The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  “In fact, he’ll find out in about half a minute from now,” Alban said. “Because she’s obviously heard.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Even at night, the Kremlin was an awe-inspiring sight. The Spasskaya Tower gleamed in the moonlight. A red star, added to the top of the spire in 1937 was still the color of blood, even though it was now two years old.

  Mikhael had seen enough blood. He knew he would see a lot more yet, and the thought sickened him. Three days ago, his best friend, Alexei, had been shot dead right beside him. Alex didn’t die at once. He spent an agonizing hour coughing up rich, ripe, foaming blood and screaming. That was the first time Mikhael had seen death. 20 September 1939—the day that Mikhael’s life changed forever.

  Now, three days later, Mikhael had been brought to the Kremlin to die.

  They escorted him in through a side entrance. Two soldiers on guard duty barely spared them a glance. Down a narrow, ill-lit passageway and out into a wide corridor. Their boots rang on the marble floors. Such opulence—Mikhael had never seen anything like it. He struggled to keep looking straight ahead, but his eyes were seduced by the glittering chandeliers, the paintings, the paneled walls …

  The General Secretary sat at a large desk at the side of a huge office. He did not look up when they came in, giving no acknowledgment that he knew Mikhael and the three men with him had arrived. The four of them stood at attention in front of the desk, waiting.

  After several minutes, the Secretary put down his pen, and looked up. He fixed his deep, dark eyes on Mikhael, his stare so intense he might be looking into the man’s soul. Still he said nothing.

  Finally, the Secretary turned to the man standing beside Mikhael—the only one of the four not in uniform. “Is this the man?”

  “It is.” The reply was strained with nervous anxiety.

  “His rank?”

  “He is a corporal.”

  “Then promote him.” The Secretary turned his attention back to Mikhael. “They tell me you speak perfect German.”

  “They tell me that too.” He tried to smile, but the Secretary’s expression did not change.

  “But is it true?”

  “It is. My mother was German, though her own mother was English. She worked at the—”

  The Secretary waved a hand to cut him off. “Are you a good Soviet? You know where your loyalty lies?”

  “Of course.”

  The Secretary beckoned to Mikhael. “Come closer.” He pointed to the other side of his desk, where several piles of papers were laid out neatly. “Take a look.”

  Mikhael tried to ignore the rest of the desk. There were other stacks of documents. A pile of photographs lay on the blotter—beside the note the Secretary had been writing when they came in. The photographs showed what looked like an aerial view of a forest, except that all the trees were lying down, radiating out from a dark area in the center like broken matchsticks. The whole landscape blasted across. What weapon could do that?

  He forced himself to concentrate on the papers the Secretary had indicated. They were crumpled and old. Identity papers with photographs, letters, a blood-stained page torn from a journal.

  “Please, take them with you. All that remains of the lives of three men. Study them carefully,” the Secretary went on as Mikhael gathered up the papers. “See which is the most like you, which will be the easiest life to slip into. Not the most comfortable, but the one you can become most convincingly. Names are important,” he added. “Make sure you like the name of the man you will be when we send you back to Poland.”

  There was silence for several moments, then the Secretary leaned forward to study the photographs again. It was obvious that the meeting was over. Mikhael waited for one of the others to move first, then followed them from the room. At the door, he glanced back at the man at the desk—still absorbed in his work. He could see why he had adopted the name “man of steel”—Stalin.

  * * *

  Hoffman’s fingers brushed against the Iron Cross at his throat. “They gave me this. As the only survivor of an entire unit killed by the last remnants of the Polish army, they thought I deserved it. Whereas in fact, there were no survivors.”

  “And the unit was ambushed by the Russians,” Davenport said.

  They were speaking in English, sitting on dusty wooden chairs in the hut at the edge of the woodland beside the quarry. The plan had been for Pentecross to stay hidden in the woods, but the first thing Hoffman said to Davenport was:

  “Tell your friend to join us. If I’d wanted you killed or captured I’d have done it in the bar last night. I watched the two of you for a good ten minutes before I spoke to you.”

