*
Bormann waited in the ante-chamber. ‘Have you made the Führer as happy as always, Countess?’ he asked.
‘You will have to ask him that, Herr Bormann,’ she replied.
‘Perhaps one day you will be able to spare the time to make me happy as well,’ he suggested.
Anna was surprised. He had not shown the least interest in her when they had previously met. But perhaps that had been because of the Warsaw crisis. As she knew he was married and had several children, there had to be a libido somewhere inside that lifeless façade. Although making love with him would have to be like embracing an over-ripe cheese. ‘You will have to ask your wife about that,’ she said, and left the room.
*
Presumably, Anna thought, as she took the train to Rostock, she had made another enemy. But she was more concerned with Hitler’s plans. Or were they just dreams? To believe one’s own propaganda had to the greatest weakness a man could have. But there was always the possibility that it was not just pie in the sky. Certainly the Allies had to be warned that such a blow was impending. But she was on her way to do that.
And to find out about Belinda. The poor woman had undoubtedly undergone yet another horrendous experience. Five hours in the custody of Werter! When she would have been anticipating . . . Anna remembered the curious, but fascinating, mixture of sophistication and innocence, the uncertainty and then the willing complicity she had revealed to the passion that had suddenly flowed over her. Anna wondered if she had ever told Clive? Because she knew that a great deal of what she had done had been with at least a subconscious desire to drive a wedge into a relationship she regarded as the only real threat to her future. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed it.
And that future still had to be reached. She slipped her hand into her shoulder bag to finger the envelope which lay beside her Luger. Himmler’s hand had trembled as he had given it to her, as his voice had been anxious as he had reminded her that it was to be delivered to no one except Count Bernadotte, and that no one was to know the contents except the count, that she was to defend its secrecy by whatever means she considered necessary.
These were the instructions that he gave her whenever she was on a mission for him, whether it had involved delivering money to Laurent or on her previous visit to Stockholm in January, and so far it had cost, directly, five lives. As they had all been Gestapo agents they did not lie on her conscience, but it was a relief to feel that on this trip there should be no necessity for bloodshed. And there was the possibility that within forty-eight hours she might be in Clive’s arms.
Or would Baxter himself come again? She remembered how absolutely terrified he had been, in January, at finding himself alone in a bedroom with her. That had not been fear of her as an assassin, but as a woman. She wondered what Mrs Baxter was like, supposing there was a Mrs Baxter? Perhaps one day she’d find out.
The ship was buzzed from time to time by Russian aircraft, but as she was flying the Finnish flag she was not attacked. If the Finns had fought on the German side during Barbarossa, the utter collapse of the invasion over the last year had involved them in a humiliating peace. Anna had a good dinner and was early in her bunk, to be on deck the following morning to watch the ship negotiating its ways through the ice floes into Stockholm; icebreakers constantly roamed up and down to keep the passage open.
But as she remembered from her last visit, this was a country of peace and tranquillity, of undamaged buildings and un-cratered streets, of people who, if genetically serious – no doubt because of their climate – were also unafraid of what each day might bring . . . and were also capable of letting their hair down and enjoying themselves with an almost innocent pleasure that was so sadly lacking in cities like Berlin or Paris, or even Vienna.
Customs formalities were brief and brisk, then she was in the main hall of the building, carrying her valise – she had no heavy luggage as she was only going to be here for a few days – and passing the long, orderly line of passengers waiting to board the vessel for its return trip.
And pausing in surprise as a tall man left the line and came towards her; he also carried only a valise. ‘Countess?’
‘Sssh,’ she said, and hugged him; it was such a splendid and reassuring encounter, actually to run into both a friend and a colleague so unexpectedly. ‘I am Anna Halfden, a Finnish journalist. But it is so good to see you, Lars. Listen, we have to talk. Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere, now.’
She pulled her head back. ‘Explain.’
‘I was going to Berlin, to see you. But as you are here . . .’
