Bright Dart

by Suninfo

  He looked round as Ashby entered the room and raised the tumbler in a mocking salute. ‘Heil!’ he said thickly, ‘Welcome to the SS fraternity; the uniform suits you down to the ground.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘No, not yet, but I intend to be before this day is over.’

  Ashby placed a small pill on the table. ‘You might need this,’

  he said.

  ‘What is it?’ Jost said suspiciously.

  ‘A cyanide capsule.’

  Jost placed the tumbler carefully on the table, picked up the capsule and aimed it at the fire. It struck one of the narrow bars on the grate and fell back on to the hearth.

  ‘You bastard,’ he said angrily, ‘that’s what I think of your bloody death pill.’ He reached for the bottle and filled his glass to the top. ‘Why should I cheat the Gestapo if it all goes wrong?’

  ‘It might save you a lot of unnecessary pain.’

  ‘Maybe I want it that way. You think I like being a traitor, because that’s what I am and nothing you can say will change that?’

  ‘Why did you do it then?’

  ‘Christ knows. Maybe because no matter how hard I try to close my eyes and ears to it, I know what’s going on in our concentration camps and I believe those rumours about the gas chambers. And maybe it’s because I know that we’ve already lost this damned 168

  war and yet hundreds upon thousands of decent Germans are going to die because the gang of criminal lunatics who govern this country won’t face up to the fact.’

  ‘Whatever your motives, I admire your courage.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better, is it, Englishman?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m not your keeper.’

  Ashby left the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

  The time was 1348 and he had just under half an hour in hand.

  With Gerhardt out of the way, he considered it was now safe to let each man know how to get in touch with the Dutch Underground should the need arise.

  Hamburg was behind them now and they were out of the murk and the sun to starboard flashed on the perspex and, half blinded by the glare, the pilot of the Junkers was unable to see their escort, but every now and then he could hear their laconic voices in his headset, and he knew that somewhere above him at twelve o’clock high were twenty-seven FW 190s in three Staffels each of nine aircraft. This protective umbrella was changed on each occasion when the Junkers 52/3M left one sector control and entered the air space of another.

  Since the beginning of October, the day fighter strength of the Luftwaffe had stood at three thousand one hundred machines but a scarcity of petrol had severely limited operations. Yet on this day, according to the pilot’s calculations, no less than one hundred and fifty sorties would be mounted for the sole purpose of ensuring that one man reached Münster in order to address a meeting. It was, he thought, a damn silly way to run an air force and a guaranteed recipe for total defeat.

  The navigator broke into his chain of thought. ‘We’re coming up to Osnabrück now,’ he said, ‘we’re on course and only two minutes behind schedule.’

  The pilot acknowledged tersely and then slowly began to lose height.

  They were five in number—Kastner, Wollweber, two burly SS men and Lammers, who looked pale but dignified. They were in a room directly under the Hall of Peace and, in the short silence which had followed Kastner’s announcement, Wollweber was almost sure that he could hear the faint murmur of voices from above.

  Lammers said, ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Oberführer?’

  ‘I don’t make a practice of arresting people without good reason.’

  ‘Then I should like to know why I am being detained.’

  ‘Because I believe that you intend to kill Martin Bormann.’

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  Lammers smiled easily. Turning to Wollweber, he said, ‘I owe you an apology; you were right about this man and I was wrong.

  It’s now quite obvious to me that he is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘I said nothing of the kind, you’re putting words into my mouth.’

  ‘My dear Wollweber,’ Kastner said smoothly, ‘there’s no need to be alarmed; Herr Lammers is just trying to drive a wedge between us. Behind that false smile he is a very worried man.’

  ‘If I’m about to kill Bormann, why don’t you search me? Perhaps I have a gun in my armpit?’ He unbuttoned his overcoat and jacket and held them open. ‘There, does that satisfy you now you can see for yourself that I am unarmed?’

  ‘The demonstration was hardly necessary, I don’t think you are the killer, Doctor.’

  ‘I think this foolishness has gone on for long enough …’

  ‘I agree with you.’

  Lammers passed a hand through his unruly brown hair. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘you’ll have some explaining to do when Bormann arrives.’

  ‘I doubt it. You see, I’ve already spoken to the escort commander and, on my instructions, the Party Secretary will remain at Loddenheide airfield until I consider it is safe for him to leave.’

  ‘You’re quite mad.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s mad, Doctor. How long do you think you can go on bluffing me? We’ve had you under surveillance and we know all about “Rudi” and Georg Thomas and Pierre Damon.’

  ‘You say I’ve been watched?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘On whose orders?’

  ‘Kaltenbrunner’s.’

  ‘And now on his instructions you have arrested me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a fool, Oberführer: you’re being used and you can’t see it. Why do you think Bormann is coming here today? To address a meeting of Party Gauleiters? That is just a smoke screen to hide the real purpose of his visit. With the full knowledge and consent of the Führer, he has come to Münster in order to meet Baron Pierre Damon.’ Lammers stopped and pointing to the SS

  troopers said, ‘I don’t think I should say anything more than that in front of these two men.’

