RAID 42
By the same author
DI Joe Faraday Investigations
Turnstone
The Take
Angels Passing
Deadlight
Cut to Black
Blood and Honey
One Under
The Price of Darkness
No Lovelier Death
Beyond Reach
Borrowed Light
Happy Days
DS Jimmy Suttle Investigations
Western Approaches
Touching Distance
Sins of the Father
The Order of Things
Wars Within
Finisterre
Aurore
Estocada
Raid 42
FICTION
Rules of Engagement
Reaper
The Devil’s Breath
Thunder in the Blood
Sabbathman
The Perfect Soldier
Heaven’s Light
Nocturne
Permissible Limits
The Chop
The Ghosts of 2012
Strictly No Flowers
NON-FICTION
Lucky Break
Airshow
Estuary
Backstory
GRAHAM HURLEY
RAID 42
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Graham Hurley, 2019
The moral right of Graham Hurley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB) 9781788547505
ISBN (ANZTPB) 9781788547512
ISBN (E) 9781788547499
Cover images:
Soldier: Arcangel
Plane: AKG Images
Background © Shutterstock.com
Head of Zeus Ltd
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To Ute, Fiona,
And the memory of Sgt Ollie Kemp
‘This place is full of corpses, dancing and playing at war’
Erich Maria Remarque, The Night in Lisbon (1962)
Contents
By the same author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prelude
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
BOOK TWO
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
PRELUDE
London. A full moon rose on the night of 10 May 1941. It happened to be a Saturday. Luftwaffe bomber crews ate an early supper on their bases across the Channel and hours later the first wave of Heinkels and Dorniers lined up for take-off as the last glimmers of daylight died on the western horizon. Past ten o’clock, radar stations on the south coast were warning about the imminence of a major raid and within minutes ground observers in Kent and Essex reported enemy aircraft in sight. German aircrew peered down at the Thames estuary, silver in the moonlight, as RAF controllers scrambled night fighters and air raid sirens in the capital emptied the pubs.
One of the first bombs to hit the Palace of Westminster was an incendiary. The Victoria Tower was already under repair and a police sergeant climbed a tangle of scaffolding to extinguish the burning magnesium with a sandbag. Minutes later, high explosive bombs killed two auxiliary policemen, shattered windows and brought down a wall.
By midnight, with the bombs still falling, firemen were battling to save the House of Commons and Westminster Hall. Fifty fire pumps struggled to contain the blaze, hosing water directly from the Thames, but by daybreak both the Commons chamber and the Members’ Lobby had been destroyed. The Speaker’s chair was a pile of ashes and the padded green leather seats in the chamber, famous worldwide, were charred beyond recognition. Onlookers that Sunday morning stared at the drifts of smoking rubble, uncomprehending. The mother of parliaments had survived months of savage bombing throughout the blitz. Now this.
*
That same night, 340 miles to the north, a lone Me-110 appeared on another set of radar screens. It roared over the tiny coastal town of Bamburgh and disappeared into the darkness towards the west. Three Spitfires and a Defiant night fighter were ordered to intercept but failed to find the enemy aircraft. Thirty-four minutes later, his fuel tanks close to empty, the lone pilot baled out.
Word of the fast-developing raid on London had already reached Scotland but no one suspected that the two events might be linked. By now, radar controllers in the north had assigned the mystery intruder a codename.
Raid 42.
BOOK ONE
1
Six months earlier, on 14 November 1940, Major Georg Messner was trying to find a dentist. Messner was assigned to the Reichsregierung, Hitler’s personal transport squadron out at Tempelhof airfield and spent his working days at the controls of a Ju-52, ferrying his Führer and an assortment of other Nazi chieftains to the far corners of the Reich. On this particular day he’d just returned to Berlin with Goering and a couple of aides from the Reichsmarschall’s private office. A rogue tooth and ulcerated gum had been bothering Messner for weeks. Vague promises of dental help from the squadron’s medical officer had come to nothing. Now, the pain was close to unbearable.
He telephoned his wife from the main squadron office. She and their two-year-old daughter lived in a summer house on the shores of the Wannsee. So far Beata and young Lottie hadn’t been troubled by the increasingly frequent RAF raids on the capital, though Messner, like many of his colleagues, wasn’t sure how long this blessing would last. First thing this morning, moments before Messner had set off for the airfield, Beata had promised to lay hands on a dentist. Now all her husband wanted was a name and an address.
‘Kohnsson.’ She spelled out the name.
‘Jewish?’
‘I’m told not.’ She gave him an address in Charlottenburg.
‘You’ve talked to the man?’
‘Only his wife. She sounded nice. They’re leaving for Leipzig tomorrow but he can see you tonight as long as you’re there between nine and half past. They live above the surgery. And if you’ve got the money he might be able to find a little gold for the filling.’
