“No, Herr Gruber,” said Maria shaking her head. “It’s snowing again, and apart from that, if you go wandering about at this time of night, you are likely to be stopped by the civil police. They will have no hesitation in handing you over to the Americans if they are the least bit suspicious, and then who knows what will happen? I have made up a spare room upstairs, second door on the left.”
Müller rose and walked to the door. Turning to Maria, he clicked his heels and bowed his head. “I bid you good night, Frau von Sindelsdorf.”
“Good night, Herr Gruber. Oh, Herr Gruber,” said Maria as an afterthought, “please don’t trim your beard, please remember that you are a Schweinebauer—a trimmed beard doesn’t fit the character.”
“Very good, Frau von Sindelsdorf, I will allow it to become wild!” he said, nodding in agreement as he left the room.
Maria smiled to herself. The mental picture of Müller clicking his heels, military style, in his stocking feet and wearing peasant garb, amused her greatly. There had been something ludicrously pre-war about the gesture, however well intentioned.
Yes, she liked Heinrich. Not like some of the other idiots who had destroyed all that the Thule had achieved. Oh, would that there had been more like Heinrich Müller and Rudi Hess.
It had all started so well. The Thule had taken the temperature of the German people after the Great War and knew exactly what was needed, and moreover how this could be used to further their aim of a pure Aryan German state which would control Europe. Four Thule members—Gottfried Feder, Anton Drexler, Dietrich Eckart and Karl Harrer—had formed the ‘German Workers’ Party’ or DAP, as it became known. Adolf Hitler had joined later that year and, over the next few years, had effectively hijacked the party from under the noses of the Thule. If only Rudi Hess had been stronger. He had been the chosen one to lead Germany into the new dawn, but he had allowed Hitler to ride roughshod over him. Hitler was not a Thule member and refused to join the society, but he had allowed other Thule members to advise him: Drexler, Rosenberg, Eckart and others had helped steer Germany towards a golden age, but it was all for nothing. Hitler’s vanity and Himmler’s rabid antisemitism had wrecked the carefully laid plans.
More than anything else, Hitler wanted to humiliate the French, just as they had humiliated Germany after the Great War. He wanted to expand Germany. Of course, that was always part of the plan, but he had gained Austria, taken back the demilitarised zones, taken the Sudetenland. Now he wanted Poland. Most of Poland belonged to Germany in any case, but the time was not right to reclaim it. If he had only waited until Germany had achieved its full power and economic potential, the Poles would have come cap in hand and begged to be part of the great German Empire. Rather that, than succumb to the Bolsheviks.
As for the Jewish question, the Jews had lost their citizenship and had been removed from any positions where they could sabotage the growing power of the Reich. That was all that needed to be done at that stage. Later they could be resettled in other countries, perhaps the Middle East or Africa, but that was for later. Himmler and Heydrich’s ‘Final Solution’ was a barbaric blunder which, instead of being a solution, had become a major part of the problem.
If only the Thule members could have restrained Hitler. It would only have taken another five years, and Germany would have been dominant in Europe and even challenged the United States for world supremacy. Otto Han and Fritz Strasser had split the atom in 1938. Werner Heisenberg and his team at Kaiser Wilhelm Institute were well advanced in the construction of a uranium reactor, five or six of which would have provided an abundant source of cheap energy, independent of the oil from the USSR and the Middle East. As well as producing energy, the reactors would also have been a source of fissionable material which, when combined with the heavy water already isolated and developed by German scientists, would have produced a weapon of unimaginable destructive power. Werner Braun had already completed plans for a long-range rocket, the V4, which could deliver the new Armageddon weapon.
Maria sighed. If all the funding that had been wasted on the pointless war had been channelled into scientific research, Germany would, by now, have had a standing army of two million men, ten thousand battle tanks, four thousand aircraft including jet fighters and, more importantly, two hundred V4 rockets that could reach any point on the planet. A single one of those could destroy an entire city. Germany would have stood tall, the unchallenged and untouchable master of Europe.
