Ungentlemanly Warfare

by Howard Linskey

  She adopted the firm tone of the schoolmistress then, ‘You will please make yourself comfortable on the bed while I prepare,’ and she walked towards his bathroom. She did not ask his permission and he could have reprimanded her for the presumption but he suspected some of her clients enjoyed being spoken to in this manner and, if truth be known, so did he. Having his every whim blindly catered for without question by terrified subordinates meant that being addressed by an equal was a very rare occurrence for Gaerte these days. Being ordered about by this female was a refreshing change. It excited him to play the helpless one for a moment.

  He would indulge her then for her beauty alone. He acquiesced, stripping completely then lying brazenly face up on the bed, not bothering to cover himself or his excitement while he waited for her to return.

  She was gone a while but not so long for a woman and he had time to let his mind wander to the latest breakthrough he had made with the Komet. That very morning, the idea had come to Gaerte to use two separate combustion chambers. Like many of the best scientific breakthroughs this one was deceptively simple; one could be used at high power to get the plane through the air and into its first climb, the second would be engaged at lower power, as the Komet flew level looking for targets. Gaerte was already predicting an increase in intercept time of as much as eight minutes. This was the significant breakthrough he had been seeking; all it required was a few more weeks and the Komet would be truly battle ready. The bountiful rewards afforded a hero of the Third Reich were finally within his grasp.

  Gaerte’s private bathroom was small but the facilities far grander than the functional versions in Harry Walsh’s humble hotel room when Emma had visited him, a lifetime ago in a more innocent time; before she had killed a man while witnessing a massacre. Everything in this tiny room was made of marble, glass and gold, and spoke of money and power but Emma had no time to take it in all in. She knew she had to move quickly. She removed her hat then swiftly unbuttoned the blouse and let it fall to the floor. She took off the skirt then felt for the loose thread at the back of the waistband. If the soldier had been more intent on doing his job correctly instead of groping Emma for his own gratification, he might have noticed it and if he had felt along the rear of the skirt’s waistband he may even have discovered a foreign object there. The thin wire of the garrotte would usually have had a handle on either side but Emma could not have hoped to conceal it like that, so instead there was a loop tied in either end that was just wide enough to insert two fingers and it was lagged with material to protect them from the wire. Would she have enough strength to strangle Gaerte with it? In truth, she had no idea. Could she even kill a man with her bare hands like this? Shooting the soldier had been bad enough but she had done that to save Harry and hadn’t been close enough to smell the man. Not like this.

  Emma folded the slim wire and hid it in the back of the French knickers she wore. She then took a moment to look at herself in the mirror, as she tried to will herself some courage. She told herself that this terrible thing had to be done and must be done exactly as Walsh had instructed her; otherwise the guard outside would kill her or she would be taken prisoner and the Gestapo would torture her to death. Emma knew she could not falter. Courage, she whispered the word to herself in the mirror as if saying it aloud was enough, courage.

  41

  ‘Demoralise the enemy from within by surprise, terror, sabotage, assassination. This is the war of the future.’

  Adolf Hitler

  When the girl emerged, she was dressed only in her underwear, a clichéd concoction of bordello items that included the regulation suspender belt and stockings. Her hair was down now and she looked even more desirable. He was going to enjoy this. She seemed a little taken aback by his unashamed state, which surprised him, but she became instantly business like.

  ‘Do you like what you see, Herr Professor?’ she asked in a tone she must have considered coquettish.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he replied, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing how exciting he found her, though that must have been obvious enough.

  ‘Then you will please turn over and we will start with a relaxing massage,’ Gaerte was disappointed. He preferred not to waste time on such things. She must have seen this in his face, for the girl quickly added, ‘only for a short while and it’s a very special massage. I promise you’ve never had one like this before,’ and again there was something in the way she said it that made him willingly compliant.

