Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  Somehow, undeniably, the Germans were involved.

  1109 hrs, Wednesday, 19th March, 1947, House of Madame Fleriot, La Vigie, Nogent L’Abbesse, near Reims, France.

  Normally, a light aircraft touching down in the fields near the house would have drawn inquisitive eyes, but the Auster was expected, so the security group were relatively relaxed about its presence, or as relaxed as men who expected belligerent armed men to descend upon them at any moment can be.

  Rossiter exchanged handshakes with the head of the SDECE guards and was escorted to the main house and formally ushered through to the conservatory, where he found Madame Fleriot and Anne-Marie enjoying tea.

  In the garden, the two girls were playing with more SDECE agents, one of whom had sisters their age, and the other who was old enough to be their grandfather.

  “Madame Fleriot, Madame Knocke, thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”

  “Our pleasure, Général Rossiter, Please, sit. Tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  Jerome needed no bidding and provided the necessary refreshment in rapid time, before leaving quickly to watch the young agent in the kitchen produce his latest culinary masterpiece.

  “So, how may I be of assistance, Général?”

  “Thank you, May I say that I’ve heard of your narrow escape, and I hope that you are both well?”

  The question was awkwardly put, given that both women carried the marks of their recent encounter quite openly.

  Armande Fleriot, her arm in a sling and a dressing on the side of her head, looked her normal magnificent self, save for the addition of bandages, whereas the heavily pregnant Anne-Marie looked battered completely, although, Rossiter deduced, more by the demands of her pregnancy than recent events.

  He reminded himself that both of these ladies had undertaken their previous trades in ways that would make grown men shiver.

  The pregnant woman had her left ankle in plaster, her right thigh heavily bandaged, and matched Armande’s sling with one of her own.

  “We are well, thank you, Général.”

  There was no more to be said, so Rossiter plunged headfirst into the maelstrom.

  “As you know, I’ve spoken with Henri Ribiere, and we both agree that this supposed robbery was a deliberate assassination attempt aimed at you, Madame.”

  Anne-Marie nodded but said nothing.

  “You met with General Strong, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Ribiere had already told her to cooperate fully with Rossiter’s questions, so the words flowed quickly.

  “I was going through Georges de Walle’s things and found some information that needed to be presented to General Strong as quickly as possible.”

  She waited as he took a sip of the superb Earl Grey.

  “I spoke to him about the death of Georges, and how it was not what it appeared. I believed that the bomb was aimed at him, not the German legionnaires. The death of Gehlen was also not what it seemed. There are other links possibly connected to the two intelligence officer’s deaths, which are German… suspicions. A place called Uspenka, Uranprojekt… VNIEF…”

  “VNIIEF… the Soviet atomic weapons programme… apologies, please continue.”

  “I don’t think I need to… do I, Général??”

  Rossiter’s face had been quite expressive.

  “Actually, no. This fits with other information. I will tell you, and this is not to be discussed, especially with your husband… we received a file from the Soviets that makes certain allegations against the Germans. Officially it is viewed with deep mistrust, and seen as a tool for the spreading of discontent amongst the Allies.”

  He leant forward.

  “Unofficially, it would appear to have some substance, and we now suspect German involvement in the deaths of Georges de Walle, Gehlen… and the loss of General Strong’s aircraft.”

  Rossiter let that sink in whilst he finished his tea.

  “Merde!”

  Armande Fleriot spoke softly but the word carried all her surprise and fear with great eloquence.

  “Madame Knocke, I need to know how you came by the information… Uspenka… U235?”

  “It was a note sent to my husband by his dead cousin.”

  “Dead cousin?”

  “Pardon. What I meant was a cousin who had been considered long dead. It was first sent to Ernst’s godmother in the Mosel, and she forwarded it to him.”

  “Do you know how she came by it?”

  “No idea. Ernst did intend to go and see her to discuss the matter, but the war overtook his intentions. To be honest… she was associated with the camp system. Ernst distanced himself from her once he knew that. You understand.”

  “Of course. May I ask the godmother’s name and address?”

  “Frau Hallmann… Annika Hallmann… Haserich in the Mosel… not far from Zell-Mosel … it’s a small place apparently.”

  “I’ll find it. Thank you very much for your time, ladies. I hope your recoveries go well… and to you, Madame, I hope your child is well and healthy when he or she comes into this unsettled world.”

  He stood, followed by Armande. Anne-Marie could not, so simply offered her hand to the American officer.

  “Enchanté, Général.”

  “It has been a pleasure, Madame Knocke.”

  “I’ll walk you to the door, Général. I need to stretch my legs.”

  “Général, thank you for being candid with us.”

  “I made a judgement call, Madame. I was left in no doubt that I could trust you. You are both highly thought of by your seniors.”

  Armande dropped her head in courteous acknowledgement of the compliment.

  “Two things. May I trouble you for a map, and then may I please make a call?”

  “But of course, Général. This way.”

  She led him into the library and retrieved a 1938 Michelin map of the Mosel.

  Rossiter had not expected anything less from the older woman.

