A Thousand Suns

by Alex Scarrow

  Chapter 10

  Contemplation

  Somewhat oddly he was thinking about the Department when it rang him. He had been thinking how best to deploy what remained of the legacy budget. There was just under 300,000 dollars left, and it was arguably approaching the time when he could look to start wrapping things up. Bob Palantino, the last man left on the payroll, was approaching his mandatory retirement age. Bob had been a good desk man, reliable, discreet and very organised. When Bob served up his last day, he wondered whether it would be wise to bother enrolling a replacement. The old guy knew most of it.

  But not everything.

  Bob knew enough, but then he had worked down there on that windowless mezzanine floor for a long time now, nearly forty years. If he took on a replacement to continue as the ‘caretaker’ after Bob hung up his hat, then it would mean bringing someone new in on the secret, and that meant introducing an unnecessary element of risk. The fewer in the know the better, especially now, after such a long time. After all, the secret, ‘Truman’s legacy’ as he sometimes liked to refer to it, was very nearly dead and buried.

  Or so he had thought.

  Then there had been that damned call from Bob. After all this time it looked like someone had snagged their nets on the bomber, Medusa.

  He had spent some time pondering what to do over that.

  Well, now, what it didn’t require was a rushed, ill-considered response . . . absolutely no need to panic here. It was just the wreck of a wartime plane sitting at an acceptable depth in uncomfortably cold water; hardly the sort of destination for casual holiday snorkellers, and not exactly a big story; just a small item of interest in a local rag.

  But, he reflected, it would need to be dealt with in due course. It would need tidying up.

  He had enough money left in the budget to hire in some freelancers. A couple of divers hired in to go down there and collect the offending item. No questions asked. Probably ex-servicemen, ex-agency bagmen, professional enough to just get on and do the task and leave the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ to someone else.

  That would wrap it up nicely. He would have them retrieve it carefully and have them take it out into deeper waters and drop it there.

  He had begun to discreetly organise this ‘tidy-up’ job, once more returning to DC and the dark dungeons of the Department floor, at least for a few days, providing old Bob with a bit of company while he set about making the necessary calls to start the wheels turning when, as an old acquaintance of his had the habit of saying, the proverbial hit the fan.

  He discovered there was some damned journalist poking around in the town near the crash site. Poking around and asking questions. God knows if the nosy shit-stick had access to diving equipment and been down below to take a look at the plane.

  He hoped to God that this guy hadn’t.

  Agitated and unnerved by the thought, he distractedly rubbed his temple, attempting to ease away the tension building up there. He didn’t need this. Not now. After so much hard work on his part, for so long . . . so much dedication, it could all unravel if this nosy sonofabitch managed to spot what was down there in the plane. If he sat back and did nothing, there was just enough out there to be pieced together. There was enough there to tell the tale; enough goddamned skeletons to crucify the Department.

  What the hell - not to put too fine a point on it, to crucify him.

  He took a deep breath, still gently caressing the side of his head, trying to massage his headache away and clear his mind, and decided the next move.

  This needs to be handled carefully, gently, my friend. Observation first; find out how much he knows, see what he’s got, if anything, and then take it from him. Most important . . . find out the exact location of Medusa, and remove what’s down there.

  He picked up a phone.

  He needed a small team of freelancers, ones with street surveillance experience and enough smarts to stay invisible. And, of course, the dive team.

  And that was pretty much going to clear out the last of the Department’s budget.

  Chapter 11

  Finding KG-301

  11 April 1945, east of Berlin

  The road leading into Berlin was a logjam of vehicles, mostly trucks, he noticed. What was left of the Eastern armies had precious few armoured vehicles left, and those that hadn’t been torn apart by T34s or enemy artillery were being mustered for one of several rearguard actions being hastily thrown together along the Potsdam River.

  Leutnant Höstner shook his head. This ragtag procession of men, trucks and the occasional horse-drawn cart wasn’t an army any longer. It didn’t deserve that kind of description, that kind of word. It didn’t deserve any word that conveyed the concept of order, discipline or structure. This was a disorganised rout, little more than a shambolic stream of refugees, united only by a shared desire to leave behind a war they had lost months, if not years, ago.

  It certainly wasn’t an army. Not any more.

  The road had been used as one of the principal supply arteries leading east through Poland towards Russia. It had been widened and resurfaced to facilitate the movement of vehicles and supplies and had been a superbly efficient channel down which thousands of trucks had passed effortlessly since ’41 to supply the rapidly advancing eastern front. But now it was riddled with potholes and craters and caked with a thick layer of mud.

  Höstner scanned the trucks as they passed by his parked VW Kubelwagon and the spare supply truck he’d commandeered. The men in the convoy stared contemptuously at him as they rolled past, seeing his uniform and instinctively reacting with thinly veiled hostility. Several men spat in his direction. Most of them were too tired to offer even that gesture. A year ago his SS uniform would have been intimidating to these men, four years ago it would have inspired admiration from many of them. Right now, Höstner felt like he was wearing a big bloody target.

