As he listened to that last remark, Schiller’s rage finally overflowed and his eyes snapped open, wild and alight. The first thing he saw was the P-38 handgun he held, pointing at the ceiling in his right hand, and the image burned into his mind, galvanising him into action.
“I shouldn’t concern yourselves with that, gentlemen,” he advised loudly as he stepped from the room at the far end of the stable and strode purposefully toward them, fire bright and intense in his eyes, “…you can all rest assured I know how to keep a secret…!”
Snapping back the slide on the P-38 and loading a round into the chamber, Schiller raised the weapon before any of them could react and shot Ziegler through the forehead. The back of the man’s head exploded in a spray of blood and fragments, the lifeless corpse already falling to the floor as he shot Göring between the eyes a second later. Hess, the right side of his face coated in Zeigler’s blood and brains, was turning his head away seeking some kind of imagined shelter behind Bormann as the third bullet struck him in the neck, blowing out one of his carotid arteries and most of his throat into the bargain. A crimson geyser of his own blood fountained into the air and spattered across a nearby wall as he toppled over, leaving only the Nazi Party Reichsleiter remaining.
Bormann – made of far sterner stuff than the rest of them – had at least managed to slip a hand around the pistol at his own belt as Schiller came to a halt two metres away, drawing aim directly at his face. Both men froze for a moment and each met the other’s gaze, Bormann’s eyes as cold and emotionless as Schiller’s were crazed and alight.
“I should expect there’s no likelihood you’d accept a bribe of any kind…?” Bormann asked in level, almost good-humoured tones. “I thought not,” he added with little regret as he noted the evil smile that spread across Schiller’s face. A slug punched a hole between his eyes as he made one last, futile attempt to draw his weapon, and he fell dead beside the others, the pistol clattering from his lifeless fingers and sliding across the floor to stop at Schiller’s feet.
Any semblance of emotion disappeared from the generalleutnant’s features as he worked quickly with the bodies, knowing it’d be just a few desperate minutes before those shots brought armed guards to the stable. He picked up Bormann’s fallen Luger, checking and ‘safing’ it before tucking it behind his back. The pain in his head had receded, adrenalin surging through his system once more and pushing him on with renewed strength and sudden resourcefulness.
Taking a soot-stained handkerchief from his pocket, he held the guard’s pistol gingerly by the hot, smoking muzzle and carefully wiped down the surfaces of the butt, slide and trigger, before crouching down and placing the weapon in Bormann’s right hand. Enclosing it in his own fingers, he forced the lifeless corpse to grasp the weapon in a rough semblance of a firing grip. As he released the hand and let the weapon drop, he took the opportunity to use the handkerchief once more and clean the last of his fingerprints from where he’d held the gun by its barrel.
A moment later he was done, and he jogged quickly back down to the room that’d been Lowenstein’s cell, snatching the kerosene lantern from the top of the bookcase. Moving back to the centre of the stables with equal speed, he drew back his arm and tossed the lantern toward the pile of bodies with great force. The nearby stalls might well have been empty of horses, but were nevertheless still littered with piles of hay, and they instantly caught alight as the lamp smashed heavily against the back wall and sprayed burning kerosene all about.
So close to the earlier fires that had all but burned the nearby storage sheds to the ground, the far end of the stable was still quite hot and incredibly dry, and it took just the slightest encouragement for most of one corner to burst into intense flame close to where Zeigler had fallen. Patches of fire were already flickering from the bodies where kerosene had sprayed from the shattered lamp, and it was just seconds before the main fire was threatening to engulf them also, which was exactly Schiller’s intention.
He was standing by the open doorway at the other end of the structure as the first guards arrived just seconds later, sent running at full speed across the open space between the stables and the still-burning main buildings as the alarm was raised at the sound of gunfire. Their submachine guns were held at the ready, but everyone knew Generalleutnant Schiller by sight, and neither of them gave a moment’s thought to the idea that he might be involved in anyway.
“Something terrible has happened,” Schiller began, his chest heaving as he rested one arm against the doorway for support. “I came looking for Chief Technician Müller, and heard an argument within. I heard Reichsleiter Bormann screaming something about ‘abominations’ and ‘insults to The Führer and The Party’…” he paused to take another few laboured breaths. “Then the shooting began…” he shook his head jerkily, as if he were partially in shock. “There was already fire at the other end, and by the time I got this door open it was too late…”
“Let us investigate, Mein Herr,” the senior guard volunteered, placing a reassuring hand upon the officer’s shoulder and using it to gently draw him away from the scene that had obviously caused him such understandable distress. Once Schiller was standing clear, the NCO raised his weapon to the ready and moved quickly inside, ducking his head to avoid the thickening clouds of smoke that was starting to pour out through the top of the opening.
“Werner…!” The second guard bellowed back across the grass to a third man standing twenty metres or so away and surveying the proceedings. “Get one of those bloody fire trucks over here now! We’ve got a flare up down here at the stables…!”
The first guard was out again a moment later, the shaken expression on his face an indication that he’d seen quite enough. He seemed noticeably uncomfortable as he approached Schiller once more, as if unsure what to say.