Messner pulled a face. These days, if you could even lay hands on a dentist, they plugged teeth with tin alloy. Gold would be a godsend but it would cost a fortune.
‘You couldn’t find anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘You tried?’
‘Of course I tried. And I’m your wife, by the way, not your secretary.’
Messner mumbled an apology. G
etting by on nothing but soup, he said, did strange things to a man.
Beata wanted to know whether he’d need something to eat when he finally got home. Messner was checking his watch. Nearly seven.
‘I imagine that depends on Herr Kohnsson,’ he said.
*
Under normal circumstances, Charlottenburg was half an hour from Tempelhof and as far as Messner knew there were no expected raids this evening. In any event, the English bombers – few as they were – rarely turned up before ten and so Messner settled down to sort out some of the last week’s paperwork. Within minutes, the door opened and he was looking at the squadron adjutant, an ex-Heinkel pilot who’d lost a leg in a pre-war training accident but whose web of connections seemed to include everyone in the Wilhelmstrasse.
‘You’re off home tonight? Or sleeping here?’
‘Home.’
‘Best leave early. Luftgaukommando are calling a raid for nine thirty.’
Luftgaukommando was the organisation responsible for the night-time defence of Berlin. They were in constant touch with a chain of Freya radar stations stretching all the way to the North Sea. Flying time from the coast to Berlin was nearly three hours.
‘We believe them?’ Messner asked.
‘We believe anything. Goering’s at the Russian Embassy tonight, along with Ribbentrop. Molotov’s in town. If I was British I’d know where I’d be dropping my bombs.’
Molotov, Messner knew, was the Russian Foreign Minister. He’d heard his name mentioned on today’s flight back from Munich. Both times by Ribbentrop, the Reich’s Foreign Minister, and one of the VIP passengers in the Ju-52.
‘Nine thirty’s early,’ Messner said.
‘I expect it coincides with the cheese course. The Russians are mad about Handkäse, especially these days. The British spend their lives spoiling everyone else’s party. It’s one of the few pleasures they have left.’
The adjutant shot him a grin and limped out of the office. Messner listened to the tap-tap of his false leg as he disappeared down the corridor. The sensible thing would be to leave now, while driving in the blackout was still legal. The moment the sirens sounded, all traffic had to come to a halt and park. But leaving at half past eight would still give him plenty of time and so he picked up his pen again, running his tongue over his throbbing gum, determined to get the better of the paperwork.
Nearly an hour later, he’d finished. Nearly half past eight. The adjutant was still at his desk down the corridor and looked up when Messner said goodnight.
‘You’re crazy,’ he tapped his watch. ‘They’re twenty-five minutes away.’
‘The British?’
‘Ja.’
Messner ran across the hardstanding to the allotted parking spaces. His own BMW was under repair and he’d borrowed Beata’s Volkswagen for this morning’s trip. Now, in the darkness, he had a moment’s difficulty getting the door open. Then he stirred the rattly old engine into life and headed for the long curl of concrete that led to the exit gate. A guard on the gate brought him to a halt with a torch. The adjutant had been right. The sirens would sound any minute.
Messner gunned the engine. Travelling at night without headlights was, as he knew only too well, an acquired art. In the gloom of the blackout you had to grope your way from landmark to landmark, constantly alert for the sudden loom of other vehicles. The official speed limit of 20 kph was often the triumph of optimism over blind faith but Georg Messner prided himself on his night vision and tonight of all nights he was determined to get to the dentist’s chair before the RAF arrived and made life a little more difficult.
The air raid sirens began to wail seconds later. Messner was following what looked like a lorry, probably full of coal. The driver stood on the brakes and Messner hauled the tiny Volkswagen to the left, hoping to avoid any oncoming traffic. Nothing. Just darkness and the sudden glimpse of the whiteness of a woman’s face as she ran across the road.
Traffic had come to a halt. Cars were pulling into the kerbside. Doors were opening. Drivers were looking for the nearest shelter. Messner watched them for a moment, his pulse racing, his ulcerated gum on fire. He flicked on the interior light and checked his watch. Twenty to nine. The raid would last at least an hour, probably longer. By which time Kohnsson would have gone.
Messner hit the throttle again. Anything was preferable to another sleepless night, another day trying to pretend there was nothing wrong with him, another bowl of tasteless slop masquerading as soup. He clawed his way past the truck, sensing nothing beyond. 10 kph. 20 kph. Up into top gear. For at least a minute, probably longer, Messner rode his luck, straddling the unoccupied middle of the road, tallying the intersections as they came and went, urging the little car faster and faster. Then, as if from nowhere, came a dim red lamp waving in the darkness. A ghostly uniformed figure. A shouted warning.
