were that party to be replaced by a more acceptable government, I am sure the Allies would be willing to call a halt.’
‘Replaced? You seem to forget that I am a member of the Nazi Party myself.’
‘I suspect you found yourself in it before you had time to think. Now I am asking you to do that, Paul.’
‘To be a traitor.’
‘To be a patriot. Surely it is more treacherous to watch your country sliding into an abyss, and do nothing about it? When you could do something about it.’
‘Into the abyss,’ Paul repeated. ‘The abyss is already there, Father. It is called Soviet Russia. It is an abyss which is attempting to swallow all of Europe. And it will do so, unless we continue to fight it. Why do you not go home, and tell Roosevelt and Churchill that instead of fighting us, they should be fighting with us against the Communists?’
How odd, Murdoch thought, that this self-confessed Nazi and Colonel Kostitch really have exactly the same point of view. ‘Perhaps that too could be achieved,’ he said. ‘Were you and your associates to replace Hitler.’
‘I swore an oath to the Fuehrer, as supreme commander of the German Army, Father. I will not break that oath. I am disappointed that you should think I might.’
They gazed at each other, Murdoch searching for some sign of weakness in his son’s face, but Paul remained utterly cold. ‘Then God have mercy on your soul,’ Murdoch said. ‘And the soul of everyone in Germany.’
Paul stood up. ‘We shall look after our own souls, Father. Now, I will have my driver return you to your bandit friends. But if you will take my advice, you will leave Yugoslavia, as clandestinely as you came, and as quickly as possible. I am under orders to extirpate those vermin in the hills. And I shall do so. If you are with them, I will not be able to save your life.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Murdoch said.
Paul saluted him. ‘Heil Hitler! And goodbye, Father. We shall not meet again.’
Murdoch saluted in turn, and Paul went in front of him to the door. He opened it, and frowned at the two men standing there. They wore civilian clothes beneath belted topcoats, and slouch hats. ‘Have you finished your private conversation, Herr General?’ asked one, in English, and looked at Murdoch. ‘That is your language, is it not?’
Murdoch looked at Paul.
‘It is his language, yes,’ Paul said.
‘And I assume he is under arrest?’
‘He is not under arrest. He came here under a safe conduct to discuss certain matters.’
‘What matters?’
‘Military matters, Herr Roebel. Nothing to do with the Gestapo. Our discussion is now terminated, and General Mackinder is now leaving.’
‘General Mack
inder,’ the man called Roebel remarked. ‘A famous name. You are fighting with the partisans, General Mackinder?’
‘I am the head of a British military mission to Yugo-slavia,’ Murdoch said carefully.
‘You are a spy, and a guerrilla. On both counts you will be shot.’
‘I am a British officer, in uniform,’ Murdoch told him. ‘I cannot be a spy.’
Tut you are fighting with guerrillas. They are not soldiers.’
‘They consider themselves as soldiers.’
‘They may consider themselves what they like. We know differently. If you wish to save your neck, General, you will agree to lead us to where we can find these scum. Then it might be possible to treat you as a prisoner of war.’
Murdoch looked at Paul; he was not conscious of any fear, only tension.
‘I cannot permit this,’ Paul said. ‘I gave General Mackinder my personal safe conduct.’
‘The matter is out of your hands, Herr General,’ Roebel told him. ‘The moment I discovered that you were entertaining a British officer, I telephoned Berlin. I spoke to Reichsfuehrer Himmler himself. He has authorized me to take charge of the prisoner, and deal with him as I think fit
‘I do not believe you,’ Paul snapped.
Roebel walked across the office and picked up the phone. ‘The Reichsfuehrer is expecting a call from you.’
Paul stared at him, and some of the colour left his face; it was obvious that the Gestapo officer was not bluffing. Then he looked at Murdoch. He had saved his father from imprisonment once before, in Holland. It was too much to hope that he would take the risk again. ‘He is not to be harmed,’ he said.
