Werewolf (Commander Shaw Book 16)

by Philip McCutchan

  “German?”

  He nodded. I asked, “Just how much do you know, Colonel?”

  “Enough. Enough to make me anxious. There are plenty of people already who would like to see the British Army out. I don’t need to stress, it’s vital we stay.”

  I asked, “In your opinion, how bad could it get?”

  “Very bad. ‘There are plenty of terrorist and neo-Nazi groups and there’s a groundswell right throughout West Germany. A little encouragement would go a long way.”

  I understood that. The colonel didn’t say much more. He wasn’t the chatty sort, and was pre-occupied. He remained with me after we had been put down and entered the Ministry of Defence in Bonn. We were taken to a large room where the brass had been assembled to hear me out. The Vice-Chancellor and Minister of Foreign Affairs, a joint appointment, was there; so was the Minister of the Interior and a number of others. My lieutenant-colonel made the introductions and then just sat listening. The Minister of the Interior spoke a lot about the terrorist groups already referred to by the Colonel. His ministry had reported no less than sixty-nine neo-Nazi organisations as existing in West Germany. Most of them had contacts with similar set-ups in France, Spain and Italy. Among items discovered in raids by the security agencies had been armoured vehicles, much weaponry and ammunition, pre-war Nazi uniforms and even a number of busts of Adolf Hitler. Photographs of the Fuehrer abounded.

  I said, “They’re not numerically strong, I believe, Minister?”

  He agreed but said, “They are troublesome out of all proportion, what you would call, I think, tearaways … and with such an emotive trophy as Hitler’s brain — even if, as you have suggested, I believe, that it is not genuinely his — then they would expand greatly and very fast.”

  “Would they,” I asked, “get much support from ordinary people, people who aren’t actual members of the paramilitary organisations?”

  “Yes,” he answered with emphasis. “This is Germany … there would be an escalation, and there would be bloodshed. It would not be like your London riots and marches, you understand? Yet it could spread to Britain, as I think your leaders realise and fear.”

  I asked, “Do you think, Minister, that a majority of the German people would support the Werewolves?”

  He shook his head. “No. No, I do not think this. West Germany has prospered since the ending of the war. West Germany is re-built and most of her people have no need to try to change the established order. In the pre-war days, the days when Hitler and his National Socialist Party were coming to influence and power, Germany was not at first rich, but very poor. It is different now. I do not see the main trouble as being here in West Germany, which perhaps you may find strange — ”

  “Where, then?” I interrupted. “Last Germany, Russia? A reaction to rising Nazism?”

  “Perhaps, yes. But I refer to another country that can be affected: yours!” The Minister leaned forward across the polished mahogany table, heavy and solemn. “What I have said about pre-war Germany now applies to Great Britain. Your country is poor, is slipping down the world’s production lists, is heavily taxed, there is much unemployment, and a developing feeling that there is no hope left in the ordinary processes of democratic government. Do you understand this?”

  “Yes,” I said, and I did. We were ripe for something new, and we had plenty of Nazi sympathisers, plenty of ready recruits to the jackboot brigades. If the Werewolves made a song and dance in West Germany, it could spread. Parts of London, Birmingham, Wolverhampton — these could hold the nucleus and it would overspill. It was obvious enough and I knew that this aspect had been on Max’s mind. Poison spreads fast, and the Werewolves would hold the hypodermic that would ensure the fastest possible spread. When the VIPs around that conference table made the point, as I knew they were going to, that the government of West Germany was not to be seen to be involved, I insisted that no one man could hope to handle it on his own and that I must have co-operation. I said I would need the assistance of the police and the customs; I produced the shipping movements list I’d brought from Valparaiso and added that I had already asked 6D2 to get me similar movements lists from all other Chilean ports, indeed all South American ports. I said that all ships entering West German ports ex South America must be checked, in case Klaus Kunze had decided to confuse the issue by trundling his boot) across other frontiers before embarking it. I said more: I insisted that the West German frontiers with France, Belgium and Holland must also be closely watched by the Border Police. Vessels, trains, cars must all be searched with a tooth-comb and so must the persons and baggage of the ship crews and passengers and everyone aboard the trains and cars. A mammoth job, but it had to be done.