Instead, all we have is ruins with half the country polluted by Bolsheviks and the other half playing host to American and British soldiers.
But it will change, and it is changing. We have to start again from scratch, but the Thule has been busy. Most of the major industries have survived the war and are being revitalised by strategically placed Thule members using money secreted in Swiss banks. We will still conquer Europe, but this time without a shot being fired. Already, Walter Hallstein is promoting the idea of a community of nations in Europe which will grow into the United States of Europe with Germany at its head. Thanks to the Thule-Gesellschaft, Germany will rise again, and one day the Aryan race will dominate Europe.
Müller crept downstairs, hoping not to disturb Maria as it was barely 5 a.m. As he passed the living room door, he noticed it was slightly ajar.
“Herr Gruber?” Pushing the door open, Müller entered. Sitting by the window in the semi-darkness was Maria.
“Frau von Sindelsdorf, I was trying not to disturb you,” said Müller apologetically.
“That was most considerate of you, Herr Gruber, but I have been awake for some time. I have prepared a packed breakfast for you to eat later this morning. It’s on the table in the kitchen.” Smiling, she added, “I won’t detain you; I know you need to get back to your pigs.”
Müller grabbed the brown paper package from the kitchen table and made his way to the front door. He pulled on his heavy boots, which he had left there in order not to mark Maria’s highly polished floors. Pulling on his overcoat, which hung on a hook on the wall, he fished out the gloves and hat stowed in the pockets and was ready for the Bavarian winter. Shouting a cheery Auf Wiedersehen, he closed the door behind himself and crunched his way through the snow to the gate, turning down the lane as he exited.
In accordance with Maria’s advice, he had not trimmed his beard that morning. He would let it grow wild as she suggested. It was as well to take her advice in these matters, as she had significant experience in helping ex-Nazis disappear.
Maria Orsic had once been regarded as the most beautiful woman in Germany. She had come to prominence just after the Great War when she had become leader of the Vril Gesellschaft, a society of occultist women who wore their hair long, often to their waist, and were regarded as mediums. The Vril, an offshoot of the Thule, was taken very seriously by a number of people in senior positions in the Nazi party. Hitler would have none of it and had eventually banned both the Vril and the Thule, but Himmler was a genuine disciple, hanging on every word Maria said.
During her séances, Maria had made many outlandish, indeed other-worldly, claims and had described fantastic contraptions. It was all nonsense, of course, but some of her descriptions resonated with engineers and scientists. One such machine was a flying disc, powered by a ‘mercury’ engine which could take off and land vertically. The concept was taken seriously in some engineering circles, and some prototypes were constructed. An aircraft that could take off and land vertically, without the need for a runway, would have been of immeasurable value to the military. There were even attempts to replicate the mercury engine. How effective these prototypes had been, Müller couldn’t say. He had always thought the whole business nonsensical, though he made a point of not saying so openly, especially since Himmler was utterly convinced that Maria was the genuine article.
He was aware that he was quite subservient to Maria and had no problem with that. She served a purpose. Maria and the Thule had been immensely helpful to ex-Nazis on the run. After the war she had gone into
hiding, cutting off her hair and becoming anonymous. This had allowed her to operate underground without the close scrutiny of the British and Americans, both of whom wanted to question her about her contacts and relations with the Nazis at the very highest echelon.
It was unlikely that there would be many, if indeed any, more fugitives coming down this particular escape route, so effectively, her task was complete. Maria knew a great deal about the people who had come this way, who they were and where they were going. She perhaps knew too much. It may soon be time, in the interest of future security, to retire Maria permanently.
Maria’s cottage was just on the outskirts of Bad Tölz and only two kilometres or so from Gardermann’s farm where Müller worked as a swineherd. The going was hard this morning as fresh snow had fallen during the night, but he was glad about that as the civil police would not be able to use their vehicles until the ploughs had cleared the road, and that wouldn’t be until about six. He would be at Gardermann’s before then, and in relative safety.
