Angel of Vengeance: The thrilling sequel to Angel in Red (Anna Fehrbach)

by Christopher Nicole

  She made a moue. ‘That should not have happened. The Lubianka, I mean. I was betrayed to the Soviets. But if it had not been for Clive I would have been there still. Or in a gulag somewhere in Siberia, being raped and beaten every day.’

  ‘I thought it was Joseph Andrews who got you out.’

  ‘Joe was inspired by Clive, and acting as his agent. But Joe . . .’ A strangely dreamy look drifted across her face. ‘He was quite a guy.’

  ‘And so it was back to Berlin, and Heydrich. What exactly were your feelings for Heydrich at this point?’

  ‘Of all the men I have ever known, I hated him the most.’

  ‘You must have been pleased when he was killed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘His death pleased me.’

  I frowned. ‘You weren’t involved in that, were you?’

  Anna Fehrbach smiled.

  Chapter One – The Final Solution

  The young woman ran round and round the gymnasium. Tall, with long, slender legs, she took even strides, her waist-length golden hair floating behind her, although, as she had been running for some time, it was now becoming heavy with sweat. As were her singlet and shorts, which, along with a pair of gym shoes, were all she wore. Now the clothes clung to her like a second skin, much to the appreciation of the instructor, as he watched the movement beneath the thin material, the breasts rising and falling with increasing regularity, the buttocks seeming to revolve against each other. No less fascinating to him was her face, its slightly aquiline yet perfectly carved features, the lips parting and then closing again in time to each breath, and above all, the utter innocence of her expression, the soft blue of her eyes.

  Stefan was a young man, only recently appointed personal trainer to the SD’s most highly rated agent. This was in fact the first time he had been left in sole control, as it were. But he did not think he would find Anna Fehrbach any the less exciting if he had been here for several months. The thought that at this moment she was his to command . . . but was she ever anyone’s to command? It was impossible to watch all of that magnificent femininity, that calm and so relaxed face, and believe any of the stories that were told of her. And yet . . . She was running towards him now, and in a moment would be passing, for the twentieth time, the table on which sat the gun. He drew a deep breath. ‘Now,’ he said.

  Anna Fehrbach checked her stride without a moment’s hesitation, whipped the Luger from the table, turned, sighted, and emptied the entire magazine at the target – a full-size cardboard portrait of a man – on the far side of the room, all in no more than fifteen seconds. She laid down the pistol and would have gone on running, had he not said, ‘Enough.’ She halted, still breathing deeply, her hair now settling on her back, the muscles in her thighs rippling.

  Stefan stepped past her and walked the twenty metres to the target, stroking his chin as he inspected it. Every one of the nine shots had hit: six on the torso and three on the head. He turned and walked back to her. She had gathered her hair in both hands to hold it away from her neck.

  ‘Nine shots, nine hits,’ he commented. ‘Where did you aim?’

  Anna looked surprised at the question. ‘Where I hit. Three times to the head, six times to the body. The head was first. Had this been for real, the other eight shots would have been unnecessary.’

  Stefan picked up the gun to remove the empty magazine; standing this close to her, inhaling the compelling mixture of perfume and fresh sweat, her nipples clearly visible through the wet singlet, he had to do something with his hands to stop himself from touching her. ‘That is the most remarkable shooting I have ever seen. After just having run a quarter of a mile, and without pausing to get your breath back.’

  ‘Thank you . . . Stefan, is it?’

  To her, he thought, he was still just an anonymous trainer. ‘Stefan,’ he agreed. ‘So, do you ever miss? Have you ever missed?’

  ‘If I were in the habit of missing, I would not be here now. Are we finished?’

  ‘For today.’

  Anna nodded, and went towards the showers. Stefan followed, having trouble with his own breathing, as he wondered how far he could go, how far she would let him go.

  ‘So, tell me your secret.’

  She had reached the swing door. Now she paused, and half turned her head. ‘Concentration, Stefan.’ She pushed the door and went through.

  Another deep breath and he followed. ‘And you have had to shoot at living men, from time to time?’ He knew she had, but he wanted to find out all he could about her, what made her tick, what made her so deadly – apart from her mind-paralyzing sexuality.

