Ernst took one of the wooden chairs by the table, placing his pistol and holster upon it. The native woman then knelt in front of him, to laboriously pull off his boots and wipe his feet with the towel. When this was done, she shuffled backwards, still on her knees, until Chavez barked another instruction at her. Standing upright, she filled the two glasses with brandy and handed them to Ernst and Chavez. The latter offered his gap-toothed smile and held his glass up in a toast. Ignoring him, Ernst drank most of the brandy in one thirsty gulp. Casting his gaze over the compound, which resembled an untended farmyard, covered in smoke and filled with worthless human livestock, he realised that he was not thrilled to be here.
‘So,’ he said, not trying to hide his bitterness, ‘this is it: my new home.’
‘Yes, senor,’ Chavez said.
‘And this so-called headman – ‘ Ernst indicated Valentinas with a contemptuous wave of his hand – ‘now works for me.’
‘That is correct, senor. He will translate and tell you all you need to know. He will also take care of the supplies, which will be shipped in from Asuncion every month. He already has his instructions, senor, and will not let you down.’
‘I hope not,’ Ernst said.
Chavez finished his brandy and placed his glass back on the table. ‘Now I must be off, senor. I go back to Asuncion. I work on the gunboat that sails regularly between there and here, so we will meet quite a lot. If you need me, just call. Goodbye… How you say it? Auf Wiedersehen! Until the next time, senor.’
Chavez waved, sauntered in a leisurely manner back to the truck, climbed in and drove out of the compound with a lot of rattling and banging.
‘Dreck!’ Ernst muttered, feeling tired and impatient. Pouring another stiff brandy, he ordered Valentinas to gather together on the veranda the women selected as potential household staff. Valentinas brought a dozen of them, some young, others old. After inspecting them, as he had often done in Nordhausen - pinching here, prodding there, checking their teeth - Ernst rejected the eldest and most ugly, picking mostly the young to serve him, with one middle-aged crone to be in charge of them. Those chosen bowed solemnly, fearfully, and then were ushered by the old crone up the stairs at the side of the house, to sort themselves out on the open floor beneath the raised roof. Until Ernst decided otherwise, that’s where they would live from now on, separated from family and friends, working only for him.
He had another drink of brandy, feeling marginally better for it, then strapped his holster on and stepped off the porch, followed by the obedient Valentinas. Disgusted by the seemingly disorganised state of the compound, he told Valentinas to get rid of the open fires and move the natives back into the ramshackle living accommodations located on both sides of the clearing. The natives so housed would then be used as the labour force required to dig out the centre of the compound and turn it into a reinforced, concrete landing pad for the flying saucers. Also, though the barbed-wire fence was already electrified, he wanted to erect watchtowers and have them manned at all times with machine-gun crews.
Ernst barked his numerous instructions with renewed, drunken vigour while Valentinas, always standing in his shadow, nodded affirmatively.
‘Any mistakes,’ Ernst informed him, ‘and you’ll be dealt with personally, harshly, by me. Understood?’
‘Yes, senor.’
The sun had started sinking when Ernst returned to the house, this time letting Valentinas lead him inside to show him around. There were two floors beneath the open floor at the top, both with balconies overlooking the living room. The beds in the rooms located along the balconies were imported four-posters covered in mosquito nets, and the bedroom furniture, Ernst noted, was mostly imported German antique. The downstairs living room, however, was filled with well-cushioned bamboo chairs and sofas, bookcases of waxed pine, and low tables carved from local woods. All in all, it was surprisingly comfortable, if a touch too exotic.
Satisfied, Ernst tackled a light supper of bread, cheese and fresh fruit, all washed down with an intemperate amount of brandy. Now more drunk than he had been since leaving Germany, he thought of his homeland, grew unexpectedly maudlin, and had vivid recollections of the women he had known during the war: that lascivious stripper, Brigette, who had performed in the Französischestrasse; that Polish woman, Kosilewski, who had pleasured him to betray him; even Ingrid, his wife, who had loved him but eventually came to hate him, before dying with his children in an air-raid. Those and the others, some willing, some not, some whores and some unfortunate camp inmates used in military brothels. Those women and many more. So many women. So many ways. Ernst remembered and was inflamed, wanting to have them all back, and so barked for Valentinas to bring him a girl - the youngest and prettiest of those upstairs. His wizened servant soon did so, fetching one from the top floor, and then he beat a hasty retreat when Ernst glared fiercely at him.
