the Valhalla Exchange (v5) (8 page)

They dodged into a doorway beside a sandbagged gun emplacement from which Hitler Youth fired light machine guns ineffectually into the sky.

'My God,' Hoffer said in disgust. 'Children playing soldiers, and for all the good they're doing they might as well be firing Christmas toys.'

'But willing to die, Erich,' Ritter said. 'They still believe.'

He was examining the rough map which Rattenhuber had given him. Hoffer tugged at his sleeve. 'And us, Major. What about us? What in the hell are we doing here? What's the point?'

'Survival, Erich,' Ritter said. 'A game we've been playing for quite some time now, you and I. We might as well see it through. Who knows? It could prove interesting.'

'That's all it's ever been to you, isn't it?' Hoffer said. 'Some kind of black joke. That's why you can only smile with that curl to your lips.'

'And still there when you fold my hands on my chest, Erich,' Ritter told him. 'I promise you. Now let's get moving. We've about a quarter of a mile to go.'

They moved from street to street, from one mortar crater to the next, through the charnel house that was Berlin, passing on the way groups of terrified civilians, mostly women and children and the soldiers of the Volkssturm, mainly tired old men, most of them already walking corpses.

Finally, they reached the East-West Avenue, saw the Victory Column in the distance. There were few people here now and for some reason the bombardment seemed to have faded and the avenue was strangely quiet and deserted.

'Over here,' Ritter said, and darted towards the side-street opposite. The showrooms on the corner were shattered, plate glass windows gaping. The sign above the main entrance said 'Burgdorf Autos'.

Ritter led the way along the pavement and paused outside the garage doors at the rear. They were closed. 'This is it,' he said. There was a judas gate to one side. He turned to Hoffer and grinned lightly. 'I'll lead, you cover.'

Hoffer cocked the Schmeisser and flattened himself against the wall. Ritter tried the handle of the gate gingerly. It opened to his touch. He paused, then shoved the door open and went in fast, going down hard. There was a burst of machine-gun fire, a pause, then Hoffer fired an answering burst round the door.

In the silence as the echoes died Ritter called, 'Friends. We're looking for Obersturmfuhrer Heini Berger.'

It was very quiet, the garage a place of shadows in the evening light. A voice called softly, 'Identify yourselves.'

'Valhalla Exchange,' Ritter called.

He could see the Fieseler Storch now, over to one side, and then a boot scraped and a young, dark-haired SS officer in camouflage uniform moved out of the shadows. His old-style, field-service cap was tilted at a rakish angle and he carried an American Thompson sub-machine gun in one hand.

'Nice to see you,' he said. 'For a moment there, I thought you might be a bunch of Ivans smelling out foxes.'

Ritter nodded towards the Thompson which carried a round
I
oo-drum magazine. 'They'd have been in for a nasty surprise.'

Berger grinned lazily. 'Yes, a little item I picked up in the Ardennes. I always did like to overdo things.' He put a cigarette in his mouth and flicked a lighter made from a Russian rifle bullet.

'What about Herr Strasser?' Ritter said, looking around.

'Oh, he isn't due for a while yet.' Berger sat down on a packing case, putting the Thompson on the floor. 'No rush - we're not due out of here until midnight.'

'I see.' Ritter sat down beside him and Hoffer wandered over to the Storch. 'This man Strasser - you know him?'

Berger hesitated perceptibly. 'Don't you?'

'Never met him in my life before.'

'Neither have I. I'm just the bloody bus driver on this show.'

Ritter nodded towards the Storch. 'We're not going to make the Bavarian Alps in one hop in that.'

'No, we're scheduled to put down halfway at an airstrip in the Thuringian Forest, west of Plauen. Always supposing it's still in our hands.'

'And if it isn't?'

'An interesting thought.'

'You think we'll make it? Out of Berlin, I mean?'

'I don't see why not. Hannah Reitsch made it with Greim, didn't she?'

'Not in total darkness, which it will be when we take off.'

'Yes, I was aware of that fact,' Berger said. 'On the other hand, it does mean that the Russians won't be expecting us. They aren't likely to have any fighters up. No need now they've taken Templehof and Gatow. With any kind of luck, we could be away before they know what's happening.'

