Jekyll gave a yelp of surprise.
Another salvo, and this time the cab’s flimsy windshield shattered, causing Hercules to duck on instinct.
The good doctor didn’t need any more encouragement after that. Whimpering like a toddler, he rolled himself sideways out of the cab, arms flailing, and Hercules heard the swish of grass as the panicking man rolled down the grassy bank at the side of the road.
Still keeping his head down, Hercules fought to keep the half-track on target as he shifted himself across the cab to exit on the same side of the road as Jekyll.
More bullets skidded from the bonnet, one gouging a groove in the top of the steering wheel between Hercules’ hands and ricocheting off.
But the half-track was picking up speed all the time.
Thirty-five.
Forty.
There was nothing the soldiers could do to stop it.
Forty-five.
When there were fewer than thirty yards between him and the road block, Hercules launched himself out of the cab with an almighty kick.
Wind whipped through his hair as he sailed through the air, and then the wind was knocked from him as he landed in the ditch, jarring his shoulder. Biting his lip against the pain, Hercules rolled over and threw himself flat amidst the tussocks of knotty grass in the bottom of the leaf-clogged hollow.
Over the roar of the half-track’s engine he could hear the incredulous cries of the soldiers as they ran from the vehicle’s hurtling approach.
Hands over his head to shield himself from falling debris, Hercules listened, panting, as the half-track collided with the barricade at over fifty miles an hour. He heard the tearing of metal, the splintering explosion of wood being pulverised and an ear-rending scream.
For a moment, compared to the initial collision at least, near-silence descended. The only sounds he could hear now were the screams of the Germans and the tractionless revving of the half-track as it left the ground. And then the hurtling half-track hit the road again in a cacophony of crashing white noise.
Hercules felt the impact of its crash-landing on the other side of the barricade through the earth under him and felt the heat-wash of flames as the half-track’s fuel tank went up.
The cries of the Germans became banshee shrieks and Hercules dared raise his head for the first time since coming to ground.
The road block was a mess. The half-track had ploughed right through the middle of it, tearing the barricade apart and smashing the hay cart to smithereens before taking to the air for a few seconds and crashing down to the ground, landing on top of the jeep. The two machines were now burning merrily, as was one of the bodies lying face-down on the road. The burning man twitched every now and again but eerily made no sound whatsoever.
Another of the soldiers was crawling across the road towards his fallen rifle, leaving a trail of blood on the tarmac behind him.
Picking himself up out of the mud, Hercules made for the line of trees not thirty yards away, making it into the green gloom beneath the trees before anyone spotted him.
Once he was sheltered by the bracken that grew between the trees, he cast his eyes along the road. Of the four men who had been manning the make-shift checkpoint, one was clearly dead, his skull crushed to a pulp by a railway sleeper, one appeared to be mortally wounded, his intestines spread out across the road, and then there was the burning man, of course. But of the fourth, the officer, he could see no sign.
Gun in hand once more, he turned, hearing what sounded like a wild boar crashing through the undergrowth towards him. It wasn’t a boar; it was Henry Jekyll. The man was as white as a sheet, apart from the strange flecks of green Hercules could see in the corners of his anxious eyes.
Hercules shushed him with a finger on his own silent lips, and blazing anger in his own eyes. Jekyll took the hint, a grimace on his face. Moving more carefully now, he caught up with Hercules at last.
“Follow me,” Hercules hissed, setting off east through the forest as stealthily as he could but always with one eye on the road beyond the treeline to their right.
He stopped abruptly and turned back to face Jekyll, the same thunderous look of annoyance on his face. “And try not to make any more noise,” he glowered.
CHAPTER NINE
Call of Duty
THANKFULLY, THE GRIMLY resolute Hercules and the agitated Doctor Jekyll didn’t run into any more trouble after the checkpoint. If any of the soldiers on duty had survived their run-in with the runaway half-track, they had obviously decided that discretion was the better part of valour and decided not to pursue the fugitives themselves. Chances were, however, that they would have alerted others of their encounter, and so it could only be a matter of time before they did eventually run into trouble again.