Messner stabbed at the brakes, feeling the car shudder. He tried to brace himself at the wheel, arms straight and locked. Ahead was a wall of something blacker than everything else, something solid, something that – in less than a heartbeat – stepped into his life and changed it forever. For a split second he caught, very faintly, the tear of rending metal and then came the brief kiss of the night air as his head went through the windscreen, and the pain in his gum vanished and the blackness grew blacker still.
*
That same evening, in a café in Stockholm, Tam Moncrieff was nursing a beer. He’d been in Sweden less than two hours, the time it took for the taxi to bring him in from the airport, and he was basking in the novelty of a city lit at night.
Outside, the street was still thick with passers-by. Already he’d lost count of the blonde girls shrouded in bright ankle-length coats, the kids kicking their way through an inch or two of snow, the older folk with their knitted mufflers and their string bags full of shopping. These people had a freedom and a confidence he could only envy. They were carefree. They looked well fed. Their very presence on the street spoke of a life he could barely remember.
Wilhelm Schultz, he thought. Would he share this feeling? Would he arrive from a Berlin as grey and disenchanted as the London Moncrieff had just left? Would he be tired of a life measured out in ration coupons and stern reminders about digging for victory? Or might his tiny corner of the Reich be treating him rather better? On balance, Moncrieff favoured the latter, partly because Schultz was a born survivor, but mainly because Moncrieff had always assumed that their relationship had ended a couple of years ago, the day the Germans sent him packing from Berlin. Which was why the invitation to meet here in Stockholm had come as such a surprise.
The message had been routed through a Swedish businessman with a ball-bearing factory in the Home Counties. Birger Dahlerus, like a handful of other intermediaries, had never believed in the war. War, he often said, was no friend of international commerce. Neither was it sensible to kill people en masse for no better reason than the mess that politicians made. Hence the neatly typed letter that had landed on Moncrieff’s desk. Your friend Wilhelm Schultz presents his compliments. He proposes a meeting on neutral territory. This I am only too happy to facilitate.
With the letter came a map of Stockholm with directions to the Café Almhult. The Almhult, Dahlerus assured Moncrieff, was owned by a good friend. He’d provide a room upstairs with the guarantee of privacy and something half decent to eat. There, Moncrieff and Schultz could talk to their hearts’ content.
Hearts’, content had raised a smile among Moncrieff’s bosses. This was vintage Dahlerus, they assured him. In a darkening world, the man remained an idealist. More to the point, he knew many of the people who mattered in Berlin and one of them was Hermann Goering. The trusty Hermann, they told Moncrieff, had performed well at Sylt. Sylt? They wouldn’t say. This, only yesterday, had irritated Moncrieff but his reaction had simply raised another smile. Ask Wilhelm about Sylt, they’d said. He knows.
Schultz arrived nearly half an hour later. Moncrieff watched him climb out of the back of an ancient Vol
vo and bend to the driver’s window to haggle over the fare. Three more years with the Abwehr at the heart of German military intelligence had done nothing to soften his appearance. The same shaven head. The same overpowering physical presence. The same black leather jacket. The same hint of menace in his battered face as he pocketed his change and turned to gaze at the café. The man walked from his shoulders, anticipating life’s next blow, the way ageing boxers did. Old habits, Moncrieff thought, die hard.
Inside the café, Schultz stamped the snow from his feet. The blond young man behind the bar got a smile as well as a nod. Then Schultz muttered something in Swedish that made the bartender laugh.
Moncrieff extended a hand, wanting to know whether he’d been here before. His German was fluent.
‘Twice,’ Schultz grunted. ‘The herrings are good. So is the cured salmon. Avoid the bread. These people are still at peace yet their bread is Scheisse. They have no excuse.’
Schultz settled on the bar stool. His eyes, pouched in the wreckage of his face, gave the lie to everything else about him. They spoke, to Moncrieff, of the essence of the man: watchful, alert, giving nothing away.
Schultz ordered a beer and then studied Moncrieff for a long moment. The expression on his face might have been a smile.
‘So what did they do to you?’ he asked at last.
‘When?’
‘At the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. Basement corridor, was it? Big room at the end? Man in a white coat with a hosepipe? Shit your pants and pray to God to get it over?’
‘Something like that.’
Schultz nodded, reaching for the beer. Two gulps and most of it had gone.
‘You did well, my friend.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘One minute twenty-two seconds. No one’s managed that before. Believe it or not, they still talk about you.’
Moncrieff managed a faint smile. The night before leaving Berlin for the last time he’d spent hours in the hands of the Gestapo. One of their party tricks was slowly drowning a man and the terrifying sensation of water in his lungs had never left him. He’d never discussed it with anyone since and he’d no intention of starting now.
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