There were uncountable hundreds of the snakes now, perhaps thousands, writhing and spitting in the mud and dust. Their cacophonous hissing rose and rose in the night air, a crescendo of death overlaid with whipcracks, screams, gunshots and the baying of dogs.
The snakes came at night. Every night. In the daytime, he could live in a world without snakes, and converse with humans. If he kept his eyes open, he could make sense of his thoughts. Often they turned to his mother and the way things were in the old days, in the land of so much of his childhood. She was still there, in the grand manor house and estate in the countryside near the small rural backwater of Friedberg, where he had listened to her proud tales of their joint family trees and their tenuous connection to British royalty through the Saxe-Coburg cousins.
As a small child he had roamed those acres at will, deferred to by the family’s servants. The only hard times were when his father was home; how he hated standing before him stiffly in the evening to recite Goethe. Rudi had shed no tear when he was killed by a cancer of the lung in the first month of the war. Mother was always warm and tender, though, and when she folded him in her arms, he was in heaven. His one desire was to please her and in that respect he had done well with his steady rise in the party and the promotions he received from Reinhard.
He knew, too, how delighted she had been when the Friedberg synagogue was torched in the Kristallnacht pogrom of November 1938, and even more so when the last of the town’s Jews were deported to the Polish territories earlier this year. She was so proud that it was her own beloved son whose pen had signed the transport papers to take them to a place called Treblinka for resettlement.
But Mother didn’t know what really happened there, for if she had been told the truth her religious sensibilities would have made her recoil in shame. He had to believe that of her; he had to believe that Mother would not be a party to murder.
Mother was too English for such crude brutality. Perhaps he was too. They both lacked the requisite hardness of the true Teuton.
Oh, yes, he knew the purpose of Treblinka before ever he saw it. So why did seeing it change everything? Was he merely squeamish, not a fit Member of the master race? Was the same true of Mother?
Tonight, still in his half-sleep, he crawled out from under the blankets and knelt on the bed, which was beneath the blacked-out sash window. In his dream, the bed was the Treblinka station house which he climbed so that he could look down on the snakes from a position of safety. But he could not get away from them.
The room was pitch black and his fingers clawed into the darkness, clutching at the blackout and dragging it down until the window was exposed. A little moonlight and starlight and the red glow of a distant bombing raid shone through the glass. Surely, he had found a way of escape. This window would take him away from the snakes. All he had to do was stand on the ledge and leap, and he would be past the filthy reptiles, over the barbed wire, and could dash for the safety of the trees.
The sash window was stiff and creaked as though it had not been opened in years, but his strength came from desperation and fear and at last it opened a few inches. The cool air of freedom blew in gently. He pushed up again and the window gave some more, allowing a gap just large enough for his head and shoulders. It would have to do, for there was no time to lose. He turned on his side and eased his right shoulder into the space, and then his head. He looked down into the world outside but couldn’t see the snakes now; they were hiding in the shadows, waiting for him to falter.
Behind him the door was opening, and a thin yellow torchlight caught him in its beam.
‘Rudi!’
It sounded to him like Harriet, but he knew it couldn’t be her, for why would she be here at Treblinka station, on the waiting-room roof?
‘Rudi, get back in!’
He pushed harder, desperate to get his torso and arms through the gap. The voice was clearly that of an impostor, a snake posing as Harriet to prevent him escaping. He was almost out now, but she had grasped him by the ankle and was trying to drag him back.
He kicked out at her, but her grip held.
*
‘I could chance a shot.’ Mortimer unscrewed the silencer one-handed and raised the pistol into his eyesight.
They were 200 metres away and they had a good line of vision to the ground-floor window. Quayle was in no doubt that Mortimer could take Coburg out with an enfilade spray from the submachine gun, but he doubted his chances with a sidearm, especially left-handed, and so he hesitated. If anything went wrong it would be their last chance. Nor would they be certain of getting to Harriet Hartwell or Wilde. They would never get into the house, which meant no chance of getting their hands on the RSHA documents.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We know where he is now. We have time.’ What on earth was Coburg trying to do? That was the question uppermost in Quayle’s mind. He was clearly fleeing the house, but why? Was he being held against his will? Had the German had a change of heart, or was he being badly treated? Was there a chance of taking him alive, perhaps even returning him to Müller? It was a slender chance, but it was something that had to be considered. What would Müller say?
‘There’s something behind him, Mr Quayle.’
‘Yes, I see. Someone’s trying to pull him back.’
‘Is it the woman or one of the men?’
‘Hard to tell.’
*
With a last wrench, Coburg was back inside. Now he was awake and shivering, curled up on the bed, in that strange place between vivid dreaming and full consciousness, when you try to work out whether any of the things you dreamt actually happened.
‘Don’t attempt that again,’ Harriet said as she closed the window and did her best to fix the blackout back into place. ‘Or you’ll do for us all.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She switched on the bedside light and sat down on the covers beside him. She was exhausted; the struggle had been intense, but her determination got the better of his strength. ‘We’re trying to protect you. You need to stay alive. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Rudi. No one knows we’re here, but we have to be cautious. It’s for your own good.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Go back to sleep. I’m staying here in this room with you.’ She removed the pistol from the pocket of her dressing gown and pushed its muzzle into his chest. ‘This is to keep us safe, Rudi. But if you try another trick like that, it could just as well be used against you.’
