by Iain King
Myles stared up, too – at the faraway daylight some thirty metres above them, and wondered how the hell they were going to get out.
Forty
8.10 p.m. CET (7.10 p.m. GMT)
* * *
Zenyalena was first to react. ‘Come on – we have to hold the ladder while someone climbs up.’
Heike-Ann and Glenn lifted the broken metal frame, and tried to put it back in place. But the break made it useless: no matter how high they lifted it, it wouldn’t reach the top of the shaft. Anyone who climbed up would still be well below the entrance. The brick-lined vertical tunnel was too smooth to finish the climb without help.
Glenn allowed the ladder to fall back down again. ‘Anyone got any other ideas?’ he asked.
Heike-Ann and Zenyalena looked blank.
Even Pascal seemed uncertain, offering a suggestion he wasn’t sure of himself. ‘Er, could we wait?’
Myles shook his head. ‘No. Nobody knows we’re here. We only found the manhole because we were searching for it.’
Zenyalena shouted upwards, trying to call through the hole, ‘Anybody up there?’ But her words just echoed around the chamber. Above ground, no one would hear a thing. She called again, trying to disguise the fear in her voice. ‘HELLO…?’
Still no answer. They were trapped, and they all knew it.
Zenyalena crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders. ‘So what do we do now?’ She looked at the three men, expecting one of them to have an answer. ‘Myles? Glenn? Come on.’
Glenn turned his face down to the ground, and scratched his exposed scalp. ‘Maybe, Zenyalena, the trouble is that we came down here too quickly. If we’d taken the time to do it right – like tying a rope up there – we would be in the clear. So let’s not rush next time. Agreed?’
She shook her head in disagreement, then flung her hands in the air and stamped on the concrete floor. ‘Don’t you get it, Glenn? If we don’t get out of here, there won’t be a “next time”. We’re trapped. See?’ Zenyalena rapped her knuckles on the concrete wall, which broke the skin on her fist. She turned her fingers towards the American to show him the damage.
Pascal saw Glenn was about to say something sarcastic, but raised his hand to stop him. ‘Wait. Both of you. We have plenty of time. We’re not short of air. We can survive three days without water, easily …’ He pointed at a small pool of water at the base of one of the walls. ‘… And there’s even water to drink if we have to.’
Zenyalena exploded in fury. ‘You want us to drink rat piss? I’d rather die of thirst.’ Then she remembered something. ‘Hey. What was it the lawyer said? The “Stuff Ball” in Berlin. He said the papers were for “A Foreign Man about to die …” That was Jean-François, right? He said, “A Foreign Man about to die – before the trial by Air, Fire and Water”. The trial by air was the carbon monoxide gas attack on Myles. We had the fire in Vienna. So this is the test by water. The final test.’ She looked accusingly at Pascal. ‘So you’re right, Pascal. We are going to die of thirst.’
Glenn was shaking his head. ‘Wrong again, Zenyalena. You missed out Earth. The lawyer said, “Air, Fire, Earth – then water”. This has got to be the test by Earth.’
‘OK, Glenn,’ Zenyalena was barely covering her anger. ‘So you mean this place is going to cave in on us instead? Buried alive, huh? Oh, that makes me much happier.’
Pascal stretched out his arms, trying to keep Glenn and Zenyalena away from each other. ‘Stop. It’s not helping.’ Not sure how to solve it, the Frenchman turned to Myles. ‘Myles – what do you think?’
But Myles had already left.
‘Myles?’
He had limped into the main chamber, then around the edges, checking the walls for anything which might help.
Glenn realised what he was doing. ‘Come on – our team leader’s right,’ he called to the others. ‘There must be another way out.’
Zenyalena and Heike-Ann rushed over while Pascal hobbled. The fall from the ladder had hurt the Frenchman more than it first seemed.
With his fingers spread wide open, Myles silently waved his hands over the walls.
Glenn watched him for a moment, curiously, then called out from behind. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to find air currents,’ explained Myles. ‘The Nazis must have put in a ventilation system. It could be our way out.’