  It was cold. He’d been standing here for well over three hours, since first light, waiting for the column to arrive. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had ‘officially’ turned up. Since dawn he’d watched a sporadic trickle of soldiers on foot shuffle pass, which had gradually over the last few hours developed into the column of vehicles before him that extended as far as the eye could see. How the hell he was meant to find the men he was after amidst this flowing river of defeat he didn’t know. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. No, worse than that, this particular needle was on the move and could already have passed him by.

  Höstner decided it was time to flag down one or two of these trucks and ask some questions.

  Be careful of these men, Jan Höstner.

  Höstner subconsciously felt for his gun holster, and allowed his gloved hand to seek reassurance from the grip of his Walther.

  Things were beginning to fall apart. The authority of the junior officer ranks was rapidly failing amongst the enlisted men. They were far less worried about them and any issues of insubordination than they were about the Russian army snapping at their heels. These days, an officer was likely to have an order obeyed only if it coincided with the interests of the soldiers it was given to. It was unspoken amongst the men, but they all knew the war was just weeks away from ending. The threat of a pending court martial meant nothing now.

  He watched them pass by, a procession of drawn, empty faces. Most of these men were veterans, professional soldiers who had spent the last two years fighting the most barbaric campaign of this war. And they had lost badly. Right now, there was no enmity between the men and their officers. After all, they had all suffered hell together. These men simply viewed what was left of the command structure now as, at best, irrelevant.

  The SS, however, that was something different; they were still worth despising. Höstner was acutely aware that his uniform was going to cause him problems.

  He made his way carefully down the muddy bank at the side of the road towards the slowly moving column. He watched several trucks rumble and clatter past, splattering his boots and the bott
om of his greatcoat with mud. He could see the faces of the drivers through grime-speckled windscreens, drivers who Höstner could imagine were wrestling with the temptation to swerve their truck enough to ‘accidentally’ roll over him. No one here would care that much, accidents happen.

  He decided he was tempting fate standing on the roadside inches away from those large churning wheels and quickly clambered up onto the running board of the next truck that rumbled past. The driver cracked open his window an inch, careful not to lose too much of the body heat he’d built up inside the cabin.

  ‘What do you want?’ The driver shouted through the gap.

  Only a few weeks ago Höstner would have scolded the man for such an insubordinate response. He bit his lip - those days were long gone.

  ‘I’m looking for some Luftwaffe men. I’m told some men from KG-301 have joined the column.’

  ‘We’ve got men from all over.’

  ‘Have you got any in your truck?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know! Men climb aboard if they can see any space. I don’t have a clue who’s back there.’

  Höstner decided the driver could tell him nothing useful. He jumped down off the truck onto the muddy road, and the truck slowly rolled away. He probably wasn’t going to have much luck with any of the other drivers.

  As the next one trundled past, Höstner grabbed the tailboard and pulled himself up. He lifted the canvas cover at the back. Inside, sitting in darkness there were about thirty men. The smell struck him immediately, a mixture of body odour and infected wounds. The men nearest the open flap shivered with the blast of incoming air.

  Höstner mustered his most commanding voice. ‘Any men from KG-301 in here?’

  No one replied.

  ‘Has anyone seen any Luftwaffe personnel?’

  The men remained silent. Höstner knew he carried little, if any, authority here. Chastising or threatening them would achieve nothing. He sought a different approach.

  On your hands and knees, Jan . . . and talk to them at their level.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to find some men, Luftwaffe lads. No one’s in trouble, I just need to find them or else I’ll be in shit.’ He hoped he sounded like a common soldier, just carrying out orders, just trying to keep his head down and do as he’s told.

  ‘Why?’ A voice from the back of the truck.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just following orders. Help me out, please.’

  ‘Yeah? . . . so that you bastards can shoot them?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. They -’

  ‘Go on, piss off.’

  Höstner pulled his head out from inside and let the canvas flap drop down. He jumped off the back on to the muddy road again.

  This was a bloody nightmare. There was no way he was going to find these men like this. He decided to head back to his Kubelwagon, light up the oil heater he’d brought along, warm himself up and rethink his plan.

  Höstner climbed the earthy bank at the side of the road to get away from the trucks. He walked slowly towards his vehicle, imagining how he would break the news to Major Rall that he’d been unable to locate the men despite his orders not to return without them. Surely the Major realised it was going to be a long shot, trying to find four men amongst tens of thousands?

  He hadn’t been wrong back there in the truck when he’d said he’d be in shit if he failed to find them.

  A long convoy of open-topped trucks were passing by. Höstner looked at the men shivering in the back. Their faces said it all. Win or lose, we want this over.

  Maybe they had the right idea.

  In a few weeks’ time, maybe even days, it would all be finished. So why not join them? Why not just lose the uniform and join the men heading back to Germany? Many of these men were no doubt contemplating finding American and British units to surrender to, once they were near enough to them to make a dash for it.

  It was tempting.

