Anno Frankenstein

by Jonathan Green

  Moving with more urgency now, Hercules kept going for the door. He didn’t dare look back to see what was going on, to even check if it was he who was being ordered to stop.

  “Halt!” the command came again, stronger this time, so loud that the band burped and parped their way into silence.

  Hercules ran for the door, only glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that Jekyll was keeping up.

  The bierkeller entrance loomed ahead of him, as did the two muscle-bound young men in uniform who were striving to get there first and intercept him.

  “WE’VE BEEN RUMBLED!” von Stauffenberg snarled, leaping from his seat and turning on Olbricht.

  “Colonel Stauffenberg!” the bitter-faced Agent Kaufman called across the bar, turning to face the corner table.

  “We have now, you bloody idiot!” Olbricht retorted as he too got to his feet.

  As one, von Stauffenberg’s co-conspirators leapt to their feet, chairs clattering to the floor as they went for their guns.

  “For the Resistance!” Olbricht shouted, taking aim and firing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  All Hell

  IN THE INSTANT immediately following the pistol shot, a fragile silence descended over the bar. Then it shattered as the bierkeller was subsumed by a cacophony of shouts, screams and breaking glass, tables overturning in the panic and confusion.

  Von Stauffenberg followed the trajectory of the Major General’s single shot, having to know if Kaufman had been eliminated or not.

  Kaufman glared back at him, a blazing inferno of hellish hatred in his eyes. The bodyguard beside him had a hand to the side of his head, a disgruntled look on his face and blood pouring between his fingers from where half his ear had been blown clean off.

  “Arrest them!” Kaufman screeched, pointing at von Stauffenberg and his companions.

  Von Stauffenberg’s pulse raced. He knew their situation was hopeless now, but that didn’t stop the warrior within him wanting to fight his way to the end.

  His own pistol – a Mauser C96 – in his hand, he picked his target and fired at the advancing soldier. The report was deadened by the acoustics of the crowded bierkeller, and he felt the kick of the pistol against his palm.

  The bodyguard fell face first across a table, sending steins of beer and half-drunk bottles of wine tumbling to the floor, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass.

  Von Stauffenberg levelled his pistol at the other approaching bodyguard.

  But the rest of the bierkeller clientele had cottoned onto what was going on now. As von Stauffenberg tightened his finger around the trigger, a chair struck him solidly between the shoulder blades.

  He stumbled forwards, reeling from the shock and pain of the blow. His aim suddenly awry, the gun went off in his hand, the bullet smacking into the solid stone flags at his feet.

  Knowing that another attack must be coming, von Stauffenberg turned, swinging his gun around with him.

  The chair connected with him again on the back stroke, its support struts breaking against his arm and sending the gun flying from his hand to land under a table.

  Von Stauffenberg lost his balance altogether, falling backwards onto his arse amidst the sodden sawdust and spilled beer covering the floor. Unarmed and unbalanced, he prepared for the worst.

  Another shot rang out and Agent Kaufman gave voice to an unnerving, womanly sound.

  The soldier that had floored von Stauffenberg cast aside the broken chair and stalked towards the unarmed colonel, pushing up his shirt sleeves as he did so, ready to give the traitor the beating of his life.

  But before he could lay a single punch against the debilitated von Stauffenberg, Griffin took hold of the soldier’s head with both hands and, biceps bulging under his uniform, twisting sharply.

  There was an audible crack and the thug’s eyes rolled up into his head until only the whites were visible. As Griffin let go again, the man slumped lifelessly to the floor, half landing on top of von Stauffenberg.

  Von Stauffenberg twisted round, wondering what had happened to Kaufman to make him cry out. And then he caught sight of the trench-coated agent, hunched over but still standing, his right hand clasped tightly to his left side.

  It was only desperation that had driven Olbricht to start shooting, an undeniable knowledge that their endeavour was doomed. Months of planning and it had come to this. Perhaps he had seen no other option but to try to shoot his way out. Perhaps he had thought that if they were all done for, then he was going to try and take as many of the Führer’s lapdogs with him as possible.

