The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  “Hamilton,” the newcomer announced, shaking hands with Guy. He looked as if he was on his way to a funeral, dressed in a black suit and carrying a dark hat. “I’d only just got home and changed out of uniform,” he said. “Ironic, really, as I’m the head of air defense for Scotland so it was me who dispatched the planes to shoot this blighter down. Anything I should know before I speak to him?”

  “You mean apart from the fact that he is actually the Deputy Fuhrer, sir?”

  Lord Hamilton laughed. But the smile froze on his face. “My God—you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “It’s Hess all right. I recognized him from newsreels and the press. But he made no secret of it to me. Do you know him, sir?”

  The Duke shook his head. “Rudolf Hess. Dear God … Did he tell you why he’s here?”

  “Refuses to talk to anyone but you, sir.” He summarized what Hess had told him. “He said he wants to talk about the Vril, if that means anything?”

  Hamilton frowned. “Possibly.”

  “And he said it’s about the Coming Race, which I assume is some Aryan Nazi propaganda.”

  Hamilton’s frown deepened. “You would think so, wouldn’t you. But I’m not sure. It is also the title of a novel. Very well.” He turned to go.

  Guy made to follow, but Hamilton shook his head. “I speak passable German, Major. I’ll see him alone. At least to begin with. We have met once before, back in ’36, I think. Once I’ve gained his trust…”

  “Then I’ll wait outside. In case you need me, sir.” Guy did his best to hide his disappointment. He was intrigued, he couldn’t deny it. What the hell was really going on here?

  Hess was brought back to the room. He nodded to Guy as Matthews led him inside. A moment later, Matthews emerged again.

  “Doesn’t want you in there either?” Guy said.

  “There’s a colonel on his way up from London,” Matthews said. “Looks like I get all the meeting and greeting jobs, sir.”

  “You must be good at it.”

  He leaned against the wall by the door, straining to hear what was going on inside the room. But all he could make out was the faint burr of indistinct conversation. He replayed what Hess had said in his mind, but it still made little sense. Why had the man come here—to the enemy? Whatever the reason it was important to him. It wasn’t a step he has taken lightly.

  Guy stepped back sharply as the door opened. Through it he could see Hess still sitting at the desk. The man did not turn round.

  The Duke of Hamilton’s forehead was filmed with sweat, and he was deathly pale. His eyes had a startled, haunted look about them. He stared at Guy, opened his mouth to say something. But then he looked past him, along the corridor.

  Pentecross turned to see Matthews returning. With him was a colonel—tall and thin with narrow features and close-cut dark hair.

  Hamilton dabbed at his face with a folded handkerchief. “I have to talk to Whitehall,” he said. His voice was shaking as much as his hand. “Someone in authority. The implications…”

  “You can start with me, sir,” the colonel said. “Perhaps then my journey won’t have been a complete waste. I’m Colonel Brinkman.” He obviously knew who the Duke was, presumably from Corporal Matthews.

  Hamilton was getting some color back in his features and his relief was obvious. “Of course, Colonel. Perhaps you can make sense of what I’ve just heard.”

  “Perhaps.” Brinkman glanced at Guy. “And you are?”

  Guy straightened to attention. It felt strange not being in uniform. “Major Pentecross, sir. Foreign Office.”

  Brinkman’s mouth twitched as he considered. Then: “You won’t be needed, Major. Dismissed.”

  * * *

  In something of a daze, Guy allowed Matthews to lead him back through the base. He was angry and tired, but also intrigued and mystified. When he got back to London he was going to demand that Chivers tell him what the hell was going on.

  They emerged into the morning light at the edge of a large parade ground. Matthews said something about organizing transport to the station and how often the trains ran to London. But Guy barely heard him.

  He was staring at a soldier leaning against the wall close to the door, smoking a cigarette. His mind was in a whirl. It was the same sergeant he had seen in the RAF bunker at Uxbridge, and before that at the hospital in Ipswich.

