Bright Dart Page 12

  No one in his right mind would have taken the bicycles as a gift, let alone go to the trouble of stealing them as they had done in Eccleshall. Of the two machines, Quilter’s was in the poorer condition and barely roadworthy. It had worn brake blocks, a slightly buckled rear wheel and a slack chain which, as he had discovered, would slip off the crank if he attempted to coast downhill. By dead reckoning, Quilter had calculated that they had cycled just over seventy miles which, in one sense, was cause for satisfaction but in another was less so. The Peak District of Derbyshire offered little cover for the hunted and they were running out of time; wherever he looked he saw only bare rolling hills and he felt a tinge of apprehension. Although he was half convinced that this exercise was nothing more than a childish game, he was still anxious to succeed. To be caught, to have failed where others less intelligent, like Cowper, might not, would undermine his confidence.

  Lost in thought, he failed to notice until it was too late that the road curved sharply and then fell away to the small town in the valley. The bicycle gathered speed and, although he jammed on the brakes, they did little to check the wild downhill momentum. Fields, hedges and isolated trees flashed by in a blur and the wind lashing into his face forced Quilter’s lips apart.

  Each corner became a desperate gamble, and praying that he would not meet anything head on, Quilter was forced to use the full width of the road to get round. In less than a couple of minutes he was leading Stack by a good half mile and the gap between them was increasing with every passing second.

  He came into the main street and, faced with a slow right hand bend, went into it at a speed approaching forty. The rear wheel slewed away, the ground came up fast to meet him and then, as if the smooth wet tarmac were an ice rink, he found himself sliding along on his right side until his feet, slamming into the kerb, brought him to an abrupt halt. For what seemed an age, he lay bruised and shaken in the gutter.

  A voice above him said, ‘Who do you think you are, Malcolm Campbell?’ The policeman bent forward to get a closer look. ‘What are you doing in Matlock at this hour of the morning? There’s no army unit for miles around.’ A flashlight moved quickly over Quilter’s body and then snapped out. ‘I thought so. You’d better come quietly, Fritz,’ the man said heavily, ‘unless you’re looking for trouble.’

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  The tone of voice was meant to be intimidating but it had the opposite effect on Quilter. He began to laugh, silently at first and then out loud. Stack would never have appreciated the funny side of it but then he was not there to witness the absurdity of it all. Sensing that Quilter’s headlong dash could only end in trouble, he had begun to look for an alternative route which would avoid the town.

  Frick and Gerhardt left the train at York, walked over the bridge and passed through the barrier on platform one. Two corporals in the Royal Military Police who were loitering by the bookstall in the entrance hall, ignored them and looked the other way. Their failure to salute irritated Gerhardt but he was sensible enough not to make an issue of it.

  They were down to their last few shillings and they were not sure in which direction Market Weighton lay. Realising that the city would be quiet on a Sunday morning and not wishing to draw attention to themselves, they planned, rather than walk, to take a bus if they could find one which ran out to Hull.

  As they came out into the station approach, a Hillman pick-up drew into the kerb and an RAF officer got out. Frick watched him collect a suitcase from the back and then, timing it perfectly, moved round to the offside, tapped on the glass and smiled at the WRAF driver.

  The girl obligingly lowered the side window. ‘Can I help you sir?’ she said in a quiet voice.

  Frick smiled again. ‘My friend and I are going to Market Weighton. Can you take us there?’

  The girl frowned. ‘It’s a little off my route.’

  ‘Where are you stationed, please?’ Coupled with the assumed accent it was an unfortunate question, and he sensed immediately that the girl was suspicious. ‘I’m sorry,’ Frick said hastily, ‘we are Poles and strangers in your country.’

  ‘You speak very good English.’

  ‘I have had much practice since my country was invaded, but sometimes it is not so good and peoples do not understand what I am saying.’

  ‘I suppose I could return via Market Weighton.’

  ‘You are most kind.’

  ‘But my work ticket is made out to Great Driffield.’

  Frick tried to hide his disappointment. ‘I would not like you to be in trouble,’ he said.