  In the close confines of the bierkeller, the officers and soldiers were reluctant to arm themselves and join in the gun play – except for Agent Kaufman.

  A slim black Walther P38 was gripped in the agent’s hand now, its barrel pointed at von Stauffenberg. Not that von Stauffenberg knew that, not until he heard the muffled crack of the gunshot. Pain exploded through his head and the black gulf of oblivion took him.

  “TAKE COVER!” COOKIE screamed at the dancing troupe.

  The six girls threw themselves off the back of the stage and into the narrow crawl-space between the jerry-rigged platform and the wall.

  Keeping her head down, Cookie glanced to her left and saw Dina, Trixie, Cat, Jinx and Missy all staring back at her, their eyes wide with the rush of adrenalin, ready to spring into action at a second’s notice. Missy’s pistol – a Smith and Wesson – was already in her hand. Cookie held her at bay once again with a simple wave of her hand.

  Cautiously, listening to the crash of tables and glasses, the shouts of the startled men and the occasional sharp report of a handgun, Cookie dared to peek above the edge of the stage again at the bar beyond.

  The bierkeller was a riot of chaos and confusion. As far as Cookie could tell, the Germans seemed to be fighting each other. The black-coated Gestapo agent was now engaged in a fracas with a group of apparently high-ranking Nazi officers.

  On the other side of the room, the British spy and his companion were also facing opposition as they made for the door. She hadn’t been certain it was them at first, but seeing how the British agent had blown his cover prematurely – even though there had been no need to do so – there was no doubt in her mind now.

  “It’s alright, girls,” she whispered so all of them could hear, “we’re good.” The taut strings of a piano sang out as a stray bullet struck the ancient upright. “Our cover’s still good. So, the plan is, we get out of here and prepare for the moment to strike, but not now. Follow me.”

  She turned and, crouching behind the makeshift stage, made for the door that led to the bar’s back-room and freedom.

  This wasn’t their fight. Their fight was yet to come. And Cookie was determined that they would be ready for it.

  HERCULES QUICKSILVER HAD hoped that the drama playing out on the other side of the cellar would cover his and Jekyll’s escape. But the two well-built soldiers between them and the door advanced on them, hands going for their own holstered firearms.

  Hercules decided that there wasn’t time to draw his own pistol. To give him and the doctor the best chance of getting out of the bierkeller at all, there was nothing else for it.

  He dived forwards, launching himself at the legs of the man closest to him. It was a rugby tackle his old games master at Eton would have been proud of.

  The man went flying, arms flailing as he fought futilely to keep his balance. As he fell, he toppled into his fellow, sending the other man crashing into a table.

  “Get his gun!” Hercules shouted as he fought to keep hold of the German’s furiously thrashing legs. He didn’t exactly know where to take things from here, but he reasoned that if Jekyll could grab the soldier’s gun, it would give them a fighting chance of getting out of there alive.

  Hercules swore as he wrestled the man’s legs. Jekyll had been right; coming into the tavern had put the mission at risk all over again. He didn’t know how viable it would be now – they hadn’t even made the rendezvous at Dar
mstadt. All he was worried about right now was surviving for another second, and another, and the one after that…

  Hercules glanced up at Jekyll. The wretch was still shuffling from one foot to the other indecisively, shooting longing glances at the exit as if wondering whether to abandon Hercules altogether, and leave him to sort out his own mess. But Hercules wasn’t going to give him that option.

  “Get his gun!” he screamed again.

  A full-on fight had broken out in the bar, but who was to say how long it would be before the Gestapo managed to quell the disturbance again, leaving the agent and his men free to move on Hercules, his cover well and truly blown?

  With a reluctant, almost repulsed look in his eyes, as if he were being asked to pick up a dead dog’s mouldering carcass with his bare hands, Jekyll bent down and teased the man’s pistol from its holster and pointed it shakily at the other man.