  Wollweber licked his lips. ‘Perhaps we should hear what Doctor Lammers has to say in private, Herr Oberführer?’

  ‘Oh, he’d like that,’ said Kastner, ‘because the good Doctor is playing for time.’

  ‘But perhaps he’s telling the truth.’

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  ‘Then he won’t mind repeating this ridiculous story in front of Frau Lammers, will he? In fact, I think it would be a very good idea if you borrowed the Doctor’s Mercedes and fetched the dear lady. And perhaps you’d better take a couple of men with you in case she proves stubborn.’

  ‘Is that an order, Herr Oberführer?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Very well, but I must say I think you’re making a mistake.’

  ‘Do you know?’ Kastner said icily. ‘Well, understand this, Wollweber, if you fail to carry out my orders to the letter, I’ll see to it that they hang you from a butcher’s hook in Plotzensee.’

  He waited until Wollweber had left the room and then still smiling, he smashed his right fist into Lammers’ face and broke his nose.

  ‘You’re a bastard,’ he said quietly, ‘and that’s only a sample of what is in store for you.’

  The Bürgermeister and the Haupsturmführer in command of the escort stood some distance apart from each other as they watched the aircraft coming in on its final approach. This was a proud moment for the Bürgermeister and he was very grateful that Lammers had accorded him the privilege of meeting Bormann at the airfield; a lesser man would not have allowed anyone to share the limelight, but then the Doctor was noted for his generous nature. He was conscious that this was a great occasion and something to tell his grandchildren about when they were old enough to understand.

  The Haupsturmführer did not share this feeling of pleasurable anticipation for it was his unpleasant duty to inform Bormann that he must stay within the confines of Loddenheide airfield until his safety could be guaranteed. He knew full well that
no matter how tactfully it was put to him, Bormann was bound to take offence and there would be an embarrassing scene. With a sour taste in his mouth, he watched the Junkers 52/3M make a perfect landing and roll to a stop.

  The time was 1403 and Bormann was just three minutes behind schedule.

  The inverted L-shaped house which stood well back from the road, owed much of its privacy and seclusion to the fact that it was screened by an orchard in the front and by a vegetable garden enclosed by a tall hedge on the northern side, while at the back a lawn extended as far as the row of trees on the lip of the bank which fell sharply away to a sluggish brown stream. Gerhardt and Scholl had crossed this brook by way of a footbridge some 171

  thirty metres downstream and had then slipped into the house through the kitchen, the door to which had been deliberately left open for them.

  That no one was there to meet them did not surprise Gerhardt.

  He guessed that Lammers had told his wife to stay out of sight in her room upstairs in the naïve belief that this frail subterfuge would convince the Gestapo that she was not involved in the conspiracy. Although he told himself that it was only natural for a husband to protect his wife in any way he could, Gerhardt was still resentful. Compared to the risks to which Christabel had been exposed all these weeks, Frau Lammers had little to fear.

  Scholl said, ‘I wouldn’t mind living in a house like this.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘I can hardly remember now what our home in Wuppertal was really like.’ He smiled shyly. ‘You see, I wasn’t quite fourteen when we left Germany.’

  ‘The war has a lot to answer for,’ Gerhardt said vaguely.

  ‘The war had nothing to do with our leaving Germany—my mother was a Jewess and we could see the writing on the wall. Does that surprise you?’

  Gerhardt looked at his wristwatch. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Nothing really, I just feel nervous.’

  ‘That’s only natural.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh yes, one is always afraid of the unknown …’ Gerhardt paused in mid-sentence and then said, ‘I think I can hear the car.’

  Scholl crossed the hall and looked through the narrow window.

  ‘There’s a Mercedes turning into the drive now,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I must say that’s a weight off my mind, I was beginning to think that Vietinghoff had let us down. You’d better go outside and meet it.’

  Scholl was expecting to see an open tourer but this Mercedes coming towards him at speed was a saloon hardtop and as it drew near and he saw the uniformed SS man, he knew instinctively that everything had gone terribly wrong. He tried to draw the Walther P38 9mm automatic but his fingers were all thumbs and finding that he could not release it from the holster, he turned and ran back into the house.

  Gerhardt grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he shouted.

  The question was irrelevant. As the car screeched to a halt in front of the open door, a Sturmbannführer and two NCOs piled out, one of whom ran towards the back of the house. Their every move was part of a well-planned drill, yet clearly the fat SS officer 172

  did not expect to find himself face to face with a Brigadeführer.

  His eyes blinked rapidly behind the thick glasses and the Walther in his right hand gradually drooped until it was pointing down at the ground.

  Gerhardt released Scholl and stepped forward. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he said harshly.

  In the presence of a senior officer, Wollweber was usually subservient but this was that one occasion when he was resolved not to be intimidated. There was something vaguely familiar about this particular SS Major-General and he could swear that they’d met before.

  Gerhardt said, ‘What are you staring at? Do you make a habit of not saluting a senior officer, or is your eyesight so bad that you can’t see my badges of rank?’

  The NCO at Wollweber’s side was like a ramrod as he snapped to attention and for a moment he wavered, and then he noticed that the General’s pretty, baby-faced aide was sweating with fear, and suddenly he remembered a photograph in a silver frame standing on a desk in a house at Iserlohn and then everything fell into place.