  And she had still not objected to his presence. Instead she was stooping to take off her trainers, her hair falling past her face. Again he kept his hands at his sides with an effort; the temptation to touch the smooth flesh in front of him was overwhelming.

  Anna straightened, lifted the singlet over her head and threw it on the one chair. Stefan caught his breath, less because of the perfectly sculptured breasts, the gold chain that allowed the small gold crucifix to lie in the centre of the valley between them, than at the realization that she was actually going to strip in front of him. But his anticipated delight was tempered by the equal realization that she was undressing with no thought of seduction or even coquetry, but simply in order to have her shower; that his presence was of not the slightest importance to her.

  ‘It goes with the job,’ she agreed, and dropped her shorts on the floor.

  Stefan had to swallow before he could speak. ‘I have been told that you have killed. Seven times.’

  Seven times, Anna thought. Neither he, nor anyone in Germany, could know of the other seven, because they had been either at the behest of MI6, or for her own survival. But still, to have fourteen deaths on her conscience should have been a nerve-shattering situation for a twenty-one-year-old woman. But she did not have a conscience. She could not afford one. She was fighting a war, as much as any infantryman in the front line, for the protection of her family, and any enemy standing in front of her had to be destroyed. Nothing else mattered until the war was over. That she happened to be better at her job than anyone else was her good fortune. ‘Not all were with a gun,’ she remarked as she stepped into the stall.

  Stefan watched her turn on the taps and test the water. ‘Because you are as good with your hands as with a pistol,’ he suggested.

  ‘I have been well trained.’

  The water was steaming. ‘A cold shower would be better for you than all that heat,’ he remarked.

  Satisfied with the temperature, Anna stepped beneath the jet, soaking her hair. ‘I do not like cold showers.’

  ‘Because you had to suffer them in your convent?’

  Anna stepped from beneath the jet, her hair wet and sticking to her shoulders. She left the water playing on her back while she soaped, slowly and luxuriously. ‘Because I was a prisoner of the NKVD for several days.’

  ‘And they made you take cold baths?’

  Anna replaced the soap in its tray and turned back into the shower. ‘They used cold water as an interrogating technique. Do you know about this?’

  Stefan licked his lips. ‘No.’

  ‘They use a hose,’ Anna said dreamily, allowing the hot water again to pound on her head. ‘They reduce the stream to a pencil-thin spray, and then they put it into you.’ She half turned her head. ‘You understand what I am saying?’

  Stefan swallowed again. ‘It must have been . . .’ He hesitated, unsure how to continue.

  Now she turned to face him, the water flooding past her shoulders, down her back, across her breasts and stomach. ‘Sexually stimulating? It could be that, if they wished it. It could also be very painful, if they wished it. More often they wished to cause pain,’ she added thoughtfully.

  ‘What are your feelings towards the men who did that to you?’

  ‘They were women. One woman in particular.’

  ‘Ah. Do you hate her?’

  ‘Not now,’ Anna said. ‘I n
ever hate the dead.’

  ‘You know she is dead?’

  ‘Certainly I know this. I killed her.’

  ‘You killed her? In the Lubianka Prison?’

  Anna smiled as she turned her attention to her hair, using the bottle of shampoo that rested on the shelf behind the shower. ‘Actually, I hit her on the neck. Forgive me. Yes, it was in the prison.’

  ‘And you still escaped. I thought it was impossible to escape from the Lubianka.’

  ‘I had friends,’ Anna said dreamily. One in particular, she thought.

  Her eyes closed as she massaged her scalp. Stefan continued to study her, and now he bent forward. ‘That mark . . .’

  ‘It is a bullet wound.’

  ‘You have been shot?’

  ‘That is how one gets a bullet wound, yes.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Anna opened her eyes and tossed water from her hair. ‘It did not kill me, as I am sure you can see . . . That feels better.’

  The thought that she had been both tortured and shot, and yet was standing here in front of him . . . He now threw caution to the wind. ‘Anna, may I shower with you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her eyes opened, and she stepped from the stall. ‘I am finished anyway.’