  They all looked desperate but they saw that I couldn’t be expected to do it all myself and they promised full support; they would ensure that the operation had the aspect of a simple tightening up of customs and immigration procedures. Some hope! But they had the tight idea. They realised another important point: since my escape from that electrified set-up outside Santiago, Klaus Kunze would know that his coffin transport would no longer be viable; the Fuehrer’s brain would now be re-entering Germany in anything but a coffin. I told them they could leave the co-ordination in my hands and that I would exercise all the discretion I was capable of, just so long as when I said jump, the West German port and land frontier authorities jumped and kept on jumping.

  It was a tall order. Klaus Kunze would know the weak points, and a determined man can always find a way through. As for my own movements, it seemed to me that I would be best employed now by remaining at the centre, which would be HQ 6D2 in Bonn itself, all ready to go when an action report came through. I left the conference with the lieutenant-colonel and as we went down the steps outside the Ministry I put a point to him. I said, “I may need army co-operation, too.”

  He sucked in his cheeks. “Can you be more specific?” he asked.

  I said, “Yes. Back-up for the police when necessary.”

  “You mean possible riots, that sort of thing, I suppose. That’s not our role out here, Shaw, it’s not Northern Ireland. We could only assist at the request of the West Germans in any case.”

  “That request,” I said, “may yet come.” I had it in mind that the Nazi poison could affect the West German troops and some of them might not be too reliable. The colonel countered that by saying that until such time as the brain entered West Germany, neither the troops nor anyone else outside the government itself would know it was coming in, so disloyalty wouldn’t arise. I agreed he could be right but total secrecy was by no means to be relied upon. I had just finished speaking when I caught sight of’ a familiar face lurking in the passing crowds, a face that peered from behind a newspaper, furtive but watchful; Jason Clutch, clerical collar and all. A moment later, before I could move a step towards him, he had vanished in the workaday crowd.

  *

  Max was on the scramble line to HQ 6D2 Bonn from Focal House in London, asking for me urgently. I took the call and he dropped his bombshell. He said, “It’s broken.”

  “What has?”

  “The story. The brain, blast you!”

  “In Britain?”

  “Yes! On the air, one of the pirate radio stations. They got an anonymous telephone call and made the most of it without checking for authorisation. I’m asking the Home Office to go out and arrest the bloody lot, but the damage is already done

  “What were the details?” I asked, cutting in.

  “Very factual. Adolf Hitler’s brain has been found in a good state of preservation and is intended to come back to the Fatherland. No mention of how.” Max sounded on the verge of a stroke. “The West Germans are going to love this! Stand by for trouble, Shaw.” He cut the call before I could ask him what the first reactions had been in the UK or tell him Jason Clutch had materialised here in Germany. After that, the phone buzzed again, and again it was for me, and this time it was the Minister of the Interior who was tearing his hair about the Briti
sh leak and prophesying doom. I said it was regrettable but there was nothing to be done about it now, and I apologised for the fact that it had been a British station that had spilled the news. I was worried sick myself; what I had said to the colonel was coming horribly true and the loyalty of some of the West German troops, police and customs could now be considered doubtful. If you were a Nazi sympathiser and Hitler’s brain came your way, you were not going to help in its destruction. It stood to reason, did that, though it would depend on the degree of commitment …

  Hearing an increasing racket outside the 6D2 windows, I looked down: news did indeed spread fast. I assumed a West German station had picked up the pirate radio and had re-broadcast before anyone could rush out orders prohibiting it. There was already an embryo mob in the street, complete with Nazi flags. They looked a right lot of bastards. Decent citizens were hurrying out of their way, vanishing into shops and office blocks. Blaring sirens heralded the coming police presence and when the mobiles screeched up and disgorged their occupants I saw the long sticks being wielded from behind the riot shields.

