Werewolf (Commander Shaw Book 16)

by Philip McCutchan

  It was a horrible sight.

  A great longitudinal fissure divided the grey mass in half as it lay in a faintly cloudy liquid. In the middle was a band of some white substance and there were all sorts of bobbles and smaller fissures and tiny seams like veins, a nasty greyish white over all with deeper grey dappling the white parts. I was revolted but fixated by it: this was the brain that had caused a world war and millions of deaths, the brain that had dreamed up the pogroms and the concentration camps, the mass slaughter of those who disagreed with its concepts and its megalomaniac desires for conquest and Aryan supremacy, the brain against which our civilization had fought for six weary years. Never in my life could it ever have occurred to me that I would actually see it. It might be worth a million times its weight in gold to the medics and scientists and anthropologists, but I was all for consigning it either to destruction or to Russia before it could wreak more harm even in its death.

  I looked away from it, at Klaus Kunze. He seemed transfixed. He lifted it higher in total adoration, and he said what I took to be a prayer. Then, his eyes more alight than ever, he began to sing. He had a pretty good bass as it happened. He sang Deutschland Uber Alles. He sang it right through. Then he put the brain back in its box.

  When Klaus Kunze had simmered down to normal I asked, “What do you intend to do with it?”

  “Take it to West Germany. This I think you know.”

  “I didn’t mean quite that. I meant, since you have it here, do I assume you’re taking it in yourself?” It seemed crazy to pass it to the Bolzes, who were set for East Germany. I said as much.

  He laughed. “You British are so stupid,” he said.

  “It’s a matter of opinion. But why go to all the hassle of hooking it back from the Bolzes, which I assume you’ll need to?”

  He said it again: “You British are so stupid. You have the heads of pigs.”

  I left it at that; he was obviously disinclined to elaborate just then, and I might learn more by keeping my mouth shut. Whilst emerging from his trance-like state of love for the Fuehrer he had told me something that I had found reassuring: I was not to be killed yet. I might be needed as a hostage, a lever against the British Government in certain circumstances, as yet unspecified. When I asked him about Miss Mandrake, I was told she was alive. The relief was tremendous; but he wouldn’t tell me where she was being held. Nor would he comment on Jason Clutch. It had been an unrevealing conversation, but it gave hope of a sort. Soon after Kunze’s reiteration of British stupidity there was a move out. The candles were extinguished, the swastika removed and the brain de-shrined. The box was placed somewhat irreverently in a big canvas hold-all with leather grips and a zip. I was held under many guns while my feet, but not my hands, were untied; then while Kunze carried the hold-all two of the gunmen nudged me out of the cellar and up some greasy stone steps. At the top I emerged through a door into the vestibule of the brothel. Clients were still waiting for service but they took no notice of us as we pushed through. I suppose we were all just part of the Valparaiso night scene, nothing to be remarked on. Outside, we got into an enormous estate car and Hitler’s brain was put in the back and covered with a rug and Klaus Kunze took the wheel and drove off. I had no idea where we were going except that it was out of Valparaiso; the built-up area tailed off into countryside and anonymity. But after a while I picked up a road sign to San Fernando, which I believed was south.

  South it was. When we had come off the main road and taken first a minor one and then a track over rough country with Hitler’s brain bouncing up and down like a jack-in-the-box till one of the lads draped himself protectively across it, I saw in the dawn’s light that we were approaching the area of ex-Feldwebel Ublick’s log cabin. I recognised the outline of the hills. A little later I saw what turned out to be the farmhouse whence the posse had come the afternoon before and tried to get me to report to the boss. Klaus Kunze drove for the farm; evidently the boss was in this up to the neck. He met us at his front door and Nazi salutes were exchanged. The boss’s first words brought bad news to Klaus Kunze.

  “Ublick is dead, Herr Kunze.”

  There was a German oath. “How is this?”

  The farmer shrugged. “I am sorry, very sorry. He was old, that is all. He had not long to live in any case, and the excitement was too much.”

  “When did he die?” Kunze asked.

