by Jack Higgins
He set off again, going straight up the slope through the trees at a speed which had Canning struggling for breath. Once on top, the ground inclined to the east more gently, through pine trees whose branches were covered with snow.
Finebaum was some yards in advance by now, and suddenly signalled to halt and went forward. He waved them on.
He was crouched beside a snow-covered bush in a small hollow on the ridge above the road. The Finns were encamped below beside the three half-tracks and the field car. The scene was illuminated by a couple of storm lanterns, and in their light it was possible to see Sorsa, Ritter and Claire de Beauville standing by the field car. The Finns squatted around portable field stoves in small groups.
'Hey, this could be a real Turkey shoot,' Finebaum said. 'There must be thirty to thirty-five guys down there. We open up now, we could take half of them out, no trouble.' He caressed the barrel of his M1. 'On the other hand, that would probably mean the lady getting it and you wouldn't like that, would you, General?'
'No, I wouldn't like it at all,' Canning said.
Strange how different it seemed, now that they were apart. Standing down there in the lamplight, she might have been a stranger. No anger in him at all now.
'But when she moves out, General?' Finebaum said. 'That would be different.'
'Very different.' Canning eased the Thompson forward.
Finebaum leaned across to Hoover. 'You move ten yards that way on the other side of the bank, Harry. Give us a better field of fire. I'll look after the General.'
'And who'll look after you?' Hoover asked and wriggled away through the snow.
Finebaum took out a couple of German stick grenades and laid them ready in the snow. They were still talking down there by the field car.
Canning said, 'What are you going to do when you get home, Finebaum?'
'Hell, that's easy, General, I'm going to buy something big like maybe my own hotel up there in Manhattan some place. Fill it with high-class women.'
'And make a fortune out of them or plunge in yourself?'
'That's where I can't make my mind up.' They didn't look at each other, but continued to watch the group below. 'It's a funny old war.'
'Is it?'
'If you don't know, who does, General?'
Claire got into the field car. Ritter climbed in beside her and nodded to Hoffer, who started the engine. 'Beautiful,' Finebaum breathed. 'Just too beautiful. Get ready, General.'
The field car moved into the night, the engine note started to dwindle. And then, as Canning and Finebaum eased forward in the snow to take aim at the men below, there was a sudden whisper in the night like wings beating.
They both turned as a Finn in white winter uniform, the hood of his parka drawn up over his field cap, erupted from the trees and did a perfect stem turn, coming to a dead halt. Finebaum fired from the hip three times very fast, knocking him back among the bushes.
'Watch it, you two,' Hoover yelled. 'Three o'clock high.'
Canning swivelled in the right direction and found another Finn coming down the slope through the trees like a rocket. He started to fire the Thompson, snow dancing in fountains across the face of the slope, and the Finn swerved to one side and disappeared. There was uproar down below as Sorsa shouted commands, ordering his men forward in skirmish order. Someone started to fire from the trees above them, and then below on the road a big Finnish Rottenfuhrer jumped into one of the half-tracks, swung the heavy machine gun and loosed off a burst that cut branches from the trees above Canning's head.
'You wanted action, General, you got it,' Finebaum said, and called to Hoover, 'Hey, Harry, get ready to move out, old buddy. One, two, three - the old routine. Say if you understand.'
There was no reply. He emptied his rifle into the men and the road below and shoved in another clip. 'Okay, General, let's move it,' he said and crawled through the bushes towards Hoover.
The sergeant was lying on his back, eyes open wide as if surprised that this could happen to him after all this time. There was a large and very ragged hole in his throat where two machine-gun bullets had hit together.
Finebaum turned and started to crawl back to their original position. The Finns were half-way up the slope at the side of the road now. He picked up the first stick grenade and tossed it over. There was a deafening explosion and cries of anguish. He ducked as the Rottenfuhrer in the half-track swung the machine gun in his direction, kicking a wall of snow six feet into the air.
'Goodbye, old buddy!' Finebaum shouted and tossed the second grenade.
It seemed to drift through the night in a kind of slow motion. The Rottenfuhrer ducked, it dropped into the halftrack beside him. A second later it exploded, lifting him bodily into the air.