‘Yes, senor. Of course, senor! I will be on the veranda if you need me. I’ll sleep out there, senor.’
Satiated with food and drink, Ernst tried to undress the young girl, a mere stripling, and beat her badly when she tried to resist. When even the beating failed to work, but simply reduced her to tears, he threw the sobbing creature onto the floor and stormed out to the veranda.
‘I will show you what discipline is,’ he said to Valentinas, ‘and you can tell all the others. Bring in the girl’s mother.’
When the girl’s terrified mother was brought into the living room, Ernst again told the sobbing girl to remove her clothes. When the girl refused to do so, Ernst unholstered his pistol and placed it to the head of her mother, who was now also sobbing.
‘Tell her that if she doesn’t do as I say, Valentinas, I’ll blow her mother’s brains out.’
‘Yes, senor. Of course.’
Valentinas relayed the message and the sobbing girl, staring at her fearful mother, finally nodded agreement. The mother, still crying, was led out by Valentinas, as Ernst ordered the trembling girl to strip and lie back on the floor. When she had done so, he removed his own clothes, then stood over her, legs outspread, and told her to raise herself to her knees. Trembling, her eyes as big as spoons, she did as she was told.
‘You will do everything I tell you,’ Ernst said. ‘Do you understand what I'm saying?’
‘Yes,’ the girl whispered, speaking English, which Ernst understood.
‘Your fear excites me,’ Ernst told her. ‘Your degradation is my joy. Now dry your damned eyes.’
Placing his hands on the back of her head, he pulled the girl towards him, closing his own eyes in expectation, making the most of his new life. The days would be long here.
Chapter Ten The saucer was one of the early models, a mere thirty feet in diameter, descending vertically, silently, towards a dark field in Virginia, its lights flashing on and off, the seamless surface a silvery white, gleaming in a vast sea of stars, parallel to a Gorgonzola moon. Reaching the ground, it didn’t quite touch it, but merely hovered just above it, swaying slightly from side to side, until its four hydraulic legs emerged obliquely from its base and dug into the soft earth. The saucer’s lights blinked out, its silvery-white sheen turned to grey, then its steps angled down from the base.
Two men in black coveralls dropped out, followed by Wilson.
Straightening up, Wilson glanced around him, taking in the grassy hills, the empty fields, the shivering trees, then he walked across the grass to the unfenced road, where a jet-black limousine was parked. Its windows were tinted and the headlights turned off, but its rear door opened as he approached. When he slipped into the car, the flying saucer in the field took off again. It rose slowly, almost silently, to a very great height, its lights flashing on and off around the rim to form a kaleidoscope. Eventually it became dime-sized, then a mere spot of white light. That light hovered in the air, as if just another star, then it suddenly shot away and disappeared.
Wilson took the rear seat in the limousine. Beside him, Artur Nebe was wearing a grey suit with shirt and t
ie, looking uncomfortable out of uniform.
Too many years in the SS, Wilson thought, with a pistol always holstered on his waist. He must feel naked without it.
‘Guten tag, Nebe,’ Wilson said. ‘How is life in the real world?’
‘I don’t like all the politics,’ Nebe said. ‘I should be back in Antarctica.’
‘You will be. Today. Once we get this meeting over with. After that, you’ll have no reason to stay here. You’ll come back with me.’ He noticed that Nebe was staring intently at him. ‘What is it? My face?’
‘Sorry, sir. Yes, you look different. About twenty years younger.’
‘Not like an eighty-two-year old?’
‘More like sixty-two.’
