the Valhalla Exchange (v5) (17 page)

Bormann shrugged. 'Then I can only wish you better luck in the hereafter than you've had here.'

'And you?' Goebbels said.

'Oh, I'll try my luck in the outside world, I think. We should be all right here for the rest of today. I'll make a run for it tonight with Axmann, Stumpfegger and one or two more. We intend to try the underground railway tunnel. That should get us to Friedrichstrasse Station all right. Mohnke is still holding out there with a battle-group of 3,000. SS, sailors, Volkssturm and a whole batch of Hitler Youth kids. They seem to be holding their own.'

'And then?'

'With their help we'll try to cross the Weidendammer Bridge over the Spree. Once on the other side, we should stand an excellent chance. Not many Russians in the northwestern suburbs yet.'

'I can only wish you luck.' Suddenly Goebbels sounded very tired indeed. He turned to the door, started to open it and paused. 'What comes afterwards, if you get away?'

'Oh, I'll make out.'

'Come to think of it, you always did, didn't you?'

Goebbels went out, closing the door. Bormann sat there, thinking about what he had said. I
have no intention of spending my life running round the world like some eternal refugee.
He shrugged, picked up his pen and resumed his writing.

Jackson lay on the bed, waiting in the dark in the room they'd given him. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. It was twenty past midnight - ten minutes to go. He lit a cigarette and drew on it nervously. Not that he was afraid - simply keyed up. A brilliant suggestion of Strasser's to tell them he was the Reichsleiter. Coupled with Strasser's personal appearance, it had effectively clouded the entire issue. He was certain they'd accepted him completely now.

He checked his watch again. Time to go. He got up and padded to the door, and when he opened it, the passageway was deserted, a place of shadows partially illuminated by a single small bulb at the far end. He caught a brief glimpse of himself in a full-length gilt mirror. He was wearing Hesser's best uniform and it fitted rather well. He moved on, past one oil painting after another, blank eighteenth-century faces staring down at him. He turned the stairs at the end, paused by the white door on the small landing and knocked.

The door opened slightly and on the instant as if the occupant had been waiting. 'Valhalla Exchange,' Jackson whispered.

'Good - everything's ready for you,' Claire de Beauville said.

Jackson stepped into the room. On the washstand was plastic explosive, detonators and a Schmeisser. He put the explosive in one pocket, the detonators in the other and picked up the machine pistol.

'Anything else?' she said. Her face was pale, unnaturally calm.

'Yes. Some sort of hand-gun. Can you manage that?'

'I think so.'

She opened the drawer of the bedside locker and produced a Walther. Jackson checked that it was loaded, then pushed it down into his waistband at the small of his back under the tunic.

'I like an ace-in-the-hole, just in case things go wrong. Amazing how often even an expert search misses that particular spot. Have you spoken to him on the radio again since he was here?'

'Twenty minutes ago. Everything is arranged exactly as planned. They wait on you. You'll need a greatcoat and a cap to get you across the square unnoticed. There are men working out there. The small staircase at the end of the passage takes you to the main entrance hall, you'll find a cloakroom at the bottom, and the room that houses the drawbridge mechanism is first door on the left in the gate tunnel.'

'You've done well,' Jackson grinned. 'Well, mustn't stand here gossiping. Once more into the breach, dear friends ...' and he picked up the Schmeisser and slipped out.

In the dining hall, Canning was standing alone in front of the fire when Hesser entered. 'Cold,' the German said. 'Too cold. Schneider said you wanted a word.'

'Yes. Let's say that drawbridge falls and the gates blow, what happens then?'

'They'll come in at full speed in those halftracks, I should imagine.'

'Exactly. Armoured troop carriers and we don't even have anything capable of blowing off a track unless someone gets lucky and close enough with one of your stick grenades.'

'True, but you have some sort of solution, I think, or you would not be raising the matter.'

'We've been together too long, Max.'

Canning smiled. 'Okay - that cannon in the centre of the square. Big Bertha.'

Hesser said. 'She hasn't been fired since the Franco-Prussian War.'