  ‘Welcome home, Gerhardt,’ Wollweber said triumphantly, ‘it’s good to see you back in Germany. I know the very man who’s dying to meet you, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

  As Gerhardt’s hands slowly rose above his head, Scholl turned away and moved through the house. The desire to escape was there but although he tried desperately hard to drive himself forward, his legs would not respond and lacking co-ordination, he staggered from side to side bumping into the furniture. Even the most simple task was now almost beyond him and he wrestled frantically with the kitchen door before he realised that he was turning the key in the lock, and when at last he did succeed in opening it, Scholl was on the verge of tears. He blundered out into the garden straight into the arms of the waiting NCO and, locked together, they fell heavily. Fear gave him the strength to break free and scrambling to his feet, he started running towards the trees.

  The shots came singly, three in number, and in the open they were no louder than the snapping of a slender, dry branch, and all were wild except for the one which went straight through his neck, and the impact sent him cartwheeling down the steep bank into the muddy stream where he lay on his back staring at the sky above through sightless eyes.

  They were dressed for battle now, all six of them alike in the M44

  pattern blouse and trousers with canvas gaiters over short black 173

  boots, and each man had two MP40 ammo pouches with six spare magazines for his Schmeisser and a couple of stick grenades stuffed into the leather belt at his waist. Five men in one Opel

  ‘Blitz’ truck anxiously listening to a starter motor whirring and whirring and whirring were hoping and praying that the engine would catch before the battery went flat, while the sixth, Cowper, blasphemed and mouthed every obscenity known to man because the bloody thing seemed determined to die on him and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Ashby said, ‘You’ve flooded it.’

  ‘I’ll wreck the sodding thing before I’m through with it,’ Cowper shouted, ‘I swear to Christ I’ll smash it with my own bare hands.’

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Calm down? Is that all you can say at a time like this? Christ, I should have known what I was letting myself in for when I joined this bloody shit heap of a unit, I should have known that with a deadbeat like you in charge it was bound to be a disaster.’

  Ashby shot out a hand, grabbed hold of Cowper’s tunic and slammed him back against the side of the cab. ‘That’s enough,’

  he snarled, ‘one more word out of you and I’ll break your damned neck.’ He waited until Cowper had recovered his self-control and then, releasing him, he said, ‘Switch off.’

  ‘What?’ Cowper said in a dazed voice.

  ‘Switch the ignition off and crank it dry and then when the cylinders are cleared, we’ll try again.’ Ashby got out of the cab and walked round to the back of the truck. ‘All right, Quilter,’ he said calmly, ‘hop out and run to the junction at the top of the lane and flag Gerhardt down. Tell him that on no account is he to move on before we link up with him.’ He looked at the other anxious faces in the back and smiled confidently. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, we’ll be a little late but what does that matter, after all Bormann isn’t going anywhere in a hurry.’

  Quilter vaulted over the tailboard and started running. He moved easily with the grace and economical style of a trained athlete; his thumb, hooked into the sling, held the Schmeisser tight against his back and shoulders so that with each stride it did not thump against his haunches. The lane seemed unending but he remained calm, conserving his energy, and he resisted the temptation to make a futile sprint which would have burned him out before half the distance was covered. Sweat gathered on his forehead and under his arms and ran down his back
and his legs felt as if they were made of cotton wool, but he never faltered and he never slacked the pace. None of the others could match him over two thousand metres and he knew it, but he was still some three hundred metres from the junction when the Mercedes 174

  flashed past and there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.

  He was quite certain that Gerhardt was sitting in the back and, although he only caught a brief glimpse, he assumed that the man sitting beside him must be Scholl. He had been told that they would be riding in an open Mercedes but even though this was a hard-top model, he wasn’t all that surprised. Six years of war had taught him that, without exception, every army was capable of making a cock-up and according to his philosophy, the victor was usually the one who made the least.

  He looked back at the farm and was relieved to see the truck coming towards him. The time was 1423 hours.

  For some time after he had replaced the phone, Kastner studied Lammers in silence. It was part of his technique to arouse the curiosity of a prisoner under interrogation and then to leave him in doubt so that his imagination having free play might conjure up countless fears.

  A bleak smile made a brief appearance on his face. ‘That was Wollweber,’ he said. ‘It seems he has just run into an old friend of yours—a Major-General Paul Heinrich Gerhardt. I believe you first met one another when he was stationed in Münster long before the war?’ He waited to see if there would be any reaction but Lammers appeared unmoved. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about; as a matter of fact, he’s on the way over here now.’

  ‘He’s not really a friend, I look upon him as a casual acquaintance.’

  ‘Really? I find that surprising. Purely for my own interest, perhaps you could explain what he was doing in your house and why his aide tried to escape?’

  Kastner took out a notebook and flung it at Lammers striking him in the face. ‘Pick it up,’ he snarled, ‘pick it up and start writing. I think it’s time you made a confession.’

  Lammers edged the notebook away with his foot. Despite the bloodstained handkerchief which he held to his swollen nose, he managed to look dignified. ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ he said defiantly.