by Suninfo
‘Good morning, my name’s Ashby.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I apologise for the somewhat dramatic entrance, I assure you it wasn’t intentional.’ The pointer staff dipped towards the floor model.
‘For obvious reasons, I’m afraid I shall only tell you as much as I think necessary.’
Yates cleared his throat. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I fully understand.’
The pointer swung and hovered over a town. ‘This is Münster, and this building with the remarkable gable end, which stands in the Prinzipalmarkt is the Rathaus or town hall. On Saturday the 14th of October an important meeting will be held in the council chambers historically known as the Hall of Peace. Among those known to be attending will be the Party Gauleiters of Westphalia, the Saar, Hesse, the Rhineland-Palatinate and Lower Saxony, and …’ Ashby deliberately paused for effect, ‘and the Deputy Führer and Party Secretary, Martin Bormann. We shall be the uninvited guests at this rally. Our problem is not so much how to get there but rather how to get away should anything go wrong—
and that’s where I hope you will be able to help us.’
Yates leaned forward in the chair, rested both elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together as if in prayer. ‘Wrong is 106
such a euphemistic term, Colonel. Could you be a little more precise?’
‘All right then, in plain English, if there’s a balls-up we’re going to be bad news and I doubt if our friends will want to know us.
That won’t bother us too much if we can get across the border.’
‘And link up with the Dutch Underground?’
‘Precisely.’
‘What about your German connections? Are you sure they won’t be able to help you?’
‘I’ve already implied that I think they will suddenly develop cold feet.’
Yates abandoned the thoughtful pose and his manner changed too, becoming brisk, almost curt. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘You could provoke a violent response which could make things difficult for us.’
‘Us?’
Yates coloured slightly. ‘I mean the Dutch Underground. I don’t want to see our escape network broken up to no purpose, especially just now.’
‘What’s so special about now?’
‘Several hundred survivors from 1st Airborne Division are hiding up in the forests around Arnhem. We’re trying to get them back across the river.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’ Yates hesitated and then added reluctantly. ‘As a matter of fact, planning for this is pretty far advanced.’
‘If it became necessary, couldn’t we latch on to this arrangement?’
Ashby was pressing hard and Yates felt uncomfortable. It was not an unreasonable request but if he agreed, other complications would arise. For one thing, Arnhem lay some seventy miles due west of Münster and it was doubtful if Ashby’s force could make that distance unaided.
‘I suppose it might be possible,’ he said cautiously.
‘I’ll need a contact.’
Give this man an inch, thought Yates, and he’ll steal a yard.
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere near Enschede, ideally. In case you’re worried about security, I won’t divulge the name to anyone until the final briefing.’
‘When’s that likely to be?’
‘Saturday the 14th of October. And if you’re still anxious,’ Ashby said grimly, ‘we’ll each be carrying a cyanide capsule because most of us can’t afford to fall into the hands of the Gestapo alive.’
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Yates came to a decision. ‘All right,’ he said briskly, ‘go to the Zwinjnenberg Hotel on Molenstraat and ask for a room. Say that you’ve come on the recommendation of your uncle—Jan Vrooburgh.’
‘And is that all there is to it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let’s hope the emergency never arises.’
As if on cue, Truscott suddenly came to life. ‘Well, I’m glad that’s all settled,’ he said, ‘now perhaps we can get some lunch.’
Ashby frowned. ‘There are still one or two small details I should like to clear with you, sir,’ he said. ‘They won’t take more than five minutes.’
‘Do they concern Major Yates?’
‘Hardly, they’re purely domestic problems.’
Truscott glanced towards Yates and smiled sympathetically.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ he drawled, ‘but perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting for me downstairs in the anteroom?’
‘Of course not, Colonel.’ Yates stood up, saluted and walked out of the room, conscious that his shoes made a loud clacking noise on the parquet floor.
Truscott waited until the door closed behind him and then said,
‘I thought Yates was quite helpful really.’
‘So did I, but if we’re going to make use of his organisation we shall need some Dutch guilders—say about a hundred pounds’
worth in small denominations. I’d like the currency delivered to me before Sunday. Can that be arranged?’
‘There shouldn’t be any difficulty. Anything else?’
‘Albach and Remer are still in hospital. I want them confined and isolated for another ten days or so.’
‘All right.’
‘And finally, I want a message included in the German Language news broadcast on Friday night.’
‘You know,’ said Truscott, ‘with all the jamming that goes on over there, it’s a wonder that anyone ever receives your words of encouragement.’
‘You can bet that their Intelligence service does.’
‘Do you mean to say that all these quotations are for their benefit?’ Truscott tried to appear casual but he failed to suppress the note of surprise in his voice.
‘It’s all part of the deception plan, Colonel.’
‘And it seems the Gestapo were not the only people to be taken in,’ Truscott said pithily.
Ashby took a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Truscott. ‘This is the text for tomorrow night,’ he said.
‘Well, I suppose it will help to get “Leopard” off the ground.’
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‘Leopard?’
‘The code-name for your operation, derived from the biblical quotation: Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard his spots?’