Roebel grinned. ‘I would not harm such a distinguished officer; what eventually happens to him is up to the Reichsfuehrer. I am sure I can discover what I wish to know from his secretary.’
‘Where is Private Edmunds?’ Murdoch snapped.
‘Under arrest. As are you.’ He spoke in German to his aide, who immediately produced a pair of handcuffs.
‘I am sure that will not be necessary,’ Paul protested. ‘General Mackinder will give you his word that he will not try to escape.’
‘I don’t think I will do that, General,’ Murdoch said.
‘I would not accept it in any event,’ Roebel said.
Murdoch’s arms were pulled behind his back, and the handcuffs snapped on his wrists.
‘I am sorry about this, General,’ Paul said. ‘And I wish to apologize. I will telephone my superiors immediately and endeavour to have my safe conduct honoured.’
‘Thank you,’ Murdoch said. But he didn’t have too much hope of that. His venture had turned out badly, as Kostitch had feared it would. Now his business must be to ensure that Edmunds was not harmed in any way; he didn’t like Roebel’s threat.
She was waiting downstairs, also handcuffed. Her coat had been taken away, and her uniform was somewhat dishevelled, but she managed a smile, although her face was pale.
‘Have they harmed you?’ Murdoch asked.
‘I think they were searching me, sir,’ she said.
‘The bastards.’ He turned to Roebel. ‘This lady is a British soldier, just as I am. If you harm her in any way, you will answer for it.’
‘Oh, indeed I shall,’ Roebel agreed. ‘To my superiors.’ He gave an order, and Murdoch and Edmunds were taken outside. Without their coats it was very cold, and the girl shuddered. There was a van standing in the yard, with its engine running. The door at the back was opened, and their guard, who had been joined by two other plain-clothes men, indicated that they were to get in. Murdoch went first, without difficulty, but Edmunds tripped, and was given a push which hurled her to the floor, gasping, her lip cut where her face had banged. His wrists secured, Murdoch could do nothing to help her. Nor was cursing and swearing going to help, he knew. It was necessary to keep as cool as he had always been, whether in the hands of a Boer Commando or the Mahsuds, and wait, and watch, and be patient — but deadly when the time came.
Two of the Gestapo men got into the van with them, and then they waited for the arrival of Roebel. They made no effort to help Edmunds get up, and when, panting and with a trickle of tears rolling from her eyes, she struggled to her knees, one of them put his foot on her shoulder and pushed her over again. She fell down and now did begin to weep. ‘Hold on,’ Murdoch told her. ‘Just hold on.’
They waited for nearly half an hour, then the door opened again and Roebel got in. Immediately the van began to move.
‘Your men have been ill treating Private Edmunds,’ Murdoch told him. ‘I am going to hold you responsible for that.’
Roebel grinned at him. ‘I have been speaking with the Reichsfuehrer, telling him who I have captured. He is delighted. Do you know that you are the most senior Allied officer to be taken thus far? He is going to have you filmed when we get to Berlin.’
‘I was talking about my interpreter,’ Murdoch said coldly. Winston is going to flip his lid, he thought.
‘It is she who is going to have to do the talking,’ Roebel said, and gave an order. The two detectives each seized one of Edmunds’s arms and dragged her to her knees, in front of Roebel. ‘You are not going to Berlin, Fraulein,’ he told her. ‘You are going to stay here, with us. And show us how to reach your friends, eh?’
Edmunds looked at Murdoch.
‘You will be committing a crime, which will be remembered,’ Murdoch told Roebel.
He grinned. ‘Then let me give you something to remember,’ he said. ‘You, Fraulein, if you wish to save your skin...’ he paused, to slide his hand round the line of Edmunds’s jaw and into her hair. ‘You will tell us exactly where your friends are. And you will tell us how to find this man who calls himself Marshal Tito. He is the one we want. You will tell us these things.’
Edmunds gasped.
‘Speak,’ Roebel ordered.
‘I...I do not know where Marshal Tito is,’ the girl said.