“Herr Generalleutnant,” he began slowly, pausing again as he considered his words carefully. “I must regretfully advise that I’ve found the body of Chief Technician Müller inside the first room on the right. He appears to have been shot several times.” He paused again and swallowed deeply. “I couldn’t get all the way down the far end because of the spreading fire, however from what I could see, it appears Reichsleiter Bormann was indeed inside, along with Generalfeldmarschall Göring, Deputy Führer Hess and another man I believe may be Direktor Zeigler. Herr Bormann’s sidearm was drawn… it appears there was an argument between them…” He took a deep breath. “There was a prisoner being held here also… a Jewish scientist, I think. I checked everywhere I was able, but could find no sign of him… he must have escaped... it’s impossible to tell whether before or after the incident inside.”
The raging fire now burning in those stables would soon destroy any evidence as to what might’ve really happened, leaving just the testimony of eyewitnesses as a record of the event. The man standing before him was one of the senior guards on the HQ staff – a man with a wealth of experience who knew his job well – and this highly credible witness had just swallowed the tale Schiller had dreamed up hook, line and sinker. The guard had mistakenly deduced the scene inside exactly as he’d staged it to appear, and there’d soon be no physical evidence left that might contradict that version of what had transpired. For the first time that night, Schiller felt as if something was finally going his way, and it was difficult for the generalleutnant to keep an evil smile from flickering across his face.
Director Oswald Zeigler had been a careful and thorough man his entire life. He’d not become a multi-millionaire in Realtime – or survived as long or as successfully as he had in 1930s Nazi Germany – by being the kind of man to make mistakes, or leave loose ends untied. Of course, there was always the occasional possibility of random chance or the unpredictability of others, a perfect case in point being the circumstances of that night ultimately leading to the rather inconvenient fact that he was now quite definitely deceased. All the planning in the world couldn’t have prepared Zeigler – or anyone else for that matter – for such an unlike
ly event as being shot to death by Generalleutnant Albert Schiller.
One thing Oswald Zeigler had taken into account, however, was the possibility of betrayal by others in the cabal he’d formed… the very same cabal that’d now been summarily destroyed by Schiller’s bullets. Göring, Bormann and Hess were very powerful men, and he’d needed all of their support and complicity for the goal he’d laid out before them: bringing down Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters. That being said, although it was true he needed their alliance, it would’ve been another thing entirely to have said he trusted them… he most certainly did not, and with good reason.
Beneath the supreme and unassailable position of Chancellor, politics in Nazi Germany were and always had been a quite unpleasant, dirty, and exceptionally underhanded business that quickly drew in the weak or virtuous and either destroyed them utterly, or corrupted and assimilated them completely. One was required to be both cunning and duplicitous by nature to survive in such an environment, and high-ranking dignitaries like Göring, Hess or Bormann hadn’t reached such heights without becoming hardened, cold and calculating in their both their actions and with whom they formed alliances or whom they betrayed.
Zeigler, himself accustomed to the cutthroat battlefield of 21st Century European boardrooms, had fully expected one or all of them would seek to betray him at some later time, and as such he’d made sure he put some simple but effective precautions into place. Admittedly, those same precautions hadn’t been enough to prevent his murder – that hadn’t been their intention after all – however their implementation would nevertheless have a significant, if somewhat delayed influence on world affairs long after the name Oswald Zeigler had since vanished into obscurity.
At the same moment the four conspirators had quietly entered the stable that evening, Dieter Strauss had already secreted himself in a hidden and prepared position by one of the barred windows on the far side of the building. To his back lay nothing but open fields and darkness, and the usual patrols were completely preoccupied with trying to bring the chaos of the burning HQ under control, leaving Strauss alone and unchallenged. Peering carefully through the corner of the open window, he’d watched as his colleague had led them all inside and they’d continued their meeting. While one hand grasped the window sill for support, the other held up his prized iPhone-4 and recorded the entire conversation in high-definition video, the brightness of the device’s touch-screen dimmed as far as was possible so its illumination wouldn’t give away his presence or position.
At the time they’d originally arrived in the past from Realtime, Strauss couldn’t have given any legitimate reason why he’d insisted on bringing the iPhone. He’d known full well the device would be completely useless for communications in a world that was still a good fifty years away from cellular mobile phone technology, yet he’d also carried his entire music collection stored within its 32GB internal memory, and he could argue that in that sense alone it had been in some way useful. The truth of it really was that he’d loved using the device in the 21st Century, and hadn’t wanted to part with it simply because it’d become his one personal, intimate link with the world he’d left behind. As it turned out however, the compact little phone had eventually come into its own as a very useful tool, and had justified its presence many times over.
As they’d sat talking in Reuters’ briefing room before the attack, Strauss had smiled and listened along without saying a word, and none of the others had noticed the very tip of the iPhone projecting from the top pocket of his suit jacket the whole time. Just enough of the device had been exposed to allow its rear-mounted, five-megapixel camera to record the entire discussion in quite high resolution. No one of that era could possibly have guessed at the capabilities of such a tiny device, and that fact worked perfectly in its favour as Strauss captured the entire event for posterity and the protection of the New Eagles’ Board of Directors, should any of the others present decide at a later date to renege on their agreements or try to sell the others out.
