the Valhalla Exchange (v5) (6 page)

'Would you care for one?' Hesser asked.

'No thank you, Herr Oberst. My stomach takes kindly only to beer these days.'

He waited patiently. Hesser walked across to the fire. 'You think he's right, don't you?' Schenck hesitated and Hesser said, 'Come on, man. Speak your mind.'

'Very well, Herr Oberst. Yes, I must say I do. Let's get it over and done with, that's my attitude. If we don't then I greatly fear that something terrible may take place here, the results of which may drag us all down.'

'You know something?' Hesser kicked a log that rolled forward back into place in a shower of sparks. 'I'm inclined to agree with you.'

Canning and Birr, followed by Schneider, two soldiers with Schmeissers and Magda, crossed the main hall and mounted the staircase, so wide that a company of soldiers could have marched up line abreast.

'I was once shown over MGM studios by Clark Gable,' Birr said. 'This place often reminds me of Stage Six. Did I ever tell you that?'

'Frequently,' Canning told him.

They crossed the smaller, upper landing and paused at an oaken, iron-bound door outside of which stood an armed sentry. Schneider produced a key about a foot long, inserted it in the massive lock and turned. He pushed open the door and stood back.

'Gentlemen.' As they moved in he added, 'Oh, by the way, the upper section of the north tower is out of bounds and, in future, there will be two guards in the water garden at all times.'

'That's really very considerate of you,' Birr said. 'Don't you agree, General?'

'You can play that vaudeville act all night, but I've had it,' Canning said and started up the dark stone stairway.

Birr followed him and the door clanged shut behind them. They were now in the north tower, the central keep of the castle, that portion to which in the old days the defenders had always retreated in the last resort. It was completely isolated from the rest of Schloss Arlberg, the lowest window fifty feet from the ground and heavily barred. It made a relatively secure prisoners' section under most circumstances and meant that Hesser was able to allow the inmates a certain freedom, at least within the confines of the walls.

Madame Chevalier was playing the piano, they could hear her clearly - a Bach prelude, crisp and ice-cold, all technique, no heart. The kind of thing she liked to play to combat the arthritis in her fingers. Canning opened the door of the dining hall.

It was a magnificent room, a high arched ceiling festooned with battle standards from other times, a magnificent selection of fifteenth- and sixteenth-century armour on the walls. The fireplace was of baronial proportions. Gaillard and Claire de Beauville sat beside the log fire, smoking and talking quietly. Madame Chevalier was at the Bechstein.

At the sight of Canning and Birr, she stopped playing, gave a howl of laughter and started into the 'Dead March' from
Saul.

'Very, very humorous,' Canning told her. 'I'm splitting my sides laughing.'

Claire and Paul Gaillard stood up. 'But what happened?' Gaillard said. 'The first I knew that there was anything amiss was when men arrived to lock the upper tower door. I'd just come down after securing the rope.'

'They were waiting for us, that's what happened,' Birr said. 'Dear old Schneider and Magda panting eagerly over Hamilton as usual. He's become the great love of her life.'

'But how could they have known?' Claire demanded.

'That's what I'd like to know,' Canning said.

'I should have thought it obvious.' Birr crossed to the sideboard and helped himself to a brandy. 'That gardener, Schmidt. The one you got the information about the drainage system from. Maybe a hundred cigarettes wasn't enough.'

'The bastard,' Canning said. 'I'll kill him.'

'But after you've had a bath, Hamilton -please.' Claire waved a hand delicately in front of her nose. 'You really do smell a little high.'

'Camembert - out of season,' said Gaillard.

There was general laughter. Canning said grimly, 'The crackling of thorns under a pot, isn't that what the Good Book says? I hope you're still laughing, all of you, when the Reichsfuhrer's thugs march you out to the nearest wall.' He walked out angrily during the silence that followed. Birr emptied his glass. 'Strange, but I can't think of a single funny thing to say, so, if you'll excuse me ...'

After he'd gone, Gaillard said, 'He's right, of course. It isn't good. Now if Hamilton or Lord Dundrum had got away and reached American or British troops, they could have brought help.'

'Nonsense, this whole business.' Claire sat down again. 'Hesser would never stand by and see us treated like that. It isn't in his nature.'

'I'm afraid Colonel Hesser would have very little to do with it,' Gaillard said. 'He's a soldier and soldiers have a terrible habit of doing what they're told, my dear.'

There was a knock at the door, it opened and Hesser came in. He smiled, his slight half-bow extending to the three of them, then turned to Madame Chevalier.

'Chess?'

