by Guy N Smith
Vengeance smouldered within him as he hunted them down to pay the supreme penalty for their war crimes.
Wolskel had spent over a year preparing his file on Bremmer from the moment he first located the whereabouts of the Nazi Beast. He had followed a meticulous process in just the same way that he had plotted the execution of his former three victims. But this was the big one, the culmination of a hunt to which he had devoted the last twenty years of his life. He could not risk any slip-ups with the coup-de-grace in sight.
Vogel, Stalhein and Duvar had been academic by comparison, ‘practice runs’ for when he found Bremmer. Certainly all three were Nazi war criminals who had deserved to die for their part in the atrocities during the occupation of Poland. But throughout, Lech Wolskel had pursued Bremmer with a smouldering obsession for revenge, for he had proved beyond a doubt that it was the commandant who had been instrumental in betraying 14,000 Polish servicemen to the Russians and instigating the massacre in Katyn Forest in 1940. The Nazis had been blamed for the outrage but recently the USSR had owned up to the slaughter. But the guilt lay with Bremmer.
Any day in the metropolis you would pass a dozen Wolskels, barely give them a second glance. Executives, civil servants, greying hair, bespectacled and carrying briefcases that denoted a respectability in their daily routine of paperwork and meetings. You saw them on the tubes and on the buses, ignored them because they were part of the accepted background to the bustle of city life. Which was how Wolskel had intended it to be from the first day he had commenced work at Whitehall. His position of trust had allowed him access to secret files. Three down and one to go. After that he might apply for early retirement and return to his beloved homeland, satisfied that his life had been well spent, that his father, who had been one of the Katyn victims, had been avenged. He fought to maintain a calmness. Only when it was all over would he allow himself to gloat.
He returned to his large suburban house, smelled again that lingering odour of death as he entered the long hallway. Its sickly sweetness was like nectar and made him heady. A door at the end of the dimly lit corridor led down to the cellar below, his footsteps echoing in the dank bowels of this place of death.
The light from a single bulb showed him the gallows which he had constructed over innumerable weekends, the rough sawn timbers, the trapdoor which operated with precision; the hempen noose greased so that it slid smoothly and tightened. His eyes travelled over to the far corner where a stone slab covered the ‘pit’, a deep grave that had taken him months to excavate, and alongside it the bag of quicklime that had already destroyed three corpses and was awaiting a fourth.
His half smile turned to a frown, his lips tightening and his forehead creasing. Now that he had discovered Bremmer’s hideaway, unmasked his pseudonym, the commandant should have been easier than the others. Bremmer was an old, pathetic, doddering, octogenarian who would offer little resistance.
He made no attempt to conceal his movements, had long ago convinced himself that he had successfully covered his tracks. And now, with legal protection against those who would have brought him to trial for his war crimes, he basked in the safety of his dingy terraced house. Every evening at nine he shuffled down the street to the pub on the corner, drank two double whiskeys, and returned promptly at ten. Wolskel had watched his intended prey every night for the past week, the other’s movements synchronised with his own digital watch. Any night would have done, Wolskel's only nagging fear was that death from natural causes might have cheated him at the final hour. He had almost permitted himself a day or two in which to savour the pending execution.
Until today, when he knew that it had to be tonight. And even tonight might be too late!
Whitehall had received information from one of its most trusted Middle East agents that the Hawk was believed to be in London, having slipped through Heathrow security on the previous day. A man whose very name brought cold sweat to surviving war criminals in their havens throughout the world, a fanatic who executed mercilessly, came and went like a sporadic show of winter sunshine. The agent had reported that the Hawk was believed to have located Bremmer, established proof of his identity as well as his whereabouts, and was poised to kill. That information was not known to The Department, only to Wolskel who had tracked down his man. And now the one known as the Hawk might beat him to it, mock him with a shot blasted or knife hacked corpse. There was no time to be lost.
