The Nostradamus Traitor: 1 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  “I believe in what I have accomplished.”

  “And what, may I ask, does that really mean?” Deep beneath his trimmed beard, Michel’s lips twisted: the arrogant leer of an academic about to meet a challenge.

  George said he would show him, leaving the table and going to his room. Under the false lining of the suitcase he had brought from England was the packet of pagers they had prepared so carefully during the early sessions with Ramilies and Fenice. They had even been typed up on French paper using a French machine, with a ribbon made in Nimes.

  “Before you see these”—George stood in the doorway looking at Downay, half turned at the table—“Madame Roubert?” He clutched the little packet of quarto pages to him as though they were gold—or, better still, a child.

  “Madame Maurice Roubert? Yes?”

  “What’s your connection with her? How much does she know? Can she be trusted?”

  “You question if your own mother can be trusted?”

  George told him, sharply, that he questioned everybody. Trusted nobody.

  Michel nodded patiently, one hand already reaching out, the fingers moving irritably, for George’s papers. “You know we’re not fully organised yet. But there is some structure. Madame Roubert’s husband, Maurice, is the leader of a group. A cell. Resistance, George.”

  “Your own cell?”

  He nodded.

  “She was here. She suggested that it was your idea for her to come here.”

  He smirked. “Didn’t you think it a good idea? Or do you dislike your Maman, Georges?”

  If the security was sound enough, George admitted it had been good to see his mother and know she was safe. With a slow affirmative nod, he stepped forward and handed over the papers.

  They were good. Very good. Michel began to shake his head with pleasure as he read the first few quatrains. They were the easy ones, like

  The armies of the leader from the Rhine

  Will be encamped through all lands. Their strength comes from him

  He will command and be respected.

  And:

  The Great One born near the Rhine of the Nordic Alps

  Will bring about a complete change;

  All countries will bow down

  The city on the Thames will be his.

  It was excellent, and Michel said so. George knew well enough that they read just like the real thing. Michel’s reaction, when he came to the tricky bits, was almost violent:

  “Holy Mother, they’ll not…What in God’s name…?” He read aloud:

  “In one stroke the black ones with skulls

  Will take command of all peoples

  To bring fear into the hearts of men While the Great One will be cast out—

  “They’ll never…”

  “Go on reading and think about it.” George prayed that he would not get cold feet or prove difficult. He knew he hadn’t played him long enough. The idea had been to introduce these concoctions slowly, a piece at a time. Feed him up gradually—so Fenice had cautioned.

  Downay went on reading, mainly aloud:

  “The Standard-Bearer’s castle, fashioned

  After the manner of the Court of Arthur,

  Will be a place of blood; not there But in the dark capital.”

  His brow creased like crumpled paper at

  The one who carried the flag

  Will unseat the great leader of Germany,

  In one blow, aided by those with the skulls

  Dressed in night black.

  “The Standard-Bearer? The castle? King Arthur’s Court?” Downay queried, knowing well enough what it meant.

  “The abortive putsch of 1923,” George prompted, trying to look innocent.

  Downay inclined his head, allowing sudden light to dawn on his face, signifying that he was familiar with the story of how, on the November evening in 1923, Hitler had made his ill-fated attempt to seize power, and Himmler, then in Munich, had carried the war banner, the Reichskriegflagge, in front of the War Ministry.

  It was rumoured that this was still one of the greatest days, one of the best memories, of Himmler’s life; though it initially led to failure—except with women who saw in the ardent young man who carried the flag a champion of the New Order.

  “The castle? King Arthur’s Court?” Downay repeated; not a genuine query, for the added, “Wewelsburg?”

  “Of course Wewelsburg. That’s Himmler’s court, isn’t it? His Camelot?”

  That’s what Downay had heard. But the rumours, he said, were scratchy. Back at the Abbey, George had been told a lot about the castle at Wewelsburg—mysticism, monasticism, the weird and odd pretensions of the SS.

  “The Reichsminister…” Downay began.

  George smiled. “The Reichsminister,” he repeated, “will like the ones which seem to show that the Führer is to triumph. They will be the ones which friends Kuche and Wald send to Berlin. The others’ll fascinate them; stir them into action, maybe. Give them hopes?”—letting his voice rise in question.

  Downay’s eyes glittered, the corners of his mouth defying the beard, creaming into a smile of genuine pleasure. “Brilliant,” he whispered; adding that, of course, it was also very simple. Which it was.

  Any Party member, any ranker of the SS would recognise the Standard-Bearer as Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler. “The black ones with skulls” were manifestly the SS itself. There were many other references. Things like Those who stand shoulder to shoulder where the lightning strikes twice (a comment on the lightning-flash runes, the distinctive SS markings). There was even an obscure quatrain which mentioned The ring and the dagger of silver; With the face of death thereon—coveted SS accoutrements.

  “Georges”—Michel hauled himself up, gripping the table—“I hope you understand how very dangerous all this stuff is.” The smile turned into a laugh, throwing back his head as though taunting the danger.