'But you would still have to take off along the avenue in the dark,' Ritter said. 'And the Victory Column ...'

'I know. Very large and very solid. Still, I expect I'll manage to think of something.' There were a couple of old sacks on the floor and he lay down on them, cradling the Thompson in his arms. 'I think I'll get a little shut-eye. Something tells me I'm going to need it. If you wouldn't mind watching the front door and give me a push when Strasser comes.'

He pulled the peak of his service cap over his eyes. Ritter smiled slightly and turned to Hoffer, who looked bewildered. 'What's going on, Major? What's he playing at?'

'He's sleeping, Erich. Very sensible under the circumstances. Now, do you want to take the first watch or shall I?'

It was towards evening when Oberleutnant Schenck and Schmidt drove into the village of Graz on the road to Innsbruck. It was completely deserted, not a soul in sight. They had travelled a distance of approximately forty miles since leaving Arlberg, had lost nearly three hours on the way due to a fault in the field car's fuel system. It had taken Schmidt that length of time to diagnose what was wrong and put it right.

They hadn't seen a single soldier, of either side, and there had also been a total absence of refugees on the road. But that made sense. Typical peasants, these mountain people. They would stick with their land, whatever happened. No running away for them. Nowhere to go.

A curtain moved at a ground-floor window of a house opposite. Schenck got out of the field car, crossed the street and knocked at the door. There was no response so he kicked impatiently. 'Come on, for God's sake!' he called. 'I'm Austrian like you. I'm not here to cause trouble.'

After a while, the bolts were drawn and the door opened. An old, white-haired man with a bristling white moustache stood there, a young woman cowering behind him holding a baby.

'Herr Leutnant,' he said civilly enough.

'Where is everybody?'

'They stay inside.'

'Waiting for the Americans to come?'

'Or the British or the French.' He managed a smile. 'As long as it isn't the Russians.'

'Are there any German units left in this area?'

'No - there were some Panzers but they pulled out two days ago.'

'And the other side? Have you seen anything of them?' The old man hesitated and Schenck said, 'Come on. It's important.'

'This morning I visited my son's farm just to see if everything was all right. He's away in the army and his wife here is staying with me. It's three miles down the road from here. There were English troops camped in the meadow and using the farm buildings, so I came away.'

'What kind of troops? Tanks - infantry?'

The old man shook his head. 'They'd put up a great many tents, large tents, and there were ambulances coming in and out all the time. All their vehicles carried the red cross.'

'Good.' Schenck felt a surge of excitement. 'I won't bother you any more.'

He hurried back to the field car and climbed in. 'Three miles down the road, Schmidt. A British Army field hospital from the sound of it.'

It's going to work, he thought. It's going to be all right. It couldn't be better. Schmidt accelerated out of the square, bouncing over the cobbles, between the old medieval houses that leaned out, almost touching each other so that there was only room for one vehicle along the narrow street.

They came round a corner and entered another smaller square and found a British Army field ambulance bearing down on them. Schmidt spun the wheel desperately, skidded on the light powdering of snow. For a single frozen moment in time, Schenck was aware of the sergeant in the leather jerkin, the young private in tin hat sitting beside him and then they collided with the ambulance's front offside wheel and bounced to one side, mounting the low parapet of the fountain in the centre of the square and turning over.

Schmidt had been thrown clear and started to get up. Schenck, who was still inside the field car, saw the young private in the tin hat jump out of the ambulance, a Sten gun in his hand. He fired a short burst that drove Schmidt back across the parapet into the fountain.

Schenck managed to get to his feet and waved his arms. 'No!' he shouted. 'No!'

The boy fired again, the bullets ricocheting from the cobbles. Schenck felt a violent blow in his right shoulder and arm and was thrown back against the field car.

He was aware of voices - raised voices. The sergeant was swinging the boy round and wrenching the Sten gun away from him. A moment later, he was kneeling over Schenck.

Schenck's mouth worked desperately as he felt himself slipping away. He managed to get the letter from his pocket, held it up in one bloodstained hand. 'Your commanding officer - take me to him,' he said hoarsely in English. 'A matter of life and death,' and then he fainted.