'I know, but she could still have one good belt left in her. Get Schneider on the job. You can soon make up some sort of charge. Prise open a few cartridges to make touch powder. Stoke the barrel up with old metal, chain, anything you can find, then have the men haul her down to the tunnel. Say twenty or thirty yards from the entrance. It could knock hell out of the first vehicle to come out of there.'

'Or simply explode in the face of whoever puts a light to the touch-hole.'

'Well, that's me,' Canning told him. 'I thought of it, so I'll stick with it.'

Hesser sighed. 'Very well, Herr General, you command here, not I,' and he went out.

13

Jackson went down the rear staircase quickly and paused at the bottom, staying well back in the shadows, but his caution was unnecessary for the hall was quite deserted. He opened the door on his left, slipped inside and switched on the light.

As Claire de Beauville had indicated, it was a cloakroom, and there was an assortment of coats and caps hanging on the pegs - even a couple of helmets. He hesitated, debating, then selected a field cap and heavy officer's greatcoat. He and Hesser were, after all, the same build, and it was a reasonable assumption that in the darkness he would be mistaken for the colonel by anyone who saw him.

When he opened the front door, snow filtered through. He moved out quickly and paused at the top of the steps to get his bearings. Most of the courtyard was in darkness, but in the centre a group of German soldiers, supervised by Howard and Sergeant Hoover, worked in the light of a storm lantern on Big Bertha.

Jackson went down the steps to the left and moved into the protecting dark, following the line of the wall towards the main gate. He paused at the end of the tunnel. It was very quiet except for an occasional murmur of voices from the men in the middle of the courtyard, and a sudden, small wind dashed snow in his face.

It was as if he was listening for something, waiting, he wasn't sure what for, and he felt a shiver of loneliness. Suddenly, in one of those instant flashes of recall, he was once again the fifteen-year-old minister's son, standing in a Michigan snowstorm at one o'clock in the morning, despair in his heart. Home late and the door locked against him for the last time.

And from that to Arlberg - so much in between and yet in some ways so little. He smiled wryly, moved into the tunnel. First door on the left, Claire de Beauville had said. He held the Schmeisser ready and tried the handle of the iron-bound door. It opened gently, he pushed it wide and stepped inside.

The place was lit by a single bulb. Gunther Voss, Gaillard's ertswhile guard, sat in helmet and greatcoat on a stool by a small woodstove, back towards the door, reading a magazine.

'Is that you, Hans?' he demanded without turning round. 'About time.'

Jackson pushed the door shut with a very definite click. Voss glanced over his shoulder, his mouth gaped in astonishment.

'Just do as you're told,' Jackson said, 'and everything will be fine.'

He stepped lightly across the room, picked up Voss's Mauser rifle and tossed it on top of one of the bunks, out of the way.

'What are you going to do?' Voss asked hoarsely. He was absolutely terrified, sweat on his face.

'You've got it wrong, my friend. It's what you're going to do that counts.'

A cold breeze touched Jackson on the back of the neck, there was the faintest of creakings from the door. Finebaum said, 'That's it, hotshot - you're all through.'

Jackson turned in the same moment, the Schmeisset coming up, and Finebaum shot him through the right arm just above the elbow. Jackson was knocked back against the table, dropping the Schmeisser. He forced himself up, clutching his arm, blood spurting between his fingers.

'What are you bucking for, a coffin?' Finebaum demanded, and he nodded to Voss. 'Search him.'

Voss emptied Jackson's pockets of the plastic explosive and the detonators. He held them up without a word and the door was flung open and Howard and Hoover rushed in.

'What goes on here?' Howard demanded.

Finebaum took one of the packets of plastic explosive from Voss and threw it across. 'Just like I said, Captain. The Ardennes all over again.'

Claire de Beauville, waiting in the darkness of her room, heard the shot. Her window looked out over the water garden, not the courtyard, so she couldn't see anything, yet the shot was trouble, whatever the cause. It meant that Jackson had failed. She lit a cigarette and sat on the bed in the dark, smoking nervously, but that wasn't any good. She had to know what had happened, there was no avoiding that fact. She opened the washstand door, took out another Walther automatic pistol, slipped it into her jacket pocket and went out.

