by Tony Roberts
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: #40 Blitzkrieg
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TONY ROBERTS
My mother was my unlikely route into becoming a Casca fan. On one shopping trip she bought me a copy of Casca 3: The Warlord. 3 was not a great place to start but I devoured it anyway, loved the character and the sense of history made real. Then followed 13 years while I collected the original series; without the help of the internet. Then what to do, the series was over. I started to write my own Casca novels, and set up my website www.casca.net, building a worldwide base for Casca fans and contacts.
My first Casca novel, Halls of Montezuma, was published in 2006. Blitzkrieg is my fourteenth novel in the series.
I live in Bristol, with my partner Jane and a mad cat called Nero, who does his best to help my writing by walking on my keyboard.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 41 The Longbowman
THE CASCA SERIES IN EBOOKS
PROLOGUE
The assassin moved. Not that Casca could actually see, but he sensed it. The darkness in the room was absolute, so other senses had to come into play; hearing, touch. Hearing would be the most important sense now that the only light bulb in the room had been smashed. Touch, too, would be necessary. Changing currents of air that would betray movement close by, perhaps giving an alert man that microsecond of an advantage that could mean so much in this primeval battle between hunter and hunted.
Casca wasn’t used to being the prey; of course, in his long life he’d been hunted many times, but these were much fewer than the occasions he’d been the hunter and stalker. He was a warrior, a man of action, and he much preferred to take the initiative. It made him feel he was in control.
But here, now, in a dark room in Berlin, he was being hunted. He knew who the man was and why he was closing in for the kill, but he’d never expected to be confronted here in the capital city of the Third Reich. How Gutierrez had tracked him here from war-ravaged Spain was anyone’s guess, but the Republican assassin was intent on completing the job that had begun in Barcelona earlier that year.
Casca’s skin crawled. Communists! God how he hated them. His heart pounded with the memories of being tortured at their hands and he had no intention of becoming their play-thing again. The Spanish Civil War had been pitiless, heartless. Neither side had asked for or given any quarter, and woe betide anyone falling into the hands of the opposition. Even with the collapse of the communist-backed Republican army and the end of the war, Casca had been hunted and found. It was the mission that Gutierrez had been given by the Soviet advisor in Barcelona just before the latter was flown out under the guns of the Nationalists and the fall of the city. Gutierrez would carry out the mission no matter that the government he’d supported was no longer in existence.
Casca had left Spain, sickened by the senseless butchery and knowing the communists had lost, and had come to Fascist Germany. Here the communists were hated and Casca felt here he was amongst those who felt the same way about them as he did.
He breathed shallowly, not wishing to make any noise. Gutierrez could be inches from him. His eyes moved slowly from side to side, narrowed. Leaving them wide may reflect what tiny amount of light there was, but if there was any light in that room he couldn’t see it at that moment. He crouched, arms and fingers wide, nerve-ends tingling in anticipation. He was bare-chested, having just emerged from a bath, and had only put on a pair of underpants when Gutierrez had sprung at him, knife scything through the air. Casca had only narrowly managed to throw himself out of the way and shatter the single light bulb with his flailing fist as he flew through the air.
Or in fact, he hadn’t been quick enough. A sharp line of pain throbbed down his left side from under his pectoral to his hip. Gutierrez had sliced through his flesh after all. Casca was barefoot and didn’t wish to step forward or back, as the glass of the bulb lay on the threadbare carpet of the hotel room. He’d landed a few feet from where he’d struck the bulb and the Spaniard knew roughly where he was. So he would now be closing in on him, but from which direction?
The stinging of the cut distracted Casca. The blood would have stopped by now and the unnatural healing of his body well under way, but it still hurt. Immortal he may well be, but he hurt and bled just like anyone else. And he could ‘die’. What Gutierrez would do to him should he lose consciousness was anyone’s guess, but the assassin was a rabid anti-Fascist and saw Casca as the worst of them, even though Casca wasn’t one as such – he just opposed communists. He didn’t want to eventually come round with his body in different parts of Berlin. How would he cope with that – or explain? Would his limbs heal and regenerate? Casca drove those thoughts from his mind. Defeatism.
There was a worn settee just to the right and Casca bent his knee and leaned in that direction. Nothing. It must be just out of reach. Gutierrez would be moving slowly, the knife probably held out in front. Was he ahead, to one side or behind? Behind. Casca chilled again and slowly lowered himself to a squatting crouch. Being low cut down the chances of being struck but lessened the chances of moving out of the way quickly enough. His fingers trembled as he reached out to find the floor, and touched something smooth but hard. A shard of glass. Gently he closed his fingers around it and picked it up, tensing his hand and arm muscles.
He flicked the shard off to the left and went very still. The glass struck the wall and fell to the deeply stained wooden floor. Gutierrez would have heard it without a doubt – but he didn’t make any noise so either he’d remained still or had silently moved towards it. Casca shifted weight and moved to his right ever so slowly. Something touched his arm.