Müller was safe with Gardermann. He was a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi and would have given his life rather than betray his comrades. Maria had used him a number of times as a temporary base for party members on the run. Gardermann was a little older than Müller and treated him like a son. He had had two sons, both of whom had been killed on the Eastern Front, and had intimated to Müller that if he wanted to stop running, he could run the farm as a partner and take it over when he, Gardermann, retired.
Müller had been tempted. He actually liked pig farming, and sometimes felt that the intelligence and good nature of the animals were an improvement on some of the people with whom he had worked in the past. Reluctantly, he had said no. For one thing, he was the second most-wanted Nazi currently at large. Bormann was number one on the list, but Müller knew that Bormann was dead. If the Allies ever found that out, he would take his place at the top of the list. He would become their prime target. He knew that the Allies had people out looking, people who would leave no stone unturned until they found him. He thought back to his narrow escape after being apprehended by the British Colonel Kelly at Berlin Olympic Stadium. Kelly would almost certainly be looking for him, even now.
For another thing, there was his mission. That must be concluded before he could finally disappear.
With a start, he realised he was at the gate of Gardermann’s farm. His little charges were rushing out of their pens and scampering across the snow towards the fence where he stood, snorting and squealing their greetings as they came. As he opened the gate and entered the field, they swarmed around him, nuzzling him and squealing their delight. He loved these little creatures; he did not want to be around when they were loaded into a truck and driven away to the abattoir for slaughter.
Strange, he thought, he had never felt that way about people!
Skadi and the Wolf
The RAF Hillman Minx staff car, which, to avoid being conspicuous, had been repainted black and had all identifying signs and markings removed, rolled to a stop outside the presbytery of the Church of Saint Nicholas in the Rue de l’Église in Sarreguemines, a medium-sized town situated just on the French side of the border between France and the Saarland Protectorate.
A woman of about thirty years of age emerged from the car. She was tall with shoulder-length hair of a white blonde colouring rarely seen outside Scandinavia. The quick, intelligent, deep blue eyes scanned the large church approvingly, then, turning about, she walked to the presbytery across the road and banged noisily on the door.
A head, surrounded by a halo of pure white hair which the slight breeze was blowing in all directions, appeared from a window two floors up, a white collar attesting to its priestly vocation. The woman’s first thought was that it was a reincarnation of Franz Liszt, but no, it was certainly not Franz Liszt’s face. This was a craggy, hard face with a livid scar that ran the length of the left side, from temple to neck, clearly visible from where she stood. The head’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
“I take it you wish to awaken our friends in the cemetery?” The voice high pitched, soft and melodic. It spoke in French but with just a hint of a German accent.
“Sorry,” returned the woman, in excellent French, a hangover from her days as an OES agent in occupied France. “I thought there might be no one in.”
The head now blinked several times and looked decidedly puzzled. “You suppose that if the house is empty, then banging noisily on the door will summon creatures from the ether? This is the house of a priest, not a magician!”
“Sorry?” said the woman deprecatingly, shrinking into a cowed position.
The head lit up with a wide grin. “Come in,” it said, “the door’s open. Walk up two flights of stairs, I’ll meet you on the landing.”
The person she met on the landing, despite being dressed in a black suit, looked even less like Franz Liszt. He must have been in his mid-forties, stood over six foot in height, had broad shoulders and a good physique. She was impressed with the size and strength of the hand which shook hers when they greeted each other.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m Sybilla Thorstaadt. You must be Father Wolfgang Rahn?”
“Must I?” he said, looking puzzled. “Yes, I suppose I must.” He looked furtively at her. “Did Kelly send you?”
Sybilla laughed. Dan had warned her about Rahn’s weird sense of humour. “Not exactly, but I do work with Dan Kelly,” she said.
“Well, you’d better come into my room,” Rahn said, ushering her towards a door.