  ‘Oh. Ah . . .’

  For the first time she looked at him as if actually seeing him. ‘I think you would like to have sex with me, Stefan.’

  ‘Should I not? I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’

  Anna picked up her towel. ‘You say the sweetest things. I shall enjoy working with you.’

  ‘But . . .?’

  She massaged herself, her hair now a damp golden stain down her back. ‘I do not think it would be a good idea for us to have sex.’

  ‘Because you do not like men? They say . . .’ Another hesitation.

  ‘That I am a lesbian?’ Suddenly her voice was hard. ‘They say so many things about me. But the only truth is that I am Anna Fehrbach. I work for the SD, for General Heydrich. I do what he tells me to, without question.’ At least, as far as he knows, she thought. ‘As he has not instructed me to have sex with you . . . I am sure you understand.’

  Stefan licked his lips. ‘Are you never tempted to break the rules?’

  ‘That is not a very good idea, where General Heydrich is concerned.’ She dropped the towel, picked up a clean one from the pile on the chair, and wrapped her wet hair in it. Then she made to step past him, but he caught her arm.

  ‘Anna, I would risk anything to have sex with you.’

  She looked down at his hand. ‘Please release me, Stefan. I have said it is not possible. I do not wish to have to hurt you.’

  ‘You, hurt me? I am a karate expert. I train people how to hurt.’

  Anna gazed at him. ‘That is exactly it. You train. I do.’

  He hesitated. As always, she looked quite calm, unemotional; her breathing was perfectly normal, and her voice was again soft. But the soft eyes had become glacial.

  The door at the far end of the gymnasium opened. ‘Countess!’

  Stefan released her and stepped away. Anna left the showers and picked up her cami-knickers. ‘I am here.’

  The young officer gazed at her as longingly as Stefan had done. ‘You are wanted, Countess.’

  Anna stepped into the garment, made sure her breasts were comfortable, and adjusted the shoulder straps. ‘I will be there, as soon as I have dried my hair and changed my clothes.’ She put on her shirt.

  ‘Now, Countess. I am to take you now.’

  Still as calm as ever, Anna pulled on her slacks, thrust her feet into the waiting sandals. ‘Are you arresting me, Herr Captain?’

  ‘Of course I am not, Countess. But you are required at the Wilhelmstrasse, now.’

  At last he had caught her interest. ‘The Wilhelmstrasse? I work from Gestapo Headquarters.’

  ‘Today it is the Wilhelmstrasse, Countess. The Fuehrer is waiting to see you.’

  Anna stared at him, and Stefan realized that she actually could be surprised, disconcerted, and perhaps even frightened at times. ‘The Fuehrer?’ she asked. ‘I am to see the Fuehrer?’

  ‘He is waiting.’

  ‘I cannot possibly see the Fuehrer like this. I need to dress properly, dry my hair, make up my face, put on some jewellery . . .’

  ‘The Fuehrer is waiting, Countess.’

  ‘Would you refuse the Fuehrer, Countess?’ Stefan asked slyly.

  Anna glanced at him, then picked up her shoulder bag.

  ‘I have a car outside,’ the captain said, holding the door for her.

  *

  Anna stepped past him, walked along the corridor, passing the other gymnasiums, where people were training, men and women, but these were in groups; there was only one Anna Fehrbach. Remembering that had always given her confidence in the past. But at this moment she had no idea where she was going, what she might encounter, how she should react.

  Outside the building, while she put on her dark glasses to repel the bright August sunshine, the uniformed chauffeur held the car door open for her, and she sank on to the cushions; the captain sat beside her. She had never seen him before, but he wore the black uniform of the SS, which was understandable; the SS provided Hitler’s personal bodyguard. But he was entirely respectful: even the SS knew their place as regards the SD.