  Gaerte rolled over, placed his face and forearms on the pillow and immediately felt robbed of the spectacle of this shapely girl. He wanted to watch as she removed what remained of her clothes and would insist on that in fact.

  He felt the edge of the mattress sag a little as her delicate weight was added to it. She crawled gently towards him. He felt the smooth skin of her legs brush against the inside of his and he parted them to allow her to move closer. Then she dipped her head and let her hair fall onto his back. She teased him with it, running the strands sensuously back and forth across his flesh. She was right. He had never experienced anything like this before. The girl climbed further still and then she was straddling his back. Her hands were on his shoulders now, kneading the knots from his back and neck. It felt glorious and he was glad he had allowed her to be the dominant one. Then she stopped and removed her hands for a moment to give him more instruction.

  ‘Please hold your head back just a little, Professor,’ her voice was low and was there just a trace of nervousness there? Was it too much to expect that she might be excited too, intoxicated by the thought of his power? Was her fear perhaps turning into arousal? There was such a thin line between those emotions. God this was good, he wanted it to last forever and willingly obeyed, tilting his head up and back.

  Emma moved fast, the garrotte was already in her hands and she made it into a loose loop, lifted it up and over Gaerte’s head then down until it’s sharp wire brushed against his throat. Before he realised what was happening, Emma tugged the wire back then pulled each end with all her might and the wire closed tightly around Gaerte’s throat. He let out a choked gasp but the garrotte stifled even that sound, which was the reason Walsh had chosen the weapon.

  He had shown Emma how to use the garrotte. She had watched intently and practised, knowing she could afford no mistakes. Gaerte could not be permitted to fight her off, cry out and raise the alarm. Emma knew she had one opportunity to kill him and this was it. By now, Gaerte’s arms were failing at his sides and he was desperately trying to buck his hips in an attempt to unseat Emma. She’d expected the struggle and she steadied herself – her left knee firmly on the mattress and she moved her right knee suddenly, planting it hard into the small of the professor’s back. It acted as a counter to all her strength, as she pulled on the wire, which closed tighter and tighter around the professor’s neck. Gaerte was still thrashing like a wounded animal. Emma’s hands ached with the force required and she realised she might not be able to hold on much longer.

  Just when she thought she might lack the strength to finish it, Gaerte suddenly went rigid and the life abruptly ebbed from his body. His arms went limp and his head lolled forward onto the pillow. Emma pulled the wire tight one last time to be certain he was finished. She met no resistance. Only when she was absolutely sure he was gone, did she finally allow herself to loosen her grip. There was a low gasping sound. At first she thought Gaerte might still be alive but it was just his final breath being expelled from his airway.

  Emma slid from the bed and slumped to the floor. It was not just physical exhaustion she was feeling now but the stark realisation of having ended a man’s life with her bare hands. The garrotte had been a wise choice, a length of wire that was easy enough to conceal under her clothes. Harry had been right; the plan was dangerous but it worked. Professor Gaerte, one of the finest scientific minds of the Third Reich was dead, murdered at Emma’s hands. There was no pleasant way to describe it. Em
ma Stirling was now an assassin.

  She waited in his room for half an hour. Every instinct Emma had told her to get out of there immediately, to run and keep on running but she knew she must not listen to this panicked inner voice. Harry had warned her against it, instructed her to wait, so there was nothing out of the ordinary that might alert the Germans. If she left now, earlier than the other girls, the guard might become suspicious and want to check on the professor. And so she stayed.

  Emma washed her hands repeatedly but the indentation marks from the garrotte still showed clearly on her palms. What I did probably saved the lives of thousands, she told herself. This is war, she reasoned, and no time to develop a conscience. Still, once Emma returned to the room, she could not tear her gaze from the bulging, sightless eyes of her victim. She knew she would relive his last thrashing, choking moments over and over again, most probably for the rest of her life.

