The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  Apartment on Welserstrasse,

  Schönberg, Berlin

  It was well after dark by the time Ritter returned home that day, and he was mid-way through removing his uniform jacket as Maria came to meet him in the hallway, already wearing her nightgown and carrying a sleeping young Kurt awkwardly in her arms.

  “Late, even for you…” she pointed out, shifting the boy to a slightly better position. It was then she noticed the expression in his eyes. “Oh, no…!” She hissed angrily, fury beginning to rise in the direction of a Reichsmarschall who was fortunately not present. “Not again…! What has that bullying schwein got you into this time…? Mein Gott…!” She exclaimed suddenly, noticing something else as he reached up and hung his jacket on one of a series of coat hooks fixed to the wall near the entrance. “What are those things on your uniform?”

  “Save me from a loving wife who can read minds!” Ritter muttered drily, raising a calming hand in a request for silence. “My darling, those things are the shoulder boards of a generalmajor,” he explained, not at all humbly as he struggled to contain his own pride over his surprise promotion to brigadier, “and before you start winding up your extremely capable temper, I can assure you that I am not leaving Berlin anytime in the foreseeable future…”

  “Then… what…?” She demanded again, the volume of her words growing enough to cause Kurt to stir and whimper softly in her arms.”

  “A promotion, clearly,” he continued, leaning in around the sleeping child to deliver a kiss to her cheek. “I am to be the kommandant of a newly-created unit with its headquarters right here in the city: the Strategische Raketewaffe…”

  “Strategic Rocket Force…?” She repeated blankly, uncomprehending. “They have ‘special rockets’ now? This is a promotion: looking after fireworks…?”

  “My love, the weapons I will be in command of will be far more dangerous than mere fireworks,” he countered with a wry smile, “and it will be my job to ensure the security of the whole of Deutschland itself!”

  “Really, Carl? Goodness, won’t your other commanders just love to hear of this!” She pointed out with sarcasm, sceptical and not ready to believe that whatever Reuters had done had indeed left her husband completely safe, as he was claiming.

  “Darling, not here…” Ritter frowned, uncomfortable with such a direct mention of his ‘extra-curricular’ activities on behalf of Hindsight and the Commonwealth. “Not anywhere, please…! Come…” he added, extending an arm. “Let’s go upstairs and we’ll talk some more about this. Why do you have Kurt?” He asked, suddenly realising it unusual for her to be carrying him around so late. “The nightmares again?”

  “Not tonight…” she answered, shaking her head and looking down at the boy with concern in her eyes, “but he was restless, and crying because he couldn’t sleep. It’s becoming more common these days…”

  “Poor little fellow!” Ritter frowned again, also concerned as he extended both arms and she automatically handed him over. “What’s been upsetting you, eh?” He asked softly, snugging the boy up onto his shoulder and placing a careful arm across his back. “Let’s get you off to bed again, shall we…? You go on up…” he added, turning back to Maria. “I’ll settle him in first and then join you later.”

  “I’ll wait up,” she promised, determined to hear more of what had happened at the office that day. With a quick, passionate kiss on the lips, she turned and swished lightly down the hall to the stairs, heading on up to the main bedroom on the next level.

  “What’s been happening, little man?” Ritter asked softly, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he stood in that hallway for a moment, alone with the youngest of the two adopted sons he loved more than anything on earth. “Is it him…?” He murmured, the faint tint of fear in his tone now as his mind conjured up wild, incredibly thoughts. “What has he done? Do you see somehow, when you sleep? Is that it? Do you see what’s going on?”

  With a shaking hand, he reached up and drew back the collar of the boy’s stripped pyjamas, pulling it down far enough to reveal his left shoulder and half of his upper arm, as he had many times since his return from Ambon Island. Even in the dim lighting of that hallway, as he looked down he could clearly see the pair of mirrored, brown hearts that formed a tiny birthmark against the boy’s pale skin, and a tear trickled down the side of one cheek.

