Code of Combat

by Michael Asher

  ‘Yes, you told me. How likely is it that the heiress of the Falcone estates doesn’t know the whereabouts of one of the family’s most precious heirlooms?’

  ‘It’s true. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’

  A tic quivered in Stengel’s jaw. ‘Suit yourself. I will make sure you have a ringside seat at your brother’s execution.’

  Emilia crossed herself. ‘What’s to be, will be,’ she said.

  Stengel gawked at her: there was a sinking, hollow feeling in his guts. He felt ill with frustration, incensed that his threat hadn’t worked.

  He shot out a hand, clutched her bruised neck, forced her up, pulled her towards him, mauled her breasts through her blouse. She bit her lip, didn’t resist: Stengel jammed his right hand into her crotch, pinched her brutally. Emilia gasped: he groped for the buttons of her trousers, ripped them open, pulled them down, pushed his fingers hard into the cloven soft flesh between her legs, his breath coming in raking bursts. Emilia held herself rigid, clamped her mouth tight, gagged from the smell of his eau de cologne.

  Stengel sensed her resolve, felt her passive resistance, felt the lust ebb away from him. He let go of her, stood there catching his breath. She hoisted up her slacks, glared at him defiantly.

  ‘You’re sick in the head,’ she said. ‘You mutter to yourself, hear voices, see things that aren’t there. This isn’t just about finding the Codex, is it? If it was, you’d have had me carted off to Jesi long ago. You kept me here because you wanted to hurt me, because that’s the only thing that arouses you, the only thing that makes you feel you’re a man. You belong in a madhouse, not the Nazi Party. Or maybe it’s the same thing.’

  Stengel’s features turned puce: his eyes knobbed out. No one spoke to him like that: he was a full SS colonel, director of Ahnenerbe, a personal friend of Reichsführer Himmler. For an instant he couldn’t believe she’d had the effrontery to say it. He clenched his teeth, blinked, groped under his jacket, brought out a Luger pistol, pointed it at her. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he panted. ‘I don’t need a cunt like you to find the Codex – not you, not your pimp brother. I’ll have this place torn apart stone by stone.’

  Emilia saw white flecks of saliva on his lips, saw the gun-muzzle twitch in front of her like an unsteady black eye. She forced herself to meet his gaze: it was like looking down a tunnel into a soul in torment. She saw the bearded face, the shifty black pupils, the tremor in the pistol-barrel: she was tempted to shut her eyes and let the apartment come down. I promised you I’d keep Ettore safe, Papa. If they’re going to kill him, I don’t deserve to live anyway.

  She forced the thought out of her mind. No. Fight. Resist. She’d prepared herself for his visit this time: above all, she must not let him tie her up. She’d concealed a wine-bottle under the covers of her bed: she was mentally prepared to attack him when he least expected it. There could be no compromise with an animal like Stengel: whatever she might or might not tell him, whatever he promised, she and Ettore were dead meat.

  Stengel licked his lips, raised the pistol in line with her temples.

  At that moment there came a splutter of automatic gunfire from below, startlingly loud in the silence of the evening. Stengel’s eyebrows leapt skywards: he let his pistol-hand drop, took a step backwards. ‘Guard!’ he bawled at the sentry outside. ‘Go and see what the hell is happening down there!’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Caine crouched in deep shadow at the place where the drive swept round the bend into the forecourt, watched the torchlights of two German patrols coalesce. He heard the low croup of Goth voices, saw cigarettes lit, saw the torches separate, saw the lights float off in opposite directions. He started counting: it would be ten minutes before the next relay of patrols came into view, but he couldn’t move before the current ones were out of sight. He waited until the beams had been absorbed into the night, stood up, adjusted his weapons under the shawl, started towards the house.

  He moved quietly but not furtively: if anyone did clock him, he wanted them to see a familiar old servant going about her business. The forecourt was dark, but there were shades in the darkness: he could make out some features of the house: the outline of windows, gable-ends, masonry protrusions. The only light came from a first-floor window: the dim yellow glow of an oil-lamp through open curtains. The room lay above, and to the right of, the main door: from Angostina’s description, this was the suite of rooms where Emilia was being held. The fact that there was a light on there encouraged him.