  “During the night, only a little over two hours ago. He has been laid out, and dressed.”

  “Dressed?”

  The farmer said, “It was his wish to be buried in his uniform.”

  “I understand. This is very sad. Was there a doctor?”

  “No doctor. The end was sudden. A cough, and he had gone.” The farmer paused. “You wish to see him, perhaps?”

  “Certainly, to pay my respects.”

  “Of course. The burial must take place soon. We do not wish questions.” The farmer gave a sudden belch. “Your pardon. The grave is already dug.”

  “And if there are questions?”

  “Ublick has disappeared, no-one knows where. Perhaps when his cabin was destroyed by fire.” The farmer turned and clapped his hands together. From somewhere inside the farmhouse I heard a trundling sound, coming closer. It sounded as though Ublick was on his way. He was. Out through the hall came a trolley. On it lay ex-Feldwebel Ublick, straight and stiff and in full uniform. The badges of an extinct Wehrmacht adorned him, and his boots were polished. Belt and buckles gleamed in the early-morning sun. But the extraordinary thing was his face. I should have been warned by the photograph I’d taken from the rectory in Loxa Mill, but it was still a shock. Dead, Ublick looked much more like Hitler even than he had done in the photograph — Hitler as he might have been aged eighty plus. A white and geriatric dead Fuehrer in a feldwebel’s accoutrements. For a fleeting and stupid moment I had the impression that this was Hitler himself, that the brain in the box was a phoney, that Hitler had lived on until two hours ago. Ublick was right for size even, allowing for expansion of the stomach in the years between.

  The trolley was halted for Kunze to give the Nazi salute and incantation. This done, he said something surprising. He said, “No burial.”

  The farmer gaped. “No burial, do you say? But — ”

  “No burial. You have a cold store?”

  “Yes, but — ”

  “In this Ublick is to be placed. The time will not be long. You will do as I say.”

  “But — ”

  “I have given an order, an order of the Reich. It will be obeyed. Then I must leave again, and will soon return.”

  The farmer evidently knew he had no option, but I could see he didn’t like it. Angrily he gave the order and Ublick was about-turned and trundled back in. Kunze said, “This man.” He indicated me. “You have hands to guard him, senor?”

  “Yes — ”

  “Then please see to it. He is not to get away. I am returning now to Valparaiso. I will be back by noon or soon after.”

  *

  The farm hands were pleased enough to see me again, the more so since I was to be in their personal charge. They were the ones I’d chased away with bullets the day before, and now they were going to enjoy themselves. They were under orders not to harm me, but they kept me on the hop in an earth-floored barn while they zipped lead around my feet for an hour or so before they laid me on the bare earth and shoved old-fashioned pitchforks over both arms and both legs, plus one around my neck which was a close fit, and held me totally helpless as the prongs drove into the ground.

  Trying to disregard them, I pondered on Ublick’s death and what Klaus Kunze meant to do next. I was puzzled: if the old feldwebel’s death had been natural, why not call in a doctor to say so? In fact I didn’t doubt that the death had been natural, for old Ublick had reputedly been as dedicated a Nazi as Kunze himself, and there would have been no point that I could see in the farmer’s killing him. But of course they were all engaged in nefarious business to say the least, and any questions cou
ld have been embarrassing, as the farmer had hinted. Anyway, there was no doubt in my mind about one thing: Klaus Kunze was about to take advantage of an untoward happening and cash in on it, though I couldn’t see how. Perhaps light would be shed when he got back from Valparaiso.

  He was, as promised, back a little after noon. I heard a vehicle drive up and when it stopped I heard Kunze’s voice. Soon after this there were sounds of dragging and bumping and one of my guards, who had gone to the door for a look, said to his mates, “There are many rugs, and under them a coffin.”

  “It will be for the old soldier.”