Wolskel sat in his parked Volvo in the sparsely-lit street, watched the pub in his rear-view mirror. The night was misty, there was a hint of drizzle in the air. Visibility was poor. He glanced at his watch. 21.53. In seven minutes Bremmer would come out of that door, follow the pavement on the shadowy side until he reached number 53. Then he would fumble in his overcoat pocket for his door key and let himself in. Just as he had done on the previous seven nights when Wolskel had sat and watched. Tonight would be no different. It must not be.
It was.
22.05 and there was no sign of Bremmer. Wolskel was tense he felt slightly sick, tried to tell himself that perhaps tonight the Nazi had permitted himself a third double whiskey. He hadn't, he wouldn't, because his makeup was as rigid now as it had been half a century ago.
Wolskel searched the shadows on both sides of the street looking for a lurking figure. He laughed mirthlessly to himself. If the Hawk was here, you wouldn't see him. He shivered uncontrollably.
22.12. Maybe there was a perfectly ordinary explanation for Bremmer's non-appearance. Like he had a cold or a fever, or the night was too chilly for him to go out. Or that he was dead, either from natural causes or…
22.20. Lech Wolskel let himself out of the car, looked up and down the street. There was nobody in sight. He began to walk slowly along the uneven littered pavement until he stood outside number 53. His stomach churned, knotted. For the first time in his life he experienced fear, almost turned and fled. Only the thought of a father who he scarcely remembered stopped him from abandoning his mission. If Bremmer still lived, then he must hang, and his corpse must be destroyed in the ‘pit’.
The door was unlocked! Wolskel's outstretched fingers touched it and it creaked, opened a couple of inches. A low wattage bulb burned in the passageway and an odour of staleness wafted through the gap, the stench of an old man's den, a combination of an unwashed body and urine. His hand dropped to the pocket of his overcoat, felt the reassuring bulk of the .38 that nestled inside it. An illegal weapon. He laughed again.
Wolskel stepped inside, left the door slightly ajar behind him. He waited whilst his eyesight adjusted to the gloom. He listened, but there was no sound to be heard. Icy fingertips stroked his spine. Yet he sensed that he was not alone.
A door led off from the narrow hallway. His fingers depressed the handle, it was loose and rattled slightly at his touch. The room beyond was in darkness except for a shaft of light that penetrated the frayed curtains, an eerie glow that denoted silhouettes and created deep shadow. The atmosphere was heavy, almost suffocating, the stench so strong now that it rasped his throat.
Wolskel stood there in the open doorway, felt rather than saw the untidy, unclean room, the dead coals in the fireplace, food scraps on a plate on the table. He stiffened when he picked out the armchair, the huddled shape in it facing away from him. A balding head that slumped forward, legs stretched out. The other was either asleep... or dead!
‘Bremmer?’ Wolskel scarcely recognised his own voice, the way it quavered, the pistol heavy in his shaking hand.
There was no response. He had begun to back away when the figure in the chair stirred, the head lifted and turned, the features hidden in a patch of shadow.
‘Who... is... it?’ The voice was cracked, the invisible lips slobbering, but there was no hint of fear in the words. Just a question, curiosity because there was an intruder in the house.
‘You wouldn't know my name if I told you,’ Wolskel's pulses were racing, he fought against sudden euphoria because neither death nor the assassin known as the Hawk had beaten
him to his prey. ‘But I know you, Commandant Bremmer. Remember Katyn Forest?’
Then there was a pause, an intake of breath that rattled in aged lungs. Then, ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Good. Then you will know why I'm here. I've a car waiting outside. I want you to come with me. If you resist, or try to call for help, I will shoot you dead. Understand?’
The other obviously understood because with some difficulty he struggled up out of his chair, a gaunt silhouette against the lights from the street outside. He groped on the table, located a greasy trilby hat and jammed his head, pulling the brim down over the other’s forehead. He would offer no resistance. Wolskel stood back, motioned for the other to shamble outside ahead of him.
The street was still deserted as Lech Wolskel pushed Bremmer into the passenger seat of the Volvo. The engine purred into life and the car slid smoothly away from the curb. Another glance in the mirror just in case they were being followed. They weren't. The Hawk had been beaten at the death.