  ‘Would you have any idea what this is about?’ Anna asked as they drove through the fairly empty streets. It was the middle of a warm summer morning, and most of Berlin was at work. It was difficult to comprehend that the German armies were engaged in a titanic struggle only a few hundred miles away, but in this August of 1941, as those armies gained an almost daily succession of great victories, the war was receding at an ever increasing rate, with certain victory over the hated Communists already in sight. Apart from the casualty lists, which were never extreme, and the few craters or damaged buildings left by the sporadic RAF raids, the war had not yet interfered with the lives of ordinary Germans, save that there had been sufficient triumphs to keep them in a state of euphoria. Poland had been overrun in under a month, France and the Low Countries in hardly more than a month. True, Great Britain had not yet been conquered, but according to the Nazi Government she had been eliminated as a power capable of interfering in the affairs of Europe, and could be dealt with at leisure after the destruction of Soviet Russia.

  The German people had never known anything like it, whether in the memories of those who had experienced the Kaiser’s Germany and the catastrophe that had followed, or those who had to seek their history from books. Before the coming of Adolf Hitler, the national hero had been Frederick the Great, but even he had lived, and fought, on a knife edge, with almost as many defeats as spectacular victories. Hitler’s Wehrmacht had never lost a battle.

  Living in the midst of such a society, employed by its inner core, it was very difficult not to believe it. But if it were true, Anna knew that her future was inconceivable, and that her family, who she protected by apparently loyally serving the Reich, did not have a future at all. So she had to believe the reverse of the coin as projected by her English employers, so certain of ultimate victory, even if unable to name either a date or a means by which such a victory could be achieved. So . . . she now turned her head to look at the officer.

  He was looking at her. No man who had the least interest in women could resist the temptation to look at Anna Fehrbach, Countess von Widerstand, whenever possible. ‘I’m afraid I am not in the Fuehrer’s confidence, Countess. I can only tell you that I was summoned to his office, told where you could be found at this hour, and instructed to bring you to him.’

  Anna considered this. ‘When you were summoned, was there anyone else in the office with him? With the Fuehrer?’

  ‘Why, yes. Reichsfuehrer Himmler and General Heydrich were with him.’

  Her master and his master. With their master. That was surely reassuring. Had she somehow been betrayed, had Antoinette’s Boutique – her Berlin contact f
or MI6 – been infiltrated, she did not doubt that Heydrich would have dealt with it personally, as two years previously he had dealt personally with her perceived breach of discipline when she had been caught carrying secret documents in her handbag instead of sending them through the prescribed route out of London.

  She could still remember, she would never forget, the way he had stroked her flesh as he had inserted the electrode into her, the almost loving way he had switched on the current. Just a touch, he had explained, as her body had arced away from its bonds in agony. He did not wish to destroy her, only to remind her that she was his creation, and thus his servant, bound always to obey without question.

  She supposed the most remarkable aspect of that horrendous experience was the manner in which, once she had been released to curl herself into a tight ball of misery, he, and the people who had assisted him, immediately reverted to being her friends. Their imaginations could take them no further. She had broken their rules, and she had been punished, not severely in their eyes, as if she had been a child, and was not supposed to resent her chastisement. Not long afterwards, Heydrich had even taken her to his bed.

  That entirely summed up the Nazi philosophy. In their eyes, subordinates, conquered peoples, were not allowed personalities of their own. They existed for the benefit of their masters, were given regular treats as long as they behaved and obeyed, were savagely punished if they transgressed, but once the punishment was over were expected to revert to unquestioning servitude. That they might dream of revenge for what had been done to them was unthinkable. Subservient, they were supposed to possess neither the intelligence nor the courage ever to consider mutiny.

  This limited, if very effective, philosophy had so blinded their judgement that they could not accept there might be exceptions to the rule. People like Colonel Glauber, who controlled the SD training programme, and Hannah Gehrig, who had implemented it, had selected the schoolgirl Anna Fehrbach for inclusion in their ranks because of her looks, her exceptional intelligence and her easily demonstrated powers of decision and speed of thought, which enabled her to determine what needed to be done, and then to do it, before even a highly trained antagonist could act, handicapped as he or she invariably was by a subconscious reluctance to hurt or destroy so much beauty. But having selected her, and trained her, they had forgotten why she had been chosen in the first place, had supposed she would henceforth be theirs, obedient and unquestioning, even after being punished.