The American understood, and started doing the same. He directed the others to copy. Soon they were all feeling around the wall, desperately trying to find any sort of breeze.
Heike-Ann hesitated, then called out. ‘I think I’ve found it.’ She had found a metal grill – hard to see because it had been painted the same grey as the concrete inside the cavern. The edges had been sealed with strips of paper.
Glenn immediately took out a pen and started to poke through the seal. Soon the whole of the plate had been revealed. It was about one metre square.
Then Glenn stepped back, asked, ‘Can we get this off?’
Heike-Ann, Pascal and Zenyalena simply stared at it. Zenyalena tried to kick it, but it didn’t make an impression.
Then Myles called out from behind. ‘Can someone help me with this?’ He was holding part of the broken ladder and Pascal lifted the other end. Together, they wedged part of the metal into the edge of the grill and, like a giant crowbar, managed to lever the plate from the wall. It tumbled to the ground with a clang.
Zenyalena rushed into the hole, ducking her head inside. She looked up, then called out. ‘It leads upwards, and there are rungs on the wall.’
Heike-Ann and Glenn shared a look of relief as the Russian started to climb up the ventilation shaft. ‘Can we get out at the top?’ called Pascal.
Zenyalena answered with the noise of footsteps ascending the ladder, each clank on metal echoing further away each time.
Myles counted: fifty-five steps in total. But after the footsteps there was silence. Myles tried hard to listen – hearing only perhaps a faint rattling noise. But there was nothing more. Then there came the much faster sound of descending footsteps.
Zenyalena emerged, frustrated and sweating. ‘It’s blocked,’ she said. ‘It’s an air vent, and it’s at ground level. But we can’t get out that way.’
Heike-Ann queried the Russian’s statement, confused. ‘Could we get up there and call for help?’
‘It wouldn’t work,’ replied Zenyalena, shaking her head. Nobody would hear.’
Glenn tried to supress his frustration, while Heike-Ann sat down by the wall, dejected. Pascal stepped into the vent and looked upwards, then came out again. Like Zenyalena, he had no idea how they might ever get out.
Myles scratched his head, thinking about what else there might be in the room – something to help them escape. Then he remembered: the grenades. ‘Could we blow our way out?’
The others looked at each other, uncertain.
‘The explosives.’ Myles gestured at the crate he had lifted earlier. ‘If we can get them up there, we could blast away whatever’s blocking the air vent.’
Pascal picked up the theme, nodding as he thought through Myles’ idea. ‘Even if it doesn’t clear the way out, the explosion will raise the alarm, and we’ll get help.’
‘Fine, gentlemen,’ it was Zenyalena, still with a hostile tone in her voice. ‘Except whoever sets off explosives up there will probably die. Come on, Myles – you said it yourself. Those old grenades will be volatile.’ Her eyes wide, she stared accusingly at the men. ‘Not ready for a suicide mission? Thought not. Neither am I.’ With that, Zenyalena sat down on the ground, leaning her back against the wall with her arms folded.
Nobody said anything for more than a minute. Myles took a measure of the people around him. Pascal and Glenn were weighing up odds while Heike-Ann still looked shaken. Even Zenyalena seemed quiet for once. Myles knew what had to be said. ‘Well, even though it’s dangerous, it looks like one of us has to try. Anyone got any better ideas?’
Glenn cast a sideways look at Myles to con
firm he was serious. Then, after a few more moments to think it over, Glenn turned to the others. ‘Myles is right. We could sit here and wait for Christmas. But I don’t think Santa Claus is going to come down that chimney and save us.’
Still the others said nothing. Glenn took it as acceptance. ‘Shall we draw lots to decide who goes up?’
Nervously, the three others in the chamber began looking at each other. Their expressions confirmed they were prepared to take the chance, as long as the others would too.
Glenn turned to Heike-Ann. ‘Do you have some business cards?’
