Angel of Doom (Anna Fehrback Book 5)

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘I have no idea. It may be a couple of months.’

  ‘Months? But we are coming back?’

  ‘Of course we are coming back.’ Anna frowned. ‘Don’t tell me you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Katherine flushed. ‘Should I not have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Indeed you should. Every girl should have a boyfriend.’

  ‘Except you. Now.’ She was clearly thinking of Essermann.

  ‘You could say I am resting. Tell me the name of this friend.’

  Katherine’s flush deepened. ‘Joachim Rudent.’

  ‘And he is . . .?’

  ‘A captain in the Luftwaffe. He flies fighters.’

  ‘Hm. Do you sleep with him?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I am not criticizing. But you need always to remember that you must never reveal anything about your work here, even when in the throes of an orgasm.’

  Katherine blinked at her.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never had an orgasm? Ah, well, I suppose there’s time. And I am sure he can spare you for a few weeks. We are travelling on business for the Reich.’

  ‘Oooh!’ Katherine exclaimed.

  ‘I will come to your quarters this evening to go through your things.’ She returned to her own office, called the switchboard. ‘I wish to see Major Gunther Gutemann,’ she said. ‘Will you please locate him, immediately, and send him to me?’

  ‘I will do so, Countess,’ the woman said.

  Anna replaced the phone. She was quite excited herself, both at the idea of travelling and even more, of getting out of Berlin for a spell, escaping the cloying company of Himmler. Who at that moment opened the door and stalked into the office. ‘I am informed that I am to lose you.’

  ‘Regrettably, Herr Reichsführer.’

  ‘But only for a few weeks, eh? Now, Anna, I wish you to be careful. Stay away from any actual fighting. It can be very fast-moving. As for example, our troops in Normandy, while they are resisting gloriously, are being pinched out. As a result, a withdrawal to the line of the Seine has been ordered.’

  Anna frowned. ‘But if our forces are withdrawing to the line of the Seine, does that not expose Paris?’

  ‘Oh, they are not going to get Paris,’ he assured her. ‘It will be defended to the last man, and if it does look likely to fall, Choltitz has orders to destroy the entire city. All they will capture is a pile of dust.’

  My God! she thought. Paris? ‘Can he do that, sir?’

  ‘Of course he can. It is simply a matter of placing sufficient explosives in the right places.’

  ‘I meant, the responsibility . . .’

  ‘It is a directive from the Führer, and he will obey it. Choltitz is a good officer. Thank God we discovered the truth about that traitorous lout Stülpnagel in time. But the point I am trying to make is that after the withdrawal the Americans and the British will be able to range across all of France. And, of course, there are their aircraft. They have absolute air superiority. Their fighter-bombers fly low and shoot up everything they can see. Everything that moves.’

  ‘But what of our new jet fighters? The 262?’

  ‘Do you seriously suppose they can make a difference? We have perhaps fifty available. The RAF and the Americans have ten thousand fighter-bombers.’

  Anna regarded him. ‘Herr Reichsführer, you are talking as if you think we have lost the war.’

  He took off his glasses and polished them. ‘I am very much afraid that we may have lost the war in France. But we still hold the line of the Rhine. And in the East we will not give up the line of the Oder.’

  ‘But you think the Russians may get that far?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I am unhappy with the quality of the men we have there . . . Do you know that they have found the bodies of Udermann and his driver?’

  A crisis? ‘The bodies, sir? You mean they were both killed so that we could get away?’

  ‘They are both dead,’ Himmler said. ‘But the circumstances are very strange, and very disturbing. There was no sign of any Russians in the vicinity, and when the bodies were examined it turned out that Udermann had shot the driver and then apparently shot himself. Both the bullets came from the gun lying beside his body, and they were the only two shots fired. Can you believe it?’

  ‘No, sir. Although . . . he was acting strangely throughout our journey. He seemed to have something on his mind.’