‘What a magnificent coincidence. And we could have so easily missed each other.’
‘Yes,’ he said, thoughtfully.
‘But things always turn out for the best. Well, nearly always.’ She tucked her arm through his as they left the building. ‘You mean, Joe sent you? Thank God for that. I had nearly given him, and you, up. What is he after now?’
‘Tell me first what you are doing in Sweden?’
‘The usual thing, acting as Himmler’s messenger girl. But I have information for you. I was going to try to contact Belinda, but it will be even quicker through you.’
‘Of course.’ He ushered her through the outer doors into the freezing morning. ‘You should cover up.’
Anna unwound her silk scarf and wrapped it round her nose and mouth before again securing it. With her hair concealed beneath her fur hat, this left only her eyes exposed, and these she now covered with her dark glasses; the glare from the snow was startling. ‘I really am not known to anyone here, you know,’ she said. ‘Well, with one or two exceptions, and we are hardly likely to bump into them.’
‘I was thinking of your complexion, Countess.’ He waved a taxi to a halt.
‘Anna, please,’ she reminded him. ‘Where can we go, to talk?’
‘My apartment.’ He waited for her to get into the car, then gave the address to the driver. ‘You do not mind this?’
‘I am booked into the Falcon, but as long as I am there for lunch. I have some calls to make.’
‘To London?’
‘Yes.’ She rested her glove on his and squeezed. ‘They are still my number one employers, Lars. And I must make contact whenever I have the opportunity. But I also have to call the people I am here to see, and set up a meeting.’
‘Who are these people?’
‘I’m sorry, Lars. I don’t think I should tell you that.’
He considered for a moment. ‘But you will give London this information you have.’
‘Of course. But I am quite happy to give it to you first. It is as important to Washington as it is to London.’
‘We are here,’ he said.
Slipping and sliding on the compressed snow, chains clinking, the taxi had turned down several streets and now came to a halt before a block of flats. Relaxed in the company of such an old friend, Anna had not kept track of the route.
‘Cover up,’ Johannsson reminded her.
She had allowed the scarf to slip down to her chin; now she reinstalled it, and he held the door for her, then paid the driver. He unlocked the front door and ushered her into a very clean hallway; to one side there was a staircase. ‘I’m afraid it’s a walk-up,’ he apologized. ‘But it’s only two floors.’
‘I think I can mange that.’ Anna went first, and reached the second landing. Johannsson unlocked the door and she entered a spacious bed-sit. ‘Cosy,’ she remarked, regarding the bed. ‘You wouldn’t have designs, I suppose?’
‘Now, you know that I have had designs from the moment we met.’ He closed the door, and made sure that the latch had clicked into place.
The apartment was centrally heated. Anna took off her scarf and hat, fluffed out her hair, then laid her sable across a chair; she was wearing a high-necked green woollen dress. ‘But you know that it always has to be, business before pleasure.’
‘But after the business?’
She had no desire to get together wit
h anyone save Clive, but she didn’t want to upset him. ‘Who knows?’ She sat in one of the two armchairs. ‘Tell me what Joe wants.’
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘You mean, real coffee? Oh, yes, please.’
There was a small stove to one side, close to the dining table; there was also a sink and a cupboard. He turned his back on her as he lit the gas and filled the kettle, but asked over his shoulder, ‘How do you like it?’
‘If it’s the real thing, I believe in the Brazilian motto: coffee should be as hot as hell, as black as night, and as sweet as sin.’
‘Absolutely.’ He fussed, his back still turned to her, while the kettle began to boil. ‘So, no milk. But do you mind if we do not use sugar?’
‘How can it be sweet without sugar?’’
‘It is simply that I am not allowed to take sugar. I am a diabetic.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You mean you have to inject yourself every day, and that sort of thing?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘That must be ghastly. But then, how do you make your coffee sweet?’
