He sat down again, as Manteufel breathlessly approached the table, motioning to the German to take a seat.
“Kaffee?” asked Kelly. They always conversed together in German.
“I would love one, but don’t have enough time.” Kelly observed Horst Manteufel. Middle aged with blond hair turning to grey and receding at the temples. His face was careworn, creased with worry and concern. Manteufel looked fifty but was in fact in his early forties.
In some ways Kelly felt sorry for the man. Manteufel had fallen into people smuggling in much the same way that Kelly had become involved in his own line of work, more by accident than design. Manteufel had a distinguished service record having served as a paratrooper in North Africa. Later he was involved in the defence of Berlin but had evaded capture when the Soviets had overrun the city.
Kelly knew that Manteufel had a family which included young children, but he also recognised that if and when the time came to eliminate this man he would do so without hesitation. Manteufel had been responsible for the escape of a number of war criminals and was plotting the escape of one of the most wanted men on the planet.
“Where is Müller?” asked Kelly. Müller was Manteufel’s latest project, an evil man who had worked closely with Heydrich and Eichmann on the so called ‘Final Solution’. It had been Kelly’s job to find him. He had partially traced him to Manteufel, who was believed to be trying to get him to South America, although extradition was becoming increasingly difficult for Manteufel and his kind, as the allied powers improved their awareness and security procedures over time.
Consequently, when Kelly, posing as a southern Irishman named Tom Driscoll, had allowed it to be known on the underground that he had a route out, Manteufel had beaten a path to find him.
Today’s meeting was meant to be the partial exchange of tickets and contacts in exchange for a deposit. Kelly had explained that he would need to take a picture of Müller in order to produce and supply the final identification papers and documents. It had been imperative to convince Manteufel on more than one occasion that he was not prepared to accept a picture from a third party. He needed to be absolutely sure who he was dealing with. “You can’t be too careful,” he had explained to Manteufel.
“He wouldn’t come here,” said Manteufel hesitantly, “too open.” He jerked his head and Kelly looked in the direction indicated. A group of four military policemen in battledress, easily identified by their red caps, stood chatting near the exit. Kelly smiled inwardly. If Manteufel had known it, the real threat to him were the two cleaners sweeping near the departure gate, the big guy behind the cafeteria counter and the baggage checker on the departure gate. All were G men from MI5.
“So, what now?” asked Kelly in a bored voice.
“I have brought the pictures you need,” said Manteufel, eagerly pulling a number of passport size photographs from his wallet. Kelly noted the single five mark note and the sweat forming on Manteufel’s brow. He’s desperate, thought Kelly.
Kelly ignored the photographs, rose, threw his newspaper in the nearest bin then picked up his coat and started to walk towards the exit. Manteufel was out of his seat and scampering alongside.
“Please be reasonable, Mr Driscoll. It’s the best I can do.” Kelly stopped and faced him.
“Look Horst, this is nothing personal, but we’ve been over this many times before. I can’t waste any more time on this project. Please don’t contact me again. I have people waiting for ‘extradition’. Tell your man—Müller or Miller or whatever the hell his name is—that he’ll need to find someone else to save his worthless life!”
Kelly started again for the exit. “Alright! Alright!” exclaimed Manteufel, clearly alarmed, then more calmly, “Alright Tom. Can you telephone me tomorrow from the call box near the junction of the Kurfürstendamm and Joachimsthalerstrasse, just opposite the broken tooth? I promise to deliver him. Please Tom!”
Kelly knew the area. The ‘broken tooth’ was the local slang for the ruins of the Gedächtniskirche, a poignant and lasting monument to the war. He stood for a moment, his mouth turned down and his brow furrowed as if pondering whether this really was worth pursuing. At last he said, “Alright Horst, we’ll give it one more go. Try to pick somewhere scenic for the meeting. We can pretend to be taking tourist photos. I only need three pictures, and then your friend can disappear again until he is ready to move.”
Kelly watched Manteufel leave the building then slipped his hand into his jacket and withdrew the photo he had palmed from the table. He would have this checked to ensure that it really was the same Müller he was searching for.
The ringing tone was steady, but there was no pickup. Kelly was about to replace the handset when finally, there was a click at the other end and a distant, crackly voice spoke.
“Ja, wer spricht?”
“Horst, is that you? It’s me, Tom!”
“Ah! Tom, good! Can you see the ruined church?”
“Yes?”
“To the right of the ruins, can you see an American car?”
“Yes.”
“Good! Get in it. It will bring you to the rendezvous.” There was a click and the line was dead.
Thoughts were crashing through Kelly’s mind. It could be a trap. On the other hand, if it was a trap there would be no benefit to Manteufel who was desperate for this deal to go through. Kelly dare not ring HQ in Spandau, as they were bound to be watching him from the limo.
Kelly strode purposefully towards the Studebaker, opened the passenger door, and climbed in without a word. The driver was just in the process of putting a pair of binoculars into the glove compartment. There were two other large male occupants in the rear seats.
“Good day,” said the driver.
Kelly nodded but said nothing.
