A bright horizon should have lain before him but for one detail. The personality of Doctor Ernst (as he was known within the Party) just did not quite dovetail with the elite clique at the top of the food chain. He was too stiff, overbearing and, at times, just plain strange. He would lean over people whilst talking to them, his immense height making them feel small and threatened. He would defend to his last breath any of his conjectures and whole evenings could be ruined by the petulant bickering of the good Doctor and any guest who had mistakenly put one of his theories to the test.
Thus, Doctor Ernst Rasch soon found himself left out of the social loop. The flood of invitations dried to a trickle and then to a drought. He was too uncomfortable for social gatherings. People weren’t interested in him anymore, in his theories and legend, yes, but in the man himself, no. True acceptance into the select crowd of The Party elite escaped him like a virgin evading an unwelcome suitor.
The lowest point in his career found him posted to one God-forsaken camp in Poland after another; doing tedious experiments on scared-witless prisoners. A heavy fall from such hallowed heights would have destroyed all but the strongest of minds, but not Ernst Rasch's. He soldiered on, knowing that someday the Reich would need his talent and intellect.
Then Heinrich Himmler summoned him to his chambers. Heinrich had the knack of knowing when a man was down and turning it to his advantage. He gave Rasch a task to complete, a test that he passed with flying colours. The results of the work so pleased the Reichsführer that Rasch found himself once more aspiring to the social limelight. The honeyed promise of happier times were again within reach and Himmler’s patronage was its key.
All he had to do was end this mission successfully to finish fully the task that Himmler had given him to do - to make a deal with the count and come back with a positive result. Although empowered to bargain in the name of the Führer, to all intents and purposes the deal had already been made by Himmler himself. Rasch just had to confirm the arrangements and report back.
"Doctor Rasch, you should first make sure we’re getting the quality of soldier we desire before putting anything on the line, do you understand? The Count has promised a lot, so let’s hope he can deliver.”
"I understand fully what is expected of me, Herr Reichsführer!" he answered enthusiastically.
"Von Struck doesn’t need to know all the facts, I myself have not been too straight with him. Just keep it close to your chest until the situation dictates otherwise. Then let him in on it gently. It’s a lot for a man like Von Struck to have to comprehend but I’m sure he will react in the right manner.”
"Jawohl!”
"The Count has our offer; just make sure he's worth it. That will be all, Herr Doctor." Himmler dismissed him.
Chapter 4
Berlin
One day later
Von Struck sat in his office and read through the file. It wasn’t his office - it belonged to the Brigadier. However, for the next couple of days he had the room to do in as he pleased.
Courtesy of the Reichsführer SS, Von Struck had been given free rein to pick whom he wanted to be on his team. He decided to put his trust in Henning, the man who had been his near constant companion during his time in the east. Oberscharführer Wolfgang Henning was a huge thirty-nine year old, battle-hardened veteran of twelve years service with the SS. He was loyal, as were all Schutzstaffel soldiers, hard-working and hard drinking. Although he was no officer, Von Struck treated him as an equal and valued his opinion on anything pertaining to combat, beer, whores and the men in their unit. His native Hamburg had lost a true son of St. Pauli when the one meter-ninety ex-bar brawler had left home.
Henning was also in Berlin, staying at the SS Barracks. Von Struck called the Guardroom and, ten minutes later, the deep booming voice of the NCO rumbled through the telephone.
"Right, Sir, I’ll bring some good lads with me. Rohleder is still around and he can bring some of his troop.”
"Just make sure they look the part, Henning. We’ve got Royalty to impress, though Rohleder will definitely make a good impression.”
Henning laughed at the shared joke and signed off. Rohleder was also an old hand, though his promotion had been slowed somewhat by a yearlong stay in hospital after surviving a flame-thrower attack. Although horribly scarred on his face and upper body, the wounds were only superficial and, after a year of recovery and a year of leave, he was restless again. His application to go back to his old unit had been rejected on medical grounds so he wrote a letter to Von Struck and begged to be taken back. His wife had left him and he had nothing left to live for except to kill Russians.
Von Struck spoke with Holaf who agreed that Rohleder had the right motivation but he still had to be able to pass the medical requirements to be in the SS. Burns victims were not classed as A1 fit in normal times. But these are not normal times, Von Struck had argued, and his burns are only superficial. The Brigadier reluctantly promised to see what he could do. One month later, SS Rottenführer Michael Rohleder stood on parade, reinstated to his old rank and the Iron Cross Second class for his willingness to serve The Fatherland in the face of adversity.
Von Struck saw no problem with the mission in hand. Babysitting some Political Officer in friendly territory sounded like a nice trip to Romania. Drink their foreign schnapps, sleep with their women and then come home with honours. What could go wrong?
Chapter 5
London
Early 1944
The Brigadier’s office was at the end of the corridor. Major James Smith almost marched its length, digging his heels in on the polished wooden floor. Tall, blond, with glass-clear blue eyes, he was the personification of the Nazi racial ideal, but for the fact that he came from Dover. His martial bearing had made him unpopular with the other officers but that suited him down to the ground. He preferred to be alone and aloof from the social politics and intrigues of the Mess.