It was for this reason that Dieter Strauss was also able to clearly capture the murders of all four men on that same HD-quality video. So intent had he been in watching the proceedings, that he’d not even noticed Schiller’s emergence from the room at the far end of the stable until it was far too late to call a warning. The man’s gun fired seconds later, and Strauss was frozen in fear as his colleague and friend, Zeigler, had fallen with the first bullet. A man born of a media-savvy generation, he’d continued filming despite his terror, and he’d eventually recorded the entire episode, from the first entry of the group into the stable right up to Schiller’s exit after starting the fire.
The flames that burst up at that end of the stable however were far too close for comfort right from the outset, and at that point, Strauss finally decided discretion would definitely be the far better part of ‘valour’ in this particular instance. Shutting down the phone’s camera function, he pocketed the device and backed carefully away from the outside wall of the stable as smoke began to pour from the windows. A quick check around his position reassured him the coast was clear, and with that small comfort, he moved off quickly to the north-east, heading away from the scene of the crime and any possibility of being required to answer some very difficult questions.
Strauss wasn’t sure what he should do next. He needed to get in contact with the rest of the directors… that much was certain… but their leap at ultimate power had now been shattered, turning to smoke and ash as quickly as the bodies being consumed by the fire within the stable behind him. First things first, he decided with a simple rationale, and first of all he needed to get well away from that Wehrmacht HQ and find somewhere far safer, away from the influence of Reuters and Schiller. He had no doubt his absence would raise questions soon enough, and he intended to make sure he was a long way away when those questions were eventually asked. He patted his hand instinctively against the hardness of the iPhone in his trouser pocket, reassured he still felt its presence, and set himself a slow but steady, lumbering pace as he headed off across the French fields.
The nearest road passed straight by the northern perimeter of the property, running between Amiens and Villers-Bretonneux, and within a few moments, Strauss found himself standing by the side of the Route d’Amiens, his only illumination the gibbous moon above and the glow of the still-burning mansion perhaps 200 metres behind him to the south-west. He began to walk slowly eastward along the road, his mind reeling as he tried to come to terms with what had just occurred and what that meant with regard to his own safety in particular.
He was still considering the problem as the flicker of headlights behind him caught his attention. Strauss stopped for a moment and turned to stare as a large, black Citroen Traction Avant sedan approached, slowing down as it drew near and pulling onto the verge beside him. He stood watching, somewhat apprehensive, as the driver leaned across and wound down the passenger side window on his side. He found that the vehicle’s sole occupant was a uniformed colonel of the Waffen-SS.
“Looks like there’s been a bit of excitement back there for the OKW,” the officer remarked, mild surprise and interest showing on his face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but there’s been an air attack,” Strauss replied nervously, panting and fighting for breath after the exertion of his flight from the scene. He paused for a moment as a shrewd expression crossed his face. “As an officer, you’re aware perhaps of the group known as the ‘Board of Directors’?”
“Mein Herr, everyone has heard of the ‘Directors’,” the standartenführer acknowledged with a wry smile.
“Well, my name is Dieter Strauss, and I’m one of them!” He shot back, needing no further urging to throw open the passenger door and slide in beside the man in the front seat. If the officer knew of their reputation, then he’d not be likely to deny any request Strauss made of him. “I need to get to Paris immediately!”
“Then you’re in luck, Herr Strauss… I’m headed there tonight myself – I j
ust need to collect my adjutant from his billet at Villers-Bretonneux, and we can all head down there together. We’d be happy for the company.”
“Excellent!” Strauss nodded, almost smiling as he released a sigh of relief over the fact that at least something was finally going right that evening. “Rest assured you’ll be well compensated for your troubles.”
“Not at all, Mein Herr,” Phillip Brandis grinned back with a true sense of irony as he slotted the Citroen into gear and pulled back out onto the road, continuing his journey east. “It’s my pleasure entirely…!” The sedan accelerated quickly away and was soon lost to the darkness of the night.
“Bugger it!” Thorne growled angrily as a warning signal popped up on his main display. “Our EW systems are picking up emissions from a Flanker-type air search radar to the north… there goes the neighbourhood!”
“Can they see us?”
“Wouldn’t think so… not yet anyway… the signal’s very faint, and it’d have to cut through a lot of clutter to get us. He’d have trouble at that range even if we were returning a signal from a full-sized radar cross-section, which we’re not. Radar emissions can generally be picked up long before they’re able to detect an aircraft in return – particularly one such as ours.” He consulted a map of France slipped inside a clear-covered pocket on his upper right leg. “Looks like they’re out over the Channel somewhere… maybe near Guernsey or Cherbourg,” he shook his head in silent appreciation, “and he’s really been legging it to get that far so fast… we’ve had the better part of a half-hour head start.” The next shake of his head was one of displeasure. “That bastard isn’t on a search pattern either… he’d never have gotten this far already without having some idea of where to look.” He grimaced. “Looks like those ground radars did get a look at us as we shot past.”
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 78