  “Major Pentecross.” The man took a last drag, then flicked away the butt end. “Good to see you again, sir.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Fuhrer was white with rage. Hoffman stood at the back of the room, doing his best to blend into the wall. Hitler’s fist crashed down on the desk again, scattering papers. Behind him, a half-smile edged onto Bormann’s face.

  Himmler was impassive and silent. He let Heydrich do the talking, and take the lion’s share of Hitler’s rage.

  “You are in charge of Reich security,” Hitler shouted. His finger jabbed at Heydrich. “You. How can this have happened? How could you let this happen?”

  “We none of us anticipated this,” Heydrich admitted. “Even…” He hesitated as the Fuhrer stared up at him through pale blue eyes with pin-prick irises. “Even the Reichsfuhrer, who was with him just a few days ago.”

  Hitler turned toward Himmler, who spread his hands apologetically.

  “There was no indication, no sign of this imbalance of the mind when he was at Wewelsburg. Though I did think he seemed a little…” He paused as if to select exactly the right word. “Preoccupied. I sent you a report, of course.”

  “You did?”

  “But events have moved so fast that perhaps you have not yet seen it.”

  Hoffman made a mental note to have the report sent as soon as they left the Fuhrer’s office. If necessary he would type it himself in the anteroom. Interesting, he thought that no one mentioned that Hess had spent four hours alone with Hitler the day before he flew to Britain. There were no notes from the meeting, no witnesses—Himmler had already had Hoffman check.

  Hitler wiped his hands down his face. Doing so, he seemed to wipe away his fury. He sat down at the desk and stared back at the men standing the other side. “Why?” he asked quietly.

  Hoffman suppressed a shudder. Hitler was at his most frightening when he was like this. The aftermath of his rage was more dangerous than the initial sound and fury.

  “The Deputy Fuhrer—former Deputy Fuhrer,” Heydrich corrected himself, “feared a war on two fronts. That’s how it looks from the letter he left behind and from what others have said.”

  “Britain should have made peace with us,” Hitler said. “They had their chances.”

  Himmler nodded. “If we had been dealing with a reasonable man like Halifax instead of that madman Churchill…”

  “The campaign against Russia cannot be deferred,” Hitler snapped, interrupting Himmler. “Hess knew that.”

  “Exactly,” Heydrich agreed. “Which is why he went to England.”

  “Scotland,” Himmler corrected him quietly.

  “To sue for peace before the glorious war against the Communists begins.”

  “The Reich asks no one for peace,” Hitler said. “Though Britain and her Empire should be our natural allies.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, brooding. “Once Stalin is crushed, Britain will truly be isolated and then they will come begging for peace.”

  “We must consider what damage has been done,” Himmler said. “I believe it can be contained. This is more of a propaganda problem than a military one. Herr Hess was not privy to the planning of Operation Barbarossa.”

  Hitler sniffed and waved a hand in the air. He seemed suddenly bored with the whole discussion. “Goebbels can handle it.” He leaned forward suddenly, eyes fixed on Himmler. “But Hess knows other things. He has seen Wewelsburg. He knows what you are doing there.”

  “A glimpse, no more. We showed him very little, and as I say he was distracted. Now we know where his mind really was—planning this flight to Britain. He saw little and
understood less. Besides,” a smile cracked across Himmler’s round face, “if he tells the British what he has seen they will think he’s insane. They will not believe a word of it.”

  Hitler nodded slowly. He dismissed them all with a wave of his hand, and started to rearrange the papers on his desk into neat piles.

  Outside, Himmler waited until Heydrich and the others had gone, then turned to Hoffman. “You will organize the report I mentioned.”

  “Of course, Herr Reichsfuhrer. And the Vril project?”

  The light glinted on Himmler’s glasses as he turned abruptly to look at Hoffman. “What of it?”