The car pulled out and drove the short distance to Joachimsthalerstrasse before turning right and then almost immediately left. They continued west until the road merged with the Heerstrasse, shortly after which they turned into the Olympic stadium. Odd place to choose, thought Kelly, smack in the middle of the British sector, and very public.
They disembarked in a small car park and joined Manteufel waiting near the entrance, then as a group walked towards the main stadium.
The driver stopped them and spoke quickly. “We can’t go in together. Looks odd. We will split up. I will go on ahead. Driscoll, you go with Gunter.” He indicated one of the heavies. “Manteufel, you go with Wilhelm.”
“I am going in with Manteufel” said Kelly decisively. “There are some financial matters we need to discuss before we meet our friend.”
“It’s better the way I suggested,” said the driver, with just a hint of menace in his voice.
“No! My way.” Kelly spoke quietly, but with way more than a hint of menace. He was staring hard at the driver, his eyes neither wavering nor blinking.
The standoff lasted several seconds before the driver looked away, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered, “As you please.”
Kelly had seized on the very slimmest kernel of an idea to bring this mission to an end at this meeting. The next few minutes as they approached the entrance in their separate groups would be critical.
He walked slowly, allowing himself and Manteufel to open a sizable gap on the other two groups, then spoke quietly. “Listen Horst,” he said to grab his attention, then opened his jacket sufficiently for Manteufel to see the pistol in the shoulder holster. “Keep quiet and listen. If you betray me, I will shoot you without the slightest hesitation. Do you understand?”
Manteufel nodded without betraying the slightest emotion. This could go either way, thought Kelly. He might be a low life smuggler, but he was an experienced and brave low life smuggler.
“I am with British security,” continued Kelly. “I am going to take Müller today, but I’ll need your help. If you help me, I will guarantee you will come off the wanted list and go home to your kids a free man. You know the alternative.”
“What’s to stop me gi
ving you up to these animals in front? When we get to the stadium there will be five, including Müller, against you. You won’t have a chance.” Manteufel’s voice was steady, as was his gaze. Kelly guessed he already knew the answer but was testing.
“Everyone in British security from the office cat upwards knows you are my contact. If I die today, your life will not be worth a light and God help your wife and kids in the Soviet zone if our red friends find out you denied them the pleasure of meeting some of the senior German officers who were in charge at Stalingrad.”
“And they would?” sneered Manteufel.
“Inevitably, I fear,” answered Kelly.
“What do you want me to do?” asked the German, resignation registering in his voice. What choice did he have?
“Take down the driver and one if not both of the heavies. I’ll deal with the other heavy, but I’d like to try to get Müller alive. It’s four against two, but they won’t be expecting this. We have the advantage.”
“And how do I take them down? With a pea shooter?”
Kelly shifted his hand to the second pistol stuffed into the waist band of his trousers, then, waiting for a moment when none of the others were looking back at them, he passed it to Manteufel who took it and quickly slipped it into his coat pocket.
“You with me, Horst?” asked Kelly.
“I’m with you! God help us both.”
They walked into the almost empty stadium where a few couples were visiting, some taking pictures. Kelly had visited on a number of occasions and had never failed to feel the sense of history. There was the podium where Hitler had stood for the salute and sat in fury as Jesse Owens made athletics history on this very track.
On this particular occasion, however, his mind was elsewhere.
The group met with Müller at the large bowl which had housed the flame at the 1936 Olympic Games. The driver and his two henchmen moved off about ten yards and remained in a group. Müller posed at the flame, for all the world a tourist, while Kelly positioned him for the photographs. Manteufel hovered close by.
“One more, Herr Müller. I need a good close up.” Then to Manteufel, “This will be the last shot Horst, then we are done.”
“Good!” Manteufel shrugged and ambled slowly towards the group of bodyguards, his hands in his pockets.
When Kelly felt close enough to Müller, he dropped the camera, grabbed Müller around the neck and hurled him to the floor. He whipped out his pistol and shot into the group, simultaneously screaming to Manteufel. Kelly glimpsed the man he had fired at fall, before his attention was diverted to Müller who was drawing a pistol out from under his coat. Kelly pistol-whipped the German viciously across the mouth then crashed his foot down on the hand containing the pistol, hearing the bones crack. At the same time, he became aware of pistol shots. Looking up he saw Manteufel crouched on one knee, the pistol in both hands the arms outstretched in front, infantry style. The last of the three bodyguards was sinking to the ground.
Then Manteufel was up, bent double as he weaved and skirmished towards the three downed men, his pistol at the ready. There was a crack as a pistol shot signalled the end of one of the wounded bodyguards. Manteufel sauntered over to Kelly, his hands back in his pocket, breathing deeply, but outwardly looking perfectly calm.
This man is a professional, thought Kelly.
Kelly was kneeling on Müller, both of whose arms were forced up his back. The fight had gone out of Müller, he knew it was all up, but Kelly was taking no chances.
“What now?” asked Manteufel.
“Now you slip the pistol into my pocket and then we wait for the military police. You will initially be taken prisoner as well, but you have my word I will have you released.”
“I have your word?” asked Manteufel staring directly into Kelly’s eyes.
