by Colin Gee
Avraham Hinzelberg made notes all through the American General’s visit, and was especially interested when he spent time in the barn, from where the Jewish activists had taken the records of every SS member of the HIAG and stowed them in the two old but mechanically reliable trucks.
For some reason, Avraham glanced across at the hockey stick he had taken from Frau Hallmann’s house.
The item he had used to kill her, still showing signs of clotted blood and matted hair where he had struck the SS bitch down.
‘The Monster’ Hallman had been on their kill list for some time, but she had been preserved because of what she kept in her charge, until such time as orders came from higher authority, and she was no longer necessary.
The murdered and abused inmates of Natzwiller-Struhof camp were suitably avenged when he smashed her head in with two rapid blows.
For now his orders were to observe and record: moving the intelligence haul would come later, when it was safe to do so.
Hinzelberg knew a man in Linz called Simon Wiesenthal.
He was a camp survivor who had endured Mauthausen-Gusen, and who had just set up offices in the Austrian city, wherein information was being collated on SS officers and men… and women… believed to have any association with the concentration camps.
Hinzelberg was of the opinion that there was no need to distinguish.
If a German bastard had worn the uniform then he was guilty as sin and therefore condemned already.
Which was the point of his mission, and where Wiesenthal differed from him.
Simon Wiesenthal wished to bring the guilty to justice.
Hinzelberg and his commanders wanted to bring justice to the guilty.
Swiftly and with maximum force.
And now he possessed the means to do the Lord’s work.
“Barukh atah Ha-shem, Elokaynu, melekh ha-olam.”
‘Blessed art thou Lord, our God, King of the Universe, for you shall be revenged upon the scum of the earth.’
1203 hrs, Thursday, 20th March 1947, headquarters building, 75th Investigative Company, Alpenzoo, Innsbruck, Austria.
“No, Sir, General, Sir, we simply don’t keep those records.”
“Not at all?”
“We have records for US items of course, but not for those we occasionally send to foreign nationals.”
Rossiter could feel his frustration building but understood that the woman simply couldn’t help.
“So there’s no way for me to get any further with this inquiry? There’s nothing to help here at all.”
“Look, General. Let me level with you. This job is pretty shitty, you know what I mean. We don’t hang around long enough to get acquainted, let alone spend time recording stuff that isn’t American. We even just send the Brit and Allied stuff off… no records… it’s a shitty deal here.”
Rossiter could imagine that sorting through personal effects belonging to God knew who would be a mentally sapping task.
“When was it you said, General?”
“August last year. Probably more towards the beginning and middle.”
“That’s a long time for this unit, General. Let me get Tabitha.”
The female captain strode off with a purpose, allowing him to examine his surroundings.
He did not find the old zoo building fit for purpose, and yet over twenty women were arranged along long tables piled with effects, some of which were clean, some of which were contaminated with undesirable memories of their owners.
Anything from wallets to moneyboxes to civilian clothing was on display.
Rossiter realised that, unusually in his view, there was no chatter amongst the women, as each simply applied themselves to the job in hand, silently sorting through items in the hope of finding clues as to the identity of the loved one who should receive the dead soldier’s mementoes.
“General Rossiter?”
“That’s me.”
He turned round to find himself face to face with quite the oldest woman he had ever seen in uniform.
The imposing NCO saluted smartly.
“Staff Sergeant Tabitha Hood reporting as ordered, Sir.”
“Tabitha Hood? The Tabitha Hood of Kentucky?”
“Guess so, General, Sir.”
He had heard of her before, but never seen a picture of the granddaughter of Confederate General Thomas Bell Hood, commander of Hood’s Division in Longstreet’s Corps at the Battle of Gettysburg.
Despite going onto other glories, Hood had never accepted the failure of General Lee to go round to the right of the Union line, and his granddaughter was a vocal champion of her grandfather’s reputation and sharp critic of the acclaimed genius that was Robert E Lee.
Approaching fifty-five, Hood had no place in the army in Europe, and yet here she was, stood in front of Rossiter.
“Sergeant, I’m told you were here in August last?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I need you to try and remember if there was anything significant about that time? I’m thinking particularly of a briefcase that this unit processed and sent to a German woman… a Frau Hallmann in Haserich… in the Moselle?”
“Briefcase you say? That narrows it down a bit. Any date in mind, General?”
“I know it was delivered to its final destination on 17th August. Over that, I don’t know diddly squat, Sergeant.”
“I’m sure that I didn’t process a briefcase. I get called in when it’s slightly more delicate a task, shall we say…”
Her weird laugh aside, he understood what she meant.
“Tell you what though. Let me check the records for that date.”
“The Captain said you didn’t keep records for non-US disposals.”
Hood looked at Rossiter with a sort of twinkle in her eye.
“She’s an officer… what would she know? She’s only been here a month. Mind you, General, in a sense she’s actually right, but we do keep records of items we can’t place, so that’ll help give me a prompt.”
Tabitha Anna-Bell Fraser Hood, humming something indistinct and yet strangely macabre, led off to a darker corner and rummaged in some files.