  “I appreciate you did not wish to confuse or worry the Fuhrer with details, but the Deputy Fuhrer was uneasy at Wewelsburg. He saw … everything. He understood the implications—the potential risks as well as the benefits. It unsettled him. It is possible that this insane mission of his—”

  “Yes, yes,” Himmler snapped. “But there is nothing we can do about it now.”

  “Perhaps we should delay the project. Slow down.” Hoffman swallowed. He was on dangerous ground here. “At least until we can be sure the allies know nothing.”

  “Slow down? Now?”

  “As a precaution, nothing more.”

  Himmler considered for a moment, staring down at the floor. Then he looked up, grasping Hoffman’s shoulder. “You are right, we cannot simply proceed as if nothing has happened.”

  “A little caution—” Hoffman started to say.

  But Himmler was not listening. “If the Allies believe even a fraction of what Hess might tell them, then speed is essential.”

  “Speed?”

  “We must redouble our efforts. The Vril Project cannot be compromised. Write my report for the Fuhrer, and then signal Streicher in France.”

  Himmler had made up his mind, and Hoffman knew he could not be persuaded to change it. “Of course, Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

  “Tell Streicher he must finish his excavations now. Tell him to bring the Ubermensch to Wewelsburg immediately.”

  CHAPTER 8

  They sat in a gloomy corner of the café, away from the windows, drinking hot, black coffee from small cups. Smith knew the man only as “Jacques.” They had met several times before, never in the same place and never for more than a few minutes. This was already their longest encounter.

  “Streicher thinks you’ve left the area,” Jacques said. “He’s sent messages to other local forces to find out where you are. But he’s not really interested. Just covering himself in case anyone else asks where you went.”

  Smith nodded. “I left word that my nerves couldn’t take it after that last accident in the excavations,” he replied in excellent French. “Gone back to my churches and castles. He’ll accept that. After all, it solves a problem for him.”

  “You think he’d have killed you if you’d stayed?”

  “It’s possible. Not a theory I’d like to hang around and test. Better that he thinks I’m out of the way and know as little as possible.”

  “Streicher won’t be here for much longer. They’re packing everything into crates ready to move out.”

  That made sense after what had happened. “So the painstaking, methodical business of archaeology has become an exercise in hasty evacuation.”

  “My colleagues are watching,” Jacques said. He took a sip of his coffee. “They’re definitely clearing out. They have a train waiting at Ouvon.”

  “When does it leave?”

  “Sometime the day after tomorrow, according to the station master.”

  “So tomorrow they transport the crates to the train.”

  “You want us to intercept the trucks?” Jacques asked. “It will be risky. Heavy casualties. I hope whatever you are after is worth it.”

  “So do I.” Smith drained the last of his coffee. There were bitter grounds in the bottom of the cup that grated on his tongue and caught in his teeth. “But I don’t want Streicher to know he’s been robbed. Not for a while, anyway.”

  “How do you propose to manage that, my friend?”

  Smith rubbed his beard as he considered. “A little deception,” he decided. “But not on the way to the station. How do you feel about blowing up a railway line?”

  * * *

  They laid the charges under cover of darkness. The fact that the Resistance made a habit of destroying railways and other communications across occupied France would allay any suspicion. There was no reason for Streicher and his men to assume they had been singled out for special treatment.

  Jacques also passed word that Streicher’s shipment was not to be interfered with at the station. A “low-level” but effective form of resistance was for the railway workers to deliberately mislabel German supplies or change the cargo manifests so that supplies ended up in the wrong place. The last thing Carlton Smith wanted was to find that his own subterfuge had been pre-empted.

  The spot they chose was about seven miles out from Ouvon. The track ran through a cutting before emerging close to a lane. The lane was screened by a line of trees and an area of dense undergrowth. The two men with the detonator watched for the smoke that would show the train was nearing the end of the cutting. The light was fading as evening became night, but the sun was low behind the smoke, making it easy to see. Out of sight, Smith and Jacques waited on the lane with two more of the Resistance—a young man called Pierre, and a woman who gave her name as Mathilde.