Finebaum yelled, 'Okay, General, let's get to hell out of here,' and he got to his feet and ran up the slope, head down.
Canning lost contact with him almost instantly, but kept on running, clutching the Thompson gun across his chest with both hands, aware of the spotlight over the castle gate in the distance.
There was a whisper of skis somewhere up above him on his right among the trees, and he swung the Thompson and fired. There were two rifle shots in reply and he kept on running, head down.
As he came out of the trees on the final ridge, there was a sudden swish of skis. He was aware of movement on his right, turned too late as the Finn ran straight into him. They went over the edge together, rolling over and over through deep snow, the man's skis tearing free.
Canning didn't relinquish his hold on the Thompson, not for a second, flailing out at the Finn wildly as the man tried to get up, but felt the side of the skull disintegrate under the impact of the steel butt.
He could hardly breathe now, staggering like a drunken man across the final section of open ground, aware of the deadly swish of skis closing behind, but as he fell down the bank of the moat, Finebaum was there, giving them one burst after another.
'Come on, you mothers! Is that the best you can do?'
Canning lurched into the water, thrashing out wildly, the Thompson still in his right hand. He went under once and then someone had him by the collar.
'Easy, General. Easy does it,' Jack Howard was saying.
Canning crouched against the wall, totally exhausted, in real physical pain. Hesser and Birr leaned over him. The German forced the neck of a flask between his teeth. It was brandy.
Canning didn't think anything could ever have tasted quite that good in his life before.
He realized that he was still clutching the Thompson and held it up to Howard. 'I lost your sergeant.'
'Hoover?' Howard said. 'You mean he's dead?'
'As a mackerel. Took two heavy-chopper rounds straight in the throat.' Finebaum squatted beside Canning. 'Anyone got a cigarette? Mine are all wet.'
Hesser gave him one and a light. Howard exploded, 'God dammit, Finebaum, is that all you can say? That's Harry out there.'
'What the hell you expect me to do, recite the prayers for the dead or something?'
Howard walked away along the tunnel. Canning said, 'You saved my skin out there, Finebaum. I won't forget that.'
'You did okay, General. You did as you was told. That's lesson number one in this game.'
'Game?' Canning said. 'Is that how you see it?'
Finebaum inhaled deeply and took his time in replying. 'I don't know about that, General, but I'll tell you one thing. Sometimes at night, I wake up frightened - scared half to death, and you know why?'
'No.'
'Because I'm afraid it'll soon be over.'
For the first time since Canning had known him, he didn't sound as if he was trying to make a joke.
14
Ritter and Claire de Beauville did not exchange a single word during the drive down to the village. When Hoffer finally braked to a halt in front of the Golden Eagle, Claire made no attempt to get out; simply sat there, mute, staring into space, snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes.
'We will go in now, Madame,' Ritter said
gently as Hoffer opened the door for them.
He took her hand to help her down and she started to shake. He put an arm about her shoulder. 'Quickly, Erich - inside.'
Hoffer ran ahead to get the door open. Ritter took her up the steps into the bar. Meyer was tending the fire. A look of astonishment appeared on his face when he saw Claire. 'Madame de Beauville - are you all right?'
She was shaking uncontrollably now. Ritter said, 'Where is Herr Strasser?'
'In my office, Sturmbannfuhrer.'
'I'll take her there now. You get Dr Gaillard. I think she's going to need him. Go with him, Erich.'
They both went out quickly. Claire leaned heavily against Ritter and he held her close, afraid that she might fall. He walked her across to the fire and eased her into the large armchair beside it. Then he went to the bar, poured brandy into a glass and returned.
'Come on, just a little. You'll feel better, I promise you.'
She moaned softly, but drank, and then she seemed to choke a little, her fingers tightening on his shoulder as she stared past him.
Strasser said, 'What happened? What went wrong?'
Ritter turned to look at him. 'She is not well, as you can see.'
'This is not your department, so kindly keep out of it,' Strasser told him coldly.
Ritter hesitated then got to his feet and moved a few paces away. Strasser said, 'You were discovered?'
'Yes.'