Major Roger Mullholland of 173rd Field Hospital had been operating since eight o'clock that morning. A long day by any standards and a succession of cases any one of which would have been a candidate for major surgery under the finest hospital conditions. All he had were tents and field equipment. He did his best, as did the men under his command, as he'd been doing his best for weeks now, but it wasn't enough.

He turned from his last case, which had necessitated the amputation of a young field gunner's legs below the knees, and found Schenck laid out on the next operating table, still in his army greatcoat.

'Who the hell is this?'

His sergeant-major, a burly Glaswegian named Grant, said, 'Some Jerry officer driving through Graz in a field car. They collided with one of the ambulances. There was a shoot-out, sir.'

'How bad is he?'

'Two rounds in the shoulder. Another in the upper arm. He asked to be taken to the CO. Kept brandishing this in his hand.'

He held up the bloodstained letter. Mullholland said, 'All right, get him ready. Come one, come all.'

He opened the envelope, took out the letter and started to read. A moment later he said, 'Dear God Almighty, as if I didn't have enough to take care of.'

7

At a stage in the war when it had become apparent to him that Germany was almost certain to lose, Karl Adolf Eichmann, head of the Jewish Office of the Gestapo, ordered a shelter to be constructed according to the most stringent specifications, under his headquarters at 116 Kurfurstenstrasse. It had its own generating plant and ventilating system and was self-sufficient in every respect.

The entire project was carried out under conditions of total secrecy, but in the Third Reich nothing was secret from Martin Bormann for long. On making the happy discovery and needing a discreet establishment for purposes of his own, he had announced his intention of moving in, and Eichmann, too terrified to argue, agreed, putting up with the inconvenience of the arrangement until March when he'd decided to make a run for it.

When Bormann and Rattenhuber arrived the place seemed deserted. The front door hung crazily on its hinges, the windows gaped and the roof had been extensively damaged by shelling. Rattenhuber drove along the alley at one side, wheels crunching over broken glass, and pulled into the courtyard at the rear of the building.

For the moment the artillery bombardment had faded and most of the shooting that was taking place was some little way off. Bormann got out and walked down a sloping concrete ramp to a couple of grey-painted, steel doors. He hammered with the toe of his boot. A grille was opened. The man who peered through had SS decals on his steel helmet. Bormann didn't say a word. The grille slammed shut and a moment later the doors opened electronically.

Rattenhuber drove down the ramp, pausing for Bormann to get back in, and they entered a dark tunnel, passing two SS guards, and finally came to a halt in a brightly lit concrete garage.

There were two more SS guards and a young, hard-faced Haupsturmfuhrer. Like his men, he wore a sleeve-band on his left arm that carried the legend 'RFSS'. Reichsfuhrer der SS. The cuff-title of Himmler's personal staff, a device of Bormann's to deter the curious.

'So, Schultz, how goes it?' Bormann asked.

'No problems, Reichsleiter.' Schultz delivered a perfect party salute. 'Are you going up?'

'Yes, I think so.'

Schultz led the way towards a steel elevator and pressed the button. He stood back. 'At your orders, Reichsleiter.'

Bormann and Rattenhuber moved inside, the colonel pressed the button to ascend and the doors closed. He carried his Schmeisser and there was a stick grenade tucked into his belt.

'Not long now, Willi,' Bormann said. 'The culmination of many months of hard work. You were surprised, I think, when I brought you into this affair?'

'No - an honour, Reichsleiter, I assure you,' Rattenhuber said. 'A great honour to be asked to assist with such a task.'

'No more than you deserve, Willi. Zander was not to be trusted. I needed someone of intelligence and discretion. Someone I could trust. This business is of primary importance, Willi, I think you know that. Essential if the Kamaradenwerk is to succeed.'

'You may rely on me, Reichsleiter,' Rattenhuber said emotionally. 'To the death.'

Bormann placed an arm about his shoulders. 'I know I can, Willi. I know I can.' The lift stopped, the door opened. A young man in thickly lensed glasses and a white doctor's coat stood waiting. 'Good evening, Reichsleiter,' he said politely.

'Ah, Scheel, Professor Wiedler is expecting me, I trust.'

'Of course, Reichsleiter. This way.'