The settee. The rough linen edge of the material rubbed his forearm. Casca breathed again. Maybe Gutierrez hadn’t moved towards it but away from it, guessing it was a decoy.
Fingers found his neck and clamped hard, squeezing the flesh.
Casca whipped a fist round to strike but found only thin air. A burning pain shot through his back as the blade found his exposed skin and greedily burrowed into it. Casca hurled himself forward and rolled, smashing the solitary chair in the room aside. As he got to his
feet he moved hurriedly to his left, not wishing to be found again by the deadly hunter.
The bastard had been above him! Standing on the settee! How had he not heard him get up on it? He surmised the Spaniard had quickly got up just after the light had been broken and waited for Casca to blunder into the item, which he’d conveniently done. Now he would be on the ground again and coming for him. Casca backed up against the wall and waited, heart beating fast and sweat breaking out through the drying bath water remaining on his skin.
His back hurt. He’d leave blood on the wall. Best he got rid of it else it might do damage. Casca was well aware his blood was poison, and even in a dried state was lethal. He peered into the darkness. Somewhere ahead or to left or right Gutierrez was seeking him out. Which way? Casca bunched his fists and waited. The door was to his right, and maybe the assassin may think he was making towards that for an escape. Casca had no intention of running. This was a fight to the death. Or at least, Gutierrez’s death or his disabling. Gutierrez had no knowledge of course he was an immortal, cursed by a dying Jesus on the cross nineteen centuries back.
The broken glass on the floor crunched. Even a man like Gutierrez couldn’t avoid stepping on that in darkness. Casca now had a bearing, and it was ahead to his right. The Spaniard had, indeed, been making for the door. Casca stepped forward and then right. He sensed a presence close and stepped forward again, his arms swinging.
His left arm struck something soft and his other arm came round, clamping on Gutierrez. The Spaniard twisted violently, knife hooking up but Casca had closed so fast that the knife was now virtually useless; both arms were trapped in the bear hug. The Spaniard felt for a weak spot to use the blade and Casca felt the movement, sucking in his breath and contracting his arms around the arms and torso. He had once seen an anaconda snake in South America crush a victim and now he was the snake, throttling his prey.
Gutierrez grunted and fought to rip himself free of the deadly embrace, but he was caught fast. He didn’t understand why his enemy was still full of fight; twice he’d hurt him and surely blood loss would be affecting him by now? Casca buried his face in the coarse woolen clothing around the assassin’s back and squeezed. Gutierrez kicked and flailed but he was being crushed from behind, his arms pinned against his sides. In desperation he dropped the knife and tried to rip free but no matter what he tried he was caught fast.
Finally he cried out in pain and fear but the crushing went on. Air was now being denied him and his backbone was being bent. His legs gave way and Casca fell with him, coming to lie on top of the Spaniard. Casca could smell the fear oozing from his enemy as he pinned him to the floor and concentrated on closing his arms as much as he could. Gutierrez shook, struggling for air but nothing came, and he shook one last time and then stopped. Casca held onto him for a few more long moments before relaxing and releasing the corpse.
It was finished.
CHAPTER ONE
Two men walked slowly through the autumn leaves lying in piles along the edges of the path that ran through the parkland of Boston Common. They had arrived there from the Boylston Street Metro Station and walked in the morning sunshine away from the long shadows created by the high buildings on the other side of Tremont Street. The two men, one an aged, grey-haired man, the other man young, dark haired and smooth skinned, passed the tennis courts and made for the band stand, the grass here being worn away in between the spoked design of the converging paths.
A solitary man waited in the circular building, his back to them. A large square man. The two arrivals stepped up into the stand and the square man turned slowly and smiled as he recognized them both. “Good morning, Doctor Goldman, Danny. No Hayley?”
Goldman shook his head, then shook the larger man’s hand. The grip was strong but not one that hurt. A hand that had held weapons in it for centuries. Goldman knew full well the life of Carlos Romano, a.k.a. Casca Rufio Longinus. “Hayley’s busy shopping, or so Danny here says.”
Danny looked at Carlos. “She’s buying a helicopter. I didn’t believe a word of it until she sent me this,” he produced an iphone and showed Carlos a photo on the flat screen of a sleek looking machine, colored black. “So I guess it’s not a trip to Walmart,” he chuckled. “After ditching that chopper that got Uncle Jules out of that castle she said she needed a replacement.”
“Oh, I see. Found one in a second hand shop?” There was a hint of mockery in the voice, a trace of skepticism.
Danny smiled briefly. “Air show in Atlanta. Don’t ask where she got the funds from.”
Goldman cleared his throat and looked sideways at Danny, a slight disapproving look on his face.
Carlos grunted. “Whose account did you hack into, Danny? One of these days someone’s gonna catch on and you’ll be public enemy number one.”