'Why not?' She was playing a Schubert nocturne now, full of passion and meaning. 'But first settle an argument for us, Max. Paul here believes that if the SS come to shoot us you'll let them. Claire doesn't believe you could stand by and do nothing. What do you think?'

'I have the strangest of feelings that I will beat you in seven moves tonight.'

'A soldier's answer, I see. Ah, well.'

She stood up, came round the piano and moved to the chess table. Hesser sat opposite her. She made the first move. Claire picked up a book and started to read. Gaillard sat staring into the fire, smoking his pipe. It was very quiet.

After a while the door opened and Canning came in, wearing a brown battledress blouse and cream slacks. Claire de Beauville said, 'That's better, Hamilton. Actually you really look rather handsome tonight. Crawling through sewers must be good for you.'

Hesser said, without looking up, 'Ah, General, I was hoping you'd put in an appearance.'

'I'd have thought we'd seen enough of each other for one night,' Canning told him.

'Perhaps, but the point you were making earlier. I think your argument may have some merit. Perhaps we could discuss it in the morning. Let's say directly after breakfast?'

'Now you're damn well talking,' Canning said.

Hesser ignored him, leaned forward, moved a bishop. 'Checkmate, I think.'

Madame Chevalier examined the board and sighed. 'Seven moves you told me. You've done it in five.'

Max Hesser smiled. 'My dear Madame, one must always try to be ahead of the game. The first rule of good soldiering.'

And in Berlin, just after midnight, Bormann still sat in his office, for the Fuhrer himself worked through the night these days, seldom going to bed before 7 a.m., and Bormann liked to remain close. Close enough to keep others away.

There was a knock at the door and Rattenhuber entered, a sealed envelope in his hand. 'For you, Reichsleiter.'

'Who from, Willi?'

'I don't know, Reichsleiter. I found it on my desk marked Priority Seven.'

Which was a code reference for communications of the most secret sort, intended for Bormann's eyes alone.

Bormann opened the envelope, then looked up, no expression in his eyes. 'Willi, the Fieseler Storch in which Feldmarschall Greim and Hannah Reitsch flew in to Berlin has been destroyed. Get on to Gatow at once. Tell them they must send another plane by morning, one capable of flying directly out of the city.'

'Very well, Reichsleiter.'

Bormann held up the envelope. 'Know what's in here, Willi? Some very interesting news. It would appear that our beloved Reichsfuhrer, dear Uncle Heini, has offered to surrender to the British and Americans.'

'My God,' Rattenhuber exclaimed.

'But what will the Fuhrer say, Willi, that's the most interesting thing.' Bormann pushed back his chair and stood up. 'Let's go and find out, shall we?'

5

From his window, Hesser could see out across the courtyard and outer walls to the road winding steeply down the valley to the river below. Beyond the trees was the tiny village of Arlberg, looking rather like something out of a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm, the pine trees on the lower slopes of the mountain behind it green against the snow. In fact it was snowing again now, only slightly, but for a moment, it seemed to make the world a cleaner, more shining place. Some throwback to childhood probably.

The door opened behind him and Schenck entered. Hesser said, 'Snowing again. It's hanging on this year.'

'True, Herr Oberst,' Schenck said. 'When I passed through the village early this morning I noticed the woodcutters' children from the outlying districts skiing to school.'

Hesser moved to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy. Schenck tried to stay suitably impassive and Hesser said, 'I know, the road to ruin, but it's bad this morning. Worse than usual and this helps a damn sight more than those pills.'

He could feel his left arm in every detail within the empty sleeve, every wire inside his broken body, and the glass eye was sheer torture.

'What does it matter anyway? The same roads all lead to hell in the end. But never mind that now. Did you try Berlin again this morning?'

'Yes, Herr Oberst, but we're just not succeeding in getting through.'

'And the radio?'

'Kaput,
Herr Oberst. Stern found a couple of valves gone.'

'Can't he replace them?'

'When he opened the box of spares they had all suffered damage in transit from the look of things.'

'Are you trying to tell me we've no kind of communication at all with anyone?'

'For the moment I am afraid that is true, Herr Oberst, but with luck we should still get through to Berlin if we keep trying and Stern is out in a field car now, touring the district to see if he can find the spares he needs.'

'Very well. Is there anything else?'

'General Canning and Colonel Birr are here.'

'All right, show them in. And Schenck,' he added as the old lieutenant moved to the door.

'Herr Oberst.'

'You stay, too.'

Canning wore a sidecap and olive drab officer's trenchcoat. Birr was in a reversible camouflage and white winter uniform smock with a hood, of a type issued generally in the German Army on the Eastern Front.

Hesser said, 'Ready for exercise, I see, gentlemen.'

'Never mind that,' Canning said brusquely. 'What have you decided?'