The German nodded, looking perplexed. When Glenn stretched out his palm, she passed him some small cardboard rectangles.
Glenn checked them on both sides. Satisfied they were identical, he marked a large cross on the front of one of them, then counted out three more. ‘Heike-Ann, you’re not in this because you’re pregnant,’ he said, looking at the cards, which he turned over, shuffled, and fanned out under his thumb. Then he wafted the four-card spread towards the middle of the group. ‘Who wants to go first?’ For once Glenn was speaking solemnly, aware that this card game could mean both survival and death.
Pascal looked at Myles, his eyes asking permission to step forward. Myles nodded his consent. Cautiously, the Frenchman advanced, checked Glenn’s face, then picked the bottom of the four cards. He pulled it free, then turned it over.
No cross.
He allowed it to drop to the floor, exhaling in relief.
Myles and Zenyalena looked at each other, not sure which of them should choose next. ‘Just you and me, Zenyalena.’
‘You, me and the American,’ she corrected.
‘Yes, and Glenn. Do you want to pick?’
Zenyalena tried to make a joke of it. ‘Usually I’d insist on ladies first, but I think this time a man should take the lead.’
Myles understood. Like Pascal before him, he faced up to Glenn, examined the three remaining cards, then picked the top one.
Carefully, he slid it out then turned it over, showing it to the others before looking at it himself. From their reactions, he knew. In the middle of the front: a cross. Myles had picked the marked card.
Glenn’s eyes widened as he realised the card he marked may have condemned the Englishman to death. Heike-Ann and Pascal immediately looked sympathetic. Only Zenyalena seemed vaguely satisfied by the outcome, relaxing her shoulders in relief it wasn’t her.
Myles tried to gauge what he had to do. He lifted his head upwards, wondering how he would manage it. Then he glanced back down at his knee brace, and bent to loosen it slightly.
Heike-Ann put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Is there any way we can assist you?’
Myles didn’t know – he wasn’t sure whether he could manage it at all.
Then Pascal slapped his palm on Myles’ back. ‘Your bad knee means you need help, Myles.’ He paused. ‘I’ll help you carry the explosives,’ he offered.
Myles nodded in gratitude. With the Frenchman, he hobbled over to the box of grenades and together the two men carried it to the bottom of the air shaft. Heike-Ann, Glenn and Zenyalena all stepped back – half fearful, half out of respect.
Myles ripped open the box, explaining as he looked inside. ‘These are old German grenades – they used to be called potato mashers. The “K” on the box means “kalt”, that’s the German word for “cold”. Right, Heike-Ann?’
Heike-Ann confirmed Myles was correct, keeping well away.
Myles gently picked one up, and unscrewed a cap at the bottom of the handle. A small porcelain ball dropped out, attached to a thin string. ‘In case I don’t make it and you need to set off more, pull this string. There’s a friction mechanism inside, which sets off the fuse – five seconds, usually.’
Glenn was frowning. ‘But why is the box labelled “cold”?’
‘Because these were for the Russian front,’ said Myles. ‘The Nazis found their normal grenades often failed in the freezing temperatures, so they made ones which were especially sensitive, like these ...’ After all these years, Myles accepted the chemicals inside would have changed. ‘… But now, who knows. They could have become even more unpredictable, or this whole box might be duds.’
He pulled out two, delicately placing them in his pocket. Then he ducked his head into the air vent where the metal plate had been. From the bottom of the shaft he looked up at his target.
Myles placed his hands on the rungs, then his good foot, then carefully bent his damaged knee to drag his other foot up, too. Hand-foot-hand-foot … Slowly he hauled himself up the vertical tunnel. His injury made it hard – he had only three limbs, not four, to pull himself up. But he kept going, dragging himself upwards, careful to make sure the old grenades stayed safely in his pocket. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three … He examined the rungs as he went, wondering whether there would be any quick way down, apart from falling.