Wilson smiled. ‘Plastic surgery and skin grafts. Dr King is doing a good job of preserving me in particular and researching longevity in general. I’ve also had certain joints replaced with artificial ones, steel and fibre, which King produced during his ongoing cyborg research.’
‘He certainly seems to be doing well.’
‘The knowledge that he can experiment without restraints of any kind has sent his imagination soaring and filled him with energy. He’s become a man obsessed with his work and now cares for little else. He doesn’t have to be watched any longer; his love of work has enslaved him. He’s all ours, Nebe. Completely.’
‘And his other needs?’
‘We’ve given him total freedom when it comes to the comfort girls. The sex is all he really wants when he’s not working. The needs of most men are basic.’
Nebe offered a rare, chilling smile, being himself addicted to the abducted girls used as whores, or ‘comfort girls’, in the brothel in the Antarctic colony. ‘I’m sure he didn’t get sex like that in Hendon, England. That alone should enslave him.’
‘It’s certainly helped him forget his wife and children. Family love treads on thin ice.’ Wilson rolled his window down and gazed out at the moonlit fields. The trees were silhouetted against a star-filled sky; the wind scarcely stirred. ‘When is General Samford expected?’
Nebe checked his wristwatch. ‘He should be here in five minutes. He was told to be punctual.’
‘Who arranged the meeting?’
‘A CIA agent, Sam Fuller. I’d heard he was on your trail. He was in charge of disinformation regarding the Socorro crash, back in 1947, and he went to have a talk with Mike Bradley.’
‘The one who pursued me during the war?’
‘Yes. Wounded at Kiel harbour. The explosion set by Ernst Stoll. You paid him a visit the night of the Socorro crash and warned him off his UFO investigations.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember. Have you any idea what he told Fuller?’
‘According to Fuller, nothing. But just knowing that Fuller had been to see him made me suspicious. Then, when he also went to see von Braun and Miethe, I knew it was us he was after.’
‘So?’
‘I contacted him in Washington DC. A meeting was arranged. Same place - right here
- and same time. When we met, I told him I knew what he was after and that we were responsible.’
‘Did you tell him where we’re located?’
‘I confirmed it. He already knew, of course, though not in too much detail. He’d interrogated Captain Schaeffer of U-boat 977, the one that took us to Plata del Mar, Argentina, and worked the rest of our route out from there. So he knows we’re in Neu Schwabenland, though he still doesn’t know the exact location. First US confirmation of the existence of our flying saucers came, he said, through the investigations of Operation Paperclip at the close of the war. Mike Bradley also worked on that, which is why he turned up at Kiel and later became obsessed with UFOs. That knowledge, as well as Bradley’s turnaround after the Socorro crash, explain why Fuller went with First Lieutenant Harris to see him in Socorro. Now, a select few in the White House, the Pentagon, and the CIA, including Fuller, know we’re hidden somewhere in Antarctica. They also know we have flying saucers more highly developed than those being constructed in the United States and Canada.’
‘What made General Samford change his mind about meeting us? When I personally tried to set up this meeting, his minions said, “No deal”.’
‘Because you were using a pseudonym then - calling yourself Aldridge - and they didn’t relate the name to Wilson, which is who they were looking for. Also, though they knew we were in Antarctica, they didn't believe how advanced our saucers were and assumed we were just a bunch of fanatical Nazis not much different, though possibly crazier, than those who had fled to Paraguay. Reportedly, Samford, protective of his position as US Head of Intelligence, was outraged that his minions would even consider such a meeting. I believe he described us as a bunch of escaped war criminals and demanded that an expeditionary force be sent to Antarctica to get us out and bring us back to the United States, to be tried as war criminals.’
‘Rear-Admiral Byrd’s Operation Highjump.’
‘Correct.’
‘Which we put to rout. Byrd’s expedition was then cut short. The official explanation was hurricane winds.’
‘Also correct. But Samford still refused to believe we were that advanced technologically and asked for Byrd to be psychiatrically evaluated. He also demanded that all of Byrd’s references to our flying saucers be removed from his official report.’