They took a break to clean themselves up a bit, so that they might maintain the illusion just a little longer, at a distance at least. Thirty minutes after evading the roadblock, they emerged from the wood, negotiated a barbed wire fence running the length of a turnip field, and crossed a low bridge into what a peeling signboard claimed was the small town of Alsenz.
Alsenz was all whitewash and timber buildings and pleasant paved squares, spread out along the length of a river in spate.
It was a pretty place, Hercules thought, but its beauty was besmirched by the proliferation of barbed wire, concrete road blocks and Nazi banners that adorned the Rathaus and other public buildings in the town.
It wasn’t a big place and the streets were eerily quiet, but the abundance of eagle-emblazoned staff cars and troop transports attested to there being a large Nazi presence in the town. Hercules’ only question was, where were they?
“What are we doing?” Jekyll hissed in agitation, whilst trotting to keep up with the striding Hercules.
“We’re seeing our mission through to the bitter end.”
“Your mission maybe,” Jekyll retorted, “but not mine!”
“You’re as mixed up in this now as I am, doctor,” Hercules bit back, suddenly turning on him. “Forget your ‘penance’; just do your duty to the Crown, man, that’s all that’s being asked of you.”
Jekyll’s own expression darkened, and was it just his imagination, or did Hercules see a ripple of green light in the man’s eyes?
“Now do you think you can start behaving as if you’re meant to be here rather than shuffling around the place like some skittish pony?”
“But we’re not meant to be here,” Jekyll insisted, shooting anxious, darting glances at the silent buildings all around them. Who knew who might be watching from behind their shuttered windows? “I mean, what are we doing walking right into the middle of an occupied town when you’ve just gone and crashed a half-track into a road block? That’s hardly operating undercover now, is it?”
“If you do anything confidently enough, it’s my experience that you can practically get away with murder, and,” Hercules added, “on more than one occasion I have.”
“But come on! As soon as we open our mouths we’ll be rumbled straight away.”
Hercules sighed. “Then you’d better keep your mouth shut.”
Jekyll opened his mouth to protest again. The sound of music and merry-making wafted towards them across the platz from a large timber-and-daub building taking up one whole side of the square.
“Have you never heard the expression ‘hide in plain sight,’ doctor?”
Jekyll raised an eyebrow, but before he could reply, Hercules turned sharply on his heel and made for the entrance to the building. Above the door hung a painted tavern sign bearing the peeling paint image of a foamy stein of beer.
Tugging at his jacket, trying to dislodge a few more creases, Hercules brushed the drying mud from his knees once again, shined the toecaps of his jackboots against the back of his trousers, and boldly pushed open the door.
It was only around eleven in the morning, but noise and tobacco smoke wafted out of the undercroft of the bierkeller over him like the warm embrace of a chain-smoking uncle.
>
Hercules sensed Jekyll tense behind him. He half expected some sort of startled reaction from the military personnel – regular troopers and ranking officers – congregated at the bar and crowding the tables spread throughout the cellar, but the few who turned to see who had just arrived, turned away again in disinterest a moment later. As far as they were concerned, another officer looking for a drink and somewhere to unwind for a couple of hours was nothing to remark upon, even if he did have a civilian in tow.
That said, Hercules did pick up on the tension in a group seated on the other side of the bar in the corner to his right. But they behaved as if they were the hunted rather than the hunter.
It didn’t take Hercules long to realise why his arrival had still gone almost totally unnoticed. There was something much more distracting, not to say appealing, on the semi-circular stage, beyond the bar, on the other side of the undercroft.
The dancing girls were in town.
DIETER VON STAUFFENBERG picked up his glass of schnapps from the age-blackened bar top, his gaze lingering a moment longer on the officer who had just entered the bierkeller, along with the black-suited civilian.
