скачать книгу бесплатно
‘The wife was thought to be involved. There was a radio at the house. She insisted she knew nothing about it, but Security was convinced she could well have been working as a – pianist?’
He looked up, bewildered, and Bormann smiled. ‘Typical English schoolboy humour. This is apparently the British Special Operations Executive term for a radio operator.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Rattenhuber returned to the file. ‘Through marriage, she is related to most of the great French families.’
‘Which is why she is at Arlberg. So – who’s next?’
‘Madame Claudine Chevalier.’
‘The concert pianist?’
‘That’s right, Reichsleiter.’
‘She must be seventy at least.’
‘Seventy-five.’
‘A national institution. In 1940 she made a trip to Berlin to give a concert at the Führer’s special request. It made her very unpopular in Paris at the time.’
‘A very clever front to mask her real activities, Reichsleiter. She was one of a group of influential people who organized an escape line which succeeded in spiriting several well-known Jews from Paris to Vichy.’
‘So – an astute old lady with nerve and courage. Does that dispose of the French?’
‘No, Reichsleiter. There is Paul Gaillard to consider.’
‘Ah, the one-time cabinet minister.’
‘That is so, Reichsleiter. Aged sixty. At one time a physician and surgeon. He has, of course, an international reputation as an author. Dabbled in politics a little before the war. Minister for Internal Affairs in the Vichy government who turned out to be signing releases of known political offenders. He was also suspected of being in touch with de Gaulle. Member of the French Academy.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Something of a romantic, according to the security report. Joined the French Army as a private soldier in 1915 as some sort of public gesture against the government of the day. It seems he thought they were making a botch of the war. Flirted with Communism in the twenties, but a visit to Russia in 1927 cured him of that disease.’
‘What about his weaknesses?’
‘Weaknesses, Reichsleiter?’
‘Come now, Willi, we all have them. Some men like women, others play cards all night or drink, perhaps. What about Gaillard?’
‘None, Reichsleiter, and the State Security report is really most thorough. There is one extraordinary thing about him, however.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s had a great love of ski-ing all his life. In 1924 when they held the first Winter Olympics at Chamonix, he took a gold medal. A remarkable achievement. You see, he was thirty-nine years of age, Reichsleiter.’
‘Interesting,’ Bormann said softly. ‘Now that really does say something about his character. What about the Englishman?’
‘I’m not too certain that’s an accurate description, Reichsleiter. Justin Fitzgerald Birr, 15th Earl of Dundrum, an Irish title, and Ireland is the place of his birth. He is also 10th Baron Felversham. The title is, of course, English and an estate goes with it in Yorkshire.’
‘The English and the Irish really can’t make up their minds about each other, can they, Willi? As soon as there’s a war, thousands of Irishmen seem to join the British Army with alacrity. Very confusing.’
‘Exactly, Reichsleiter. Lord Dundrum, which is how people address him, had an uncle who was a major of infantry in the first war. An excellent record, decorated and so on, then in 1919 he went home, joined the IRA and became commander of a flying column during their fight for independence. It apparently caused a considerable scandal.’
‘And the earl? What of his war record?’
‘Age thirty. DSO and Military Cross. At the beginning of the war he was a lieutenant in the Irish Guards. Two years later a lieutenant-colonel in the Special Air Service. In its brief existence his unit destroyed 113 aircraft on the ground behind Rommel’s lines. He was captured in Sicily. Made five attempts to escape, including two from Colditz. It was then they decided that his special circumstances merited his transfer to Arlberg as a prominento.’
‘Which explains the last and most important point concerning the good Earl of Dundrum.’
‘Exactly, Reichsleiter. It would seem the gentleman is, through his mother, second cousin to King George.’
‘Which certainly makes him prominent, Willi. Very prominent indeed. And now – the best saved till last. What about our American friend?’
‘Brigadier General Hamilton Canning, age forty-five.’
‘The same as me,’ Bormann said.
‘Almost exactly. You, Reichsleiter, I believe, were born on the 17th of June. General Canning on the 27th of July. He would seem typical of a certain kind of American – a man in a perpetual hurry to get somewhere.’
‘I know his record,’ Bormann said. ‘But go through it again for me.’
‘Very well, Reichsleiter. In 1917 he joined the French Foreign Legion as a private soldier. Transferred to the American Army the following year with the rank of second lieutenant. Between the wars he didn’t fit in too well. A troublemaker who was much disliked at the Pentagon.’
‘In other words he was too clever for them, read too many books, spoke too many languages,’ Bormann said. ‘Just like the High Command we know and love, Willi. But carry on.’