“Here we are. August 46… we’re in luck… only a few thousand items…”
Her humour was wasted on Rossiter as he looked around him, the racks’ contents materialising in the gloom. Unallocated personal effects bagged and tagged, ready for the day when some new information came to light.
“Your lucky day, General. I thought something twigged in the back of my mind. Here it is…”
She put the book down and focussed the weak lamp upon it.
“The briefcase was unallocated originally… came into us on or about 2nd August… why… ah… Rebecca Clifford… useless cow was young Becky… thought she owned the place like a five-star but couldn’t hack it… I could tell you some stories about that silly bitch… anyway… item reviewed on the 9th August by O’Bannion… good girl she was… got pregnant though… evidence found… shipped 10th August.”
“Nothing else, Sergeant Hood?”
“No directly, General, but it sits between some stuff that’s still on our books.”
Hood retrieved the log numbers.
“Let’s investigate, shall we?”
Off she led again, returning to the humming of whatever it was she hummed to brighten her day and depress anyone within earshot.
It took less than five minutes to locate articles 20398 and 20400.
“A lighter.”
She handed 20398 to Rossiter.
“And a damaged lapel badge.”
She looked at it and cursed.
“Goddamnit. Sorry, Sir. I should have remembered this.”
The badge changed hands and its nature was immediately apparent.
“Red Cross?”
“Yep, General. Grosslocken or summat like that. Some of our boys were on a training exercise and ran across the plane wreck. Red Cross inspection flight returning from somewhere on the enemy’s side. Ran straight into t
he tallest piece of real estate around. No survivors. We got most of it away… the Red Cross wanted it all, but our colonel stuck by his guns and went by the book. Your briefcase came from the flight, no doubt about it, General.”
“Do you know when this was, Sergeant?”
“End of July is all I can venture, General. We only record arrivals if the stuff stays. In this case, August 2nd, so allow for at least a day or two to get to us. Probably around the 28th.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Hood, You’ve been extremely helpful. I’ll let your officer know that on the way out.”
“With respect, General, I wouldn’t bother. I’m on the flight home tomorrow and she won’t remember my name past Saturday morning anyway.”
“On leave or permanent job stateside, Sergeant?”
“Medical discharge, General. I’m officially mad as a fucking hatter so I’m free of this man’s army and back to stabbing old Lee in the front.”
‘That explains a lot.’
“Thank you again, Sergeant.”
“My pleasure, General. Maybe I’ll see you at one of my lectures stateside?”
“You know, maybe you will at that, Sergeant Hood.”
He saluted her and went on his way, his steps worryingly in time with her renewed humming.
Innsbruck had its own intelligence facility, so Rossiter, once he had identified himself, was shown to a small room that boasted a chair, table, and telephone.
He let Cortez trot out his normal line in full before speaking.
“Right, I’m nearly there now. The briefcase that Hallmann got came from a Red Cross flight that crashed in Austria around the end of July. Unless they were particularly careless, that should narrow it down to one aircraft. I’m going to see what I can manage here, but get on it straight away and find out where that aircraft came from. OK?”
“OK, General. Haserich… seems there were a number of people inside the barn building. Different shoe marks throughout, all fresh. Early estimates are five at least. They actually missed one complete set of shelves, of over six hundred files.”
“We’ve got them in our hands now I take it?”
“Actually no, Sir.”
“Well, for fuck’s sake, Jed, get on the horn and make sure we get it taken away for safekeeping. Do I have to think of everything? Jesus H Christ but that’s basic shit right there. Goddamnit”
Cortez had let Rossiter vent off, deciding not to interrupt him whilst he was on a roll.
“General... the barn was secured and transport was organised for the following morning. A fire started and claimed everything in the building, and part of the main house too.”
“A fire? A fire started… just like that?”
“Highly doubtful, of course, especially as the volunteer fire department found their equipment damaged and unusable.”
“Deliberate… arson…”
“Apparently so. The local police spoke with the fire department chief. Everything points to deliberate.”
“Fuck… Kunze… has to be Kunze…”
“No Sir, not in person at any rate. He’s in Zell hospital with appendicitis… not him.”
‘Then who?’
“OK, Jed. Keep on it. I’m coming back to headquarters. Have everything ready for me at eighteen-hundred.”
“Yes, Sir, General, Sir.”
1239 hrs, Thursday, 20th March 1947, bridge over the Kästenbach, Reidenhausen, Mosel.
“You were successful, Hauptscharführer?”
“Yes, Brigadeführer. Any files left in the barn are destroyed. I know my business, Sir. Spread them out, kerosene, fire. But there is a problem, Brigadeführer.”
“I destroyed what I found which, according to Obersturmfuhrer Krause’s description, was a fraction of the total. They have already been moved, Brigadeführer!”
“Verdamnt!”
Pannitz stayed silent whilst his commander worked out his fury.
For his part, Otto Kumm pummelled the stone bridge with both fists.
“The Allies have them… we must fine them immediate… what?”
“No they don’t, Brigadefuhrer. I spoke to one of my associates. He states categorically that the only vehicles that left the scene from the moment the buildings caught fire were Feuerwehr, staff cars, and a civilian truck that was used solely to carry away Frau Hallmann’s body. There were no documents taken.”