‘Forgive me, Harriet. Please. I was dreaming. I didn’t know what I was doing.’
*
Wilde had seen light from the house. Some sort of struggle at the window of Coburg’s room. He couldn’t quite work out what he was seeing. His instinct was to move away from his place in the trees beside the barn, but he had sensed other movement outside the house, to his right, a thing he hadn’t seen before in the two hours he had lain here silently watching.
There was something else. Whispering. At first, he thought it must be a night breeze in the leaves, but then he wasn’t sure and wondered whether it might be voices. He gripped the butt of his Smith & Wesson and began to move, very slowly, in the direction of the noise.
He was thirty yards away when he heard the sounds again. This time he was certain. The whispering was real. Two men, talking low and urgently. One, he was sure, was Quayle. And the other? Could it be Mortimer? Had he somehow got away from his police cell?
Wilde weighed up his options and didn’t like any of them. He couldn’t just fire his pistol into the darkness. That was a recipe for murder, plain and simple, and he doubted a diplomatic passport would save his neck.
There was only one thing for it. He edged behind the broadest tree trunk. ‘One move and you’re dead,’ he said. Not a shout or bellow, but a firm, commanding voice that would carry through the night air.
He instantly heard rustling, the click of metal.
‘Throw out
your arms – then stand up. You’re surrounded,’ Wilde said. ‘Weapons are trained on you.’
He took his torch from his jacket. It threw a narrow yellow beam on to the patch of ground between the tree that sheltered him and the cover where he was certain Quayle and Mortimer were concealed.
The reaction was instant. A submachine gun rattled and a dozen bullets spat into the tree trunk and the undergrowth around him. He loosed off two shots of his own, then swivelled the torchlight across a wide arc, and caught them full in the beam. He fired two more shots, one for each man, then removed his shoes.
*
Quayle had pulled Mortimer away by the collar. If Wilde was out here, they had to take him down and get into the house. No hope of avoiding a firefight or choosing a time to suit them. This had to be done now.
Two shots hit the dust between them. Quayle instinctively dropped down. Mortimer swivelled and pulled the trigger of the Sten.
‘Keep firing, Ned, short bursts. Conserve ammunition. The direction of the light.’
Mortimer was well trained and did as he was ordered, popping off two-second sprays into the night. His right hand was in pain but steady enough to cradle the muzzle while the left pulled the trigger. The sound was sharp and staccato; the empty cartridge cases flew to his right. Then the light went out and he no longer knew where he was firing.
They ducked around the side of the old farmhouse, backs to the wall, catching their breath. Quayle had now unholstered his own revolver. He didn’t want to use it. Not yet.
‘Fucking empty,’ Mortimer cursed. He unclipped the magazine and slotted in a new one.
‘Did you hit him?’
‘I don’t know.’
*
Inside the house, Harriet had flung herself to the floor beside the bed, dragging Coburg down with her. Why the hell wasn’t Tom here? Was he still at home with that bloody common-law wife of his? Why hadn’t he called at least? She thought she had heard his motorbike returning hours ago, but then nothing. She pushed Coburg under the bed with a barked whisper: ‘Stay there.’
‘But . . .’
‘Not a sound or you die.’
Crawling across the floor, she made it to the door. The light in the corridor was on and the elderly bishop was tottering towards her in his slippers and nightgown.
‘Harriet, what’s going on?’
‘Hide, Oscar. Find yourself somewhere to hide.’
‘Oh dear, we don’t have a cellar.’
‘Go to your room. Make yourself as scarce as you can. Not a sound.’
*
‘I’m going in, Ned. Guard my back.’ Quayle twisted the handle of the front door; it was locked. He kicked the door but it didn’t budge. ‘Shoot out the lock.’
Mortimer put two shots into the lock with his revolver, then kicked again and the door flew open. Quayle edged in sideways. The hallway was at the entrance to a long corridor which stretched from left and right. Low-wattage bulbs gave them light.
‘To the left, Ned. I saw movement. Cover me with a short burst, then stay back.’
*
Harriet had already heard the door crashing open and had seen them enter. She slid back into Coburg’s room, certain that she, too, had been seen. Pistol at head height, she glanced out, saw two shadowy men at the end of the corridor and fired. Something to slow them down.
Her shot was met with a burst of submachine gun fire.
She was shaking but she knew she had only two hopes. Either keep them at bay in a gunfight or escape through the window. The first option seemed to have a vanishingly slim hope of success; she had no spare ammunition and only five shots left. The second option might be worse; how many other men were waiting outside?
Coburg emerged from beneath the bed. ‘I’ll go to them, Harriet,’ he said. ‘It’s me they want.’
‘You’re going nowhere, Rudi.’ She hadn’t come this far to let her prize slip through her fingers.
‘If I don’t they’ll kill us both.’