  ‘The only thing he should have had on his mind was you. He didn’t make an advance, did he?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose we will ever know what was going through his head. But it is very disturbing to think that an officer in the SD can be in such a state. Which is why I want you to take great care on this tour. I would hate to lose you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Anna said. ‘I would hate that too.’

  *

  Belinda Hoskin stood on the pavement and gazed at the pile of rubble. My God! she thought. There were sufficient piles of rubble in London, but never had she seen quite so much concentrated destruction. And this building . . .

  Workmen were picking at the stones. Belinda crossed the road. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to one of them. ‘This building . . . when was it demolished?’

  He scratched his head, and another man, somewhat better dressed and clearly a foreman, joined them, looking her up and down. She wore a quiet dark blue suit under a belted raincoat, a large floppy hat, and her only jewellery was a signet ring, but that was invisible beneath her glove. She carried a single suitcase. ‘It was hit in a raid, oh, last December, Fraulein. It was not demolished, but was so badly damaged it was decided to knock it down.’

  ‘What about the people who lived in it? Were they killed?’

  But of course they couldn’t have been, she realized. Anna certainly, if Laurent had seen her a month ago.

  ‘One or two may have been hurt,’ the foreman said. ‘I don’t think anyone was killed.’

  ‘Do you know where they are now?’

  ‘Oh, they will have been re-housed. Government employees,’ he said darkly. ‘They were all government employees. The whole building belonged to the government. Police. Oh, they will have been looked after.’ He frowned at her. ‘Did you know someone from here, Fraulein?’ He could tell from her accent that she was not a Berliner.

  ‘Yes, I did. The Countess von Widerstand.’

  ‘You are acquainted with the countess?’

  ‘We have known each other for years,’ Belinda said, with absolute truthfulness.

  His eyes shone. ‘Our national heroine.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I had forgotten.’

  ‘You had forgotten? Where are you from?’

  ‘I am Swiss.’

  ‘Ah.’ That clearly explained everything, including the accent.

  ‘I would so like to see her again.’

  ‘To do that, you will have to go to Gestapo Headquarters.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That is where she now lives, Fraulein. Since this building was hit.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Is it far?’

  ‘About a mile. It is on the Prinz Albrechtstrasse. You intend to visit Gestapo Headquarters?’

  ‘Should I not?’

  He scratched his head, but made no further comment. Belinda picked up her suitcase and set off.

  Was she being foolish? That oaf had certainly seemed to think so. But if she had nothing but unpleasant memories of the secret police, she had supreme confidence in Anna’s position and power. Once she made contact with her, she would be utterly safe. And once she made contact with her . . .!

  Throughout the very long time it had taken her to get here, her excitement had grown. The delays had been caused firstly by the fact that, because she and Clive had left for Switzerland in such a hurry, to pick Anna up, as they had supposed, there had been no time to complete her cover papers. It had in any event seemed irrelevant to do so, if she would no longer need to enter Germany. Thus, after Anna had failed to show, they
had had to return to England to start the whole process over again.

  Then it had been back to Switzerland. That charming man Laurent had taken her out to dinner. He had asked her a lot of questions about Anna, which she had been unable to answer, but she couldn’t help wondering if he and Anna had something going. She supposed that was extremely likely, knowing Anna, and from Clive’s mood since that first visit she suspected that he also held that opinion. But of the pair of them, she was the one who was first going to reach the goal.

  Anna! She wondered if things would be the same between them after a year? If indeed Anna had ever felt anything for her, and had not been merely amusing herself. That also was in keeping with what she knew of Anna’s character. But she didn’t care. Throughout the horrendous journey across Germany, where it seemed that just about every railway line had been knocked out, very often half demolished by the Allied bombers, where delays had to be counted not in hours but days, often with only the most primitive accommodation available and the autumnal rains setting in, she had kept herself going with the thought of Anna at the end of it, an Anna who, whatever her real feelings, would have to be grateful for the warning she was conveying, of her danger, and not only from the Russians.