  Now they sat round a rough wooden table—none of them the nationality they claimed to be.

  “You seriously expect us to believe all that?” Guy said. “That you’re really Russian?”

  “Mostly Russian. My mother had some German blood in her.” Hoffman smiled. “But that wasn’t really her fault. Some English too, which is how I know your language.”

  “So when the Soviet Army liberated, as they call it, Eastern Poland—you became German.”

  “From the sets of papers I was offered I picked out Werner Hoffman. The candidates were chosen because none of them had any living relatives so far as we could tell. I was decorated, promoted, applied to join the SS.”

  “And you’re a Russian spy.” Guy shook his head. “I don’t believe a word of it,” he said in fluent Russian. “I don’t know what you’re really up to, but you’re no more Russian than I am.”

  Hoffman laughed. His reply was also in Russian. “Your accent is very good. I’d guess that you learned your Russian from someone who spent most of their life in Moscow, am I right? It’s very formal.”

  “What are you two rattling on about?” Davenport asked.

  “Just establishing our credentials,” Guy said. “All right, suppose we accept that you’re Russian and you’ve successfully infiltrated the SS. Why are you talking to us?”

  “Please, we’re all allies together now.”

  “You’re risking your cover,” Davenport said.

  “I need your help.”

  “In what way? You looking to escape, back to Russia?”

  Hoffman shook his head. “There are things happening here. Things I have to tell you about.”

  “Have you told Moscow?”

  “They wouldn’t believe me. I have told them some of it, and had no response. Not even an acknowledgment of the signal.”

  “How do you communicate?” Davenport asked. “Under the circumstances, I can’t believe you have colleagues in the village.”

  “I have a radio. It’s risky. I use it rarely, and only when I can be fairly sure that there is a distraction.”

  “Where is this radio?” Guy asked.

  “You are sitting on it. Under the floorboards. Buried in the sand beneath.”

  “All right,” Guy said. “Everything you’ve told us is improbable but I guess it’s not impossible.”

  “You haven’t explained how you knew we were coming,” Davenport said. “You haven’t explained how you come to have a drawing of me in your pocket.”

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” Hoffman replied. “The drawing … Well, I can explain that later.”

  “And what makes you think we will believe you if your own superiors don’t?” Guy asked.

  “Because you don’t have to believe me. I can show you the evidence. And I know from this—” he drew out the picture of Davenport and unfolded it on the table “—that you already know some of it.”

  “From a drawing?” Davenport sniffed. “And not a very flattering one at that.”

  “I don’t know what you call these creatures,” Hoffman said, “but we know them as Ubermensch.” He nodded as Guy and Davenport looked at each other. “I see you are familiar with the term.”

  “You have one of them here?” Davenport demanded. “At Wewelsburg?”

  “No. Not any more.” He smoothed t
he picture out, hesitating before looking up again. They could both see the fear deep behind his eyes. “What we have here is much worse.”

  “You can get us into the castle?” Guy asked.

  “I’ve brought uniforms. If necessary, I shall vouch for you, although that could cause problems for me later.”

  “No need,” Davenport announced. “Standartenfuhrer Streicher already knows me, assuming he is here.”

  “He’s here. Although he’s organized an expedition to North Africa in a couple of weeks. But how does that help?”

  “Because he thinks my name is Carlton Smith, an American archaeologist.”

  Hoffman laughed. “You’re Smith? Oh that is good. Yes, I like that. And a week ago—even a few days ago—that might have worked in our favor. But not now.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “You haven’t heard the news?”

  “Tell us,” Guy said.

  “Yesterday the Japanese attacked an American base in Hawaii. Pearl Harbor.”

  “Never heard of it,” Davenport said.

  “As far as we can tell, the attack was without warning, and the U.S. Pacific Fleet was practically destroyed.”