  Hercules scrambled to his feet and the doctor’s side, taking out his own gun.

  As the two soldiers climbed to their feet, Hercules shouted at them in German: “Stay where you are. Try to follow us and we’ll put a bullet through your brain!”

  With the bierkeller dissolving into chaos behind them, the men did as they were told and stayed where they were.

  “What did you say?” Jekyll asked in bewilderment.

  “Come on,” Hercules said, picking his purloined cap from where it had fallen on the floor during the struggle. “We’re out of here – now!”

  Guns trained on the two soldiers, with the rest of the Nazis preoccupied by the internecine warfare now engulfing the drinking den, the two British spies backed out of the door and into the cold light of day.

  “Right,” Hercules said as the door swung shut before them, “now we just need to find ourselves some more transport.”

  He was still turning from the tavern door when the heavy blow connected with the back of his head and he dropped to the ground, out cold.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, with the situation inside the bierkeller under control, still clutching his bleeding hand to his chest – his coat hanging from his thin shoulders – Agent Kaufman emerged from the dingy undercroft to be presented with an unexpected prize.

  He looked down at the unconscious colonel and then at the emaciated man now held fast in the grip of his driver. An ophidian smile spread across his thin, bloodless lips and a snort of triumph escaped his nose.

  “What do you want done with them, Herr Kaufman?” his driver asked.

  Kaufman grunted as he considered his prisoners, one conscious, one not. The man’s suspicious behaviour in the cellar, and the determination with which he had tried to leave when the Resistance gave themselves away, had been enough to rouse Kaufman’s own suspicions.

  “Have them taken to Schloss Geisterhaus along with von Stauffenberg and the others. It would appear that I have a busy day ahead of me after all,” he added, a malicious twinkle in his eye.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Secrets and Lies

  DIETER VON STAUFFENBERG blearily opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Wherever he was, he was still in darkness, but on waking, his stinging headache had returned with renewed ferocity. The pain was focused upon his forehead.

  He went to put a hand to his brow, only to find that his hands had been cuffed behind his back and secured to the back of his chair.

  Through half-closed eyes, he took in the room in which he now found himself. He wasn’t in total darkness. Light leaked in around a door set in an ill-matched frame and, as he became accustomed to the gloom, details begin to resolve themselves.

  There were dusty, cobwebbed wine racks and heaps of forgotten coal. A bucket and mop stood in one corner, and he could hear water dripping from a tap or a pipe somewhere. The musty smell of damp was undercut with the ammonia reek of detergent.

  Shifting his weight, he tried to shuffle the chair around to see what was behind him, but realised that his ankles had been secured to the chair as well, and the chair bolted to the floor.

  Anger welled up within him. Kemmler must have betrayed them, whether willingly or otherwise. Back at the bierkeller he’d thought them all dead men once the shooting started, but here he was, chained up like an recalcitrant Rottweiler and still alive. And as long as he remained that way, he would fight for what was left of his life with every ounce of strength, determination and courage left inside him.

  He jerked and thrashed against the chair until the sinews in his neck stood out and a vein throbbed at his temple. A howl of rage escaped his foam-flecked lips, as it all proved to be to no avail.

  His body sagged, the fight gone out of him, for the moment. Sweat beaded his brow, his flesh goose-pimpling in the cold of the dank wine cellar. His head pounded.

  Doing his best to ignore the pain, he turned his thoughts inward, trying to piece together the events that had brought him to this point.

  He remembered the bierkeller, the sharp smell of tobacco in the air; he remembered meeting with the other members of the Resistance. Kaufman’s sneering face swam into view and the gunshot echoed through his memory.

  He knew how he came to be here, he just had no idea where ‘here’ was.

  The sharp scrape of warped wood on stone and the squeal of rusted hinges made von Stauffenberg start as amber light, the colour of malt whisky, poured into the cellar.

  A scarecrow figure stepped into the rectangle of light, silhouetted for a moment against the brightness behind, and then Agent Heinrich Kaufman entered the cellar alone.