  But now she was here. She gazed at the building, which at first sight did not appear the least forbidding. There was a Swastika flag on the roof – in which there were several holes just as most of the windows had been knocked out and were boarded up – and an armed sentry on the door, but he made no effort to stop her as she went up the steps. The door was actually open, and she drew a deep breath and stepped into a gloomy hallway. There was a desk to one side, and the man seated behind it regarded her with neither hostility nor curiosity. ‘You have business?’

  ‘Yes. I would like a word with the Countess von Widerstand.’

  Now she had caught his interest. ‘You wish to see the Countess von Widerstand?’

  ‘That is what I have just said.’

  ‘What do you wish to see her about?’

  ‘We are old friends, and as I happen to be in Berlin . . .’

  ‘You are an old friend of the countess?’

  Belinda, who genetically operated on a very short fuse, began to feel irritated. ‘There is really no need to repeat everything I say. Yes, we are old friends.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Geneva. That is in Switzerland.’

  The somewhat sleepy eyes became hostile; he knew she was deliberately putting him down. ‘You have papers?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Belinda opened her bag and took out her passport, held it out. He opened it, looked from the photograph to her. ‘Valentina Sabatini.’ He closed the passport and handed it back. ‘You cannot see the countess.’

  ‘Look, if you will inform her that her old friend from Switzerland is here . . .’

  ‘You cannot see the countess, because she is not here.’

  ‘Oh. Could you not have said so at the beginning of this ridiculous conversation? When do you expect her back?’

  ‘I cannot say. A month, two months, who knows.’

  Belinda glared at him. ‘You mean she is not in Berlin? Where has she gone?’

  He shrugged. ‘Here, there, everywhere. It is no business of yours.’

  Damnation, Belinda thought. All this trouble for nothing. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘As I am in Berlin, will you recommend a hotel for me?’

  ‘A hotel? In Berlin? There are no hotels in Berlin any more.’

  ‘Are you telling me that I am supposed to sleep in the street until I can get a train back to Switzerland?’ And again face that terrible journey.

  The man shrugged.

  ‘Well,’ Belinda said. ‘I won’t say thanks for you help, because you haven’t given me any.’ She returned to the front door, stood there for a moment. What the hell was she to do? She had anticipated spending the night in Anna’s apartment, and even, perhaps, in her arms. Now . . .

  A car stopped at the foot of the steps, and a man got out. Lucky for some, Belinda thought, and started down. The man came up, glanced at her as he passed her. Oh, shit! she thought. She had been assured that this could not happen. She pulled her hat over her eyes and hurried down the last few steps, but as she reached the pavement, the man said, ‘Stop right there, Fraulein.’

  Belinda stopped, drew a deep breath, and turned. Werter smiled at her. ‘How nice to meet you again, Signorina Ratosi.’

  *

  ‘Now, really, Werter, what is this all about?’ Himmler had been continually irritable since Anna’s departure. ‘You have obviously made another of your mistakes.’

  ‘With respect, Herr Reichsführer, it is the woman Ratosi. Although I think even that may be a false name.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Werter placed Belinda’s signet ring on the desk. ‘If you would care to look at that, sir.’

  Himmler did so. ‘Hm. Nine-carat gold. Not very valuable. I am an expert in these things, you know.’

  ‘If you would look inside, sir.’

  Himmler squinted. ‘BH. Is that important?’

  ‘I took that ring from the finger of this so-called Claudia Ratosi. Should it not be CR?’

  Himmler picked up the passport and studied it. ‘It says here that her name is Valentina Sabatini. Odd. I am sure that I have heard that name before.’

  Werter sighed. ‘It is also a false name, Herr Reichsführer, and I think is probably copied from the name of a writer of historical fiction who is very popular in England.’

  ‘Extraordinary. But then, shouldn’t it read VS? Anyway, the inscription must be that of a boyfriend, or favourite aunt, or something.’

  ‘She claims it is that of a boyfriend, sir.’