'Then how do you come to be here?'
'General Canning threw me out.'
Strasser stood there, confronting her, hands clasped behind his back, a slight frown on his face. He nodded slowly. 'Exactly the sort of stupidity he would indulge in.'
'What happens now?'
'To you? A matter of supreme indifference to me, Madame.'
He started to turn away and she caught his sleeve, shaking again now, tears in her eyes. 'Please, Herr Bormann, Etienne - my husband. You promised.'
'Strasser,' he said. 'The name is Strasser, Madame, and in regard to your husband, I promised nothing. I said I would do what I could.'
'But Colonel Rattenhuber -'
'- is dead,' Strasser said. 'And I can't be responsible for the empty promises of a dead man.'
There was horror and incredulity on her face now. 'But I did everything I was asked to do. Betrayed my friends - my country. Don't you understand?'
From the doorway Gaillard said, in shocked tones, 'For God's sake, Claire, what are you saying?'
She turned on him feverishly. 'Oh, yes, it's true. I was the puppet - he pulled the strings. Meet my master, Paul. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann.'
'I really am growing rather weary of that bit,' Strasser said.
'Would you like to know why I did it, Paul? Shall I tell you? It's really very simple. Etienne wasn't killed escaping from SD Headquarters in Paris as we thought. He's alive. A prisoner at Mauthausen concentration camp.'
There was agony on Paul Gaillard's face - an overwhelming pity. He took her hands in his. 'I know, Claire, that Etienne wasn't shot trying to escape from Avenue Foche. I've known for a long time. I also know they took him to Mauthausen.'
'You knew?' she whispered. 'But I don't understand.'
'Mauthausen is an extermination camp. You only go in, you never come out. Etienne died there in the stone quarry two years ago along with forty-seven American, British and French fliers. There seemed no point in causing you needless distress when you already believed him dead.'
'How did they die?'
Gaillard hesitated.
'Please, Paul, I must know.'
'Very well. At one point in the quarry there was a flight of steps, 127 of them. Etienne and the others were made to climb them carrying heavy stones. Seventy, eighty, ninety, even one hundred pounds in weight. If they fell down they were clubbed and kicked until they got up again. By the evening of the first day half of them were dead. The rest died the following morning.'
Canning and Justin Birr had a plan of the castle open across the top of the piano. Claudine Chevalier sat opposite them, playing softly. The door opened and Hesser and Howard entered, the German brushing snowflakes from the fur collar of his greatcoat.
Canning said briskly, 'I've called you together for a final briefing on what the plan must be in case of an all-out assault.'
'You think that's still possible, sir?' Howard asked.
'I've no reason to believe otherwise. One thing is absolutely certain. If it comes at all, it must come soon. I'd say no later than dawn because the one thing Strasser or Bormann or whoever he is doesn't have is time. An Allied column could cross this place. However' - he pulled the plan forward - 'let's say they do attack and force the drawbridge. How long can you hold them before they blast that gate. Howard?'
'Not long enough, General. All we have are rifles, Schmeissers and grenades and one machine gun up there. They still have two half-tracks with heavy machine guns and a lot more manpower.'
'Okay - so they force the gates and you have to fall back. What about Big Bertha, Max?'
'She is in position thirty yards from the mouth of the tunnel and overflowing with scrap metal. However, I can't guarantee that she won't blow up in the face of whoever puts light to her.'
'That's my department,' Canning told him. 'I said it, I meant it. If it works, we dispose of the first half-track out of the tunnel and probably every man in it. That should even things up a little.'
'Then what?' Howard demanded.
'We retreat into the north tower, get the door shut and stand them off for as long as we can.'
Justin Birr said mildly, 'I hate to mention it, Hamilton, but it really isn't much of a barrier, that door. Not if somebody starts chucking grenades at it.'
'Then we retreat up the stairs,' Canning said. 'Fight them floor by floor, or has anybody got a better suggestion?' There was only silence. 'All right, gentlemen, let's get moving. I'll see you on the wall in five minutes.'
They went out. He stood there looking at the plan for a while, then picked up a German-issue parka and pulled it over his head.