The room was spacious but cluttered; there was a bed, two wardrobes and a chest of drawers. The walls were bare apart from a few old faded religious prints in cheap frames. In the centre of the room, two plain wooden chairs sat on either side of a table littered with papers and maps. Rahn motioned Sybilla to one of the chairs. Sybilla stripped off her outer coat, hanging it over the open door of one of the wardrobes, and took a seat in the chair indicated.
“Is this your house?” she asked.
“No. My parish is in Wiques in the north, but I am on an indefinite leave of absence from the church at the moment and working full time with the French Intelligence Agency, the SDECE, because there’s so much underground activity. The priest here is Father Gabriel, he is out at the moment doing his pastoral work but has kindly loaned me a room in the presbytery. He has a housekeeper, Madame Bonnet, but she is shopping so we can talk openly.”
“What do we have?” she asked.
“Not much. The cell here in Sarreguemines is small—only two of them—but they’ve been continually active, in particular spending quite a bit of time down by the River Blies, which forms the border with Germany. They seem to favour the area near the old pottery works … they’re obviously expecting a crossing imminently.” He pulled an open map over to her and indicated the location, then shrugged. “It could even be tonight. I intend to go down to see if I can see anything, but it could be another false alarm. There have been several lately.”
“Do you have any backup?” she asked.
“At the highest level!” Rahn said nodding. “I have the ear of the Prime Minister of the Saarland Protectorate, Johannes Hoffmann. He is fervently anti-Nazi and has allocated a detective and two uniformed gendarmes from the local gendarmerie to assist. He wants Müller caught, and would be delighted if that happened in Saarland.”
“Would you mind if I came with you tonight?” asked Sybilla.
“I would be delighted if you did, Agent Skadi,” said Rahn, referring to her by her code name in the IIA branch of MI5. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“You promise you won’t shoot at me this time?” she quipped. The last time she had last met Rahn was in war-time France, when she had been mistaken for a German agent.
“I promise,” he laughed. “Where are you staying?”
“I’ve booked a room in the Hotel Saarland, in Rue de la Montagne, not far from here.”
“Fine, I’ll drive over and pick you up at about eight. Would that give yo
u enough time?” he asked.
“Plenty,” she said as she stood up and retrieved her coat.
“Wear something warm,” he warned, “we may be there some time.”
At precisely 8 p.m., Rahn eased his Citroën Avant to a halt outside the Saarland Hotel. Sybilla, waiting at the curb, climbed into the front passenger seat as soon as it stopped. She noted that Rahn had discarded his black suit and dog collar and now looked more like a thug than a priest. Turning the vehicle around, Rahn headed north-east, crossing the Saar River and continuing along the banks of the River Blies. After a mile or so, Rahn switched off his lights and coasted to a halt.
“The pottery workshops are just up ahead,” he said. “That seems to be the area our friends are interested in. Maybe we should have a look around. There’s an opening in the fence just a little further on.”
After gaining entry to the grounds, they stood and listened for a few minutes. Nothing. Complete silence. Rahn pointed to Sybilla and drew a circle in the air with one hand while pointing to their left. Then he pointed to himself, drew another circle and pointed to the right. The meaning was clear. He would search in one section while she should search in another. Rahn moved off towards the ruins of a previous workshop, while Sybilla made her way to the area occupied by the modern workshops.
Walking carefully to avoid making any noise, Sybilla skirted the modern buildings, occasionally stopping to listen. Having circled them without incident, she started to make her way towards the ruins. As she approached, she stopped in her tracks. Had she heard something? A splashing noise coming from the river? Now muffled voices, the sound of a boat being hauled up onto the bank. Sybilla sank onto one knee, facing the direction of the sounds, and pulled her 9mm Browning pistol from her coat pocket. Not wanting to announce her presence, she didn’t cock the weapon. Two shadows emerged stealthily over the brow of the river bank and started to move in her direction.
Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2) Page 2