He kept climbing. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven …
The top was coming into sight. He understood now what Zenyalena had described. The Germans had built a steel and concrete hood at the top of the vent. It was bomb-proof, designed to protect the ventilation shaft from an Allied air raid. But the steel was now rusted, and the whole structure fixed in place. Myles could just see daylight and the outside world, and his ears detected the faint whoosh of cars driving nearby.
He tried calling through the gap. ‘Help …’ But his words just echoed back to him. There was no way anyone would hear.
Myles’ feet reached the nearest thing there was to a platform and he crouched down to keep his head from clanging against the roof.
Carefully, he drew the two grenades from his pocket and started searching for places to put them. The first he poked towards the daylight, pushing it as far in as it would go. The second he placed on the floor, wedging it tightly in a fissure in the concrete.
He called down the air vent to the team. ‘Grenades in place. Take cover.’
Myles heard a faint scrambling below him as the team found safety within the chamber. Then, silently thinking of Helen for one last time, he twisted the bottom caps of both grenades at the same time, and gently fished out the cords inside from the small porcelain beads attached to each one. Holding both beads in one hand, he tugged them sharply, half expecting them to explode instantly. Then he began climbing back down the shaft as quickly as he could.
Five …
The relief that the grenades hadn’t exploded immediately was lost in the rush. Furiously he hobbled down the air vent as fast as he could.
Four …
Foot-hand-foot-hand … His injury made it hard to place his right foot on the rung each time he tried.
Three …
Myles kept climbing down, knowing these could be his last seconds alive. He was now almost five metres down from the grenades …
Two …
He pulled himself into the wall, clutching hard and ducking his head down into his shoulders.
One …
Forty-One
Heritage Hotel
Oxford, England
7.14 p.m. GMT
* * *
Father Samuel handed his passport to the receptionist, and placed his travel bag beside him on the floor. Although he was only moderately overweight, it was enough for long trips to be an exertion – the overnight flight from Israel and the convoluted rail journey to Oxford from London’s Heathrow airport had both been harder than expected.
‘You are just here for two nights, today and tomorrow?’ asked the receptionist. When Father Samuel confirmed her information was correct, she pressed a button on her computer and passed him a short printed card. ‘Please just fill out some contact details here and sign here,’ she directed, pointing to different boxes on the form.
Father Samuel feigned gratitude, then shuffled to one side of the main reception desk, where a pen was chained to a leaflet dispenser. But instead of taking the pen to sign the form, he was drawn to one of the tourist leaflets. It was promoting a u
niversity event which was open to the public, and it was happening tonight.
He lifted out the flyer, disgusted that such material was openly available in the city, while he desperately tried to learn more about the event. What did it mean if discussions like this were already happening – publicly and seriously – and in Oxford of all places, a city overflowing with academic respectability? It meant his mission was even more vital than he had imagined. Even without Stolz’s papers, it seemed as though, in Oxford at least, the secret was barely a secret any more.
He would have to find out what was said – to discover what information was already out there, and who knew about it.
Samuel filled out the form, handed it in, then took his key card and accepted the directions up to his room.
Before he left reception, he folded one of the promotional leaflets and placed it in his pocket. Then he lifted out all the others, scrunched them up, and stuffed them in his travel bag for disposal in the seclusion of his room.
It was just a small gesture, but one Father Samuel hoped would help prevent Oxford Astrology Association’s speaker meeting on ‘War and the Natural World’ from having too large an audience.
Forty-Two
Beneath Landsberg Prison
Near Munich, Germany
8.25 p.m. CET (7.25 p.m. GMT)
* * *
Myles waited.
Silence.
He didn’t know whether to be relieved he hadn’t been killed, or depressed that the grenades hadn’t exploded. He kept clutching the wall, his head tightly tucked in and his grip firm, still expecting the blast at any moment. But it didn’t come.
Slowly, he poked his head out, instinctively looking up. Was there any clue which might indicate whether the grenades were duds? Old explosives – they were like fireworks: not be returned to once they’d been set off, whatever happened. But he needed them to go off.