  “Christ,” Guy muttered.

  “President Roosevelt has asked Congress to declare war on Japan,” Hoffman told them. “And I think we can safely assume that it will only be a short time before the United States and Germany are also at war.”

  CHAPTER 36

  She was so angry she didn’t trust herself to speak. To Sarah, it seemed the most obvious thing in the world to get the Americans involved with Station Z. They should be setting up briefing meetings through the embassy—she’d offered to talk to Whitman, without letting on quite how well she knew him.

  But Colonel Brinkman was adamant. Even now he was still not willing to talk to the Americans. Discussion over.

  So Sarah stormed out of his office, grabbed her coat off the back of her chair and left. She clattered down the stairs, swearing under her breath, barging past a startled man heading up to the offices above. By the time she reached the street, she’d made up her mind. If Brinkman wasn’t going to talk to the Americans, then she was. She set off toward the embassy, praying that Whitman was there today. Chances were everyone was there. Just so long as she could persuade him to see her. They’d be busy, but as the Japanese attack had taken place thousands of miles away it was unlikely they could actually do anything. He’d see her, she’d make sure of that.

  Focused on the pavement ahead, mind full of anger and nervous anticipation, Sarah didn’t notice the man in a light gray raincoat. He had been leaning against the wall at the corner of the street, smoking. Now he flicked his cigarette away, and followed Sarah down the road.

  * * *

  The opportunity to derive information from a new source was too good to miss. The confusion and disarray that the Ubermensch was watching afforded him that opportunity. His latest target was from a very different group of people, and could provide very different data—social, political, tactical … The target would tell him everything.

  Rather than simply observe as usual, the Ubermensch followed the target into the building. He walked close behind, matching the man’s stride, apparently following him—a friend or colleague. In the confusion, no one stopped him.

  Once inside the building, the Ubermensch dropped back. He did not want to be seen until the target reached his office or another quiet place where they could talk. If the target realized he was being followed, that might cause problems.

  The first problem was the soldier. Coming the other way down the corridor, the uniformed man nodded in greeting to the target. But frowned as he saw the Ubermensch.

  The soldier opened his mouth to speak, hand reaching for the pistol in his holster. But he was too slow. The Ubermensch’s own hand was over the man’s face, covering his mouth, choking off his shout. At the end of the corridor, the target turned out of sight. The Ubermensch slammed the soldier against the wall. The man’s head hit it so hard that the plaster cracked. The soldier slumped forward, and the Ubermensch hoisted the dead body over his shoulder.

  Farther down the corridor, he found an unlocked door. A storeroom. He dumped the soldier’s body inside. There was no key, so he broke off the door handle.

  There was no sign of the target when the Ubermensch turned the corner. There had not been time for the man to get to the end of this corridor. Therefore he was in one of the rooms. The Ubermensch started with the first door. The room was an office—empty.

  In the second room a man was working at a desk. Not the target. The Ubermensch murmured an apology and moved on.

  The man in the third room asked questions. When the Ubermensch didn’t answer, he reached for a telephone on his desk. As the man glanced down, the Ubermensch grabbed the telephone receiver from him.

  “What the hell?”

  The heavy Bakelite made a good bludgeon. The Ubermensch weighed the receiver in his hand, then smashed it down on the man’s head. He pushed the corpse into a cupboard. The space was small, not designed for the purpose. The Ubermensch had to break several of the man’s bones to fit the body inside.

  In the fourth room, the Ubermensch found the target. He closed the door behind him and approached the desk.

  The target looked up. “And what can I do for you?” he asked warily.

  The Ubermensch sat down opposite the man. “You can tell me everything,” he said.

  * * *

  Hoffman backed up Guy’s insistence that Davenport should not speak a word.

  “I managed all right in the bar,” Davenport protested.

  “You didn’t,” Hoffman told him. “Your vocabulary is basic and your accent is awful.”

  “Just let us do any talking,” Guy said.