‘Back under the bed.’
A rattle of gunfire splintered the door at her side. She crouched down, back to the wall, pistol gripped tight in both hands, ready to take at least one of them with her.
*
The gunfire deadened the soft sound of Wilde’s approach, padding across the gravel on sock-clad feet. Mortimer had stepped back outside and was crouched low, scouring the driveway and the hedging at the front and sides. Wilde was concealed behind the embassy car, waiting his chance. He had a clear view of Mortimer, silhouetted against the open doorway.
They heard another shot from indoors. Mortimer instinctively turned to see what was happening. It was enough. Wilde moved forward. His quarry didn’t hear him coming, didn’t see him.
It took Wilde one shot. He lined the Smith & Wesson at the back of Ned Mortimer’s head and the bullet drove into his skull. Mortimer fell forwards, dead even before he hit the stone doorstep.
*
Quayle was twisting and turning, distracted by the shot from outside. Along the corridor he saw Harriet emerging, an arm and half her face visible. She was ranging her pistol. Quayle dropped to one knee and fired at her, swivelling as he did so to the open doorway to ensure Mortimer was covering him.
Wilde was there, just six feet away.
*
Harriet’s move had given Wilde the split second he needed. As Quayle turned his gun arm, Wilde fired. The bullet shattered Quayle’s knuckles and the service revolver spun from his hand across the black and white tiled floor. Blood sprayed in an almost perfect arc, like a pink rainbow.
Quayle let out a cry of agony, clutched the remains of his hand to his chest, and dropped to his knees. Wilde placed the sole of his foot square in the centre of Quayle’s back and pushed down hard, sending him sprawling across the floor, blood from his broken hand streaking the tiles. Quayle screamed again as he reached out with the torn remnants of his right hand to try to break his fall.
‘Stay there, Quayle. One move and you’ll go the way of your little friend.’
The injured man didn’t need the warning. He curled up, moaning and whimpering.
Wilde ignored him and picked up the discarded pistol. ‘Harriet, it’s safe,’ he called out. She was walking towards him, relief etched on her face. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed.
But then she stopped. From the darkness behind him, outside the open front door, Wilde heard a strangely familiar tapping of wood on stone.
He put up a hand to keep Harriet at a distance, then turned away from the helpless form of Quayle, ready to loose another shot as a figure emerged from the gloom. It was Philip Eaton, stick in his right hand – his only hand – and limping as badly as ever.
Wilde ranged his pistol at Eaton’s chest.
‘Put it away, Wilde. We’re on the same side, you fool.’
Wilde didn’t move, nor did his gun hand. ‘Prove it.’
‘Good God, we have been after that man all along.’ He nodded towards Quayle. ‘You gave us the proof. Now then, Wilde, you’re the man I came for. You’re to come with me to London. Mr Churchill wishes to see you as soon as he wakes up.’
Wilde lowered his pistol. He’d known Eaton for too many years to think him a threat. ‘Are you serious about this?’
‘Utterly.’
‘And Coburg – will he see him too?’
‘Not a cat in hell’s chance. But you may well be satisfied with his response.’
‘What do we do with Quayle?’
‘Oh, he’s an embarrassment.’
Wilde hadn’t noticed the small handgun that Eaton held alongside his walking stick. Now he saw it, though – and he watched with fascination and dismay as the MI6 man casually brought it to the side of Quayle’s head and shot him dead.
Eaton looked up and smiled at Harriet. ‘Good evening, Miss Hartwell, I trust you and Herr Coburg are well.’
‘We’re alive, Mr Eaton.’
‘And the bishop?’
‘He’s in his bedroom.’
&nbs
p; ‘Good. That’s good. Well, you’re safe now.’
It was then that Wilde noticed that Eaton had not arrived here alone. Outside, in the shadows, stood half a dozen armed men.
Chapter 43
Wilde was shown into a small ante-room on the ground floor of Number 10. He had been driven down to London with Eaton, but the MI6 man left him in Whitehall at the entrance to Downing Street. ‘I’m sorry, Wilde, you’ve got to do this yourself. I have other work.’
The journey had been strange. Wilde had a hundred questions to ask, but Eaton wasn’t answering any of them. ‘Not my place, old boy. I was just asked to pick you up and bring you down because I know you.’
‘But it was your place to despatch Quayle, was it?’
Eaton did not reply. Nor did he reply when asked how he knew that Wilde and Harriet had taken Coburg to the former bishop’s home or why he had arrived with a squadron of armed officers. Wilde badly wanted answers to these questions, but for the moment the important thing was that he had access to Churchill and that something could be done about Rudi Coburg and his testimony of Nazi atrocities in Poland. All other matters were subordinate and could wait.
Now, though, he had another, rather more trivial need: he badly wanted a coffee or, at the very least, a cup of tea, but no one had offered him anything as he awaited his audience with the great man.
The door opened and the immensely tall figure of Lord Templeman strode in. He smiled at Wilde and instinctively brushed the back of his hand across the port-wine stain on his brow. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘so very good to see you, Mr Wilde. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you have been granted this audience with the great man.’
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