When she went into the dining hall, Claudine Chevalier was already there with Canning, Birr and Hesser.

'What's happened?' Claire said. 'I heard a shot.'

'Nothing to be alarmed about.' Canning put an arm about her shoulders. 'Everything's under control. I've just had Howard on the field telephone from the gate. It seems friend Jackson wasn't all he pretended to be. They're bringing him up now.'

She turned away and moved to join Madame Chevalier by the fire. The door opened and Howard entered, followed by Jackson and Finebaum. Jackson was no longer wearing the greatcoat. A scarf was tied about his right arm, blood soaking through.

'Okay, what happened?' Canning demanded.

Howard held up the packets of plastic explosive. 'He was going to blow up the drawbridge winding gear with this. Lucky for all of us Finebaum was on the ball.'

Canning turned to Jackson. 'All right, Bannerman, or whatever your name is. Who are you? What are you?'

'Sorry, General,' Jackson said. 'I've been trying to work that one out for myself for the past thirty years with a total lack of success.'

Before Canning could reply, the door opened and Hoover looked in, 'General, sir?'

'What is it?'

'The German sentry who was on duty in the winding gear room, Private Voss, is out here asking to see you or Colonel Hesser. He says he has information about this man.'

'Let's have him in then.'

Hoover snapped his fingers and Voss stepped into the room. His army greatcoat and the helmet were too big for him and he looked faintly ridiculous.

'He doesn't speak English,' Hesser said. 'I'll deal with this. You've got something to say, Voss?' he carried on in German.

It poured out of Voss like a dam bursting, the words seeming to spill over themselves, and several times he gestured towards Jackson. He finally stopped and Hesser turned, a frown on his face.

'What is it?' Canning demanded. 'Good news or bad?'

Hesser looked at Jackson gravely. 'He says he's seen this man before, yesterday, at Arlberg sitting in a field car with Strasser and Ritter when they first drove into the square.'

'Is that so?'

'He was at that time wearing the uniform of a Hauptsturmfuhrer in the SS.'

'Now that,' Canning said, 'really is interesting. Where did you learn your American, Bannerman? I must congratulate you. They did a first-class job.'

'I think you'll find he was raised to it,' Hesser said. 'You see, Voss noticed that the armshield on this - this gentleman's uniform was a Stars and Stripes.'

There was a heavy silence. Canning glanced at Jackson, then turned back to Hesser incredulously, 'Are you saying this man is a genuine American?'

'In the Waffen-SS, Herr General, there are what are known as the foreign legions. Units of volunteers raised from every country in Europe. There is even a Britisches Freikorps raised from English soldiers, recruited from prisoner-of-war camps.'

'And you're trying to tell me there are Americans who would sell out their country like that?'

'Not many,' Hesser said gently. 'A handful only. They are called the George Washington Legion.'

Canning turned, his arm swinging, and struck Jackson back-handed across the face. 'You dirty yellow bastard,' he shouted.

Jackson staggered back, cannoning into Madame Chevalier. In a second he had an arm around her throat and produced the Walther from the waistband at his back.

'Okay, just stand clear, all of you.'

Claire de Beauville remained where she was on his left, apparently frozen, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jacket.

Jackson said, 'It's a funny old world, General. Not too long ago I was one of the gallant American boys flying for the Finns against the Russians. Remember that one? Then all of a sudden, the Finns are allies of the Nazis and back fighting the Russians again. Now that kind of thing can be just a little confusing.'

'You should have got out,' Canning said hoarsely.

'Maybe you're right. All I know is I was flying with the same guys against the same enemy. Hurricanes, by the way, with swastikas on them. Can you beat that?'

'Just let her go,' Canning said. 'She's an old woman.'

'I'm sorry, General. I can't do that. She's going to walk me right out of that front gate, aren't you,
liebling?'

Claire stepped in close, her right hand came out of her pocket, clutching the Walther. She rammed the muzzle into his side and pulled the trigger.