Hesser raised a hand defensively. 'You go too fast, General. There is a great deal to consider here.'

'For Christ's sake,' Canning said. 'Here we go again. Are you going to do something positive or aren't you?'

'We've been trying to get through to Prisoner of War Administration Headquarters in Berlin since last night without success.'

'Berlin?' Canning said. 'You must be joking. The Russians are walking all over it.'

'Not quite,' Hesser said evenly. 'The Fuhrer, you may be dismayed to know, still lives and there are considerable German forces in the capital.'

'Four hundred and fifty miles away,' Canning said urgently. 'This is here, Max. What are
you
going to do
here,
that's what I want to know.'

'Or to put it another way,' Birr said, 'have you thought any more about sending Lieutenant Schenck to look for a British or American unit, perhaps in company with one of us.'

'No.' Hesser slammed his good hand against the desk. 'That I will not permit. That would be going too far. I am a German officer, gentlemen, you must not forget that. I serve my country the best way I can.'

'So what in hell is that supposed to mean?' Canning demanded.

Hesser frowned, thinking for a moment, then nodded. 'For today I will still keep trying to reach Berlin. I must know what their definite orders are in this matter.' Canning started to protest, but Hesser cut him short. 'No, this is the way I intend to handle things. You must make up your mind to it. First, to use a phrase you are fond of, we try channels.'

'And then?' Birr asked.

'If we are no further forward by this time tomorrow, I shall consider sending Oberleutnant Schenck out into the wide world to see what he can find. Always supposing he is willing to take his chances.' He turned to Schenck. 'I will not make this an order, you understand?'

Schenck smiled bleakly. 'I shall be happy to do as the Herr Oberst sees fit.'

'Why waste another day?' Canning began, but Hesser simply stood up.

'That is all I have to say, gentlemen. Good morning.' He nodded to Schenck. 'You will take the general and Colonel Birr to exercise now.'

It was cold in the water garden, snow flying every which way in the wind. The guards on each gate wore parkas and Schneider trailed along at the rear of Canning and Birr with Magda. Canning turned at one point and snapped his fingers. The Alsatian strained at her lead and whined.

'Oh, let her go, man,' he snapped at Schneider in German.

Schneider slipped her chain reluctantly and the bitch ran to Canning and licked his hand. He knelt and fondled her ears and said, 'Well, what do you think?'

'More than I'd hoped for. Hesser's a Prussian, remember. A professional soldier of the old school, God and the Fatherland branded on his backbone. You're asking him to throw in his hand. Not only to string up the white flag, but to go running around trying to attract somebody's attention with it. That's expecting a hell of a lot. I'd settle for what you've got if I were you.'

'Yes, maybe you're right.' Canning stood up as Paul Gaillard and Madame Chevalier appeared from the lower water garden, walking briskly. She wore a German military greatcoat and a headscarf and Gaillard had on a black beret and overcoat.

'How did you get on?' the Frenchman demanded as they approached.

'Oh, you tell them, Justin,' Canning said. 'I've had enough for one day.'

He moved away, Magda at his knee, went down the steps past the lily pond and entered the conservatory. Schneider followed, but stayed in the porch.

It was warm and humid in there, plants everywhere, palms and vines, heavy with grapes. He followed the black and white mosaic of the path and came to the centre fountain where he found Claire de Beauville tending the scarlet winter roses that were her special pride.

Canning paused for a moment, watching her. She was really beautiful, the dark hair pulled back to the nape of the neck, exposing the oval triangle of the face. The high cheekbones, the wide, quiet eyes, the generous mouth. He was conscious of the old, familiar stirring and the slight feeling of anger that went with it.

Orphaned at an early age and supported by an uncle in the shipping business in Shanghai, whom he never saw, he had spent most of his youth at boarding schools of one kind or another before he finally entered West Point. From that moment, he had given his all to the army; sacrificed everything to the demands of military life with single-minded devotion. He had never felt the need for wife or family. There had been women, of course, but only in the most basic way. Now, everything had changed. For the first time in his life, another human being could touch him and that was not a concept that fitted comfortably into his scheme of things.

Claire turned, gardening fork in one hand, and smiled. 'There you are. What happened?'

'Oh, we have to wait another twenty-four hours. Max wants to make one last attempt to get in touch with Prisoner of War Administration Headquarters in Berlin. The correct Junker officer, right to the bitter end.'

'And you, Hamilton, what do you want?'

'To be free now,' he said, his voice suddenly urgent. 'It's been too long, Claire, don't you see?'

'And you've missed too much, isn't that it?' He frowned and she carried on. 'The war, Hamilton. Your precious war. Bugles faintly on the wind, the smoke of battle. Meat and drink to you; what your soul craves. And who knows, if you were free now, there might still be the chance to get involved. Have one last glorious fling.'