  Emma dressed then sat in the armchair opposite the bed. Every minute trapped in this room felt like an age, each passing sound, every creak upon the old wooden floorboards outside, convinced her the SS were about to burst into the room.

  There were still three minutes to go before the half hour minimum Walsh had ordered but Emma could take no more. She rearranged the body on the bed, turning the professor’s head away to make it look as if he was asleep then arranging the bed clothes so they obscured his body and the ligature marks around his neck then she made for the door, opening it just a fraction before making a play of closing it very quietly behind her.

  ‘He’s sleeping,’ she explained to the guard in a hushed tone, as if sharing a confidence with him, their earlier clash forgotten, ‘they usually do.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, regarding her closely once more, as if he understood why Gaerte might be in need of a nap.

  ‘Goodnight then, Captain,’ she said.

  ‘I’m just a sergeant… miss,’ he didn’t seem to know what to call her.

  ‘Well now,’ she said coquettishly, ‘I’m told they really run the army.’

  ‘Oh, they do, miss,’ and he gave her a mock salute, ‘they do.’

  Emma slowly walked away. When she reached the end of the landing, she turned back and smiled.

  Emma began her slow descent of the hotel’s staircase. The German officers were still drinking in the lobby. For a second time their conversation ceased and all eyes went to her as she walked down the stairs. Were these the looks men would usually give an attractive, young woman of her profession, as she emerged from an assignation, or was there more to it? Were they somehow suspicious of her now? Was the kill written indelibly on her face? Emma tried to walk slowly and calmly, keeping her face forwards as she reached the bottom of the stairs and her body upright as she walked through an agonising silence across the hotel’s lounge and passed the young officers who eyed her jealously.

  She was still yards from the front door. What would she do if one of them spoke to her? It had never crossed her mind until now. Her heart was pounding and still she had not yet reached the door. What if they commanded her to stay and have a drink with them? What if one of them then tried to take her to bed with him? He would hardly expect her to refuse if he offered a sufficient fee. She felt a sharp pang of fear for it had never even occurred to her that this could happen. What excuse could she give when there was none?

  She was perhaps five paces from the hotel door now, could see the shoulder of the guard who had admitted her and kept her gaze fixed rigidly upon his frame as she drew closer to him… four paces… three… nearly there and she knew if they spoke to her now her voice would crack and she would be incapable of reply… two paces… one… and then, gloriously, she reached the door and pushed it open and the burly guard moved to one side to allow her to leave.

  Pure instinct made her halt in the doorway next to the guard and she reached into her coat pocket. She took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter like she had all the time in the world. Without looking behind her, she removed a cigarette from the packet and raised it to her mouth. Emma had to make a conscious effort to stop her hand from shaking as she raised the lighter and lit it. She took a deep drag on the cigarette, inhaled the smoke then let it out. Only when she had taken two long drags did she allow herself to walk away from the building, knowing that her unhurried exit was the best cover she could have given herself yet all the while experiencing a state of abject terror.

  As instructed, she walked for three blocks, taking care to avoid ruining everything with a wrong turning in her panic. After what seemed like an eternity but must have been less than five minutes, she reached a small square that housed a market during the daytime but was dark and empty now. There, tucked away in the farthest corner was the little, green delivery van, a sight which made Emma’s heart soar.

  She knew Simone was hiding in the back and Emma did not hesitate. She crossed the road, gave a knock on the side of the truck and Simone emerged. They both climbed into the cab and the French girl drove the truck away, leaving the quiet streets of Rouen behind them, both girls praying the professor’s body would not be discovered until they were far away from the city.

  Picnic weather, thought Emma and it would have been in a different life, had she been back in England before the war changed everything. The early-morning sun shone brightly down on them, birds were chirruping in the trees and brightly coloured wild flowers swayed in the breeze. It could have been a picture in a magazine.

  Emma felt numb.

  ‘I know what this is,’ grimaced Cooper as he slid painfully into the passenger seat vacated by Emma, ‘revenge for Yugoslavia.’