He was completely in the dark about why he had been called to Baker Street, the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive. Indeed, he was baffled. To the best of his knowledge, he hadn’t contravened any secrecy laws and had no intention of joining Military Intelligence. His regiment was undergoing a complete refit - new wagons and new bodies for the planned invasion of Europe. He had been due to take command of C Squadron 67th Dragoon Guards when the Chief Clerk had called with travel documents and reporting papers. Even the Colonel of the regiment was in the dark. The Old Man shrugged it off with, "Well there is a war on, you know.”
It was all very odd. He stood in front of the solid oak door marked Brigadier D. Lycard and knocked, "Come in," bellowed a voice from within.
He walked in and introduced himself. "Smith, sir. Major James Smith. 67th Dragoon Guards.”
The Brigadier looked up from his desk. Even sitting down, Smith could see that Brigadier Lycard was a very imposing figure. His dark brown hair swept back from a square face that looked to have been cut out of a solid block of granite. Construction worker’s muscles bulged under his uniform, giving the impression that the Brigadier would be more at home in a boxing booth than the Officer’s Mess. Brilliant white teeth shone through as he opened his mouth in a welcoming smile. However, any impression of benevolence was immediately quashed by the devilishly cruel glint in his eyes. The Brigadier radiated violence and intimidation but Smith took the unease he felt as a challenge and he met the Brigadier’s gaze full on.
Unexpectedly, Smith felt the subtle tug of recognition. Did he know this man? Impossible, how could he? Nevertheless, the feeling lingered.
"Ah yes, Smith.” Slow, openly appraising him. "At ease, major.” He sat back in his chair and blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke.
"You’re probably wondering what this is all about, eh? Of course you are.” He stubbed his cigarette out into an overflowing ashtray next to him. "Now I know you’re security cleared for what I’m about to tell you, but I want to say now that we run a tight ship here, Smith.. avery tight ship. Outsiders, people who d
on’t know the rules, just bring trouble. You are an outsider, so I’m telling you now that I’ve got my eye on you. Whatever you hear, see or touch is Top Secret. Nothing goes beyond these walls. Nothing, regardless of what you feel about how you’ve been handled or how other people have been handled, goes outside of these walls. Understand?”
Smith raised a querying eyebrow but kept his thoughts to himself. The feeling that he knew the Brigadier was gathering a slow momentum but, infuriatingly, he couldn’t’ yet place him.
"Sir, with all due respect, I don’t know why I’m here yet. I think there must be some mistake. I honestly don’t know what is required of me or if I can even fulfil these unknown requirements.”
The Brigadier looked at him, "Yes, I can imagine … ” he said slowly, pushing a thin folder across the desk. "Read through this file.”
Smith picked it up and flicked through the pages as the Brigadier started to elaborate. "Well, it’s all very strange. We see this sort of thing with the French all the time, but this for me is a first. We recently got wind of a high-ranking Romanian Count who wants to do a spot of business for us. Well, it’s only to be expected, I suppose, now that Jerry’s on the back foot they’re all coming out of the woodwork." He stopped briefly to stand up and walk to the window. He was enormous and Smith felt his defiance against the other man’s aura wilt somewhat. With his back turned to the Major, he continued. "You see the writing is on the wall for the Third Reich and nobody wants to be the last one holding the ball, as they say.” He chuckled to acknowledge his clumsy mixing of metaphors.
Smith took in the file. It consisted of two photos, a map and a set of orders. The first picture was of a woman. Dark haired and wild-eyed, she was, even from the picture, stunning. Her long ebony mane hung loosely around her bare shoulders and framed a face so captivating he found it hard to look away.
"Quite a dilly, eh?" Lycard smiled wolfishly.
"Very striking, sir.” Smith drank in the picture.
"The next fellow is the other contact. We don’t have a good picture of him but we think he’s the count that has contacted us. Apparently, he has information about some secret weapon that Himmler has personally overseen. Himmler is convinced that this weapon will save the Third Reich. Whatever it is, it better be good, eh?" He smiled benignly and Smith was instantly reminded of a picture he’d once seen of Joe Stalin laughing, sharing a joke with someone. However, the jovial smile stopped at his mouth, while his eyes held the cold glare of murder.
Smith looked at the photo and saw a man of indeterminate age, regal in his looks, with a wide mouth and aquiline features topped by dark, sullen eyes. Arrogance scarred his features like smallpox. The photo was so bad that it was hard to make out if it was day or night.
"So why am I here then, sir? Why me? I can’t think of one good reason why you are showing me this.”
The Brigadier turned to look at him, "It’s quite simple, old chap. This Count, Duke, Prince, whatever he is, has actually asked for you by name.”
Smith didn’t react at first. That he, James Smith, formerly of the Duke of Monmouth’s Military School and then, straight after that, the 67th Dragoon Guards, was being asked for by a Romanian count was out of the question. The idea was just too ridiculous to entertain. Regardless of the fact that he had never been further east than the Dover Docks, he couldn’t even remember having ever met a Romanian, not to mention a Romanian Count.