  George did not laugh. He said that nobody could be really certain how far Himmler was hooked on the occult. It was much more probable that his particular stimulation lay within the Norse legends, combined with the odd bits of sanctity left over from his Roman Catholic upbringing. “What is certain, Michel, is that the SS have great ambition. These quatrains might give a little push to that ambition. If senior members of the SS could persuade Himmler that it is his destiny to overcome the Führer—well, anything might happen. The Wehrmacht and the SS are at loggerheads already. A split within the Party itself could add confusion on a grand scale.”

  “Or lead us to a convenient wall,” Michel said soberly. He bent over the papers again and read aloud:

  “Before the Thames runs with blood The Great Conqueror will be forced

  To give way to his own people who ride

  On clouds of death, and bury many slaves.”

  It was a sombre piece and a fitting counterpoint to the sudden loud knocking at Downay’s door.

  They looked at one another, locking eyes. A minute flicker of fear? Fumbling for his ebony cane, Downay hobbled across the room and into the vestibule.

  Kuche and Wald came back with him, together with a sergeant George had not seen before. They all looked grim, stiff, and very businesslike—as well they might. The Reichsminister of Propaganda, they said, had given their general twenty-four hours to come up with the right quatrains: ones which he could use to bolster up the nation, and spread despondency among the enemy.

  General Frühling, in turn, had given Kuche and Wald four hours only. The time ratio seemed a shade severe, and George said so. They had no option. Downay spread a hand towards the papers which lay on the table. A gesture which appeared to convey great generosity.

  Michel hesitated after handing over his own documents, as if he would have liked more time to study those George had brought from England. George would also have liked more time—if only to stuff away some of the prophecies to use as a reserve. But Kuche and Wald held all the aces; and the firepower.

  They told George and Michel to stay put. “You
will be hearing from us. Soon.” George reflected that if either of the men had any intelligence they would be hearing pretty fast.

  As they left, Kuche gave George a look which had question marks engraved on his retinas. George replied with a small nod.

  Angelle came back with the bread. They ate. At one point Michel spoke of going down to the university, but a glance out of the window showed there was a pair of ratty-looking men watching the building without any pretence of hiding either their presence or intent.

  “So there you were,” muttered Herbie. “More coffee? I get some.”

  There we were, George agreed. All his assets had gone; the SS were watching the place and he hoped for some kind of message from London that night. Not good for the nerves.

  Herbie came back with the coffee, poured it, and sat down. “And the message came?”

  “Much more than the message.” George swallowed and continued.

  30

  PARIS 1941

  IT WAS A TENSE afternoon, there in Downay’s apartment. They did not talk much and, around late afternoon, Downay started to behave like a caged animal: stumping up and down, using his cane to lean upon and bang hard into the thin carpet.

  They came back at about five o’clock, the car arriving noisily, with a squeal of brakes which must have cost the Third Reich a few marks in rubber. Then the sound of boots outside—and the knocking.

  Kuche and Wald were both very correct, on their best behaviour, but pleased and unable to suppress an obvious excitement.

  Did the Herr Doktor and Herr Thomas realise what they had provided?

  “We were still working on the quatrains…” Downay shrugged. “The time…”

  George said there were a number of things they had found difficult: hard to understand.

  Did they understand the references to the castle; the Standard-Bearer and to Arthur’s Court?

  Those were difficult, George admitted.

  Not easy to comprehend, agreed Michel Downay.

  “Good.” Kuche slapped his polished boot with the military cane he carried. “Good. The general has sent some of the material to Berlin. He has also had a long telephone conversation with the Reichsführer SS—with Himmler. There are certain officers who wish to discuss these matters, these quatrains, with you—as experts.”

  “Officers in Reichsminister Goebbels’ Ministry of Propaganda?” Downay sounded as though the question was so obvious that it need not even be asked.

  “No.” Wald’s smile vanished and his voice became more clipped. “No. Some high-ranking officers in the SS. We are all to travel into Germany….” The tone bordered on being aggressive.

  “Berlin?” George feigned excitement.

  Wald shook his head. “We shall leave quietly in the morning. No fuss. Just the Herr Doktor; yourself, Herr Thomas; Major Kuche and I; together with a small detachment—a sergeant and four men. For protection, you understand. You will be going to meet the Standard-Bearer at Arthur’s Court.” He thought it was a very good joke. No wonder they looked pleased; they had cracked the prophecies. The superior knowledge of the SS had triumphed. Natürlich. Only members of the SS knew the real ways of the SS.

  “Tomorrow?” Downay made a show of sounding irritated. “I don’t know if I…”

  Kuche slapped his boot again. “You will make yourselves ready to leave here at eight in the morning. We will provide the transport. The train leaves at nine o’clock sharp from the Gare du Nord.”

  After the SS officers’ car pulled away, Michel stood at the window for a long time, looking down into the street. After a while he relaxed and turned back into the room.

  “They’ve called the watchdogs off.”

  Angelle had come in from the kitchen and George took her to one side, quietly-telling her the news she had dreaded.

  Michel made some offhand remark about her naturally being able to stay in the apartment. “You’ll be quite safe here. Besides it will keep the place aired.”