  ‘No,’ replied Walsh, ‘I still owe you for that.’ He pushed the truck door shut for the American then spoke through the opened window, ‘I’m sorry you can’t come with us but…’

  ‘I’d be picked up in minutes,’ Cooper told him.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Walsh.

  ‘So, what’s it going to be? A Lysander in the middle of the night? That’s risky with the Germans crawling all around here right now?’ Walsh knew Cooper was fishing but he wasn’t going to answer. ‘Or over the Pyrenees into Spain? I suppose you could head to Switzerland… but it’s a very long walk, my friend, either way.’

  ‘You don’t need to know that.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘I guess I don’t.’ He knew Walsh meant that was one thing they could keep from him in case he and Simone were caught.

  ‘Take care of him, Simone, don’t stand any nonsense.’

  ‘I won’t,’ the French girl beamed at him from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Well, you did it, Harry,’ said Cooper, ‘you achieved the impossible.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Walsh and they all looked over at Emma who was standing back from the van, arms folded, a distant look on her face. When she realised they were regarding her, she raised a hand and gave them a grim smile.

  ‘One in a million that one,’ said Cooper.

  And Walsh did not contradict him.

  42

  ‘Better a living beggar than a buried Emperor.’

  Jean de La Fontaine

  Kornatzki had seen his master in a rage before. He had witnessed him tear into subordinates till they literally quaked beneath the force of his demented fury. He’d watched as Tauber confined incompetent or merely unfortunate underlings to God-awful posts in the east without a second’s thought. Kornatzki had been at Tauber’s side the day he had taken his grim amusement from the execution of the maquisard by his own hand. He had stood by and watched as the Colonel calmly tortured young Olivier beyond the limit of all human endurance, but he had never seen the man like this before; for Tauber was scared. He was terrified in fact.

  As Kornatzki listened to Tauber’s seemingly endless tirade, following news of the discovery of the Professor’s body that same morning, he began to realise it was the first time he had ever seen the Colonel close to breaking point. This wa
s going to be bad, thought Kornatzki, very bad indeed.

  ‘I want that guard on Gaerte’s door… that… that soldier,’ stammered Tauber, ‘I want him stripped of his rank and shot. Court martial him today, immediately, then shoot him, for dereliction of duty. No, don’t shoot him. That’s too quick. I want him to suffer. Demote him to the lowest rank then ship him off to the Eastern Front! Find me the coldest spot there is. I want him in a punishment battalion by the end of the week, with all the murderers, rapists and sodomites dredged from the worst corners of the Wehrmacht. I want him to suffer and then die. I want him to have time to know he is going to die, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel,’ Kornatzki stood rigidly to attention, ignoring the spittle that flew from Tauber’s mouth and rained on his face.

  ‘And the captain of the guard, I want an example made of him too; stripped of his rank, Eastern Front, punishment battalion. Do it today!’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’ Kornatzki had no time to worry about unfortunate wretches who would soon join the suicide missions that always fell to punishment battalions. They were already full to bursting with men who had committed capital crimes, defied orders, deserted or simply messed up important tasks, such as guarding prominent scientists. Two more souls would disappear into their swollen ranks soon enough and be killed without meriting a further thought from anyone.

  For the most part, Kornatzki was relieved he was still in a position to carry out the Colonel’s retribution and was not yet a part of it. He knew Tauber was ultimately responsible for the safety of the professor, which meant Kornatzki could easily have filled the role of scapegoat.

  Tauber ceased shouting to take a breath. He stopped pacing the room and stood by the side of his desk then he seemed to pitch forward and, for a moment, Kornatzki felt a guilty elation, for he actually thought the Colonel might be having a heart attack, which would surely prove to be the best solution for everybody. Instead Tauber merely spread his arms and put his weight against the desk, gripping the edge of it in his palms, squeezing the wood hard in his rage.