‘He was a military attaché in Berlin for three years. Nineteen thirty-four to thirty-seven. Apparently became very friendly with Rommel.’
‘That damn traitor.’ Bormann’s usually equable poise deserted him. ‘He would.’
‘He saw action on a limited scale in Shanghai against the Japanese in 1939, but he was still only a major by 1940. He was then commanding a small force in the Philippines. Fought a brilliant defensive action against the Japanese in Mindanao. He was given up for dead, but turned up in a Moro junk at Darwin in Australia. The magazines made something of a hero of him, so they had to promote him then. He spent almost a year in hospital. Then they sent him to England. Some sort of headquarters job, but he managed to get into combined operations.’
‘And then?’
‘Dropped into the Dordogne just after D-Day with British SAS units and Rangers to work with French partisans. Surrounded on a plateau in the Auvergne Mountains by SS paratroopers in July last year. Jumped from a train taking him to Germany and broke a leg. Tried to escape from hospital. They tried him at Colditz for awhile but that didn’t work.’
‘And then Arlberg.’
‘It was decided, I believe, by the Reichsführer himself, that he was an obvious candidate to be a prominento.’
‘And who do we have in charge of things at Schloss Arlberg, Willi?’
‘Oberstleutnant Max Hesser, of the Panzer Grenadiers. Gained his Knight’s Cross at Leningrad where he lost his left arm. A professional soldier of the old school.’
‘I know, Willi, don’t tell me. Held together by guts and piano wire. And who does he have with him now?’
‘Only twenty men, Reichsleiter. Anyone capable of frontline action has been taken from him in the past few weeks. Oberleutnant Schenck, now his second-in-command, is fifty-five, a reservist. Sergeant-Major Schneider is a good man. Iron Cross Second and First Class, but he has a silver plate in his head. The rest are reservists, mostly in their fifties or cripples.’
He closed the last file. Bormann leaned back in his chair, fingertips together. It was quiet now except for the faintest rumblings far above them as the Russian artillery continued to pound Berlin.
‘Listen to that,’ Bormann said. ‘Closer by the hour. Do you ever wonder what comes after?’
‘Reichsleiter?’ Rattenhuber looked faintly alarmed.
‘One has plans, of course, but sometimes things go wrong, Willi. Some unexpected snag that turns the whole thing on its head. In such an eventuality, one needs what I believe the Americans term an “ace-in-the-hole”.’
‘The prominenti, Reichsleiter? But are they important enough?’
‘Who knows, Willi? Excellent bargaining counters in an emergency, no more than that. Madame Chevalier and Gaillard are almost national institutions and Madame de Beauville’s connections embrace some of the most influential families in France. The English love a lord at the best of times, doubly so when he’s related to the King himself.’
‘And Canning?’
‘The Americans are notoriously sentimental about their heroes.’
He sat there, staring into space for a moment.
‘So what do we do with them?’ Rattenhuber said. ‘What does the Reichsleiter have in mind?’
‘Oh, I’ll think of something, Willi,’ Bormann smiled. ‘I think you may depend on it.’
4 (#uf8ee78d0-58a9-5ae4-8993-7620fb9e51ca)
And at Schloss Arlberg on the River Inn, 450 miles south from Berlin and fifty-five miles north-west of Innsbruck, Lieutenant-Colonel Justin Birr, 15th Earl of Dundrum, leaned from the narrow window at the top of the north tower and peered down into the darkness of the garden, eighty feet below.
He could feel the plaited rope stir beneath his hands, and behind him in the gloom Paul Gaillard said, ‘Is he there?’
‘No, not yet.’ A moment later the rope slackened, there was a sudden flash of light below, then darkness again. ‘That’s it,’ Birr said. ‘Now me, if I can get through this damned window. Hamilton certainly can pick them.’
He stood on a stool, turned to support himself on Gaillard’s shoulders and eased his legs into space. He stayed there for a moment, hands on the rope. ‘Sure you won’t change your mind, Paul?’
‘My dear Justin, I wouldn’t get halfway down before my arms gave out.’
‘All right,’ Birr said. ‘You know what to do. When I get down, or perhaps I should say if I do, we’ll give you a flash. You haul the rope up, stick it in that cubbyhole under the floorboards then get to hell out of it.’
‘You may rely on me.’
‘I know. Give my regards to the ladies.’
‘Bon chance, my friend.’
Birr let himself slide and was suddenly alone in the darkness, swaying slightly in the wind, his hands slipping from knot to knot. Home-made rope and eighty feet to the garden. I must be mad.