  He was so intent on the window that he almost walked into the back of Stengel’s staff-car: he checked himself, peered inside. The windows were fuzzed up: the driver must still be in there, probably asleep. This car was the Krauts’ only motor-transport, he reasoned: it would give Stengel the advantage in a pursuit. He considered sabotaging it: slashing its four tyres with his knife would be effective. On the other hand, if he woke the driver, he could wave goodbye to his mission – it wasn’t worth the risk.

  He was about to set off again when he noticed a movement at the lighted window. For a moment a dark silhouette was framed there: Caine got the impression of cold, probing eyes, a keen, calculating presence. Whoever it was, it wasn’t the countess. He knelt by the car’s bumper, glanced up just in time to see the curtains drawn, the light all but extinguished. He took a slow breath, boxed away from the car, maintained his bearings carefully. The door was visible as a faint oblong: he could make out the shape of the sandbag-nest at the top of the steps, where the M42 crew were holed up. There was no sound, no glow of cigarette-ends, no movement: he hoped fervently that the Krauts were in the land of Nod.

  He reached the foot of the steps, paused to listen. He thought he heard heavy breathing, couldn’t tell if he was imagining it. Suddenly there was a snore: a distinctive rattling intake he knew he couldn’t have imagined: he felt like laughing. They’re asleep. All I have to do is get up the steps and in through that door.

  He still had to pass the machine-gun nest, though: he decided to forfeit stealth for speed, to get past the danger-point as quickly as possible. He urged himself forward up the steps, climbed smoothly, avoided any jerky movements. He kept his breath under control: his heart was banging like a snare-drum – so loud he thought it must wake the enemy. He was at the top now, abreast of the gunpost: he was tempted to look inside, stopped himself. Don’t look into the dragon’s mouth. Don’t tempt fate.

  The doorframe towered above him, a massive eight-foot-high aperture: the door was open, giving him a glimpse of a long passage that seemed to be lit by lamplight at the far end. He had to force himself not to rush. He’d taken three silent paces, almost reached the door, when a voice cracked. ‘Halt! Wogehen Sie hin?’

  Caine’s blood ran cold. He’d been challenged: in the dark, though, he hoped the sentry would be seeing only the outline of an old peasant-woman.

  ‘Buonasera,’ Caine said, lifting his voice an octave.

  He pinched the ends of the headscarf across his mouth with his right hand, turned very slowly, gripped the Schmeisser under the shawl. Not one but three shadows confronted him from behind the sandbags: Caine caught the faint blue glint of weapon-muzzles, the dull sheen of Kaiser hats.

  ‘Wer sind Sie? Was machen Sie hier?’

  Caine shook his head. ‘Buonasera,’ he repeated.

  ‘Was verstecken Sie darunter?’

  He didn’t grasp the words, but the Jerry’s tone clanged warning as plainly as a fire-alarm: the snap of a Kraut cocking-handle came like a gunshot. Caine squeezed steel, pumped a burst from under the shawl, tack-tack-tack-tack-tack-tack. He felt the weapon kick and pull, felt cases bump his chest, smelt firegas, clocked Kraut silhouettes erupt into a giddy ghost-dance – flailing limbs, bobbing heads, shifting torsos: he heard snorts, felt blood spray. A shot sleared over his shoulder, fractured against the wall, spun off in fragments with a high-pitched wheeeeeuuuwww. He shifted the pistol-grip to his right hand, stepped closer, boosted another five-round spurt, traversed
the barrel to make sure he’d got them all. A dark body lolled over the parapet. Caine put out a hand, felt bloodslick, raddled flesh: he found the Jerry’s webbing, felt the cylindrical head of a spud-masher grenade, drew it out, backed away with the Schmeisser still trained. He heard a shout from far-off, saw torches blaze, realized a patrol was coming. He cursed his luck. Three more steps and I’d have made it. Now there’s hell to pay. He wheeled round, dashed through the open door.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Karloff was sober: SS-Hauptsturmführer Kaltenbraun had bawled him out for leaving his post last night: he’d been banned from the booze-ups in the cellar, acquired extra sentry duty outside the countess’s quarters. Karloff hailed from Feldberg in the Black Forest, where his father had run a lumber business before the war. Felling trees all his life had given him kite-shaped shoulders and pit-props for legs. If he’d wanted to, he could have crushed that city-boy Kaltenbraun, he thought. Maybe one day I will.

  The tack-tack-tack of automatic fire cut through his thoughts, set his senses buzzing. He cocked his SMG, listened, heard nothing. ‘Go and see what the hell is happening down there!’ Stengel’s voice snapped from behind the door. After last night, nothing but a direct order would have budged him from his post: this was a direct order.