  Grand Central Hotel, Belfast

  Reich-Protektorat Nordirland

  April 23, 1943

  Good Friday

  Situated just two miles from St Mary’s College, the Grand Central Hotel boasted two hundred guest rooms spread across five floors. Originally opened in 1893, it quickly became centre of Belfast night life and was widely hailed as the greatest hotel in all of Ireland. The food and service were renown around the British Isles and were unrivalled in Ulster society of the time. In 1912, a Gala Dinner was held in one of its function rooms to celebrate the launch of the magnificent new liner, Titanic, with many dignitaries and officials from shipbuilders Harland & Wolff present for the occasion.

  Much of this success came to an abrupt end during 1917 following the receipt of an order from the British War Office, requisitioning the building for military use. By the time an error had been discovered – the message had actually been intended for a similarly-named hotel in Bristol – the owners had already auctioned off the furniture and fittings and were left with no choice but to sell.

  Purchased by a business consortium led by Scottish distiller, John Grant, the hotel was quickly returned to its former glory and once again became the ‘place to be’ for anyone who was anyone when visiting Belfast. During the 1930s, it was not unusual to have seen such celebrities as Bob Hope, Gene Autry or Al Jolson walking through the lobby or taking a quite drink at the hotel bar.

  The Wehrmacht had immediately taken control of the building following the fall of Britain and the subsequent occupation of Northern Ireland, and had turned it into the premier place of luxury accommodation for posted and visiting officers of all services. Many of the staff had been retained – either willingly or by force – and were treated little better than as slave labour by the scores of Gestapo and Germanische-SS supervisors and guards who also now inhabited the hotel through its three rotating shifts.

  Out on the street, beyond the building’s stylish façade and ornate decorations, a pair of P-3 medium tanks stood at the intersection of Royal Avenue and North Street, while a Puma armoured car and Marder IFV stood guard at the next crossing of Royal with Rosemary, to the south-east. Sandbagged machine gun posts were set up on either side of the main entrance, and barriers of steel and concrete had been erected at each end of the street, beyond the armoured vehicles, to prevent any unauthorised road access. The hard lessons of Aldergrove and Lisahally the year before had been well-learned, and the guards on duty weren’t about to allow similar types of bomb attacks to happen again.

  Freiherr von Neurath, the current Reichsprotektor of Northern Ireland, generally lived in far humbler surroundings, preferring the simplicity and practicality of quarters on base at St Mary’s College. His second-in-command, however – Gruppenführer Ernst Barkmann – positively revelled in the excess and luxury of the hotel, and had installed himself in one of the finest suites immediately upon arrival. Also the Chief-of-Intelligence for Nordirland, his position and connections within the hierarchy of the Nazi Party itself meant that he usually got what he wanted and, remarkably, had managed to remain relatively unscathed – career-wise – following the disastrous events of the preceding October and beyond that had seen the United States rather unexpectedly establish a military presence across the border.

  At that very moment, late on that Friday evening, he was in the company of Pieter Stahl, both men standing out on the balcony of his suite, overlooking lights and the grand canopy that covered the main entrance to the hotel as men of all three services came and went below in an almost continuous stream. A high-class brothel had been opened up on one of the lower floors, purely for the
entertainment of commissioned officers, and it had done a steady trade since.

  What the women working there thought about their situation was largely irrelevant to the Gestapo officials running the whole thing: they’d mostly been coerced or forced into it against their will, after all, and were of little concern in the grander scheme of things in any case: the living conditions of the Nazi War Machine was of far greater important.

  “What a view, Pieter!” Barkmann declared genially, sweeping an arm around to emphasise the statement. “How is it that you’ve never visited here before?”

  “Probably because you’ve never invited me, Ernst,” Stahl replied with a distinct note of petulance in his tone, completely ignoring the glass of wine in his hand. “And you’ve refused every request to meet…”

  “Well, it wasn’t entirely appropriate that we be seen together after what happened…” Barkmann backpedalled slightly, turning and stepping back inside the room as he spoke. “There was much accusation and recrimination being cast about: I thought it better we remain isolated from each other… for protection.”