The only sound was the hum of the generators as they walked along the carpeted corridor. He opened the door at the end and ushered them through into a working laboratory, furnished mainly with electronic equipment. The man who sat in front of a massive recording machine in headphones was similarly attired, like Scheel, in a white coat. He had an intelligent, anxious face and wore gold-rimmed, half-moon reading spectacles. He glanced round, took off the reading spectacles and got up hastily.

'My dear professor.' Bormann shook hands affably. 'How goes it?'

'Excellent, Reichsleiter. I think I may say, it couldn't have gone any better.'

Fritz Wiedler was a doctor of medicine of the Universities of Heidelberg and Cambridge. A fervent supporter of National Socialism from its earliest days, a Nobel prizewinner for his researches in cell structure and one of the youngest professors the University of Berlin had ever known, with a reputation as one of the greatest plastic surgeons in Europe.

He was a supreme example of a certain kind of scientist, a man totally dedicated to the pursuit of his profession with a fervour that could only be described as criminal. For Wiedler, the end totally justified the means, and when his Nazi masters had come to power he prospered mightily.

He had worked with Rascher on low-pressure research for the Luftwaffe using live prisoners as guinea pigs. Then he had tried spare-part surgery, using the limbs of prisoners where necessary at Geghardt's sanatorium near Ravensbriick where Himmler often went in search of cures for his chronic stomach complaint.

But it was as a member of the SS Institute for Research and Study of Heredity that he really came into his own, working with Mengele at Auschwitz on the study of twins, first alive and later dead, all to the greater glory of science and the Third Reich.

And then Bormann had recruited him. Had offered him the chance of the ultimate experiment. In a sense, to create life itself. A challenge that no scientist worth his salt could possibly have turned down.

'Where are the rest of the staff?' Bormann asked.

'In the rest room, having their evening meal.'

'Five nurses. Three females, two males, am I right?'

'That is correct, Reichsleiter. Is there anything wrong?'

'Not at all,' Bormann said tranquilly. 'It's just that in these difficult times people tend to panic and make a run for it. I just wanted to make sure none of your people had.'

Wiedler looked shocked. 'None of them would think of such a thing, Reichsleiter, and besides they'd never get past the guards.'

'True,' Bormann said. 'So - it goes well, you say. Are we ready yet?'

'I think so, Reichsleiter. You must judge for yourself.'

'Let's get on with it then.'

Wiedler took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and moved to a door at the other end of the laboratory. Bormann, Rattenhuber and Scheel followed. Wiedler inserted the key in the lock, the door swung open.

Music was playing, Schubert's Seventh Symphony, slow, majestic, the sound of it filling the room. Wiedler led the way in. They followed.

A man in flannel slacks and brown shirt was sitting at a table under a hard, white light, reading a book, his back towards them.

Wiedler said, 'Good evening, Herr Strasser.'

The man called Strasser pushed back his chair, got to his feet and turned and Martin Bormann gazed upon the mirror image of himself.

Rattenhuber's startled gasp had something of horror in it. 'My God!' he whispered.

'Yes, Willi, now you know,' Bormann said and held out his hand. 'Strasser, how are you?'

'Never better, Reichsleiter.'

The voice was identical and Bormann shook his head slowly. 'Not that I can tell with certainty. I mean who knows exactly how he speaks, but it seems all right to me.'

'All right?' Scheel said indignantly. 'Reichsleiter, it's perfect, I assure you. Three months we've worked, day and night, using the very latest in recording devices, using tape instead of wire. Here, we'll demonstrate. When I switch on the microphone, say something, Reichsleiter. Anything you like.'

Bormann hesitated then said, 'My name is Martin Bormann. I was born on June the 17th, in Halberstadt in Lower Saxony.'

Scheel ran the tape back, then played it. The reproduction was excellent. Then he nodded to Strasser. 'Now you.'

'My name is Martin Bormann,' Strasser said. 'I was born on June the 17th, in Halberstadt in Lower Saxony.'

'There, you see?' Scheel said triumphantly.

'Yes, I must agree.' Bormann tilted Strasser's chin. 'I might as well be looking into the mirror.'

'Not quite, Reichsleiter,' Wiedler said. 'If you stand side by side, a close examination does indicate certain features as not being quite the same, but that doesn't matter. The important thing is that no one will be able to tell you apart. And there are scars, not many, it's true, but I've arranged it so they appear as creases in the skin, the natural product of age.'