It was raining slightly, not a single star to be seen anywhere and already his arms were beginning to ache. He let himself slide faster, his feet banging against the wall, scratching his knuckles, at one point twirling round madly in circles. Quite suddenly, the rope parted.
My God, that’s it! he thought, clamping his jaws together in the moment of death to stop himself from crying out, then hit the ground after falling no more than ten feet and rolled over in wet grass, winded.
There was a hand at his elbow, helping him to his feet. ‘You all right?’ Canning said.
‘I think so.’ Birr flexed his arms. ‘A damn close thing, Hamilton, but then it usually is when you’re around.’
‘We aim to please.’ Canning flashed his torch upwards briefly. ‘Okay, let’s get moving. The entrance to the sewer I told you about is in the lily pond on the lower terrace.’
They moved down through the darkness cautiously, negotiated a flight of steps and skirted the fountain at the bottom. The ornamental lily pond was on the other side of a short stretch of lawn. There was a wall at the rear of it, water gushing from the mouth of a bronze lion’s head, rattling into the pool below. Birr had seen it often enough on exercise. ‘Okay, here we go.’
Canning sat down and lowered himself into the water, kneedeep. He waded forward, Birr followed him and found the American crouched beside the lion’s head in the darkness.
‘You can feel the grille here, half under the water,’ Canning whispered. ‘If we can get that off we’re straight into the main drainage system. One tunnel after the other all the way down to the river.’
‘And if not?’ Birr inquired.
‘Short rations again and a stone cell, but that, as they say, is problematical. Right now we’ve got about ten minutes before Schneider and that damned Alsatian of his come by on garden patrol.’
He produced a short length of steel bar from his pocket, inserted it in one side of the bronze grille and levered. There was an audible crack, the metal, corroded by the years, snapping instantly. He pulled hard and the entire grille came away in his hands.
‘You see how it is, Justin. All you have to do is live right. After you.’
Birr crouched down on his hands and knees in the water and switching on his torch crawled through into a narrow brick tunnel. Canning moved in behind him, pulling the grille back into place.
‘Don’t you think you’re getting a little old for Boy Scouts, Hamilton?’ Birr whispered over his shoulder.
‘Shut up and get moving,’ Canning told him. ‘If we can reach the river and find a boat by midnight, we’ll have six or seven hours to play with before they find we’re gone.’
Birr moved on, crawling on hands and knees through a couple of feet of water, the torch in his teeth. He emerged after a few yards into a tunnel that was a good five feet in diameter so that he could actually walk if he crouched a little.
The water was only about a foot deep here, for the tunnel sloped downwards steeply, and the smell was not unpleasant, like old leaves and autumn on the river in a punt.
‘Keep going,’ Canning said. ‘From what I found out from that gardener, we emerge into the main sewer pretty quickly. From there, it’s a straight run down to the Inn.’
‘I can smell it already,’ Birr told him.
A few minutes later the tunnel did indeed empty into the main sewer in a miniature waterfall. Birr flashed his torch at the brown foam-flecked waters which rushed by several feet below.
‘My God, just smell it, Hamilton. This really is beyond a joke.’
‘Oh, get in there, for Christ’s sake.’ Canning gave him a shove and Birr dropped down, losing his balance and disappeared beneath the surface. He was on his feet in an instant and stood there cursing, still clutching his torch. ‘It’s liquid shit, Hamilton. Liquid shit.’
‘You can have a wash when we get to the river,’ Canning said and he lowered himself down to join him. ‘Now let’s make time.’
He started down the tunnel, torch extended before him, and Birr followed for perhaps sixty or seventy yards and then the tunnel petered out in a blank wall.
‘That’s it then,’ Birr said. ‘And a bloody good job too as far as I’m concerned. We’ll have to go back.’
‘Not on your sweet life. The water’s got to go somewhere.’ Canning slipped his torch into his pocket, took a deep breath and crouched. He surfaced at once. ‘As I thought. The tunnel continues on a lower level. I’m going through.’
Birr said, ‘And what if it’s twenty or thirty yards long, you idiot – or longer? You’ll not have time to turn and come back. You’ll drown.’
‘So I’ll take that chance, Justin.’ Canning was tying one end of the rope about his waist now. ‘I want out – you understand? I’ve no intention of sitting on my ass up there in the castle waiting for the Reichsführer’s hired assassins to come and finish me off.’ He held out the other end of the rope. ‘Fasten that round your waist if you want to come too. If I get through, I’ll give it a pull.’
‘And if not?’