“You have my word!” answered Kelly returning the gaze. Manteufel hesitated a moment, then slipped the pistol into Kelly’s pocket, sat down on one of the steps and waited. He didn’t have long to wait before khaki figures wearing red caps were pouring into the stadium, their 9 mm Brownings drawn and cocked.
Kelly raised his eyes in the direction of the last few slices of the Chateaubriand Béarnaise, but Sybilla blew out her cheeks and shook her head. It had been a delicious meal, as always in the Pavilion Du Lac, and there simply wasn’t any room left for dessert.
They liked the pavilion. Being set as it was in the French sector, it made it easier for the two of them to remain reasonably discreet. It was a rare treat for them to meet and dine together. When either one or the other was undercover, they were unable to meet at all and therefore, of necessity, lived in separate flats near the old Spandau machine gun factory.
The factory had now been taken over by the British forces as a repair depot, but a small and private corner of the factory housed the Berlin MI5 HQ.
“Have you managed to engineer Manteufel’s release?” asked Sybilla.
“Not yet,” answered Kelly, pondering whether he really could manage just one more slice of beef. “It will take a bit of doing, but I’ve made the promise so I have to go through with it. He’s been inside for two months, but that’s nothing compared with what he would have received.”
“I imagine the Russians would love to get their hands on him?”
“Oh yes!” said Kelly. “Most definitely. We have had to move his family to a safe house in the British sector. But I think he and his family may eventually need to be transferred to West Germany. It could well be too hot for him here.”
“Do you regret involving him?” asked Sybilla. “It’s given you a lot of additional work.”
Kelly shook his head. “Not in the slightest. I saw an opportunity of getting Müller and I seized it. I couldn’t have done it without Manteufel’s help. If I’d let Müller walk away from the stadium, I might never have seen him again. I think he was getting suspicious over the photo thing.”
“And Müller?”
“In Spandau prison at the moment until the authorities decide what to do with him; my guess is he will be executed,” said Kelly sombrely. Their deliberations were interrupted by the receptionist who advised Kelly that there was an urgent telephone call for him.
Kelly took the call at the reception desk, “Dan? It’s Bob McFarlane. Your HQ told me you’d be there. Get somewhere where you can speak in private, then call me back!”
The phone went dead.
The telephone had barely started ringing when it was picked up. “McFarlane!” snapped the Scots voice on the end of the phone.
“It’s Dan Kelly, Bob.”
“Dan, thanks for being so quick. Where are you?”
“I’m in Billa’s apartment, in Spandau.”
“Dan this is a bloody mess! Müller is out!”
“What!” exclaimed Kelly, anger and frustration clear in his voice.
“Seems he feigned a heart attack and was sprung on his way to the British Military Hospital,” explained McFarlane.
“Manteufel …?” started Kelly.
McFarlane cut him off. “Still in Plotzensee and spitting blood, not to say scared witless. He wants to see you. Says he has something to offer if you can guarantee to make him ‘invisible’.”
“Do I start looking for Müller again?” asked Kelly.
“No” responded McFarlane. “You’re compromised now. He knows you, and he knows you put him in prison. I’ll get someone else involved.” There was a pause, then McFarlane continued, “I think you should find out from Manteufel what he wants. He hinted very heavily that treasure is involved.”
“Would he have that sort of information?” Kelly sounded doubtful.
“He might have,” answered McFarlane. “Did you know he was Stabsfeldwebel in the bunker?”
“Sergeant Major in the Führer’s Bunker?” Kelly exclaimed. “He kept that quiet!”
“Exactly!” said McFarlane. “He’s drip feeding us information a bit at a time, presumably to get the best terms possible.” There was a pause th
en McFarlane said, “We ought to investigate this, Dan. The main Nazi treasure horde has yet to be recovered. If that’s what he’s hinting at, we’re talking about countless millions, possibly even billions.”
Kelly whistled. “It’s the sort of information he might just have picked up in the bunker. Hmm. Who knows? Do you want me to pick this up, Bob?”
“He’s your man, Dan. Anyway, that’s the good news. The bad news is I’m going to separate you from Billa.”
“What’s new!” responded Kelly, but actually he knew that he and Sybilla had been lucky to have been posted together in Berlin. They were well aware it wouldn’t last. Both were grateful to Bob McFarlane for his consideration.
“I’m sending her after Müller. A contact in France has information that he is headed that way. I think you might know him.”
“Go on.”
“A Priest. Rahn?”
“Wolfgang Rahn?” asked Kelly in astonishment.
“The same,” confirmed McFarlane.
Kelly’s head was spinning, this was incredible.
“Seems this priest continued with his parish after the war, but still remained active for the French security services. Hell of a cover!”
Kelly smiled to himself. After the initial shock, he wasn’t that surprised. There was no way Wolf Rahn could sit back and relax.
“I’ll brief Sybilla in the morning,” continued McFarlane, “but I want you in Plotzensee first thing. Extract any information you can from Manteufel. Promise him the earth if you need to. Follow this up and keep me in the loop.”
“I understand,” said Kelly, feeling the excitement rising within him.
Cast No Shadow: A Thrilling WW2 Adventure (Dragan Kelly Book 1) Page 28