'I can't see them,' Bormann said.

'Yes, I don't think I've ever worked better with a knife, though I do say it myself.'

Bormann nodded. 'Excellent. And now I would have a word with Herr Strasser alone.'

'Certainly, Reichsleiter,' Wiedler said.

He and Scheel moved out and Bormann pulled Rattenhuber back. 'The question of the staff, Willi. You know what to do.'

'Of course, Reichsleiter.'

He went out and Bormann closed the door and turned to face himself. 'So, Strasser, the day is finally here.'

'So it would appear, Reichsleiter. The Kamaradenwerk? It begins?'

'It begins, my friend,' said Martin Bormann, and he started to unbutton his tunic.

Wiedler and the other waited patiently in the laboratory. It was perhaps twenty minutes later that the door opened and Bormann and Strasser appeared. The Reichsleiter was in uniform. Strasser wore a slouch hat and a black leather coat.

'And now, Reichsleiter -' Professor Wiedler began.

'It only remains to say goodbye,' Martin Bormann said.

He nodded to Rattenhuber who was standing by the door. The colonel's Schmeisser bucked in his hands, a stream of bullets knocking Wiedler and Scheel back against the wall. Rattenhuber emptied the magazine and replaced it with a fresh one.

He turned to Bormann, face pale.

'The staff?' Bormann inquired.

'I locked them in.'

Bormann nodded approvingly. 'Good - finish it.'

Rattenhuber went outside. A moment later there was the rattle of the Schmeisser sounding continuously above a chorus of screams. The Russian artillery had started again, the building shook violently far above their heads.

Rattenhuber came back in, walking slowly. 'It is done, Reichsleiter.'

Bormann nodded. 'Good - finish off here now and we'll go downstairs.'

He walked out into the corridor, followed by Strasser. Rattenhuber took the stick grenade from his belt and tossed it in through the door of the laboratory. As the reverberations died away, there was the angry crackling of flames as chemicals ignited.

Smoke drifted out into the corridor as Bormann and Strasser reached the elevator and Rattenhuber ran towards them. 'No need to panic,' Bormann said. 'Plenty of time.'

The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside and started down.

When the doors opened at the bottom, Schultz was waiting, a Walther in his hand, his two SS guards behind him, Schmeissers ready.

'No need to worry,' Bormann said. 'Everything's under control.'

'As you say, Reichsleiter,' Schultz said, and then he looked at Strasser and his mouth opened in amazement.

'We are leaving now, Schultz, all of us,' Bormann said gently. 'Bring in the rest of your men.'

Schultz turned, walked a few paces and whistled, fingers in teeth. A moment later the two guards from the garage door ran down the ramp.

'If you'd line them up, I'd just like a word about the situation we're going to find outside,' Bormann said.

'Reichsleiter.' Schultz barked orders at his men, they lined up and he stood in front of them.

'You have done good work. Excellent work.' Behind Bormann, Rattenhuber was climbing into the field car behind the MG34. 'But now, my friends, the time has come to part.'

In the final moment, Schultz realized what was happening. His mouth opened in a soundless cry, but by then Rattenhuber was working the machine gun, driving Schultz and his men back in a mad dance of death across the concrete.

When he finally stopped, a couple of them were still twitching. 'Finish it,' Bormann ordered.

Rattenhuber picked up his Schmeisser, walked across to the guard and fired a short burst into the skull of one who still moved. He moved back hastily as blood and brains sprayed his boots and in the same moment became aware of the harsh metallic click as the MG34 was cocked again.

He swung round to find Strasser standing in the field car behind the machine gun. 'To the death, Willi, isn't that what you said?'

His fingers squeezed, the face beneath the brim of the slouch hat totally lacking in any kind of emotion. It was the last thing Willi Rattenhuber saw before he died.

Strasser stopped firing and jumped down. 'It's time I was away. I'll take Schultz's Mercedes.'

'And me?'

'I suggest you wait here till eleven o'clock. Start back to the bunker then. You should arrive around midnight, allowing for the state of the streets.'

'Dangerous times,' Bormann said. 'An artillery shell, a piece of shrapnel, a stray bullet, not to mention the possibility of running into a Russian patrol.'