'A long wait until dawn, Hamilton,' Claudine Chevalier said. 'You really think they'll come?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'And Paul and Claire? I wonder what will happen to them?'
'I don't know.'
'Or care?'
'About Gaillard - yes.' Canning buckled on his holstered pistol.
'How strange,' she said, still playing, 'that love can turn to hate so quickly - or can it? Perhaps we only delude ourselves.'
'Why don't you go to hell?' Canning suggested bitterly and he walked out, slamming the door.
When Sorsa went into the bar at the Golden Eagle he found Ritter sitting by the fire, a glass in one hand. Sorsa beat the snow from his parka. Ritter didn't say a word, simply stared into the fire. The door from the kitchen opened and Erich Hoffer entered with coffee on a tray. He put it down on the side-table without a word. Ritter ignored him also.
Sorsa glanced at the sergeant-major, then coughed. Ritter's head turned very slowly. He glanced up, a brooding expression in his eyes.
'Yes, what is it?'
'You sent for me, Sturmbannfuhrer.'
Ritter stared up at him for a moment longer, then said, 'How many did you lose up there?'
'Four dead - two seriously wounded. We brought them back here for the doctor to deal with. Three others scratched about a bit. One of the half-tracks is a complete writeoff. What happens now?'
'We attack at dawn. Seven o'clock precisely. You and your men are still mine until nine, remember.'
'Yes, Sturmbannfuhrer.'
'I'll take command personally. Full assault. We'll use Panzerfausts on the drawbridge. Hoffer, here, was the best gunner in the battalion. He'll blow those chains for us, won't you, Erich?'
It was delivered as an order, and Hoffer reacted accordingly, springing to attention, heels clicking together. 'Zw befehl, Sturtnbannfuhrer.'
Ritter looked up at Sorsa. 'Any questions?'
'Wou
ld it make any difference if I had?' Sorsa asked.
'Not really. The same roads lead to hell in the end for all of us.'
'A saying we have in Finland also.'
Ritter nodded. 'Better leave Sergeant-Major Gestrin and four of your best men down here to hold the fort while we're away. You get back to your camp now. I'll be up in a little while.'
'And Herr Strasser?'
'I shouldn't imagine so, not for a moment. Herr Strasser is too important to be risked. You understand me?'
'I think so, Sturmbannfuhrer.'
'Good, because I'm damned if I do.' Ritter got to his feet, walked to the bar and reached for the schnapps bottle. 'I've known a lot of good men during the past five or six years who are no longer with us, and for the first time I'm beginning to wonder why.' There was a kind of desperation on his face. 'Why did they die, Sorsa? What for? Can you tell me?'
'I'm afraid not,' Sorsa said gently. 'You see, I fight for wages. We belong to a different club, you and me. Was there anything else?' Ritter shook his head. 'Then I'll get back to my boys.'
The big Finn gave him a military salute and went out. Ritter moved to the fireplace and stared into the flames. 'Why, Erich?' he whispered. 'What for?'
'What's this, Major Ritter?' Strasser said from the doorway. 'A little late in the day for philosophy, I should have thought.'
Ritter turned, the dark eyes blazing in the pale face. 'No more games, Reichsleiter. We've gone too far for that now, you and I.'
'Have we indeed?' Strasser went behind the bar and poured himself a brandy.
'Is it Bormann in Berlin and Strasser here, or the other way about?' Ritter said. 'On the other hand, does it really matter?'
'Speeches now?'
'I'd say I've earned the right, if only because I had to stand by and watch that sickening spectacle with the de Beauville woman. You left her more degraded than a San Pauli whore. You left her nothing.'
'I did what had to be done.'
'For God, the Fuhrer and the Reich - or have I got that in the wrong order?' Ritter ignored the horror on Hoffer's face. 'Hundreds of thousands of young Germans have died, the cream of our nation, who believed. Who had faith and idealism. Who thought they were taking our country out of the degradation and squalor of the twenties into a new age. I now realize they died for nothing. What they believed in never existed in the first place. You and your kind allowed, for your own ends, a madman to lead the German people down the road to hell, and we followed you with joy in our hearts.'