  Quickly checking the area, he moved to the phone and placed a call.

  “General Rossiter’s office, Major Cortez speaking.”

  “Jed, it’s me. I’m still keeping this whole thing tight, so I’m off on my travels again. What facilities have we got near Haserich in the Moselle?”

  “Give me a minute, General.”

  Rossiter could hear doors opening and shouts, and was able to imagine Cortez moving into the outer office and calling for maps and information.

  It was a surprising short time before the Major was back on the telephone.

  “Assuming you want to be able to land, you can do so between Haserich and nearby Blankenrath. Sloped but clear.”

  “No, I want a facility that I can get some men from.”

  “Trouble, sir?”

  “Just being careful, Jed.”

  “OK, Sir. We have fuel and medical facilities at Zell, but nowhere to land… hang on… Kappel… there’s a small dirt strip at Kappel… and a French military office in the centre of the village.”

  Sam Rossiter found Kappel and decided it was perfect.

  “Excellent. I need you to get hold of the frogs… pardon me, our French Allies…” he shrugged apologetically to Armande Fleriot, “… and let them know I’m coming, and will need a vehicle and four of their men armed for bear.”

  “Anything else, Sir?”

  The question was more about Cortez’s need for information than enquiring as to Rossiter’s needs.

  “It’ll have to keep, Jed. I’m off to Kappel straight away.”

  “Take care of yourself, General.”

  He gently replaced the ornate handset, only just noticing the enamel inlays in the carved handle.

  Armande Fleriot broke his thought process.

  “Anne-Marie did not ask, but I will. Will they come again?”

  Rossiter considered his answers and quickly decided not to bother to hide the facts.

  “Yes. We’ve more in
formation now, but we’re not advertising it. So, if it’s true, they’ll still think that the matter is containable. In which case, it’s likely they might try again. You’ve a security team for that purpose, do you not?”

  “Of course, but I just wanted to hear it from you. I suspected as much… as does Anne-Marie. We shall remain vigilant. Goodbye, Général.”

  “Madame Fleriot.”

  As the general made his way back to the waiting aircraft, habit made Armande extract the pistol from her shoulder sling and check it for the tenth time that day.

  ‘We’ll be ready next time, you German bastards!’

  1638 hrs, Wednesday, 19th March 1947, Haserich, Mosel.

  Rossiter and the French captain listened impassively to the explanation offered by the local police.

  “This very morning, Herr General. We were summoned by ourbriefträger… err… postingman, Herr Pfluggman. He had some bread from his wife for Frau Hallmann and entered the house.”

  He noticed Rossiter’s expression.

  “They are acquaintances… and Frau Pfluggman is … was friends with Frau Hallmann.”

  The body was carried out of the building by two ancient attendants and placed in the waiting truck.

  The policeman ventured more information.

  “He found her in the basement. Looks like two blows to the back of the head. First thought was that she could have fallen down the stairs and hit her head on the way down.”

  “But?”

  “There are things here that are not as they seem, Herr General.”

  He beckoned them to follow him, not down into the basement, but into the barn attached to the property.

  “Watch the mud there.”

  Rossiter picked his way past the puddled water from a leaking hosepipe.

  “So… what am I looking at here, Herr Kunze?”

  There was nothing in the barn except empty shelving… rack after rack of wooden surfaces that bore no load.

  Areas of the barn were separated off, mainly those that contained muddy footprints.

  “This barn has been stripped of its contents, and it’s been done so very recently.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Look at the shelves, Herr General.”

  Rossiter did so, but didn’t understand the point.

  “Staub... err… pieces…”

  He looked at the French officer for help and the man searched his memory.

  “He means dust, mon Général.”

  Rossiter looked again and immediately saw the tell-tale dust marks on the leading edge and relatively dust-free shelf beyond.

  They were all the same.

  “What did they take?”

  “That’s the really interesting bit, Herr General. Please follow me.”

  They went off at a pace until they were back in the first floor kitchen, where a crestfallen and shocked looking Pfluggman was sat drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.

  “Herr Pfluggman, our postingman.”

  He motioned the two officers towards a pair of chairs and signalled one of his men to produce more coffee.

  “Herr Pfluggman, please tell these men about the barn and what was kept inside of it.”

  The postman took a deep swig of his water to steady his frayed nerves and spoke in a troubled voice.

  “No one was supposed to know about the files.”

  Rossiter’s senses lit off yet again.

  “What files, Herr Pfluggman… tell the General.”

  “Personnel files… details of German soldiers…”

  Inspector Kunze understood the man’s reluctance, but pressed him hard, wishing Rossiter to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

  “Tell him, Hans. Tell him what you know.”

  “Herr General, one day Frau Hallman was out and I went looking for her… I could not help myself but take a look. I never told her… she never knew I’d seen what they were.”

  Rossiter waited, holding his breath.

  Kunze gripped Pfluggman’s shoulder to encourage him to continue.

  “Herr General… there were thousands of them… many, many thousands… all that I saw had cloth fronts, but I looked at most of the bookcases and they all contained files on personnel… SS personnel.”