‘You are lying. But it is no matter. I know how to make little girls tell the truth.’ He slapped her face, four times, to and fro. Blood flew from her already split lip, and tears rushed from her eyes. Her body was racked by a huge sob.
Keeping still required an enormous effort. But Murdoch knew that movement would be futile and self-defeating. He could only kick, once. Then he too would be beaten up, without having accomplished anything. If he felt, in himself, as fit as ever, he was well aware that he was no longer a young man, that his bones were more brittle than they had once been, and thus that if he were to be injured, he would become a complete liability, and for a very long time.
The rest of the journey was a nightmare, as Roebel tormented the girl, sexually, and encouraged his men to do the same. They tore open her battledress blouse to put their hands inside and squeeze and pull her breasts, and they put their hands between her legs, again to squeeze and poke. Edmunds sobbed, her shoulders shaking, while Murdoch’s hands and wrists became numb and he wished his brain could also go to sleep.
But at last they stopped for the night at another German-controlled village. Here they were separated, Murdoch being taken to the officers’ quarters, while Edmunds was dragged off to the cells. Murdoch’s wrists were released to enable him to shave and to eat, but all the time an armed guard was at his shoulder. In fact, he did not wish to eat, but knew he had to force something down to keep up his strength. ‘What are you doing to Private Edmunds now?’ he asked Roebel.
‘Amusing ourselves,’ the detective said blandly. ‘She will remain here. With me. I will get what I want out of her before she dies. But you will continue your journey tomorrow. There is a plane waiting at Belgrade. You will be in Germany in two days’ time.’
‘And one day I will come back, and seek you out, and kill you,’ Murdoch told him.
‘One day may be too long for you, General. You are becoming an old man. I do not fear your one day.’
*
Murdoch could not help but wonder if he was right. Because suddenly he was feeling very
old. It was fourteen years since he had campaigned amongst the Mahsuds, and seen men, and women, so horribly mistreated. Only fourteen years. But fourteen years in which he had lived in an atmosphere of civilization, and good feeling. Perhaps he had never supposed there could be anything else, in Europe. But this war was breaking civilization down, reducing men, and women, to the beasts they essentially were. It was a depressing thought.
And even more depressing was the thought that he might not be here to see it finished. He could not imagine life in a prisoner of war camp. But he knew it was going to be hard. Too hard for an old gentleman of sixty-two? He squared his shoulders on the narrow bed to which he was again handcuffed. He would survive, because he had a lot to do. A lot to avenge. The list began with Jennie Manly-Smith and stretched through two of his sons and Monique Deschards to that poor, frightened girl who was about to be tortured to death.
He had not expected to sleep, but was far more exhausted — emotionally even more than physically — than he had realized. He was surprised to be awakened by the cuffs being released from the bed, told to dress, and given some coffee and black bread for breakfast. Three cars, two of them filled with soldiers, were waiting for him, as was Roebel.
‘I shall say goodbye, Herr General,’ he said. ‘I have a lot to do, eh, with your private?’
Murdoch merely looked at him, then got into the car, and the motorcade moved off. It was a crisp, cold morning, and if there was no snow on the road, it lay on the hills to either side. His guards apparently spoke no English. Neither did they seem the least brutal or even hostile; indeed, when they stopped for coffee about ten, the Lieutenant in charge took away the handcuffs. ‘Gestapo,’ he remarked contemptuously. ‘Nein.’
Murdoch slapped his hands together and restored some circulation. But he kept thinking of what might be happening back in that command post.
They drove on, and came upon a stream of bullock carts, proceeding slowly along the side of the road. Horns blared, and the carts edged more to the side to give the cars room to pass. But they had to slow down, and were moving abreast of the carts, and the men sitting above the bulls, when the leading cart suddenly slewed across the road. The first car braked, but still hit it. The second, in which Murdoch was sitting, ran into the first. The third stopped short, and went into reverse, but the last bullock cart had also slewed sideways, completely blocking the road.
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