  It didn’t in fact take the police long to make their arrests and break the demonstration up, but it had been nasty while it lasted and it was a foretaste of things to come on a larger scale. In the meantime, until something was reported from one of the ship arrivals — and that couldn’t be for many days yet — Jason Clutch appeared to represent my one link, my one possible lead.

  I told the 6D2 boss that I was going on a Clutch hunt, and asked him to alert the Bonn police that gold might be struck if they arrested a Church of England clergyman who had no business to be so far away from his Yorkshire parish.

  *

  Jason Clutch wanted me or he wouldn’t have been hanging about outside the Ministry. Thus he would probably be somewhere on my tail even though I had so quickly lost sight of him. I wondered how he had got out of Britain and into West Germany, and I wondered if’ he had been the driver of the car outside my flat, or a passenger in it. The best way of contacting him again was to show myself, so I did just that. I walked the Bonn streets with my eyes wide for a tail, and I drank in the Bonn bars, but I failed to pick up Jason Clutch. Maybe he hadn’t been after me; maybe it was just coincidence that he’d been hanging about behind his newspaper, but I didn’t believe it was. When I got back somewhat wearily to 6D2 HQ I found a minor hornet’s nest: I was wanted urgently by the police. It seemed that they had reacted with immediate efficiency and had more Church of England clergy on the books than they could handle. One was, according to his own statement and his purple vest, a bishop. Another was a canon of Salisbury Cathedral. The remainder consisted of seven mixed rectors and vicars and one rural dean. I said I would come at once on the off-chance. When I got to the scene the air was blue in a holy sort of way and I secured their release, after offering apologies. Jason Clutch, who had possibly removed his clerical garb again, had not dropped into the bag. At 6 p.m. the army rang through: I was wanted at the local Divisional HQ; a Brigadier Trotton wished words with me and was sending transport. I raised an eyebrow at my 6D2 host and, with my hand over the mouthpiece, I said, “Brigadier Trotton?”

  “British Military Police.”

  I nodded. Into the phone I said I would attend upon the brigadier. Within half an hour reception rang through to say my transport was waiting, and I went down to find a dull green Land Rover with a driver and corporal. I identified myself and the corporal saluted and ushered me aboard. We drove off, passing through more trouble. A bunch of Werewolves or some such was on the march with flags and banners, giving Nazi-style salutes right, left and centre. As we passed them, going slow, some of the thugs banged on the Land Rover’s sides and shouted anti-British sentiments. Noise was everywhere.

  “Bastards,” the corporal said flatly. I agreed with his statement. He asked, “You heard about that brain, sir?”

  “I have,” I answered non-committedly.

  “Load of bull, if you ask me, sir.”

  “These people may not think so.”

  He grunted angrily. “Fancy anyone preserving the bloody thing! My old man fought to finish off bloody Hitler, now back he comes again … in a sense.” He seemed about to go on when the driver slowed still more, and looked round at his NCO for orders. The mob was closing in, forcing him to a stop. The corporal said, “Better stop. Wouldn’t do to run the buggers down.”

  The Land Rover stopped. The noise grew, becoming a weird sort of howling, full of menace. All three of us sat like statues, facing front, mouths hard, disregarding the shouts and gestures. The mob was right up against us, all round; Nazism could almost be smelled through our closed windows. The corporals face was white. He was in a tricky situation and there was nothing he could do about it other than hope his non-arrival at the military police HQ would lead to reinforcements being sent. Looking sideways, I saw him swallow. He asked, “What do you suggest, sir?”

  “Sit it out,” I said. “No option anyway!”