  “For your protection!” Stahl snapped angrily, coming to the point of his visit after half an hour of faux pleasantries and small talk. “Ernst, Franz is dead, and my reputation is in tatters… because of you…!”

  “Because of me…?” Barkmann shot back, iron in his words now and fire in his eyes as he turned on his subordinate and one-time lover. “You think me so stupid I don’t know why you’re here, tonight? Clearly, you forget who you’re dealing with, obersturmbannführer! You try to blame me for your folly now? You, who were so desperate to barge on into Irish territory in search of a handful of Juden?”

  “They were your orders…”

  “They were Heydrich’s orders!” Barkmann snarled, tossing his glass away in anger and ignoring it as it smashed against a far wall. “Who do you think you are dealing with? If you seek to redistribute blame, do you think it will rest only with me? How do you think the Blond Beast will react to hear a junior officer accuses him of failure, or tries to implicate him in that disaster at Lifford?”

  “Ernst… I’m to be demoted…! I’m to be disgraced for this! This will destroy my career!” Stahl began again, pleading now as he placed his own drink on a side table near the balcony doors and took a few steps into the room. The movement made him wince visibly, feeling the pain from a stab wound to his neck and shoulder that was still giving him trouble after six months.

  “Take a look around you, Pieter,” Barkmann snapped coldly, extending a hand once more and this time indicating the room about them. This suite – number Two-Seventeen – is famous. Right there…” he added, pointing at the huge ornamental bed against one wall, “… have slept such dignitaries as King Leopold… Mario Lanza… even the great Winston Churchill himself…! And now… me…!” The intensity of the man’s pride in that moment was staggering, and it shone through in his imperious tone and self-righteous expression. “There was an inquiry, and it was necessary that heads rolled! Do you think one of those heads would be Heydrich’s? He needed a scapegoat, and do you think that was to be me? You think that I should lose all this over that disaster with the Americans? You wanted to cross that river… you begged me – you and Bauer – for permission to violate their neutrality and go after those Juden with military force! And now, Bauer is dead, and someone is going to take the blame for that and everything else!”

  “The orders are to be signed by your hand!”

  “Of course they are,” Barkmann snorted, thinking the statement foolish. “I’m the head of intelligence here: who else would sign them?”

  “But…” Stahl stammered, almost lost for words now and fighting back tears of rage and desperation. “But… how could you…?”

  “How could I what…?” He asked in return, genuinely uncomprehending of what the younger man was talking about. “Do you think our previous relationship was such that I would sacrifice my own career and reputation for you? I tried that once, remember?” He added, still holding a dream of vengeance against Kurt Reuters for the humiliation he’d suffered at The Reichsmarschall’s hands two years before, at an airfield in Northern France. “I’ll never make that mistake again. If I refused to sign that order, someone else would, and all it would mean was that both of us would be held accountable. Your sacrifice is regrettable, Pieter, but I will sign those orders on Monday morning, and you will be reassigned to whatever menial posting the Reichsführer deems suitable.”

  “You cold, heartless bastard!”

  “Oh, really, Pieter…” Barkmann replied lightly, almost laughing, “…is that something you’ve only just realised now…? Get out, you fool, and be grateful I’m going to try to forget this pointless conversation.”

  “I’ll go to Heydrich… to the Reichsführer himself! I’ll tell them everything you’ve done! Prove to them that you were behind it all!”

  “Pieter,” Barkmann hissed darkly, eyes and tone hardening markedly at such a brazen threat. “You try anything of the sort, and your last hours will be filled with pain even you would not be able to imagine! Don’t threaten me… don’t you ever dare to threaten me again! Now get out!”

  Storming past in rage and – truth be told, more than a little fear in that moment – Pieter Stahl threw open the doors leading to the corridor outside and slammed them violently behind them, Barkmann’s furious gaze following him the entire way like so many imaginary daggers.