  Closing the door carefully behind him, he approached the chair, the tap-tap of his heels as loud as drum beats in the confines of the cellar. Von Stauffenberg saw that the man’s right arm was now in a sling, the hand bound with bandages.

  “So,” Kaufman said, “you are awake.”

  Von Stauffenberg glared at him, eyes narrowed, cold hatred burning within the black pits of his pupils.

  “Tell me,” the Gestapo agent said, “how did you ever think your plan could possibly succeed?”

  Von Stauffenberg snorted. “What plan?” His voice was cracked. His throat felt as rough as sandpaper.

  “Come, come, Herr Colonel,” Kaufman chided, a sneering smile creasing his bloodless lips. “You know that we know of your little plan, otherwise you would not be here.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” von Stauffenberg challenged. “If you know everything already, why come to me now? Why even take me prisoner? Why didn’t you just kill me when you had the chance?”

  The smile vanished from the agent’s face. His expression hardened.

  “Let us not play games, Herr Colonel. We are not children. Answer my questions and you can expect to be treated… mercifully. Resist and you shall suffer unending agonies, the like of which you have never known.”

  “Here’s a thought,” von Stauffenberg said. “Let me put it to you that you know next to nothing, and you only want me to believe the opposite to be true in the hope that I’ll spill my guts to you and reveal all. Because – let me guess – I’m the only one you managed to take alive. Either the others managed to get away or those idiots back at the bierkeller killed them all, and I’m your only prisoner.”

  “Let me tell you something,” Kaufman said, striding across the cellar, his back to von Stauffenberg. “It is a simple thing to cause a man more pain that he can endure. I would suggest you think on that before deciding how you will answer my next question.”

  The agent paced back across the room, heels clicking on the cold stone floor. He stopped in front of von Stauffenberg.

  “Who else was involved in your little scheme? How far up does it go? I want names.”

  Von Stauffenberg glowered at Kaufman, his eyes smouldering with cold hatred.

  “Alright,” he said at last. “Assuming I had even the slightest idea what you were talking about, wouldn’t you have got all this from Kemmler?”

  Kaufman’s ugly face remained an impassive mask. Slowly, and very deliberately, he pulled his Walther from its ho
lster.

  Von Stauffenberg couldn’t stop the snigger of derision that escaped him then.

  “And what do you intend to do with that? You missed last time, at near point blank range, and that was before you’d been shot in the hand yourself!”

  Kaufman took a step towards him. Holding the pistol by the barrel, he brought it down sharply across von Stauffenberg’s face with startling force.

  He heard, as well as felt, the butt of the pistol break several of his teeth. Shock deadening the pain, he was taken aback by the amount of blood that welled up and ran from his broken mouth, down into his lap.

  Just as quickly as the pain had dulled, his shock boiled into rage. But it wasn’t a desperate thrashing anger. It simmered, tempered with hatred, and deep within himself, von Stauffenberg knew that one day – maybe long after Dieter von Stauffenberg was already dead – Heinrich Kaufman’s time would come.

  “You won’t get anything from me,” he growled, spitting half-congealed blood and enamel fragments from between swollen lips.

  “Your loyalty and your stalwart attitude are commendable. It is only a shame that they are so misplaced.”

  Adjusting his grip on the gun, returning the butt to his hand, Kaufman peered myopically at his subject like a vulture trying to decide which parts of a zebra carcass to feast upon first.

  “There are a thousand agonies that I could subject you to,” he said, “and in the end you would say everything I wanted to hear, whether you actually knew the truth yourself or not. And so your reticence tells me far more than a confession extracted under torture ever could. You are quite right, Kemmler proved less… durable, shall we say...? and told us nearly everything we needed to know.”

  Kaufman lowered the barrel of the gun.

  “But I have encountered your kind before, Colonel. I know when I am beaten. There is no point in me interrogating you further. That being the case, you may still be allowed to serve the Führer once again.”