  ‘I could give you a lift as far as Barmby Moor, if that’s any help?

  It’s only seven miles from there to Market Weighton.’

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  ‘Thank you,’ he said eagerly, ‘thank you again. My friend and I will ride in the back.’

  ‘There’s room for one up front, sir,’ she said helpfully.

  He could ignore the suggestion, make some feeble excuse or accept the offer for what it was, a kindly gesture. Frick chose the latter. Signalling Gerhardt to climb into the back of the pick-up, he walked round to the passenger’s side and got in beside the girl.

  ‘This,’ he said cheerfully, ‘is better than walking, I think.’

  The girl made no comment until she’d completed a U-turn and they were passing Micklegate Bar towards the Hull road. ‘I didn’t know we had a Polish unit in the area,’ she said casually.

  The remark left Frick with an uneasy feeling and he wondered if the girl was more intelligent than he’d first supposed. It was the sort of loaded remark he would expect from a knowledgeable NCO, not a mere Aircrafts-woman who was still obviously in her teens.

  ‘We were here in 1941,’ he mumbled, ‘but then we moved south.

  We are visiting old friends.’

  He looked to see if her face showed any reaction but she sat there placidly chewing a piece of gum while her eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said vaguely.

  Frick stifled a sigh of relief. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it will be good to see all our old friends again.’

  The houses thinned out to become a single ribbon on either side of the road and then they were out in the open country.

  Occasionally, a military vehicle passed them going in the opposite direction towards York, but apart from this traffic and a few cyclists, the road was practically empty.

  Shortly before one o’clock the WRAF driver dropped them off at the road junction in Barmby Moor, and two hours later, Frick and Gerhardt arrived at the farmhouse without further incident.

  Stack, who had been watching the army despatch rider for some twenty minutes, wondered how much longer it would take the man to repair the puncture. The Norton 500cc was his for the taking provided his luck continued to hold and no one else appeared on the scene at the wrong moment. There was little to choose between them in height, weight and build and he reckoned that the crash helmet, leather jerkin, breeches and riding boots should fit him perfectly. Getting close to the man without being noticed wasn’t going to be easy but it wasn’t an insuperable problem. The belt of trees would cover him for most of the way before he was forced to crawl the last fifteen yards along the 93

  roadside ditch. He started moving as soon as the man finished levering the outer cover on to the wheel rim.

  The DR slotted the wheel into the front forks, tightened the securing nuts and then stood up. The first blow slammed into his kidneys, the second chopped into his neck and, as he twisted round and went down, a foot thudded into his stomach.

  Stack raised the unconscious figure into a sitting position and then, stooping, hoisted him into a fireman’s lift and carried him into the wood. Ten minutes later he reappeared dressed in the DR’s clothing, kicked the Norton into life and rode off. He had less than four hours of daylight in which to reach Market Weighton but from now on it was going to be a piece of cake. The DR wouldn’t make any trouble for him; since his wrists had been lashed together with a pair of bootlac
es behind the trunk of a tree, it would be too late to matter by the time his shouts for help attracted attention.

  It was just possible, through a gap in the trees, to see the waters of the Havel sparkling in the autumn sunlight, but Kastner was not in a mood to appreciate the view. He wondered why, on a Sunday afternoon, Obergruppenführer Kaltenbrunner had thought it necessary that they should meet in civilian clothes at this particular quiet spot in the Grunewald. It meant leaving his wife, Gerda, whom he rarely saw these days, to brood alone in their apartment house off the Chausee Potsdamer in the Zehlendorf District of Berlin, for the dubious pleasure of an informal conversation with his chief.

  He paced the dirt road, growing more impatient as the minutes slipped by and it became obvious that the former SS Police Leader of Vienna was going to be late for their appointment. Expecting to see an official car, he took little notice of the grey-coloured Wanderer until it drew up beside him and stopped.

  Kaltenbrunner leaned across and opened the door on the near side. ‘Get in,’ he said tersely, ‘we have a great deal to discuss.’