  Far more nervous that he’d allowed himself to show, the gruppenführer moved across to a tray of drinks on a table by the entrance and shakily poured himself a straight whisky to settle his nerves.

  “Stupid fool…!” He muttered softly, shaking his head as he decided he needed to freshen up and walked across to the closed door leading to the ensuite bathroom. “He thinks he can threaten me? Cowardly little arschloch; I’ll ruin him!”

  As he flung the door back, intending to wash his face and calm himself down a little, the last thing Ernst Barkmann expected to see was the face of Seán Michaels staring right back at him with a dangerous, evil gleam in his eyes.

  “You took yer fookin’ time, fella…” he snarled softly, slapping a hand across Barkmann’s mouth and slamming him against the door jamb as the deadly straight razor suddenly appeared in his other hand, pressed against the German’s throat. “Ah thought I’d be waitin’ here all fookin’ night while you two had yer little lover’s quarrel.” The blade bit slightly into the flesh of Barkmann’s neck, drawing blood, and he whimpered in utter terror, too petrified to move as Michaels leaned in close. “Now, you an’ I are gonna sit down, nice and quiet like, and have a wee chat… and if you make one fookin’ move toward raisin’ an alarm or resistin’ me in any way, they’re gonna need dental records to identify your body… we understand each other?”

  It was almost impossible for the man to nod without opening his own throat up further, but he managed it somehow, and Michaels gave a wide, dangerous smile in return that in no way made Barkmann feel at all better. It was at that moment that the Irishman unexpectedly drove his knee up into the German’s groin, sending waves of agony through him and filling him with nausea as his knees gave way. Michaels allowed him to slump to the floor in the doorway, hand still clamped across the man’s face to prevent him from crying out.

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” he declared, not sounding at all apologetic. “Not that I don’t trust y’ at all, but I think it’ll be easier for both of us if I do this without any struggle…”

  Taking the softly-groaning Barkmann by the scruff of his uniform collar, he dragged him across the centre of the suite and left him for a moment to bring over an ornate, high-backed wooden chair, which he proceeded to haul Barkmann up into. His captive began to struggle more as he started to regain his senses, and it was short work for Michaels to take a large piece of balled cloth from his trouser pocket and stuff it forcefully into the man’s mouth, slapping away the largely-ineffectual, flailing hands that tried to prevent it.

  Handc
uffs were next, quickly used to secure Barkmann’s hands behind him, with a second pair linking the first to the wooden crossbar between the rear legs of the chair, preventing any upward movement. He then took a coil of thick, insulated wire from another pocket and used it to secure both ankles to the chair’s front legs. A little more wire was used – tied quite tightly and uncomfortably – about Barkmann’s face to secure the gag, finalising the process.

  “I’ve got him… target secure…” Michaels muttered softly, seemingly to no one, and for the first time, a terrified Barkmann realised that the man was wearing a small headset and throat microphone.

  “Understood…” a crackling reply came back a second later. “I have eyes on…”

  Peering through the scope of a silenced DeLisle Carbine resting on a short bipod, Richard Kransky watched impassively from the upper-storey window of an abandoned office across the road from the hotel, the room incomplete darkness with windows covered and blacked out save for the one broken, uncovered pane of one lower corner through which he was keeping an eye on proceedings.

  From his vantage point, he could take in most of the suite from a slightly higher angle, although the main entrance was admittedly only partially-visible. He could clearly see Barkmann and Michaels in the centre of the room, and much as he generally didn’t agree with the idea of torture, he was willing to make an exception in this case.

  “You ready for this, Kransky…?” Michaels asked a moment later, the American knowing exactly what he meant.

  “I ain’t lookin’ away, if that’s what y’ mean,” he replied coldly, eyes never leaving the scope’s viewfinder. “If any son of a bitch has got it comin’, this one sure as hell does.”

  It was at that moment that unexpected movement behind Michaels caught his eye, and as he changed aim, his heart leaped into his mouth with sudden fear.

  “Contact! Contact! Behind you, Seán! Did you not lock the fuckin’ door…?”