'That's a hell of a thing to say.'

'But true. And what can I offer as a substitute? Only winter roses.'

She smiled slightly. He caught her then, pulling her into his arms, his mouth fastening hungrily on hers.

Ritter, seated at the piano in the canteen, was playing a Chopin etude, a particular favourite of his. It was a piece which comforted him, in spite of the fact that this present instrument was distinctly out of tune. It reminded him of other days. Of his father and mother and the small country estate in Prussia where he had been raised.

The Russians were shelling constantly now, the sound of the explosions audible even at that depth, the concrete walls trembling. There was that all-pervading smell of sulphur, dust everywhere.

A drunken SS lieutenant lurched against the piano, slopping beer over the keys. 'We've had enough of that rubbish. What about something rousing? Something to lift the heart. A chorus of "Horst Wessel", perhaps?'

Ritter stopped playing and looked up at him. 'You're speaking to me, I presume?' His voice was very quiet, yet infinitely dangerous, the white face burning, the eyes dark.

The lieutenant took in the Knight's Cross, the Oak Leaves, the Swords, the rank insignia and tried to draw himself together. 'I'm sorry, Sturmbannfuhrer. My mistake.'

'So it would appear. Go away.'

The lieutenant moved off to join a noisy jostling throng as drunk as himself. A young nurse in service uniform was passing by. One of them pulled her across his knee. Another slipped a hand up her skirt. She laughed and reached up to kiss a third hungrily.

Ritter, totally disgusted, helped himself to a bottle of Steinhager at the bar, filled a glass and sat at an empty table. After a while, Hoffer entered. He looked around the canteen, then came across quickly, his face pale with excitement.

'I saw a hell of a thing a little while ago, Major.'

'And what would that be?'

'General Fegelein being marched along the corridor by two of the escort guard, minus his epaulettes and shoulder flashes. He looked frightened to death.'

'The fortunes of war, Erich. Get yourself a glass.'

'Good God, Major, a general of the SS. A Knight's Cross holder.'

'And like all of us in the end, clay of the most common variety, my friend - or at least his feet were.'

'We shouldn't have come here to this place.' Hoffer glanced about him, his face working. 'We're never going to get out. We're going to die here like rats and in bad company.'

'I don't think so.'

There was an immediate expression of hope on Hoffer's face. 'You've heard something?'

'No, but all my instincts tell me that I shall. Now get yourself a glass and bring that chessboard over here.'

Bormann and Rattenhuber, watching from a doorway at the rear of the room, had observed the entire scene. Rattenhuber said, 'His mother was a really big aristocrat. One of those families that goes all the way back to Frederick.'

'Look at him,' Bormann said. 'Did you see the way he handled that drunken swine?

And I'll tell you something, Willi. A hundred marks says he hasn't raised his arm and said Heil Hitler for at least two years. I know his kind. They salute like a British Guards officer - a finger to the peak of the cap. And the men, Willi. Shall I tell you what they think, even the men of the SS? Would you imagine they'd still follow old peasants like you and me?'

'They follow.' Rattenhuber hesitated. 'They follow their officers, Reichsleiter. They have discipline, the Waffen-SS. The finest in the world.'

'But Ritter, Willi. A man like him, they'll follow into the jaws of hell, and you know why? Because men like him don't give a damn. They're what they are. Themselves alone.'

'And what would that be, Reichsleiter?'

'In his case, a very gentle perfect knight. You see, Willi? All that reading I do - even English literature. They think me Bormann the boor, Goebbels and company, but I know more than they do - about everything. Don't you agree?'

'But of course, Reichsleiter.'

'And Ritter - fine Aryan stock, like one of those idealized paintings the Fuhrer loves so much. A standard impossible for the rest of us to attain. Forget the nasty things, Willi. The rapes, the burnings, the camps, the executions. Just think of the ideal. The finest soldier you've ever known. Decent, honourable, chivalrous and totally without fear. What every soldier in the Waffen-SS would like to imagine himself to be, that's what Ritter
is.'

'And you think these Finnish barbarians we discussed earlier would concur?'

'The Knight's Cross, Willi, with Oak Leaves
and
Swords? What do you think?'

Rattenhuber nodded. 'I think that perhaps the Reichsleiter would like me to bring him to the office now.'

'Later, Willi. Now I must go to the Fuhrer. The news of Himmler's defection and Fegelein's cowardice have considerably angered him. He needs me. You speak to Ritter, Willi, when he's had a drink or two. Judge if it's changed him. I'll see him later. After midnight.'