  ‘Then what on earth are you blathering about? And now you say that she is not even Sabatani, but Ratosi. How the devil can you draw such a conclusion?’

  ‘I once arrested Ratosi, sir.’

  ‘But that was well over a year ago. You remember her?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I do.’

  ‘Hm. But as I remember, you could not prove anything against her.’

  ‘I was prevented from proving anything, sir, by the intervention of the Countess von Widerstand.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Of course.’

  ‘And now she is back again, using a false name, and again trying to contact the countess.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Werter looked close to an explosion. ‘She asked for her, sir. She came here, seeking her. Do you not find that suspicious?’

  ‘Well, you know what these women are like.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You are an innocent, Herr Werter. The Countess von Widerstand and the woman Ratosi had an, ah . . . relationship. This was observed by the monitors in the apartment she was then using.’

  ‘A relationship?’ Werter was scandalized.

  ‘It is one of the countess’s weaknesses. Indeed, it is her only one, that I know of. Now Ratosi has returned to renew this relationship. I have no idea why she should choose to use another name . . .’

  ‘Complete with another passport, sir? Is that not suspicious?’

  ‘Well, she’s an Italian, you know. They do some very odd things.’

  ‘With respect, sir, she was an Italian as Ratosi, now she is a Swiss as Sabatini. Do you not find that suspicious?’

  ‘In view of what is happening in Italy right now, I don’t blame her for claiming Swiss nationality. As we don’t know how long the countess will be away, I think your best bet would be to return this woman to Switzerland as rapidly as possible.’

  Werter stared at his superior in consternation. ‘You mean we are not to hold her?’

  ‘Certainly not. She is here to see the countess, presumably at the countess’s invitation. As the countess did not know she was being sent on this tour until a few days before she left, she presumably could not let her, ah, friend, know that she would not be here at the appointed date. They will have to arrange
another meeting later on, eh? You send her back to Switzerland, Werter. I hope you have not roughed her up.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘In that case, you had better get down to your cell and make it up to her. I am sure you do not want to get into the countess’s bad books. Again. That would be a very dangerous thing to do.’ He held up the ring. ‘And return this with your apologies.’

  Werter continued to stare at him for several moments, then he clicked his heels. ‘I will endeavour to make it up to Fraulein “Sabatini”, Herr Reichsführer. Heil Hitler!’

  Incident in Warsaw

  ‘Come in, Comrade Commissar.’ Marshal Rokossovsky was a powerfully built man; he seemed to be all shoulders and jaw. ‘I have something that may interest you.’

  Nikolai Tserchenko entered the room cautiously, as he did most things cautiously.

  Rokossovsky held up a sheet of paper. ‘I have here a report from one of our spies, behind the German lines, at –’ he glanced at the paper – ‘Lodz. He says that the German troops there have been visited by the newly appointed Minister of Morale, better known as the Countess von Widerstand.’

  ‘What?’ Tserchenko shouted, suddenly animated, and ran to the huge map of Poland and Eastern Germany pinned against the wall. ‘Lodz! Marshal . . .’ He turned to face his superior, cheeks aflame.

  ‘I thought she had to be the woman in whom you are interested,’ Rokossovsky said.

  ‘But if she is there, just a short distance away . . .’

  ‘The distance is longer than it looks on the map, and there happen to be well over a hundred thousand German soldiers still between us and Lodz.’ ‘And in any event, this report is dated four days ago. The lady seems to be on a tour. She will not be there now. However, this man does go on to report that her next destination is Warsaw. She could well be there by now.’

  ‘Warsaw!’ Tserchenko went to the window. The current headquarters were in the suburb of Praga, situated on the east bank of the Vistula. In the afternoon sunlight the city was clearly visible across the water, the smoke rising above it; even with an easterly breeze the sounds of gunfire and explosions were audible. ‘Then we must cross the river now, sir. Frankly—’ He changed his mind about what he would have said.