  “What the… those shelves contained the personal files of SS personnel… thousands of SS personnel?”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  ‘What the fuck is going to be thrown up next?’

  “Is there anything else you want to know, Herr General?”

  Kunze posed the question purely because the American had dropped into stunned silence.

  He rubbed his aching stomach to try and knock back the growing pain.

  “Actually, yes, there is. Herr Pfluggman, I am hoping you recall delivering an unusual letter to Frau Hallmann. I am informed that it came to her via official channels?”

  “A letter, you say?”

  “Yes, possibly military by nature?”

  “Ah, there was one thing. I remember it well. She had no idea who it was from, and certainly hadn’t been expecting it. It originated from the US Army.”

  “How could you know that?”

  Pfluggman shrugged the shrug of officials the world over.

  “I give people letters, they open them, I then know where they come from… I’ve a memory for such things. It came from an APO address”

  “Did she open the letter in front of you?”

  “No, she didn’t and in any case, it wasn’t a letter.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was something like a briefcase.”

  Rossiter understood that he was onto something he really didn’t understand and backtracked a little.

  “So… you bring a briefcase to Frau Hallmann, sent from an American military postal address somewhere…”

  “Eight-five-three.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A.P.O. Eight-five-three.”

  “You sound very sure of that, Herr Pfluggman.”

  “The number lives with me day in, day out, Herr General. My son died on U-853, sunk off the American coast by your warships at the end of the war. Eight-five-three is a number I don’t easily forget.”

  “I understand… and I’m sorry that you lost a son, Herr…”

  “Two. My youngest was killed in this latest madness, Herr General. I have two sons and two daughters still alive… all in uniform… all serving new masters.”

  “Again, I’m very sorry to hear of your loss, Herr Pfluggman. I just need to understand this matter. Can you remember when it was that you delivered the briefcase to Frau Hallmann?”

  Pfluggman smiled sadly.

  “Yes… it would be…err… August 17th last year… I celebrated the birth of my twelfth grandchild, Annelise… my second granddaughter down in Blankenrath and the proceedings were a little boisterous. There was some damage… the Gendarmerie were called… misunderstanding… but some of us spent some time in the cells. Herr Inspektor Kunze’ll be able to confirm, but I tell you now, I gave her the briefcase on Saturday the 17th of August.”

  “Thank you, Herr Pflugmman. Inspector Kunze, if you please?”

  They walked out onto the landing.

  “Inspector, I need to make a phone call straight away. I’ll need you and your men to place this whole site under guard until I can have some people out here to sort through everything. My suspicion is that this is a matter of huge significance. I can say no more. I hope you understand?”

  “But of course, Herr General. I did some time in the 4th Panzer Division’s Feldgendarmerie and then the Abwehr before coming back to normal policing. I understand how things work.”

  Rossiter felt a chill go down his spine but managed to not show any outward reaction.

  ‘A wolf in sheep’s clothing?’

  “Thank you, Inspector. Now, if I might use the phone?”

  “General Rossit…”

  “It’s me, Jed. Just listen. I want a team in Haserich yesterday. There’s
something going on here I don’t understand. Hallmann is dead… murdered.”

  Rossiter checked that no one was within hearing distance, but still lowered his voice.

  “The police officer here is ex-Abwehr. I’d rather we had someone from our service sitting on top of this one.”

  Cortez understood that loud and clear.

  “I need you to get APO list pronto, Jed.”

  “Got it right here, General.”

  Cortez leant back and plucked it off the shelf behind him.”

  “Eight-five-three… where is it?”

  The sound of rustling pages indicated Cortez’s search in progress.

  “Err… Camp O’Reilly, Puerto Rico, General.”

  “What? You gotta be kidding me, Jed?”

  “No, Sir, that’s correc… wait… fuck… sorry, Sir… gimme a second…”

  In about twenty, Cortez was back.

  “There’s a new version out. I must have filed the old one back in the hole. One moment, General… here we are… eight-five-three, you say?”

  “That’s the one, Jed.”

  “Well I’m damned… Sir… O’Reilly closed down and the APO was reassigned to an outfit in Innsbruck… it’s a WAC unit… part of the AGC, General.”

  ‘Adjutant General’s Corps?’

  “Not processing personnel, but belongings.”

  ‘Bingo!’

  “OK, Jed. Get the cavalry organised. You know where I’m going. I’ll get in contact once I get there. Bye.”

  Rossiter took his leave of Inspector Kunze, leaving the French Captain and two of his men on site with very specific orders.

  The Mercedes car leapt away from the site of Frau Hallman’s murder, closely watched by two pairs of eyes.

  Kunze, once of the Abwehr, always of the Abwehr, used the telephone still warm from Rossiter’s grasp to call a friend who was still within the intelligence service.

  The other pair of eyes watched on from a quiet house opposite, behind which were two nondescript Bussing-Nag lorries, once of the 2nd Panzer Division, and then of the Soviet 4476th Motorised Supply Battalion, and now in the possession of a group of men who served Betar and Irgun, Jewish resistance movements based in Europe and Palestine.