  He knew the Allies would be sifting their German POWs for SS. But amidst the hundreds of thousands of men he could easily hide. And if the worst came to the worst and he was uncovered as ex-SS . . . Well, Höstner could not recall being directly associated to some of the more disturbing activities of his colleagues. He had only been an intelligence officer. That was all.

  Very tempting.

  An open truck with Luftwaffe personnel in the back passed him by.

  Höstner instantly dismissed his nebulous thoughts of desertion and descended the earth bank at the double, landing with a messy splash in the ankle-deep muck once more. He raced after the truck, his smooth-soled boots slipping perilously a couple of times, and reached out for the tailboard, only just managing to get a hold of it. With a gasp of exertion he pulled himself up.

  There were twenty to thirty men huddled on the back and exposed to the open air. Few of them had winter coats, most of them shivered in just their uniform tunics. Höstner addressed the group of Luftwaffe men.

  ‘Do you men know if there’s anybody in this column from KG-301?’

  One of them looked up at him. ‘Yeah, there are a few of us here.’

  ‘You’re from 301?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s a few ground crew in the truck behind. I don’t know where the rest are.’

  Höstner sighed with relief. He was getting somewhere.

  ‘I’m trying to find an Oberleutnant Max Kleinmann. According to my records he was commanding Staffel 109f. Do you know if he is here, in this column somewhere?’

  The man looked at him with suspicion. ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘In that case I don’t recall seeing him. Now do the decent thing and piss off, Leutnant, before we throw you off.’

  Höstner felt anger welling up inside him. He’d taken just about enough shit this morning. He instinctively reached down for his gun and pulled it out. ‘This is still a fucking army, and you are -’

  ‘Put the gun away, unless you’ve got enough bullets in there for all of us,’ the man said quietly. Höstner looked around at the soldiers on the truck. They looked like they’d beat him to a pulp if he tried using it. Tense seconds passed by as he weighed up whether to risk continuing to assert his authority with the help of his handgun. The men in the truck weren’t even looking at it; they’d had their fill in recent weeks of agitated junior officers waving their guns menacingly and threatening death and damnation.

  Höstner placed it back in his holster, and managed a conciliatory smile. ‘Look. I’m sorry . . . I -’

  ‘There, wasn’t so hard, was it? Treating us with a little courtesy. You’re after Max Kleinmann?’

  Höstner nodded.

  ‘Then you’ve found him. I’m Max Kleinmann.’

  One of the other Luftwaffe men turned to face Max. ‘What the fuck -’

  ‘Relax, Pieter, the bastards’ll track me down one way or the other.’

  The SS officer looked at the other Luftwaffe men. ‘And these men are your crew?’

  The second Luftwaffe man, Pieter, turned to two of the other men and shared a silent nod before turning back to Höstner. ‘We are his crew.’ He looked at Max. ‘We stay together, right, boss?’

  Max nodded grimly. That was the deal. ‘Okay, Pieter.’ He turned to Höstner and nodded. ‘You heard him,’ he gestured to Pieter and two other Luftwaffe men huddled next to him. ‘These sorry-looking fools are my crew.’

  Höstner smiled. ‘Thank God! I’ve been freezing my balls off here since first light. Gentlemen, will you come with me please?’

  ‘Why? What’s this about?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just following orders.’

  Max sat up stiffly. ‘We’re not going anywhere until we know why.’

  ‘There is nothing to worry about, Oberleutnant. Listen, I have a truck parked nearby, with an oil heater inside . . . and a flask of soup. Huh?’

  Pieter and Max looked at each other, and shared a glance with the other two.

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Max.


  Chapter 12

  The Telephone Call

  Chris kneeled uncomfortably on the hard tiles of the bathroom floor, counting out a forty-five-second photographic exposure, his familiar crimson studio-world temporarily obliterated by a blast of white light from the enlarger’s small fluorescent tube. He wore red-eye goggles to preserve his dark-adjusted vision.

  His mobile phone started to bleep the Simpsons’ theme tune.

  ‘Shit!’

  It was in the bedroom. He let it ring out, desperately trying to keep track of his countdown as it ran through the irritating ring tone three more times.

  ‘Three . . . two . . . one.’ He snapped off the light and covered the exposed photo-paper before lurching out of the bathroom to catch the phone before it rang off. He knew it would be his agency. Chris had been expecting them to get in touch to confirm receipt of the advance from News Fortnite.

  The mobile predictably went silent as he grabbed hold of it.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  Chris checked the number of the caller. It had been withheld. That was almost as irritating as answerphone messages from people who identified themselves with ‘It’s me’ and expected him to know who to phone back. Only Chris’s mum could get away with that.

  He loitered by the phone for half a minute before deciding that whoever it was had either dialled a wrong number or reckoned whatever it was could wait.

  He was reaching out for the bathroom door when it rang again. He was quicker this time and interrupted the first bar of the tune.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good evening.’ The voice of a man. No one he recognised.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Uh . . . my name is James Wallace.’

  Chris quickly trawled through his mental list of business contacts; the name meant nothing to him.

  ‘Sorry, mate, I’m not -’

  ‘I used to work for the Office of Strategic Services during the war.’