  Precisely why Himmler had chosen this excitable, self-indulgent and deceitful Austrian to succeed Reinhardt Heydrich had always mystified Kastner. Perhaps the scars on the left side of his face, the large ears and his murderous attitude which was utterly cold-blooded helped to make him a suitable candidate. His instinct for self-preservation was quite remarkable.

  Kastner said, ‘Which subject does the Herr Obergruppenführer wish to discuss?’

  ‘Axmann—Fraulein Margerete Axmann.”

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why was it necessary for you to question her?’

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  ‘I wondered if she knew of anyone called “Rudi”.’

  ‘And does she?’

  ‘I’m not sure—she was very guarded.’

  ‘The lady is not to be bothered again. Is that understood?’

  ‘Is that an order?’

  ‘A request from SS Reichsführer Himmler.’

  Kastner nodded. ‘Of course, I understand,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘I don’t think you do. The request was made on behalf of that odious individual, Bormann.’

  ‘Am I to ignore it then?’

  ‘Not unless you have a very good reason for doing so.’

  ‘As yet, I haven’t.’

  ‘But you have a feeling that something is wrong?’

  Kastner shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’ve seen my report on Osler and a copy of the letter sent by Baron Pierre Damon of the Credit and Merchant Bank in Geneva to a Georg Thomas care of the Bishop’s Palace in Münster, and you know the circumstances surrounding Gerhardt’s disappearance. I think something may happen in Münster over the weekend of the 14th and 15th of October which could well change the course of the war.’

  ‘For better or worse?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘After Stalingrad, that would be an impossibility. I thought everyone knew that.’

  ‘I am to ignore the situation then?’

  ‘I didn’t infer so,’ Kaltenbrunner said sharply. ‘Last night our intercept service in the Leipzig area picked up a transmission to the British Station Greenline Two which operates in Geneva.

  The text read: “The deed is everything, the repute nothing.” It is, of course, another quotation from Goethe.’

  Kastner said, ‘Is there anything else I should know?’

  ‘Himmler wants us to concentrate all our resources on uncovering the disaffection within the army. No one who was implicated in the 20th of July Plot is to be spared, and you are to complete your investigation of Major-General Paul Heinrich Gerhardt by the 7th of October at the very latest.’

  ‘That gives me less than a week.’

  ‘You’ll find a large envelope on the back seat of the car which may be of assistance to you. It contains a photostat copy of Gerhardt’s personal file and record of service.’ The Austrian smiled thinly. ‘Colonel-General Jodl obtained it for me as a favour.’

  Kastner turned, leaned over the back of his seat and picked up the fat manilla envelope. ‘I’m grateful,’ he said drily.

  ‘It makes interesting reading. In 1938 Gerhardt was Adjutant of the 91st Infantry Regiment in Münster and was on very friendly 95

  terms with a Doctor Julius Lammers. In case you are not aware of it, Lammers is the Party Gau for Westphalia and still lives in Münster.’ Kaltenbrunner paused briefly to allow this significant piece of information to sink in, and then said, ‘Should you consider it necessary to place him under close surveillance, you will act with the utmost discretion.’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘It is a thousand pities that Himmler ever went to Bormann and asked him for a personal loan from Party funds. It could make things awkward for us.’

  Kastner opened the door of the car and got out. Turning about, he said, ‘I will bear that in mind.’

  ‘Good. I think we understand one another. Just remember to keep me informed at all times Herr Oberführer.’ Kastner’s puzzled expression etched another tight smile on the Austrian’s face.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ he said. ‘You’ve just been promoted—my congratulations.’

  The door slammed in Kastner’s face, the engine fired into life and the car moved away. He stood there gazing after the Wanderer until it was a speck in the distance, and then he began walking towards the S Bahn at Nikolassee. The train would take him as far as the Anhalter station and from there it was only a short distance to his office in Prinz Albrechtstrasse. He had already decided that all letters addressed to Doctor Julius Lammers should be intercepted and scrutinised before they were finally delivered and he wished to set the necessary machinery in motion.

  He was not to know that events had already overtaken him.