He turned, holding up the little jar. ‘It’s a sweetener. It has the same effect as sugar. Well, nearly. I use it all the time.’
Anna shrugged. ‘I’ll try anything once. Actually, I have an idea that I use too much sugar, anyway.’ She smiled. ‘If I am not careful I may wind up a diabetic like you.’
Johannsson dropped little tablets into the cup, and then poured and stirred. ‘Which no doubt accounts for your sweetness.’ He handed her the cup and saucer.
‘As you say the sweetest things. But we really need to get on. What was Joe’s message?’
He sat in the chair opposite her. ‘Do you like the coffee?’
Anna lifted the cup to her lips, replaced it in the saucer. ‘It needs to cool.’
‘I thought you liked it as hot as possible?’
‘I do, when it is poured. Heat brings out the flavour. But burning my lips and mouth does not. You were saying?’
‘Well . . . you know that the war will soon be ending. With Germany’s defeat.’
‘That depends on who you listen to.’
‘That is our opinion, anyway,’ Johannsson said. ‘Joe is anxious to know your plans. So am I,’ he added. ‘I mean, you know you cannot risk being taken by the Russians.’
‘I do know that,’ she agreed.
He watched her raise the cup again, and this time she sipped.
‘How much do you know of my situation?’ she asked.
‘That the Nazis hold your parents as security for your loyalty?’
‘Ah. Joe told you that, did he?’ This time she drank, and made a face.
‘Don’t you like it?’ He was anxious.
‘It’s bitter.’
‘The sweetener always tastes like that at first. You’ll get used to it.’
Anna drained the cup. ‘Fortunately, I don’t have to. At least, yet.’
‘You mean you would not like another cup?’
‘Frankly, no. I think I’ll stick to sugar. So. Joe . . .’
Her mouth closed and he watched her face seem to freeze at the same time as her eyes glazed. She stared at him as she tried to focus. ‘You unutterable bastard,’ she muttered, and then her entire body sagged, her head lolling against the back of the chair, the cup and saucer falling to the floor.
Johannsson remained staring at her for several seconds, taking in the utter beauty that was so suddenly and completely at his mercy. For the moment it was utterly modest, but the bodice of the dress rose and fell with a fascinating rhythm, and her legs, which she had crossed when she sat down, were now drifting apart, and he looked at flawless stocking-clad calves. While the face, so relaxed, seemed more beautiful than ever, with her mouth slightly open as she breathed. Only the glory of her eyes was for the moment absent.
He realized that he could just stare at her for ever and after some minutes had to force himself to move. He picked up the cup and saucer and put them in the sink, then lifted her left arm, pushed the sleeve of her dress away from her wrist, and took her pulse. It was only slightly slower than he would have expected. So, all he had to do was inject her with the insulin overdose he had planned. And that would be that. It was quite incredible that it should have turned out this way, that he should be able to complete his mission, so easily and with absolutely no risk to himself.
Then he remembered that she had not told him what her important information was. Well, it was too late now. And he did not suppose it had been that important. Not compared with the completion of his mission. He went to the bedside table, took out the bottle and the hypodermic needle. He had used a needle every day throughout his adult life. Carefully he filled it to the limit. That was way above the danger level, but he thought that to make sure he would have to do it twice.
Needle in hand, he turned back to her, again stared at her. In five minutes, all of that consummate femininity would become only a memory. But . . . a memory! Was it not possible to have an even greater memory, a memory to carry with him for the rest of his life? She was out cold, and was surely not going to come round for at least an hour. And in that time . . .
He laid down the needle, knelt at her feet, slowly took off her shoes, placing them neatly together at one side. Then he slid his hands up her calves, over her knees, and up her thighs, carrying her dress with them, aware of feeling almost sick with desire, with the knowledge of what he wanted to do, what he could do, because there was absolutely nothing to stop him.