‘Very apt and subtle.’
‘Yes, I thought you’d like it.’ Truscott smiled thinly. ‘You see, Michael,’ he said, ‘I didn’t arrive empty-handed after all.’
Pushed violently in the back, Christabel Gerhardt stumbled forward into the cell and, tripping over the urinal bucket, fell on to her hands and knees. Blood ran from her nose, and her right eye, bruised and swollen, was rapidly closing to a narrow slit.
‘Next time,’ Koch said harshly, ‘perhaps you’ll be more cooperative.’
The door slammed, the bolts thudded home and then the brilliant light in the ceiling came on, bringing the bare room into sharp relief.
Crawling across the stone floor, Christabel grasped hold of the bed and dragging herself up, collapsed on to the horse-hair mattress. Denied sleep, questioned for hours on end, subjected to psychological pressures and now physical intimidation, she had reached breaking point.
She thought about the children who had been taken from her and placed in the care of foster parents whom Wollweber had said could be relied upon to see that they became good Germans, and remembering their faces, the tears came to her eyes. Over and over again they’d said that Paul had betrayed her, and perhaps they were right. It had, so Wollweber said, become a habit with him; after all, he’d sent Hasso Jurgens into Berlin at the head of a company on that hot July afternoon and then had backed out at the last minute. And if that wasn’t enough, the oh so gallant General, fearing that his part in the conspiracy would inevitably be uncovered, had sought refuge in Sweden.
It was possible, they said, to sympathise with Frau Gerhardt, whose loyalty to her husband was obviously misplaced, but no one could be expected to believe her story. Her husband had not run off w
ith another woman, he had not been killed in an air raid on Dortmund, and even as he’d made his escape, he must have known that his plan to hoodwink the Gestapo was bound to fail.
He had involved his wife in a fantastic web of lies and then callously abandoned her to face the consequences alone. As an intelligent woman, she must surely realise by now that such a man did not deserve her protection.
And then the questions had flowed once more like a river in full spate, and since it was impossible to think clearly, they’d 109
tripped her up again and again until finally she had thought it safer to remain silent, and then, suddenly wearied of the whole business, Wollweber had signalled Ursula Koch to take her back to the cells.
The assault had been premeditated in order to show once and for all that obstinacy would not be tolerated. In the silent empty cell block, Koch had also shattered any illusion that, as the wife of a Wehrmacht General, Christabel Gerhardt would be treated leniently. In a demoralised state of mind, she began to think of her husband with loathing and resolved that if they came for her again, things would be different. Next time she would name anyone and everyone and say anything which might please Wollweber so long as it kept her alive.
As soon as he entered the flat, Laura Cole could see that Dryland was more than slightly drunk. There was a silly smile on his face and he swayed visibly.
‘I come,’ he said, ‘bearing gifts for a beautiful woman.’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Now that,’ he said, wagging a finger under her nose, ‘is no way to treat Father Christmas.’ He thrust his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, brought out a number of cellophane packets and then, raising his arms above his head, allowed them to fall to the floor. ‘Nylons,’ he said thickly, ‘traded them for a bottle of whisky with a Yank I met. Christmas will be a little early this year.’ Struggling out of the greatcoat he dropped it into a chair and then collapsed on to the bed.
‘You need sobering up,’ Laura said firmly. ‘I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’
‘Not with that bloody awful chicory essence you won’t.’
‘Tea then?’
‘Yes. Make it hot and strong like you.’
‘Now, now,’ she said indulgently.
‘Don’t forget your nylons,’ he muttered.
‘You pick them up for me while I’m making the tea.’
Dryland, raising himself up on one elbow, caught a final glimpse of her back as she disappeared into the kitchen. The straight grey skirt, hugging firm buttocks, gave the lie to the impression of a demure little wife created by the pink twinset and string of cultured pearls.
‘Who else did you see besides your American friend?’ Her voice coming from the kitchen sounded a long way off.
‘Leonard Pitts.’ Dryland got down on his hands and knees and scooped up the stockings.
‘What did he want?’
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‘Nothing.’
‘Something to do with your friend Ashby I expect.’
‘He’s not my friend,’ Dryland said loudly.
‘I bet you discussed him though.’
She was uncomfortably close to the truth but he wasn’t going to admit that Pitts had been slyly pumping him for information.
‘What’s eating you?’ he said angrily. ‘To hear the way you talk, anyone would think you had a crush on him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, I only met him once.’
‘And you’re not likely to meet him again either.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘Because he doesn’t need your help any more.’ Dryland picked himself up off the floor and sank down on the bed again. There was a definite sinking sensation in his stomach and he felt vaguely sick. ‘The court of inquiry was a push-over.’
‘I thought so too. Here,’ she said, ‘drink this, it will make you feel better.’
The cup and saucer rattled in his shaky hand. ‘How did you know?’ he said owlishly.
‘I typed out the proceedings from the original, remember?’ Laura picked up a packet of nylons. ‘Are you sure these are my size?’
she said.
‘I don’t know—why not try them on?’