  The sound of the approaching train was drowned out by the blast of the explosion. The noise melded into the screech of metal on metal as the driver hit the brakes.

  Moving through the undergrowth, Smith watched the train slowing. Its wheels spat sparks. Doors were sliding open along its length as Streicher’s men tried to see what was happening ahead. Several of the soldiers leaped down, guns ready. They ran on ahead of the train, disappearing into the drifting smoke and steam.

  As soon as the soldiers were clear, Smith and Mathilde made their move. They ran, crouching, to the back of the train. Mathilde disappeared beneath the back wagon. She emerged again a few moments later, giving Smith a thumbs-up. In moments, she had disappeared into the fog of smoke that spewed from the canister she had placed. The whole of the back of the train was soon swirling in acrid smoke and steam.

  Smith was wearing a long, dark coat. In the thick haze it might pass for an officer’s greatcoat, and he was hoping no one would get close enough to make out any more than his vague outline. As soon as Mathilde was out of sight, swallowed up by the smoke, he hammered on the door of the back wagon.

  “Come on, come on!” he shouted in German. Smith’s accent was a good approximation of Streicher’s voice. He had learned and practiced the simple lines he needed as if for a command performance. “I need you out here.”

  He could barely see the door opening, let alone the two soldiers guarding the crates.

  “They’ve blown up the line ahead of us. There’s a pile of supplies back at the end of the cutting. Bring two rails.” He didn’t give them time to reply. “Quickly—now, now, now!”

  “Sir!” one of the soldiers responded.

  Smith was aware of them pushing past and hurrying back down the track. The smoke was already beginning to clear, so he would have to act fast.

  Jacques, Pierre and Mathilde appeared out of the gloom and the four of them clambered into the wagon. Two more men arrived—the ones who had set off the explosives—and climbed in after them.

  Smith and Jacques needed the flashlights they had brought.

  “One large crate, or several smaller ones,” Jacques said quietly. “There is no time for more than that.”

  “It’s a large one I’m after.”

  Smith quickly found the crate he was looking for—one of the largest. He tore the packing label from the side of the crate and handed it to Pierre. Mathilde and the others were already stripping labels from other crates and swapping them round. Pierre positioned the label from the large crate on another that was just slightly smaller, pressing it fir
mly into place.

  “If they start to peel off, they’ll just stick them back on again,” Smith said. “German efficiency.”

  Jacques checked outside the wagon, looking both ways into the smoke. It was thinning considerably, but the sky had darkened as the sun dipped below the horizon.

  “We need to go,” he announced.

  They heaved the crate to the edge of the wagon. Pierre and Jacques climbed out to take the weight from the outside. It was about ten feet long and very heavy but, with Mathilde and one of the other men helping, the four of them managed to carry it away from the train.

  Inside the wagon, Smith and the other explosives expert moved the large crate of similar size to where the missing crate had been. They shuffled a few others round to fill the space, so that it was not immediately obvious that anything had gone.

  Smith looked toward the engine as he clambered out. Figures were silhouetted against the glow from the firebox, wreathed in steam. One of them was obviously Streicher, standing with his hands behind his back as he watched his men working. The two who had found the rails to repair the track would probably get a commendation, Smith thought. Until someone realized what had happened, but that could be days if not weeks away. He hurried away from the train and pushed his way through the undergrowth.

  The crate had already been loaded into the back of the waiting truck. Mathilde gave a wave as she cycled off down the lane. The two explosives experts followed close behind. Pierre waited to shake Smith’s hand.

  “We make a good team, eh?”

  “We do. Thank you.” Smith slapped him on the shoulder. “Now get going before the Bosch come looking for us.”

  “They won’t come looking,” Jacques said confidently. He climbed up into the front of the truck next to where Smith was now behind the wheel.

  “Let’s hope you’re right. You got my transit permits?”

  Jacques handed over a sheaf of papers from his inside jacket pocket. “You can drop me at the farm. I need to see Jean.”