Moving away from the bar, casting as many furtive glances around the undercroft as he did at the pretty girls parading themselves on stage, accompanied by the oom-pah-pahs of an enthusiastic, if less than perfectly in tune, brass quartet, he made his way as casually as he could to the table in the corner.
The three men already seated there looked up, their expressions drawn and pale, as he took his place among them.
“Gentlemen,” von Stauffenberg said, smiling grimly.
The others nodded or grunted their greetings in return. Von Stauffenberg cast his eyes around the table. There was grey-haired Colonel Vogel, looking as if he were chewing a wasp. Next to him sat Major General Olbricht, teasing at his moustache nervously with one hand. Leaning back in the chair next to his was Lieutenant Griffin, the finest example of Aryan perfection von Stauffenberg had ever seen, while beside him, the less-than-perfect Major Schenk sat perched at the edge of his chair, compulsively polishing his spectacles with a monogramed handkerchief.
Vogel poured himself another glass of schnapps from the bottle in front of him, without offering anyone else any, and knocked it back in one go. “If we’re all here, I’d like to make a start. This business is unpleasant enough without having to concern ourselves with it any longer than is strictly necessary.”
Von Stauffenberg cast his gaze around the table once more and then again at the bierkeller beyond their conspiratorial corner. “But we’re not all here. Where’s Kemmler?”
“Kemmler’s not coming,” Vogel said.
“What do you mean, he’s not coming?”
“There was an incident in Berlin. He’s not coming.”
“Then we have to stop this now,” von Stauffenberg hissed. “If Kemmler’s been compromised our whole enterprise could be in danger.”
Von Stauffenberg moved to stand, as if the Gestapo were about to come through the door of the tavern right there and then, his chair squealing against the stone flags. Startled by the sudden noise, soldiers at nearby tables broke off from watching the six pretty girls cavorting their way through a can-can on stage, to look at them. Von Stauffenberg withered under half a dozen severe frowns.
“Calm down, Dieter,” Vogel said, motioning with his hands that von Stauffenberg should remain seated.
“Calm down?” he hissed. “How can you be so offhand about all this? You do understand the consequences of what we’re planning to do, don’t you?”
Vogel shot him a weary glare.
“We’re talking about taking down Hitler’s regime, not going for a picnic at the park! We have to abort right now and regroup at a later date, only once we can be sure Kemmler hasn’t told them anything.”
“Things have progressed too far for us to stop now,” Olbricht stated in a voice that was too unnervingly quiet and unnervingly calm, given the current topic of conversation. “The Icarus Project is nearing its final phase. If we don’t act now there may never be another opportunity. Germany will win this war and then Hitler will march on Magna Britannia itself.”
“Then we have to act now and act fast,” von Stauffenberg said. “Are we ready to do that?” he asked, looking at Major Schenk.
Schenk looked worried. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, Griffin interrupted him.
“Of course we’re ready,” Griffin growled.
Judging by Schenk’s nervous demeanour, the logistics member of the team was anything but.
“No, I don’t like the sound of this,” von Stauffenberg murmured. “I don’t like the sound of this at all.”
He shot paranoid glances around the room, at the parties of enlisted officers, at the sweating, greasy barkeep, even at the pretty young things on the stage, as if expecting any of them to reveal themselves to be Gestapo plants or onto their rebellious plan at any moment. He got to his feet.
“I’m leaving. And if the rest of you have any sense, you’ll do the same thing.”
Vogel made to stand as well, hands raised once more.
The crash of the bierkeller door opening sounded like a thunderclap to von Stauffenberg, making him start, instantly dropping back into his seat. Vogel didn’t move a muscle.
Von Stauffenberg watched Vogel and Olbricht as their eyes tracked whoever it was who had just entered the fug of the bar.
“Who is it?” he whispered through clenched teeth.