  Yes, I thought, it would! And then I got it: Klaus Kunze had found a better method than Lothar and Lotte Bolz of getting the brain into West Germany. The Bolzes were now redundant. Dead Ublick was to be the carrier. Hitler’s brain would make the journey back to the Fatherland in close company with his retainer and devotee. There was something fitting if risky about that. Not long after the coffin’s arrival the farmer came into the barn to say that Herr Kunze wanted me, and I was taken under guard into the farmhouse. The coffin was in the hall, on the trolley. The lid was off and I saw Ublick lying in it. So far there was no sign of the metal box; but as I waited, surrounded by my guards, Klaus Kunze came into the hall carrying his precious booty. He caught my eye and smiled. He said, “You have guessed, I think?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I foresee difficulties. Don’t you? Number one, it’s not going to fit into the coffin.”

  “It will fit.” The German unlocked the metal box and brought out the glass tank. The brain floated about, banging against the sides. Certainly it made a smaller package now. Kunze, placing the container between the dead man’s legs, said the glass was strong, especially toughened for its purpose; it would not break and in any case coffins were customarily handled with care and reverence.

  I asked, “What about Customs? They’ll never pass it without a search.”

  Kunze smiled again, sardonically. He said, “You British are so stupid!” This was the third time he’d said that; he was beginning to believe it, I fancied. I wished I could see the advantage in using the coffin as cover, but I couldn’t — except that, of course, there were obvious dangers in attempting a hijack of an East German aircraft ex Gatwick in order to snatch the brain back from the unsuspecting Bolzes. I had to assume Kunze knew what he was about; something could have gone wrong with the Bolz lift. I was still worried, too, about his harping on British stupidity; he had something else up his sleeve.

  Meanwhile he was busy supervising: when the glass tank had been firmed down so that any movement would be minimal, and makeshift pads had been placed over it, the lid of the coffin was screwed down on ex-Feldwebel Ublick, who was at once carried outside and placed in the back of the estate car. There wasn’t quite enough room for him, and the end of the coffin stuck apt through the rear doors. Sacking was secured across it and the doors were tied in the open position. I was told to get in alongside the coffin; I did so, and found it a tight fit. Two of the mob from La Opazo got in as well, one in front and the other on the free side of the coffin. Kunze took his leave of the farmer and got behind the wheel.

  We drove out, no one speaking.

  Back into Valparaiso; I’d had an idea that we might be heading for Santiago, but I was wrong. In Valparaiso we drove into a builder’s yard where a glossy hearse was waiting and once the estate car was under cover of a sort of unloading bay, we all got out and the coffin was removed from the back and put into the hearse. A number of black-clad mutes filed out from a doorway like a procession of beetles and I recognised some more thuggish faces from La Opazo. These men arranged themselves around the coffin while Kunze and I, with the men who had travelled from the farm, watched. I felt the gun in my back. I asked Kunze, “You’re not going with it?”

  “No.”

  That was all he would say. I was ordered back into the estate car with the gun-hands. The back seat had been re-rigged by now and the next part of the journey looked like being more comfortable. We drove out, followed by the hearse. But the hearse didn’t stay in company; it peeled off at some traffic lights and we went on alone. When I asked where the hearse was going, a gun dug into my side and I was told to shut up and not be curious. As we came clear of Valparaiso I saw that we were heading for Santiago. When we reached Chile’s capital we drove right across the city to the eastern outskirts and then up a driveway to stop by a pillared front door giving entry to a palatial house with a splendid view of the mountains. We appeared to be

  expected: a man in a starched white jacket and black trousers came to the door before any of us had got out. A man dressed like a butler but built like a tank, with immense shoulders and muscles that rippled the jacket when the arms moved. He was almost a dwarf: not much more than five feet of him, with an ugly, pallid face covered with acne. He came forward as Kunze got out, and clicked his heels as he halted.

  “Welcome, Herr Kunze,” he said in a high, castrated voice. He said it in German; Kunze responded in the same language, and told the man that all was now in hand. The hideous retainer smiled and said, “Vernichtung!” Kunze nodded, his face hard. “Vernichtung, Josef — ja!”

  I gave a shiver when I heard it. It was all to start again … Vernichtung was the word the Germans used to describe what the Third Reich had been all about. It meant total extermination, obliteration, a breaking-down to nothing. It scarcely bore thinking about.