‘So what made the morally outraged US Head of Intelligence change his mind?’
‘I arranged for one of our saucers to hover over his house one evening, in the middle of a party he was giving in the garden of his home in Alexandria, Virginia. A lot of other top brass and their wives were in attendance and all of them saw the saucer. It was hovering right over them, casting its shadow on the lawn. That’s what changed the stubborn General Samford’s mind. He’s a man who sees reason.’
Wilson smiled. ‘It must have come as quite a shock to Samford’s guests.’
‘It sure did. All of those present were sworn to secrecy. When a couple of the wives gossiped about the incident, their husbands were transferred to Alaska. That was fair enough warning to the others. No one’s talked since.’
‘Who would believe them anyway? Project Grudge is now treating all those who report UFOs as cranks. Witnesses are afraid of public ridicule, so those best equipped to confirm the reality of the saucers - radar operators and pilots - are learning to keep their mouths shut. We have little to fear.’
‘There they are,’ Nebe said softly.
Looking beyond the driver’s head, Wilson saw the headlights of another car approaching along the dark road. It slowed down and pulled into the verge, then stopped about twenty yards from the limousine. Another set of headlights appeared behind it, stopping further away. When the lights of both vehicles blinked out, Wilson saw that the other vehicle was an army troop-truck.
‘Did you know about this?’ he asked of Nebe.
‘I told him he could bring some protection. I didn’t mean a whole troop-truck.’
‘No problem,’ Wilson said.
He stepped from the limousine as the troops were spilling out of the truck to form a cordon across the road. All of the troops were armed. General Samford, in uniform, followed by a man in plain clothes, clambered out of the other car as Nebe joined Wilson. The two groups approached one another, stopping about three feet apart.
With his lean, almost ascetic face, General Samford did not look like a man to take fools lightly. Fuller, on the other hand, was darkly handsome, clearly cynical, deceptively relaxed and slyly watchful. He looked like a man who could handle trouble and probably relished it.
Four of the armed troops came up behind Samford and Fuller, stopping a few yards farther back.
Nebe glanced at Fuller. ‘So, we meet again.’ Fuller just nodded. Nebe indicated Wilson with his finger. ‘This is him,’ he told Fuller. ‘Herr Wilson, this is CIA agent Sam Fuller, and...’
‘General Samford,’ Fuller confirmed. ‘Head of US Intelligence.’
‘I believe you wanted a talk,’ Samfo
rd said, sounding like a man suppressing anger. ‘Well, here I am.’
‘Are you nervous, General?’
‘What?’
‘You’ve brought a lot of armed troops to what I’d hoped would be an informal, friendly meeting.’
‘I don’t have friendly meetings with escaped war criminals. Nor do I like traitorous Americans and their Nazi cohorts.’
Wilson was amused. ‘You wrong me. I’m not a man who changes sides. I’ve always been exactly what I am, which is a man on his own. I can’t be a traitor, because I’ve never been a patriot. I go where my work takes me, General Samford, whether it’s here, Nazi Germany, or the Antarctic. You’re a soldier, General. I’m a scientist. That’s the only difference between us.’
‘You’re just a goddamned Nazi,’ Samford said. ‘You and your whole bunch.’
‘I am not, and never have been, a Nazi, General Samford. I have no political allegiances, no religion, no belief in any government, left or right. I live for my work, which is science, as you live for the army. You’ve chosen what you want to be, General, and I’ve done the same. We’re two sides of the same coin.’
General Samford was obviously outraged by the very suggestion, but before he could explode, Fuller said soothingly, ‘Okay, you’ve got us both here, Wilson. Now what do you want?’
‘Can I take it you’re both here with the full knowledge of the head of the Air Matériel Command?’
‘General Vandenberg knows we’re here,’ Samford said, practically gritting his teeth. ‘Now what do you want?’
‘We want to trade,’ Wilson said.
For a moment even Fuller looked dumbfounded, but General Samford could barely contain himself.
PHOENIX: (Projekt Saucer series) Page 12