  A bastard with women.

  With Angelle, there were tears just under the surface. George sensed her shiver as they touched hands, and he whispered that it was all right. We’ll be coming back. It won’t be for long.”

  As though making some sudden resolution, Michel turned towards them. There was much to be done before the morning. Only he could arrange it The glint in his eyes should have warned George there and then, for he was like an officer who had made a decision and was full of enthusiasm about his strategy—right, wrong, or, as in this case, foolhardy. He would be out for some time, he said.

  George warned him that Kuche and Wald seemed serious. “They’re picking us up at eight in the morning and it’s only an hour or so to curfew now.”

  He made pooh-poohing noises, saying something about the curfew presenting no problems for him. He would be back in the early hours. Maybe around three. George felt he was suggesting that they would have the place to themselves and could enjoy it during his absence.

  For a second hatred showed in Angelle’s eyes as she watched Michel leave for his room. Her face was wiped clean of expression, and her shoulders sagged, like an old boxer ready to move in and finish off a victim,

  He returned, stuffing an automatic pistol into the pocket of his jacket, knuckles white on the head of the ebony cane. Yet he moved quickly, almost jaunty in his walk, as he went to the vestibule and shrugged into the theatrical topcoat. Then he grinned and raised a hand in mock blessing. “Benedicite, my children.”

  The door closed behind him, leaving only the faint echo of his halting walk, the stick slipping on the tiled floor, then the sound fading.

  Angelle clung to George for a while, shaking but not crying, as he told her that on no account was she to stay in the apartment once they had gone.

  She pulled back, panic on her face, the eyes seeking some order in the chaos—-as though she was looking for hidden meanings in George’s looks and words.

  He floundered, searching for the best action. The most positive way of helping her.

  “You can go to Maman’s—to Madame Roubert’s home….” That could be a dreadful mistake, he realised, quickly correcting himself. Distraught, he held on to her—close so that she could not see his face as he weighed the odds. There was one possibility. He dismissed it as being too dangerous and compromising, remembering his own words to Michel—that he trusted nobody. Then he thought again.

  One of the Rammer’s last instructions concerned the place. One address. One safe house to be used only in unavoidable circumstances, in desperate emergency. To give Angelle access to it, he would have to reveal a great deal—like telling her that Hiram the Wizard had sent her and they should check with Mars.

  He shelved it for the time being, needing to think the whole business through. It was already well after six and he still had to code up tonight’s message and stand by to receive at nine o’clock.

  She wanted to stay with him, saying she couldn’t bear to be alone, but eventually George persuaded her to leave him. “There are things I have to do”—gently, as to a child. “Things that will help you.”

  Then he sat on the bed in his small room and worked out the groups. If he received their message, his own would be prefixed by a series of three letters, repeated three times. When decoded the rest would read

  PROPHET SWALLOWED. VENUS AND WARLOCK SHOULD USE ALL VERSES. CASPAR AND MELCHIOR EN ROUTE FOR ARTHUR’S COURT IN PEACE. FINAL TRANSMISSION. PIANO GOING OUT OF WINDOW. PLEASE REPLACE AND LISTEN OUT. CASPAR.

  Venus and Warlock were, of course, the ginger Leaderer and his wireless man running Soldatensender Calais. With luck they would be broadcasting bits of the falsified Nostradamus quatrains within days.

  He sat for a while looking at the groups of letters, thinking about Angelle. If the trip into Germany went wrong—very wrong, leaving Michel Downay and George Thomas in crumpled heaps—the SS would come looking for the third occupant of the apartment. He did not like to think of what that could mean. In the end, it seemed worth the risk.
Struggling once more with the cipher, George added another series of groups. When unravelled they read

  COURIER GALAXY WORKING UNDER CASPAR. CLEAR FOR SPECIAL HOUSING.

  The special housing was the apartment in the Rue Cambon, occupied by an elderly couple who had been purposely left behind during the debacle in 1940 and knew where a number of bodies were buried. Bodies like arms caches, and real living bodies who could help form a nucleus of saboteur organisations. There were precious few of these contacts left behind in France. Pure luck, and one man’s foresight had caused any to be left at all. Galaxy was the arranged field name for any unknown quantity which George felt he could trust.

  Dead on nine he sent out the call signal for Stellar; fingers slipping under the key; palms damp, with sweat running down to his fingers. After one minute, he switched to “listen-out.”

  They came on at nine-five. He gave the quick reception burst and then hunched over the set, pad on knee, pencil ready to take down their groups, left hand holding the side of the headphones.

  There were twenty-eight groups, some of them very fuzzy, but George thought honestly that he had enough of the message to make sense. He did not fancy staying on the air for long, there in Downay’s apartment, claustrophobic in the small room, with Angelle impatient in the kitchen not far away.

  He sent out the prefix confirming reception of their message, then his own prefix. Three times. Four or five seconds later they gave George the go-ahead and he rattled off his own groups. London okayed, and he signed off—parking the gear, taking down the aerial, closing the case and pushing it under the bed. He would have to risk letting Angelle take the set to the Rue Cambon. He then started to decipher.