She shook out the stockings and then sat down on a stool in front of the dressing-table. ‘Your little ploy wasn’t very successful, was it?’
‘I’m not with you?’ he said muzzily.
‘Getting me to spy on Colonel Ashby.’
Dryland turned his head in Laura’s direction. The skirt was bunched up in her lap and the sight of her thighs as she fastened the suspenders excited him. She caught his glance and pulled the skirt down, primly adjusting it to cover her knees.
‘You’ve got a vivid imagination, Laura.’
‘Have I? Well, I suppose we must be thankful that Frank hasn’t.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘There was a letter waiting for me when I got home this evening.
Frank’s been posted to Worthy Down and hopes to be back in time for Christmas. I’m afraid that rather puts paid to our little affair, darling,’ she said sweetly, ‘unless you have a more permanent arrangement in mind.’ She searched his face. ‘No,’
she murmured, ‘I thought not. I can see that the idea of marriage doesn’t enthrall you.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
Dryland averted his gaze. ‘What will you do now?’
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‘Find another place. Fortunately, that shouldn’t be too difficult; thanks to the V2, London has lost its attraction for quite a number of people.’
‘Why must you move away?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ she said irritably, ‘use your head. How can I possibly stay here? The woman in the flat below thinks that you’re my husband.’
‘I can see that you’ve thought it all out,’ Dryland said morosely.
‘I have, and in the circumstances, I don’t think we should see one another again, at least not outside the office.’
‘If you’re that damned sensitive about it, perhaps you’d like me to arrange a transfer to another department?’
‘It might be a good idea,’ she said coolly.
‘Too bloody right it is.’ Dryland struggled to his feet and lurched towards the door. ‘I can’t think what the hell I saw in you, Laura.’
‘Now you’re acting like a petulant schoolboy.’
‘And you’re behaving like a bitch.’
‘I think you’d better leave before you say something which we both will regret later.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ve no intention of staying where I’m not wanted.’
‘Don’t forget to take your greatcoat with you.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said nastily, ‘we mustn’t leave any evidence behind, must we.’ He eyed the nylons in their cellophane packets scattered on the bed and retrieved them. ‘You won’t be needing these now, will you? Can’t have you feeling like a kept woman.’
It was a childish gesture but the look of surprise on her face gave him some satisfaction and led him to think that he had handled the situation rather well. He told himself that there were plenty of other fish in the sea, but somehow, as the tube bore him towards Charing Cross, the thought of spending the rest of the evening in the Mess at Woolwich had a sobering and deflating effect on his spirit.
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13
THE RAIN FELL steadily from a dull sky and the wind blowing from the east was a chilling reminder of the hard winter to come. A few dead leaves still floated on the surface of the flooded bomb craters in the Tiergarten but the trees which lined the Charlottenburger Chaussee were already bare. On such a wretched day as this, it was easy to believe that Berlin was slowly dying, but in the centrally heated offices of the Gestapo Headquarters on Prinz Albrechtstrasse the warm atmosphere cushioned the occupants against the reality of life outside in the sombre streets.
The file, which he had chosen to call Münster—Case Black, represe
nted hours of hard work, yet Kaltenbrunner skimmed through it in less than ten minutes and then confined it to the Out tray as if it were a matter of little consequence.
‘Not very enlightening, is it?’ he snapped.
The provocation was deliberate but Kastner remained cool. ‘I believe there are certain points which are worthy of further consideration. For instance, as a result of the conversation between Axmann and Lammers, we know that “Rudi” is the code-name for someone at Rastenburg.’
‘Well, I suppose we must be thankful that at least you’ve narrowed the choice down to one man out of possible thousands.’
‘Most of whom we can safely ignore since we’re looking for someone who is on a social par with Lammers and is important enough to impress Baron Pierre Damon.’
Kaltenbrunner inspected his fingernails. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said,
‘what do we know about the good Swiss banker?’
‘Our Embassy staff in Berne were a little vague.’
‘I’m not surprised, but what else can you expect if we allow a champagne salesman like Ribbentrop to become our Foreign Minister?’
Kastner ignored the interruption. ‘But they seemed to think that Damon was on good terms with the British Consul-General in Geneva.’
‘And a certain Georg Thomas whose address is care of the Bishop’s Palace in Münster?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do we know his identity yet, Oberführer?’
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‘No, but I suspect that Thomas and Lammers are one and the same man.’
‘It is a pity that Frau Gerhardt was unable to help you over that, but despite supplying us with an impressive list of names, she failed to mention Thomas. Do you suppose that is significant?
Or like me, do you believe that she simply named anyone she could think of as a means of placating that idiot Wollweber?’
‘I think it’s possible; she’s certainly very frightened.’
‘And imaginative—like you.’ Kaltenbrunner pointed to the file lying in the Out tray. ‘I mean, look at the title you’ve given to the file— Münster—Case Black. Case White was the attack on Poland, Case Yellow the attack on France and the Low Countries and I suppose you’ll be telling me next that Case Black refers to a projected attack on Germany from within?’