"There must be some sort of mistake, sir," he stammered.
"No mistake, old boy. He knew your name, regiment, number, the whole damn lot. We have of course been asking a few questions ourselves, but it seems you’re on the up-and-up, so we invited you here.”
The Brigadier looked him squarely in the eye as if judging his response. "This Count chappy has asked that you meet him and he’ll show you what Himmler has. It could all be nonsense, of course, but we’re not willing to take that chance. If you agree, and I’m sure you will, you’ll be parachuted into Northern Romania and be met by the lovely lady in the photo. There she will take you to meet the count and you can decide whether it really is as bad as the higher-ups think.”
The Brigadier glossed over the whole operation as though it were a picnic. Smith could only listen with half an ear as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. He spoke no Romanian, had no desire to go to Romania, and was not even sure he believed what was going on. The Brigadier droned on about the logistical problems, extra fuel tanks and extended flight ranges, and completely ignored the dazed and bemused look on Major Smith’s face.
"You’ll get a full briefing in the morning but, for now, I suggest you write or phone your unit and tell them that you’re out of the picture for a while. The colonel will also get a full briefing so there won’t be any problems, national security and all that, eh?”
"Shouldn’t I be asked if I want to go at all, sir?” Smith blurted. "I mean, this is most irregular, isn’t it? Don’t you ask for volunteers or something?”
“Do you think I like it, Major? Do you? Well, I do not; but this, this Count, has asked for you. No other, just you. I’m damned if I know why. We’ve checked up on you, as I said, and you seem all right. So we can only go with the flow of events and see what happens. It’s as simple as that. Who knows, perhaps you’ll find something there to your liking, something we can all benefit from." He smiled deviously.
"But I … ” Smith started.
"Major Smith”, the Brigadier butted in, "this is not up for discussion. We cannot afford to ignore this. The Count thinks this could change the course of the war. You have been asked for by name. You are the only one that he’ll deal with, so you will go. End of conversation. If you feel that you are not up to it, feel free to file a complaint, but do it after you have completed the mission. Do I make myself understood?”
Lycard hadn’t raised his voice but had spoken with a steely quiet that would brook no quarrel. Smith realised that forces beyond his control had already decided that he must go.
He stood to attention and answered, ”Yes, sir!”
"That will be all. Report to Admin tomorrow morning at 0830 hrs for briefing and a training schedule. Good day to you, Major.” With that the Brigadier sat back down to his paperwork. Smith about-turned and marched smartly out.
* * *
Later that evening, in the privacy of his room in the Officers' Mess, Brigadier Dorian Lycard wrote a letter.
Master,
It is done as you wished.
He is ready to meet his destiny.
Soon we will be free of the shackles of secrecy and darkness.
Soon the chosen shall rule as is it is written in the Cronica Insangerata.
Your humble servant always
Chapter 6
Romania
Two days later
Smith stepped out into the howling blackness of the night and fell for what seemed like far too long. He was suddenly jerked in his harness by the parachute opening up and he listened as the plane droned off, leaving him behind. It was a cold, cloudless night and the stars were bright and numerous. With the sound of the propellers no longer raging around him as it had when he first stepped out into the ether, the silence was almost tangible, and he felt a euphoric pleasure in the steady, soundless descent.
The countryside below was a sea of fir trees, with white flecks of snow showing through the foliage. Miles on miles of conifers ranged up to the mountains on the horizon and the view held him captive to its majesty. The exhilaration was overpowering and any fear he might have harboured was now distant and forgotten. A light in the wood below brought him back to the present and he wrestled with the toggles to try to turn into the wind and onto the marker, if it was his marker.
He felt wholly unprepared for the mission ahead. His training had been six hours in a parachute harness in a draughty hangar somewhere in Essex, the practical test being the jump he was now performing. He spoke no Romanian and had only the grainy picture to identify his contact. Even the rendezvous point was in the middle of a wood
. An impending sense of disaster lingered above him regardless of the Brigadier’s assurance that his anxiety was normal and that the mission would be a piece of cake.
During the flight over he’d checked that he had his maps, pistol, stengun, civilian clothing and torch. He must have taken out the picture of the young lady and looked at it over twenty times. He couldn’t decide what it was that was so enchanting about her.
The man in the picture, the Count, looked like a pompous ass. One of the drawbacks about a Cavalry Officers Mess was the amount of supercilious idiots that were drawn to the glamour of being a horse soldier. The man in the picture would fit right in with the vainglorious clique of buffoons in his mess, he’d decided. He didn’t like him already which didn’t bode well for the mission.
As the ground rushed up to meet him, his thoughts came back to the technicalities of landing. He managed to steer close to the light but not quite close enough. Though the torch was in a clearing in the wood, he missed the landing area and crashed through the foliage of the trees. He hit the tree heavily and bruised his ribs on a branch. His parachute caught on a bough and he hung, winded and hurting, in his harness two meters above the ground. He undid the harness and fell, landing heavily in the deep snow. He lay there, gasping like a fish, until a woman’s voice roused him,
The Division of the Damned Page 2