He stood up, put his hands in her armpits, and lifted her, grunting with the effort: she was heavier than he had expected in so slender a body. But that had to be because she was so completely inert. Panting, he dragged her across the room and laid her on the bed, lifting her legs to stretch them out. He contemplated her for another few moments, then rolled her on her face, turning her head to one side to make sure that her nostrils and mouth could reach the air.
He wanted her to be fully dressed with no evidence of any sexual assault when found, so he unbuttoned the dress with great care, and then with even greater care extracted her arms, one by one, from the sleeves. That done, he rolled her on her back again, straightened her arms at her sides, and slowly drew the dress down her body, scooping her hips from the bed to slide the material past, before removing it altogether, and laying it carefully across one of the chairs.
Time for another contemplation of his victim, committing her to memory for the rest of his life. He wished he had a camera, but he knew that would have been too dangerous in any event. No trace of what had happened here today could ever be found by the police; only the fact, as would be established by the post-mortem, that when he had left her alone for a few minutes to go out, she had taken an overdose of insulin. No one would know whether it had been deliberate – he would tell them that she was a depressive and had been in a disturbed state, which was why he had gone out to buy some alcohol to cheer her up – or whether she supposed the bottle she had found in his bedside drawer had been heroin.
He got her arms through the straps for her camiknickers, eased them down with the same care as he had her dress, although this time he paused as he uncovered her breasts, and then her stomach, and then her groin. Now she was there, waiting for him. But not quite ready. He unclipped her suspender belt, rolled down the stockings, laid them on the table beside the camiknickers.
She was entirely his, a sight he did not suppose he would ever forget. Or would ever want to forget. To destroy such perfection would be a far greater crime than merely carrying out an execution. If only there was some way to keep her alive, a perpetual prisoner. But there wasn’t. And after all, she wasn’t quite perfect. He knelt on the bed beside her, peered at the blue stain on her flesh, then tentatively touched it with his forefinger. It felt as smooth as the rest of her, but he estimated that it was a bullet wound. Someone before him had sought to destroy her. He wondered who it was, and what had been his fate?
It was
time. If he didn’t do it now he never would. He undressed, rapidly, scattering his clothes about the room. He wanted to lie on her, naked, feel her naked body against his. So it would not be pulsing with life, but nothing was ever truly ideal. He knelt again, between her legs, holding them up to gain his entry, having to force his way in. To his disappointment he was spent in seconds.
He pushed himself off her, sat up beside her, panting. So that was it. Now . . . he turned his head and looked into her eyes. Her open eyes! He drew a deep breath and was struck a paralysing blow over the kidneys.
Johannsson fell off the bed on to his hands and knees on the floor, coughing and almost choking. He had never felt such pain.
Anna sat up in turn, and swung her legs off the bed. Her brain was still groggy as she had only just woken up; she had acted instinctively, as she had been taught, and even when lying down had managed to get nearly all of her hundred and thirty pounds into the blow.
She put her bare foot in the centre of his back and pressed. His knees gave way and he collapsed on his face, but he was breathing more evenly.
‘If it interests you,’ Anna remarked, ‘that kidney punch was taught me at SS training school, by someone called Cleiner. A thoroughly detestable fellow, but you must admit that he knew his stuff. It doesn’t kill, of course, just paralyses for a few minutes. But I could have killed you, by a blow to the neck. Again taught me by Dr Cleiner.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ Johannsson groaned.
‘Don’t tell me you wish to die?’
‘I deserve to.’
‘A hit man with a conscience? Do you think you deserve to die for raping me, or because you intended to kill me? You did intend to kill me, didn’t you? When you had finished enjoying yourself?’
Johannsson licked his lips. He was twice her size, but he was not going to risk trying to get up while she was in a position to deliver another blow like that.
‘I really would like to know,’ Anna said.
Johannsson drew a deep breath. ‘I thought, as you were going to die anyway, it didn’t matter what I did to you. And . . . well . . .’
Angel of Doom (Anna Fehrback Book 5) Page 17