“Nothing,” Danny shrugged. “We’ve set up a bona fides company, and it’s gonna fund your travels around the world, Carlos. Gotta keep one step ahead of the Brotherhood, haven’t we? Not to mention the governmental agencies.”
Carlos grunted. “Not just the CIA or FBI, but also MI6, Interpol, the Surete, Mossad and a host of other intelligence groups. I need to keep hidden from the lot.”
“So we ‘borrowed’ funds to set Carrom Inc up. I used the first three letters of your first and last names, by the way.”
Carlos winced but let it go. “So I have access to funds the world over?”
“Some, but not a bottomless well, so spend wisely. Hayley’s gonna be the chauffeuse or emergency evac facility. I’ll take care of comms and I.D.s.”
Carlos nodded, and looked at Goldman. “And you, Doctor? What’s your role in this?”
“I’m too old to go charging round the world anymore,” he smiled.
“Yeah you must be over seventy by now.”
“And counting. Please, no wisecracks about earning a free bus pass. Danny here has made comments of that nature already.”
Carlos smiled and waved in the direction of a thick stand of trees, all shedding their leaves. Beyond them stood the frog pond. “Shall we walk? Let’s go somewhere less visible and somewhere we can sit down. I bet your legs don’t feel as young as they used to be.” He allowed Goldman to take the lead and stepped in line. Danny was supporting the doctor, he could see, and he wondered how long Goldman would be able to carry on meeting him in outdoor places. Danny spoke, looking across Goldman to the big, scarred man. “I’ve read all of Uncle Jules’ manuscripts on your stories. Frankly, they seem incredible, like some ‘B’ movie. I’d like to hear another of your experiences. Reading them is one thing, hearing them first hand is another.”
Carlos chuckled. “Your father was the same, although he doubted me at first, if I recall. There again he saw things in ‘Nam people of your generation don’t understand. Very well, what period would you prefer?”
Goldman knew what Danny was going to ask for. When Danny had read all the stories Goldman had handed him, one had caught the young man’s attention more than any other. “The story of how you came to fight for Hitler in the Second World War. I read about you fighting the Russians from Kursk onwards, but it was never explained properly why an American would fight for Hitler.”
Carlos looked sharply at the edge of disgust in the young man’s voice. “A few things, Danny, you must understand. You’re looking at that war from 21st century eyes, and with hindsight. It’s easy to paint sides black and white, but there was bad on both sides. You don’t hear much of the atrocities the Soviets committed in Germany and Hungary when they pushed west in ’44 and ’45, or of the terrible things the British did to thousands of Ukrainians at the end of the war when they were packed in rail cars, locked, and sent east to their deaths.” He looked at Goldman sharply. “Apologies to you, Doctor, but that was just as bad as the SS packing the Jews in the same cars when they were sent to their deaths in the camps. No, you only hear of how bad the Nazis were.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Carlos held Danny’s eyes until the young man looke
d down, slightly red in the face. “Yes, there were dreadful people running the Nazi set-up, but most of the soldiers who fought for Hitler knew little of this, at least they didn’t until the very end, and by then they were fighting to stop the Soviets grabbing as much land as possible, not knowing that Roosevelt and Churchill had handed Stalin the east on a plate for him to rape to his heart’s content. Nobody cared a damn about Hitler then. He was a spent force but Stalin was just as bad and they were fighting to stop him.”
They came to a bench and sat down, away from view amongst the trees. Carlos sighed and looked up at the clear sky, then down at Goldman and Danny. “But it’s a good question, why did I fight for one totalitarian side in a war to end totalitarianism. I saw communism as the great danger, and had personal reasons as well that went back a few years before the war started. And another thing Danny, I’m not an American. I may sound like one now, but this is just one persona. In fact,” he reached inside his pocket and passed Danny a dark red colored passport. “Who am I?”
Danny flicked through the pages and eyed the photo, then up at Carlos. He looked down again at the neatly typed pages. “Carlos Romano, Spanish. Born 1981. That makes you 30.”
“It’ll do for a few years, then you’ll get me a new identity. I’m no longer Casey Romain. He died over twenty years ago in Guatemala. Your uncle here still calls me that because that’s who he knows me as. When you go, Doctor, the last tie with that past will be gone. So, young Landries, this is why you call me Carlos. ¿Usted habla español?”
“Si, hago.” Danny grinned. He knew that Casey or Carlos or whatever he was called, was a man with languages coming out of his ears. Apart from Spanish, Danny knew very little of other languages.
“Good. Well then, how did I come to fight in the Wehrmacht? No doubt the good Doctor here has told you what branch I fought in.”
Goldman nodded. “A panzer soldier. I assume you were in panzers right from the beginning?” Goldman felt uncomfortable about that episode. As a Jew himself, he’d grown up hearing all about the ‘final solution’ and the atrocities committed by the Nazis against his people. To hear first-hand from someone who fought for them gave him the shivers. But he also wanted to hear how Casey had come to join the German army.