  Forty-eight hours previously, Julius Lammers had received a letter posted from Rastenburg. It said:

  Dear Lammers,

  I agree that Germany is facing difficult times and it is up to all of us to do everything in our power to ensure final victory. I think your suggestion for a levee en masse to defend our country has merit, but I do not think much of your idea that this force should be called ‘The People’s Army’. Such a description smacks of Bolshevism, and I consider that ‘The Volkssturm’ would be a more appropriate title.

  As you can imagine, it is not easy for me to leave the Führer’s side these days when he needs me so much, but in view of the importance you attach to your proposed meeting with the other Party leaders, I can arrange to be in Münster on Saturday, 14th October.

  Regretfully, much as I would wish to see Fraulein Axmann again, I must decline your invitation to spend the weekend at 96

  your house. Instead, I will order the Luftwaffe to place a JU 52

  at my disposal and I will fly to Loddenheide, arriving there at fourteen hundred hours. You should arrange for a car to meet me at the airfield and note that I intend to leave at eighteen hundred. Four hours should be sufficient for our purposes, and I will expect to chair the meeting.

  Martin Bormann.

  Cowper spent Sunday evening composing a long letter to Pitts which, in masterly terms, explained precisely why he had so little faith in Ashby’s leadership. He also made a point of describing in detail everything about the exercise and his part in it, hinting that Ashby would not approve of his methods and implying that he was hidebound.

  Cowper was a man who, once he was able to see the hazards confronting him, believed in laying off the odds. Of all the personnel from Force 272 taking part in the exercise, he alone was destined to experience the least difficulty in reaching Market Weighton.

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  11

  THERE WERE DAYS when Truscott detested Whitehall and thought of it as a vast warren continually expanding and which harboured stoats, weasels and ferrets as well as the usual rabbits. He was essentially an honest and straightforward man and deviousness was foreign to his nature. The greater part of his life had been spent at regimental duty where jus
tice was done and seen to be done when the rules were broken. In Whitehall it was not always so, for here there were people who tended to seek an expedient solution if it meant they could avoid washing some dirty linen in public.

  In a briefing lasting well over an hour, he’d gathered that the Director of Plans was very anxious that any court of inquiry convened to investigate the circumstances in which Private Haase was shot and killed, should act with the utmost caution and discretion. It had also been made abundantly clear to Truscott that he was responsible for ensuring that Major-General Irvine’s wishes were respected in this matter. Whoever he detailed to handle it would need to be urbane, tactful and completely unscrupulous if there were to be no repercussions from the civil authorities. Logically therefore, Tony Dryland was the only contender for the job.

  Truscott said, ‘Do sit down, Tony.’ He pushed a box across the desk. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’

  Dryland shook his head. ‘Thank you, Colonel, but I’d rather not; I’ve got a sore throat.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It’s nothing really, just a cold.’

  Truscott lit a cigarette arid then closed the lid on the box. ‘We have a difficult problem,’ he said, ‘which I want you to handle.

  You’re probably aware that a Private Haase was accidentally killed on Saturday night while taking part in an escape and evasion exercise organised by Force 272?’

  ‘I had heard something about it,’ Dryland said quietly, ‘you know how rumours get around.’

  Truscott raised an eyebrow. ‘Quite, and our job is to see that they’re scotched before the affair is blown up out of all proportion.

  Fortunately, the Home Office has agreed that a coroner’s court 98

  will not be necessary provided they receive a copy of the findings of our court of inquiry.’

  ‘Is that normal practice?’

  Truscott ignored the question. ‘The Director of Plans is extremely anxious that the court proceedings should be conducted in a low key, and that’s where you come in.’ He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Dryland. ‘Army Form A2,’ he said, ‘the convening order for the court of inquiry signed by the Adjutant General on behalf of the C in C Home Forces. You will see that a Lieutenant-Colonel Robinson of the Army Legal Services has been named as President to make the proceedings more acceptable to the Home Office, and you’re down as one of the members. The court will assemble at Abercorn House tomorrow, Wednesday 4th October at eleven hundred and will take evidence from Lieutenant-Colonel Ashby, Major Ottaway, Private Scholl and a Mr Woodhouse.’