  ‘Jawohl, Reichsgeschäftsführer.’

  He inched towards the head of the staircase, peered down into the sallow lamplight of the hall: nothing moved. Suddenly, though, he heard the unmistakable snick of a door closing, heard the snap of bolts being shot. There’s someone down there. All those doors bolt from the inside. He gripped his Schmeisser in both hands, descended the stairs, scanned the hall below. Four separate doors opened into it, one from the level of the cellars. Didn’t Kaltenbraun and those other boozers hear the gunshots? Why aren’t they here?

  From the foot of the stairs, he saw that the door on his far left was closed and bolted: it was the door to the passage that led from the front entrance. That door is never closed or bolted. He took a breath, let his eyes roam the dark alcoves and recesses around the door, where, he guessed, paintings and tapestries had once hung. He heard running footsteps in the passage, heard raucous voices: fists began to bang and pummel on the door. It was two inches of solid oak with enormous iron bolts, top, bottom and middle: Karloff moved to let them in.

  He’d taken a few steps past the stairwell when an arm gripped his neck with vice-like force. Karloff angled his head, shifted his body to dodge the knife-blade he knew would be dicing up his kidney any moment, felt the blade deflected on his thick webbing. He dropped his weapon, jerked down on the arm with all his strength: his assailant was powerful but evidently hadn’t been expecting the swift reaction. The arm gave slightly: Karloff reached behind him, grasped the wrist of the hand that held the knife, pivoted abruptly, broke out of the stranglehold. He wheeled, still holding the wrist in an iron grip, wrenched the knife out of his opponent’s hand, heard it clatter on the floor. It was then that he saw with astonishment that the person he was fighting was an old woman in widow’s black, with a shawl and headscarf. His face dropped.

  Caine clocked his surprise, slipped the hunting rifle from under his right arm, swung the butt at his head. Karloff twisted just too late, took a glancing blow on his left shoulder, stepped back quickly.

  ‘Ein Mann,’ he spat.

  Caine hefted the rifle, lunged, found himself bear-hugged in the Jerry’s massive arms. It was like being caught between two tar-barrels: he couldn’t move, couldn’t bring the rifle up, felt the air being crushed out of him. He clenched his fists, strained his biceps against the Jerry’s solid limbs. He and Karloff were almost the same height, same build, same age. Except for the clothes, it was almost like looking in a mirror. Last time he’d looked in a mirror, a Nazi had walked out: now he was locked in a dance of death with his alter ego. He saw the strain in Karloff’s eyes, felt it in his own, heard the German’s heaving breath, heard his own, felt his enemy’s whole being grapple against his. He gritted his teeth, held his biceps rigid, let out a roar of agony, felt Karloff’s arms sag: he burst out of their grip with explosive force, squirmed backwards. He brought the rifle up, slewed the butt across Karloff’s jaw, felt the jawbone crack. Karloff teetered, his eyes wolf-slits, his face white: Caine hefted the rifle like a cricket-bat, hammered Karloff’s face again and again, went on slugging until he collapsed in a bloody heap and lay still. Caine spat phlegm, lowered the weapon, stood back, saw that his clothes – Angostina’s clothes – were red with gore. The struggle with the sentry had lasted what seemed like hours but couldn’t have been more than seconds.

  Krauts were bellowing like beasts, bodies slamming against the door to his left: the wood was jumping in its frame. Caine heard more roars and thumps from behind a door to his right: he skipped over to it, made sure it was locked, rammed the bolts across. He ran back to where he’d set down his Schmeisser, changed his mind, retrieved Karloff’s instead, checked the mag, found it was almost full. He helped himself to a couple of stick grenades from Karloff’s belt, picked up his knife: he hitched up his skirt, adjusted his headscarf, scooted up the curving stairs.

  He turned right at the top, where the banister ended in a spiral flourish, passed a couple of rooms, spotted the sentry’s chair outside a flimsy-looking door that was obviously a modern addition. He paused there, listening. Barging in might be a mistake: he remembered the figure he’d seen at the window: whoever was in there would have heard the shots and would be prepared. If he went in with his SMG blazing, though, he might end up smoking the countess. He was keyed up after his fight with the sentry: he had to do something fast, or the rest of the Krauts would be on his back. ‘Fuck it!’ he thought.