The sound seemed very loud, sending shock-waves round the room. Jackson bucked, crying out in agony, and staggered back. She swung the Walther up, clutching it in both hands now, and pulled the trigger again and again until the gun was empty, driving him back against the wall beside the fireplace.

As his body slumped to the floor she threw the Walther away from her and turned to Canning, her face contorted. 'Hamilton?'

He opened his arms and she ran into them.

She lay on her bed in the dark, as Jackson had lain no more than an hour ago, waiting, afraid to move in case they came back. And then, finally, when all seemed quiet, she got up, went to the door and shot the bolt.

She lifted the washbasin out of its mahogany stand and took out the small compact radio which was secreted inside. An S-phone, they had told her. A British invention, far in advance of any German counterpart, obtained when an OSS agent in France had been picked up by the Gestapo.

She pressed the electronic buzzer that processed the call sign automatically and waited. Strasser's voice sounded in her ear almost instantly, clear and distinct.

'Valhalla here.'

'Exchange. It didn't work. He was caught in the act.'

'Dead?'

She hesitated, but only for a moment. 'Yes.'

'Very well. You'll have to do it yourself. You have sufficient materials left?'

'Yes.' She hesitated again. 'I'm not sure that I can.'

'No choice. You know the consequences if you fail. You should stand a good chance. The Jackson affair will have taken the edge off things. They won't be expecting a similar move from inside. Why should they?' He paused then said, 'I repeat: You know the consequences if you fail.'

'All right.' Her voice was barely a whisper, a dying fall.

'Good. Valhalla out.'

She sat there for a long, long moment, then got up slowly and took the S-phone back to the washstand. Then she got down on her knees, removed the bottom drawer and took out the two packets of plastic explosive and detonators that remained from what she had stolen from the armoury earlier.

Strasser, seated at the desk in Meyer's office, closed the lid of the case containing the radio and locked it. He sat there thinking for a moment, his face grave, then stood up and went out.

Ritter was seated by the fire in the bar enjoying a late supper. Cheese, black bread and beer. Hotter lurked in the background as usual in case of need.

As Ritter looked up, Strasser said, 'Total failure, I'm afraid. He's dead.'

Ritter said calmly, 'What now?'

'The plan still stands. My agent will make another attempt.'

Ritter selected a cigarette from his case and lit it with a splinter from the fire. 'One thing puzzles me. Why didn't this contact of yours make the attempt in the first place? Why the elaborate charade with Jackson?'

'It's really very simple,' Strasser said. 'You see, she's a woman.'

Meyer went up the stairs from the kitchen carrying a tray containing sandwiches, a pot of coffee and a cup. The big Finn on the door regarded him impassively, one of the few who didn't speak a word of German as Meyer well knew. In fact, communication had proved impossible. He spoke fair English, but that had provoked no response, neither had the few phrases of French that he knew. He raised the tray and gestured inside. The Finn slung his Schmeisser, unlocked the door and stood back.

Gaillard was sitting beside the bed, wiping Arnie's damp forehead. The boy, obviously still in high fever, moaned, tossing and turning, clutching at the blankets.

'Ah, there you are, Johann,' Gaillard said in German. 'I'm about ready for that.'

'How is he, Herr Doktor?'

'A little better, though you might not think it to look at him.'

Meyer put the tray on the bedside locker and started to pour the coffee. 'I was in the passageway that leads from the bar to the kitchen just now,' he said in a low voice. 'Don't worry about this one. He can't understand me.'

'So?'

'I heard Herr Strasser and Major Ritter talking. Something about the castle. Strasser said he had a contact in there. A woman.'

Gaillard looked up at him in astonishment. 'Impossible. There are only two women in the place. Madame Chevalier and Claire de Beauville. Frenchwomen to the core, both of them. What are you saying, man?'

'Only what I heard, Herr Doktor. I think they're waiting for something to happen.'

The Finn said something unintelligible, strode into the room and grabbed Meyer by the shoulder. He shoved him outside quickly and closed the door.