***
Within a quarter of an hour Wolskel was pushing the senile Nazi into the door of his own house, locking it behind him. The other seemed resigned to his fate, obeyed every command, offered no resistance as he was pushed towards the cellar steps, gripped the rail as he descended.
When Wolskel had executed Stalhein he had gone through the process of a ‘trial’ beforehand. In many ways it had detracted from the purpose of his vengeance. Judge and executioner: the denials, the pleas of innocence, had been rejected. Death by hanging was the only outcome. The evidence in itself was damning, he was not looking for a stay of execution.
Falteringly, Bremmer allowed himself to be led on to the platform, the noose draped around his neck and tightened.
‘My Father was at Katyn,’ Wolskel's whisper echoed in the confined space. ‘That is why I am going to hang you.’
The Nazi did not answer, the only sound was that of the phlegm bubbling in his tired lungs. He made no excuses, no denials. Wolskel was glad that he was unable to see the other's features and made no attempt to confront his victim. He had no wish to look upon the one who had ordered his father's shooting. Death itself would be sufficient, the vile corpse destroyed forever by the lime. Then it would be all over.
With an effort he resurrected his anger, recalled the hatred which was beginning to slip away from him, for without it all this would be futile. He might as well have left Bremmer for the Hawk.
‘You bastard!’ He forced himself to shout. ‘Fourteen thousand lives wasted. Widows and orphans left to grieve. I was one of them. I still am. I've cried for my father night after night. Tonight I will cry no more.’
The shape on the gallows seemed to have taken on a new grotesqueness, the frail body had filled, the neck swelling and bulging, the rough hemp abrasing the bloated flesh. The breath hissed like a steaming kettle as the bound wrists struggled against their bonds.
Wolskel stepped back, suddenly afraid. No, it was a trick of the light, his own nerves were mocking him now that he has got his man. Go and look at the face, see for yourself. Gaze upon the shrunken flesh of an old man who is now harmless!
I don't want to see!
‘I die for the Fuhrer!’
Wolskel recoiled, those fanatical powerful tones vibrating his brain, the ringing in his ears shrill and hysterical like fourteen thousand souls screaming for vengeance.
Hang him before it's too late!
Wolskel grabbed for the lever, gripped it with sweaty fingers, sensed the evil that emanated from the man on the platform, a force that came at him with terrifying suddenness. He threw his full weight on the iron handle, it seemed to be defying him, pulling against him. Then it yielded, threw him backwards as it released the platform. A clang as the trapdoor fell, followed by a full second of awful silence in which he thought that his victim was not going to drop, that by some impossible means Bremmer was treading air, mocking the law of gravity.
He cried his relief aloud as he felt the jarring thud, the structure swaying slightly as the falling body was jerked to a spinning halt, heard a loud crack that might have been the .38 accidentally detonating in his own pocket. The gallows vibrated, shuddering like a small ship that had hit an unexpected squall and then eased into a calm.
Lech Wolskel crouched there, smelled his own body odours, then prayed to the God which he had almost forgotten that the Nazi beast was dead; that it was finally over. He trembled and closed his eyes. That inexplicable force, whatever it was, seemed to have gone. He listened to the steady rhythmic swinging of the body below like a metronome that was slowly running down. Until at last it stopped.
You'll have to cut him down, throw him into the pit.
He recoiled at the thought, accepting its logic. No way could he leave Bremmer to rot on the rope, filling the house, which already smelled of death, with the stench of decomposing flesh. He heaved, almost vomited, and accepted what he must do. It would only take a minute or two.
Shakily, Wolskel clambered down the rickety steps, made his way round to the front of the gallows. The corpse had twisted round and thankfully come to a standstill facing away from him. He noted with relief that the body was not bloated, that it was pathetically emaciated in the way it had been prior to the execution. His nerves had got the better of him, and was it any wonder after years of hounding this fiend who was responsible for the cold-blooded slaughter of thousands of his own countrymen?
He reached up and began to saw at the noose with his pocketknife, cutting through the strands for the rope would be needed no more. It had done its work.