Kumm digested the bombshell.
“So… whoever killed Frau Hellmann also took the documents.”
It was not a question.
“Does your man have any ideas, Hauptscharführer?”
“He and another are making further enquiries right now, but there’s an unconfirmed report, Brigadeführer. I’ll know more soon.”
“An old comrade from the Luftwaffe in Blankenrath… he swears he saw some Jews nosing around in the woods above Haserich.”
“Jews?”
“Yes, Brigadeführer.”
“Scheisse! We have to find them. If the Zionists have our comrade’s records, none of them will be safe. Mobilise every man, Hauptscharführer. I’ll get more men sent to you as soon as possible. Do whatever you must do, but find those fucking records!”
1744 hrs, Thursday, 20th March 1947, Allied Intelligence Special Operations Centre, die Hegerhaus, Horberg Masslau, Germany.
Rossiter’s aircraft landed at the small grass strip at Kötschlitz, half a mile south of Horberg Masslau, and he immediately travelled north to the woods west of the village, wherein a special facility had been created, well away from prying eyes.
The base was centred around an old but well-appointed gamekeeper’s house, die Hegerhaus, in whose grounds a joint Allied Intelligence Special Operations Unit had been created, comprising nondescript wooden buildings such as graced army camps the world over, their simplicity in this case hiding the true purpose of their occupants.
Men received instruction there, lived there, and occasionally died there, as the training was fierce and hard.
Given the security that surrounded the site, OSS, SOE, SDECE and others had decided to it was the perfect spot to set up a joint operation, in order to pool talent and information.
The Abwehr were not included, a deliberate decision made when the camp was set up, shortly after the arrival of Nazarbayeva’s divisive documents.
Rossiter flopped into a seat in the dining room and stuffed the hamburgers down his neck in record time. Three mugs of coffee followed, as much for the caffeine as for the liquid intake, the effects of his prolonged mission round Europe starting to take effect.
Opposite him, Rear-Admiral Sir Roger Dalziel was still deciding on the best way to eat his American treat by the time that Sam Rossiter started into number two.
“Your man seems very keen to get started, Sam.”
Rossiter followed Dalziel’s eyes to where Cortez was hopping from foot to foot, clearly bursting with some important news.
“I gotta eat, Sir Roger. Kinda neglected myself the past day or so. I need coffee and food to deal with what’s ahead here. I’m telling you… I know what he’s got to say, and I sense this is a real biggie and we’re gonna need our minds cleared and primed.”
“The SDECE boys are ready to go. No one from SOE here that I’m aware of… leastways, not for the meeting.”
That didn’t surprise anyone, given that the meeting had been called only twenty minutes beforehand, the moment Rossiter got to a phone when he touched down and Cortez had dropped his bombshell.
A WAAF Flight Officer was sat across from the pair of senior men, but neither realised that she was an SOE officer, as her arrival only slightly predated that of Rossiter.
Alphonse Guiges, once of de Walle’s staff, deferred to Denys Montabeau, another of de Walle’s protégés, and the senior man rose to move into the small briefing room, ready for the eighteen-hundred start.
Christine Mann, once known as Krystal Liese Uhlmann-Schalberg, decided to follow instead of risking getting lost.
Rossiter finished the last o
f his burger and wiped his mouth.
“Damn, but I needed that.”
Dalziel was not yet half way through his, and decided to give up the fight as the item didn’t seem to be set up for use with cutlery.
“Shall we, Sam?”
“Yep. This is gonna blow your mind.”
Back in NATO’s Leipzig headquarters, what had become as strange was now decidedly perturbing, as Major von der Hartenstein-Gräbler of the Abwehr reported to his superiors.
Key members of the Allied Intelligence agencies simply were going missing for hours on end, something that was as worrying as it was unusual.
1800 hrs, Thursday, 20th March 1947, Allied Intelligence Special Operations Centre, die Hegerhaus, Horberg Masslau, Germany.
“OK, Major. Let’s have it, from the beginning.”
Cortez swung into his presentation, leaving out nothing, laying out the events in chronological order.
Rossiter had taken time to grab another coffee and sat savouring it as the others in the room were enlightened.
The two SDECE agents were agitated and vocal as the information on de Walle was revealed.
Also, the assassination attempt on Anne-Marie drew their real anger, both of them having worked with her when under the Deputy Head of Deux.
The briefing revealed the atomic aspirations of the Soviet Union, something that was now starker in their minds, since images and stories of the attacks on Japan had come to Europe.
Cortez started into matters surrounding the briefcase, and Rossiter focussed his mind, ready for the bombshell at the end.
The murder of Frau Hallmann and the subsequent arson aside, the trail of the briefcase was set out.
“Our British colleagues have a source in the Red Cross who was able to get the information to us very quickly.”
Cortez flicked a switch and a swiftly drawn and coloured map of a part of the USSR came into being, projected against the white wall behind the excited Major.
“This is the Volga… Stalingrad would be about here, some fifty miles to the northwest,” he pointed off the map, “of this,” he put the wooden stick’s tip on a built-up area, “The nearest town… Akhtubinsk.”