  He laid the hunting rifle on the floor, readied himself, kicked the mid-section of the door with a crumpling punt from his right boot. The door flew open, Caine leapt to one side. Boooomppphhh, Boooomppphhh. Two pistol-shots whiplashed out: Caine dodged inside, found himself staring across one room into another, at a bearded man in a dark suit – Stengel – and, behind him, a black-haired girl in pullover and trousers, leaning over a bed, fumbling for something: Stengel was pointing a Luger at him. Caine hurled himself sideways: in that instant he saw the girl raise a wine-bottle, smash it down on Stengel’s skull. The glass shattered, Stengel went boss-eyed, took several staggering steps forward: ribbles of blood coursed through his thick hair, trickled off his chin. Caine snatched the pistol out of his hand, delivered a sharp kick into his crotch, bowled him face-forward on to the carpet.

  He searched Stengel’s suit for hidden weapons, removed his tie, started to secure his wrists with it. The bottle had gashed a groove in the Nazi’s head: the wound was welling blood, the broken flesh dotted with fragments of green glass. His face was glossy with gore and snot, but he was jerking breaths, his eyelids flickering. He’ll be round in a second, Caine thought. He glanced at the girl: she was staring at Angostina’s blood-draggled clothes with wide eyes.

  ‘Angostina’s all right,’ he said. ‘She’s waiting for us. Come on, help me get him up.’

  The girl gave Caine a probing glance: he stared back into soft amber eyes, took in Mongol cheekbones, ripe lips with a hint of mischief, even white teeth, a halo of wavy hair, saw the discolorations on her mouth and neck. He knew she was making a judgement about him, but something else was passing between them, some surge of energy, some ancient, eternal human message. It was over in a blink, but Caine felt changed by it: this was the girl in his dream.

  She moved to his side, helped him pull Stengel to his feet. Now she was only inches away, Caine felt her physical presence like a distortion in space. ‘You’re Countess Falcone? Emilia?’

  She met his gaze, dropped her eyes: Caine noticed that one of her eyelids was slightly lower than the other.

  He told her to grab Stengel’s arms. He stepped back, stripped off the shawl, dress and headscarf, kicked them away, stood up in his Itie peasant’s togs and German army boots.

  ‘Who are you?’ E
milia demanded. She had a soft American accent, Caine noted.

  ‘Captain Tom Caine, 1st SAS Regiment. I’m here to get you out.’

  She hesitated. ‘Why aren’t you in uniform?’

  ‘Long story: no time.’ He nodded at the open door. ‘We’re going out through there: Stengel’ll be our shield. If we’re lucky he’ll get us past the rest of them. We can’t go back through the front entrance. Is there another way?’

  Emilia nodded breathlessly. ‘There’s a way. I’ll show you.’

  ‘Good. Can you handle a rifle?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m –’

  ‘I left a hunting rifle outside. Pick it up as we go out.’

  ‘All right. But don’t go down the stairs. Go straight across the landing. I’ll show you where from there.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Stengel made a retching sound: his eyes were narrow slits. Caine seized his wrists from the countess, unslung the Schmeisser, poked the muzzle hard into his spine. ‘Don’t give us any trouble and you might get through this. Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Emilia said. ‘He’s got something of mine.’ She rifled through Stengel’s jacket pockets, found the signet ring he’d taken from Ettore. As she held it up to Caine, Stengel’s viscid eyeballs flashed.

  ‘Stupid bitch. You’ll never get out of here. I’ll have it back, and I’ll have you.’

  Emilia slipped the ring into her pocket: she stood facing him for a long moment, head tilted pensively, drifts of black hair veiling her eyes. Then she spat right in his face.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Caine forced Stengel towards the stairhead, lodged the muzzle of his weapon at the base of the Nazi’s blood-streaked neck: Emilia stalked behind him with the hunting rifle. Coarse voices rose from the hall beneath: the Jerries from the cellar must have gone back and around, Caine thought: they must have used another entrance: he cursed himself for not having taken the time to bolt all the doors. He reached the ornate balustrade at the stairhead, peered down into the hall, clocked SS-men clattering in the shadows, crouching over the dead sentry, rushing to let the others in. A top-heavy Jerry with broad arms and a head like a polished orb glanced up, clocked Caine hovering. The soldier leapt up the stairs, cocked his Schmeisser in mid-step. ‘Bleiben Sie, wo Sie sind!’