His fingers touched the neck flesh and he snatched them away, revolted by the icy coldness of the flesh which should still have been warm. He stumbled, fell back, and stared in horror as the body began to swing round, the gallows creaking with the movement. Turning slowly, coming round to face him.
A scream escaped Wolskel's lips as he looked upon those cadaverous features for the first time, dead eyes that found his own and held them with a hypnotic, malevolent stare. The thick lips stretched into a leering grin, mucus bubbling from the flared nostrils.
He tried to scream a second time but the sound became trapped in his throat and he felt his senses beginning to slip from him. For just above the floating orbs was a jagged circular wound out of which slimy greyish matter seeped, streaking the congealed blood; powder burns around the edges where the Hawk’s point-blank bullet had ripped into the skull.
Cannibal Island
(from Graveyard Rendezvous 9)
Only human meat would satisfy their hunger.
The passage across the Pacific had been very calm. To the crew of the "Seagull" it had been almost like a pleasure cruise. Under the blue skies the trawler seemed to sail itself, and only the smell of oil had reminded them that they had engines. It had become lazy, dreamlike. Day after day, the skipper, Jack Dunn, had been able to steer an even course with only his fingertips on the wheel. Often, he thought that if they had been a sailing ship only, they would surely have been becalmed in these glassy waters.
They had a cargo of grain and other goods to unload at Hawaii, and skipper Dunn, no less than the crew, was looking forward to a good time ashore while they were reloading for the return to San Francisco. They had done the voyage many times. It was no exception to have good weather, but they had never had better.
Skipper Jack Dunn was a young man, in spite of his spiky beard and windblown yellow hair. His skin was bronze, his cheeks ruddy, and he had a merry twinkle in his blue eyes. He enjoyed life, particularly this freedom of the seas, when he could wear a faded open necked shirt and greasy shorts and he could sing if he liked at the top of his voice, above the throb of the engine, and the soft splash of the water, as the bows cut their way through the crystal-clearness.
Then, with the suddenness of Pacific storms, a hurricane swept over them. The crew sprang to life at the breath of hot wind. It was always doubtful how bad these storms could be. The still sea began to lash itself into white crested waves. The
y drew in the sales, secured the hatches, working feverishly to be ready for whatever might come.
It was worse than expected. Far worse. The waves rose to mountainous heights. First they rose to the crest, and then plunged down, down so far that it seemed impossible for the ship to right itself. Skipper Dunn clung to the wheel. He could only pray, for nothing else could save them. When there was a cry of "Man Overboard" they could do nothing about it, they were hopelessly off their course, and he was finding the ship almost impossible to hold. A mast crashed, and they shuddered with the added blow, but all sounds were drowned by the roar of the sea and the screech of the hurricane.
Pitching in all directions the only hope of the crew of "The Seagull" was in their ability to keep the ship afloat. All through the night the hurricane raged on.
They hardly expected to see another dawn. It broke through the black cloud and sheets of rain, angry over an iron grey-sea whose horizon was hidden behind gigantic walls of water.
Then there was a splintering, shuddering crash. The shock of it brought "The Seagull" to a standstill in a tournament of spray. Slowly she groaned and seemed to bend, and then began to heave over, sideways.
Skipper Dunn was thrown away from the wheel when the crash came. For a few moments he was stunned: he scrambled up the sloping floor of the wheelhouse and pushed open the door. It stuck at first, but he flung his whole weight against it. The water was coming over the bridge like a waterfall. He could see nothing except the ship subsiding into the water. Here and there he caught sight of a dark head bobbing about in the waves. But what hope? They had on their life belts. The whole Pacific was shark infested. Supposing they were lucky enough to avoid sharks, what were the chances of being picked up? They had not seen another ship for days and were hundreds of sea-miles from any land.
But what had it struck? Was it an uncharted rock? As Skipper Dunn slid down the almost vertical deck into the water, he took a last look at the landscape. He saw an unending line of spray, which shot up to meet the rain. He had a view of the raging sea. But, at the same time, he noticed that the sea on the other side of the spray was much calmer.