  *

  I was simply being delivered like a package; when Josef had taken me over together with my two guards, Kunze drove away again. Perhaps he was rejoining the body and the brain, perhaps not. I had an idea Ublick and his cargo might be got out by sea from Valparaiso. Ublick’s coffin could no doubt be accommodated in some vessel’s cold store and he would last well enough into a West German port, and probably the delay was quite unimportant. Kunze, I guessed, would fly in from Padahuel, possibly on the same flight as the Bolzes who would now have a straightforward transfer at Gatwick to the East German pick-up plane bringing in Jones and Priddy. There would be no metal box now. And Klaus Kunze would be in West Germany when the brain sailed in, all ready to start rallying the Nazi faithful, young and old alike. I could well imagine the feelings of the older ones when Adolf Hitler’s mainspring was once again resident in the Reich.

  As for me, I was still a hostage. I couldn’t see quite how Kunze could make use of a British subject, but he must have some ideas. Once the brain had been brought safely ashore, I would become expendable; so would Miss Mandrake, wherever she might be. I asked Josef about her, but he didn’t know or wouldn’t say. Flexing his huge muscles like a gorilla as he spoke, he said, “Your stay will be comfortable, Commander Shaw.”

  “No cell?”

  Josef grinned. “No cell. But you will not get away — you will see. Go and try the front door.” We were standing in a lofty hall, an almost mediaeval place with suits of armour standing about clutching swords in mailed fists; the floor was stone. I went back to the massive front door and turned the handle. The door stood like a solid block, immovable. Just before I let go of the handle I felt a tingling that started in my fingers and shot through my whole body. I let go and turned to find the dwarf grinning away still. There was currently not enough juice to kill a fly, but it was obviously only at demonstration strength. Josef said, “The windows — all exits — they will be found the same, very dangerous, instant death on touching. From now on there will be no going outside. The freedom of the house is yours, but inside only.”

  He gave a small Germanic bow and went discreetly away, shoes tapping over the stone floor, the perfect butler. I went across to a window without going too close to it and looked out; the view was wonderful. Freedom beckoned; I could see roads and traffic. Normality was so close. The window catch could be pushed aside so easily and the temptation was enormous if stupid: I would fry. There wouldn’t be any bluff about it. Even the armed guards from La Opazo had withdrawn now, no doubt taking their ease in other parts of the house. That s
poke for itself. But I wondered about the actual glass panes. Presumably they would be toughened, like Hitler’s brain tank, but they could be susceptible to a heavy smash. I left the window and went over to one of the suits of armour with desperate thoughts in mind. It was fortunate I didn’t reach out and touch the thing. As I stood there I heard a faint click and somewhere up above me a tannoy came alive. Joset’s loathsome eunuch’s voice said, “Be careful, Commander Shaw. The armour is electrified also.” And I was on closed-circuit TV.

  Time dragged; I watched from the windows of a big drawing-room as the day slowly darkened into evening. At 6 p.m. Josef appeared with a silver tray bearing whisky and a soda siphon.

  “Plain water, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  “Of course.” The dwarf went away again, and returned with plain water. He poured to my directions, then disappeared to his pantry or whatever, leaving me once again to my worries.

  I had to get out. A warning had to be passed about the new carrier for the brain. In something under forty-eight hours now, Lothar and Lotte Bolz would be airborne for Gatwick — but did that matter now? It didn’t; at Gatwick there would be plenty of tension but no preserved brain. Perhaps some inconvenience for the Bolzes and a poor impression of Britain given to the East German aircrew and the officials who would no doubt be accompanying Jones and Priddy on their flight to freedom. Yet there was still much urgency, since I could be dead wrong about sea transport; Kunze could still be aiming to go into West Germany by air.

  An excellent dinner followed the whisky: baked pork with Madeira and oranges, followed by everlasting syllabub. It was served impeccably by Josef and I responded with equal imperturbability. I asked him to deliver my congratulations to the chef.