  Hoffman had brought the SS uniforms of a captain—a hauptsturmfuhrer—and a lieutenant—an obersturmfuhrer. Guy became the lieutenant, as the uniform was a better size. Even so, it was tight and the trousers were slightly short. But the boots were a good fit. Davenport squeezed his slightly fuller form into the captain’s uniform.

  “I’ve had worse-fitting costumes,” he said.

  He put on the uniform cap and turned to Guy. The transformation was instant and complete—Davenport’s expression hardened, his eyes seemed deeper and darker. His features were somehow thinner and he exuded an air of callous indifference. Then, just as suddenly, it all vanished as he grinned. “What do you think?”

  Guy and Hoffman exchanged glances. Hoffman too had been surprised and impressed.

  “Very good,” Guy said.

  “But still say nothing,” Hoffman added.

  “Anything we need to know about saluting and stuff?” Davenport asked.

  “If I do it, you do it,” Hoffman said. “If I don’t, you don’t.”

  The castle was huge—much larger than it had appeared from a distant view. Up close it was also obvious just how much of it was of recent construction. Guy couldn’t help feeling that it was an expensive and impressive waste of effort. In an age where the most deadly attack was likely to come from the air in the form of high explosives, building a stone castle was of limited military value.

  But the purpose was primarily to impress, and in that it excelled.

  They passed along a wide causeway and into the main courtyard without incident. The guards recognized Hoffman, and that seemed to be enough to allow Guy and Davenport unhindered access. Once inside, Hoffman led them through corridors and down winding stone steps.

  Eventually he stopped, and said quietly: “We’ve come a rather roundabout route as I wanted to be sure no one was following or saw where we are headed.”

  “And where are we headed?” Davenport asked.

  “There is a restricted area in the cellars, deep underground—below Himmler’s Crypt.”

  “His what?” Guy said.

  “A nickname, but don’t worry about that for the moment. Where we are going is far more dangerous and unpleasant.”

  He l
ed them down more steps, and along a wide passageway to a set of double doors. Through the doors was another world. Guy blinked in the sudden bright light. They seemed to have stepped into a hospital ward. Rows of beds were arranged under the vaulted ceiling, most of them occupied. All the patients—if they were patients—seemed unconscious or asleep, covered only by thin sheets despite the chill in the air.

  “Who are these people?” Guy wondered. “Are they ill?”

  “Sedated, that is all,” Hoffman explained. “Some are volunteers, others were brought here from across the Reich. From Germany and Poland, Italy and France. Even Russia.”

  He led them through the room, pausing beside the bed where a young woman lay sleeping peacefully. Hoffman paused, looking down at the girl. He brushed a stray strand of fair hair from her forehead.

  “They are here because they have certain … abilities,” Hoffman said.

  “What abilities?” Davenport asked in a whisper.

  Hoffman raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly across to where a nurse was checking the beds. “I will show you,” he murmured.

  They descended again. The lights seemed dimmer the deeper they went. A single electric bulb, imprisoned behind a metal cage, illuminated the small area at the bottom of the steps.

  “This is the oldest part of the castle,” Hoffman said. In front of them was a wooden door, banded with metal.

  “This part is original, then?” Davenport asked.

  “Oh yes. That may be why … We seem to get better reception down here.”

  “Reception? You mean, like for radio?” Guy said.

  “Perhaps. See for yourselves.” Hoffman turned the heavy iron ring that served as handle on the door and pushed it open. He paused to point at Davenport and then put his finger to his lips. The meaning was clear—they were not alone.

  The room was lit by burning sconces of oil. It gave the chamber a smoky, heavy atmosphere. Arched alcoves were black smudges in the gloom, perhaps leading to other areas.

  Several stone tables stood down the middle of the chamber, a stone bench beside each. At one of the tables, sat a man. He was staring straight ahead, but his eyes seemed unfocused. His right hand held a pencil that scratched over the top sheet of a pile of paper on the desk in front of him.