“Kaufman,” Vogel hissed.
“Relax,” Olbricht breathed between barely open lips. “You’re going to draw attention to yourself otherwise. Just enjoy the girls like everyone else.”
His heart racing, von Stauffenberg turned in his chair, draping an arm over the back in what he hoped was a suitably relaxed manner. It seemed to him that everyone in the bar was a little less relaxed than they were a moment before and he found his eyes inevitably straying to where a man in a black trench coat and wide-brimmed black hat stood flanked by two Schutzstaffel troopers.
“Keep your eyes on the dancing girls,” he heard Olbricht whisper behind him, “and that way we might all just get out of here alive.”
THE GIRLS CAVORTING about the stage, in sequin-embroidered bodices, feathered headdresses and long taffeta skirts, kept watchful eyes on the handsome new arrival and his companion as they barged their way between the crowded tables, searching for someone.
They spun and whirled to the parping of the tuba and as they ran together towards the back of the stage, accompanied by a glissando slide on the trombone, one of the girls – her raven-black hair tied in a long plait behind her head – kicked up her skirts and went for the pistol secured within its suspender-holster at her thigh.
At the same moment, a long-legged blonde gracefully glided over to her, putting out a hand to hold her back.
“Steady, Missy,” the blonde whispered into the gunwoman’s ear. “Not so fast. We don’t want to blow our cover.”
Missy let her hand slip from her thigh and the two girls spun away from each other with a renewed burst of whooping and scandalous, undergarment-revealing high kicks.
The blonde scanned the other girls’ faces. Even as they continued with their routine, to the delight of the troops who had come to Alsenz for a little R&R, she could see that they were all keeping a weather eye on the SS agent and his bodyguard.
Cookie, she thought to herself, you don’t know what’s going on between the Germans. Until someone starts shooting, it isn’t your concern.
The pug-faced Gestapo agent continued to ignore the girls’ performance, peering myopically through the hazy curtains of tobacco smoke, his mouth screwed into a sour grimace, and passing the stage without so much as a sideways glance.
Cookie met the eyes of each of the other five girls in turn as they linked arms in a circle, spinning across the rattling boards of the makeshift stage, giving each of the girls a wink in turn that said, “Keep up the pretence a little
longer but watch for my signal.”
And with that Jinx and Cat parted and pranced backwards, moving away from one another, but keeping a tight hold of Dina and Trixie by the waist as they stretched out in a line across the stage. Once they were in a straight line again, the girls broke into another cancan, to the cheers and wolf whistles of those soldiers still absorbed in the show and lost in the moment.
“WHO ARE THEY?” Jekyll whispered, his stale breath rank in Hercules’ nostrils as he leaned forward. The pale lager on the table in front of him remained untouched.
Hercules picked up his own glass and knocked back the measure of schnapps it contained, grateful for the heady alcoholic vapour as it swept away the stink of the defrosted doctor’s cryo-sleep halitosis.
“The Gestapo,” Hercules muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “Himmler’s secret police.” Nasty bastards, employed to make sure that the rest of Hitler’s forces obeyed their Führer’s implacable will, Hercules thought, his knitted brows betraying his dark thoughts.
Still facing the stage, Hercules stared at the glass he was slowly turning in his hand, but focused on the distorted reflection of the agent and his bodyguards.
“I don’t like it,” Hercules murmured, returning his gaze to the dancers on the stage.
“You think they’re here for us?” Jekyll asked, a rising note of panic in his voice.
“I don’t know, but I think it’s high time we got out of here.”
Hercules slid his chair back carefully.
“No sudden movements now. Just finish your drink and make for the door.”
The two men got up from their seats, Jekyll knocking back his lager, as Hercules began to ease his way through the crowd, with a ready apology in fluent German on his lips. “Entschuldigung. Entschuldigung.”
“Stop! Halt!” came the harsh cry from the other side of the bar.
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