  He gave a grin. It was a shaky one. The mob was not far off the blood lust. They began throwing things, and banging again on the sides of the vehicle, then rocking it. It went from side to side on its suspension, gathering momentum as the swingers were backed up by others, men and women together, all shouting obscenities.

  The corporal said, “I don’t like this.”

  “We just have to take it, Corporal.”

  “Maybe we do, sir. But I’ve got my revolver.”

  “Keep it hidden,” I said.

  He nodded. “That’s the orders, all right. But I reckon I’d use it before I let the bastards get me.”

  I said, “I’d be the last to blame you. As a matter of fact, I’m armed as well if that’s any extra comfort. And I’d use it too.

  “Glad to hear it,” the corporal muttered; then he gave a sharp cry, and swore viciously. The window on his side had shattered under a brick and a woman in the mob had used what looked like a hatpin. She had it in her hand now, a long, thin piece of steel, dripping with the corporal’s blood. His face seemed drained, and he lurched sideways, half over the broken window. My guess was that the point had penetrated the heart, if only fractionally. I lifted the corporal upright with the driver’s assistance; the eyes were glazing over and the breathing was falling away. He wasn’t going to last, and if we stayed there then neither were we. I told the driver to get moving if he could. He did his best, with his horn blaring. He inched forward until he impacted harder against the massed German bodies. It was a case of force majeure: we hadn’t a hope. I dared not bring out my revolver; the last resort hadn’t yet been reached — not quite. We needed to live until word of the riot reached authority, either German or British. Meanwhile the hysterical shouts continued, deafeningly. It was a sheerly lunatic scene, and it was added to when someone in the mob unfurled a banner that must have survived since the thirties — a great square piece of bull showing the Fuehrer in his glory, jaw truculent, arms waving, toothbrush moustache bristling; he would have looked like that when he was advancing, car-borne, into Austria, into Czechoslovakia, into all the other places he had picked off for Lebensraum even after he had made the hilarious announcement that he had no further territorial demands upon Europe.

  I wished like hell I could put a bullet through that pictorial resuscitation of mania. It was while I was wishing this, and staring in awful fascination at Hitler, that I saw Jason Clutch again. The accoutrements of religion had gone now; Clutch was wearing an anorak and one of those ridiculous blue peaked caps like a phoney yachtsman, and he was looking scared out of his wits. The mob was beginning to surge, backwards and forwards and sideways, and Clutch was out of control, like a cork on a rough sea. When I heard the police sirens I knew why the surge had started: it was a case of those in rear cried forward, and those in front cried back as the West German police came in. They had the lot, and they used it: sticks, tear gas, rubber bullets. There were a number of bloodied heads, and some eyes popped out by the rubber bullets. Hitler was torn down and trampled.
Then I saw Jason Clutch again, with his mouth open, possibly screaming though I couldn’t hear him in the general din and uproar, still being borne along by the running mob, a short fat man in a desperate rush and desperately frightened, carried closer to the Land Rover as the mob moved back from the police onslaught. Some of them were retaliating with bicycle chains, clubs, Nazi bayonets, anything that would inflict damage. When Clutch came within range, I reached out and grabbed the collar of his anorak and drew him willy nilly towards the Land Rover.

  “If it isn’t the rector of Loxa Mill,” I said. “The cloth takes you to some strange places, doesn’t it — Mr Jason Clutch?”

  *

  The police waved us through what was left of the mob; the remnant was mostly on the ground, licking its collective wounds. The police didn’t use kid-glove methods and I didn’t blame them: they had their casualties too. Blood was everywhere. If it was like this even before the arrival of the Fuehrer’s brain, then God help us all when it did reach West Germany. There would be no holding the faithful. Russia must be quite enjoying the prospect of the West’s discomfiture to come. All was grist to the Russian mill, the more so, of course, if it helped to dislodge the NATO set-up. After a word with the police officer in charge of the assault force, I advised the army driver to get his corporal to hospital as fast as he knew how. I said I would be in touch with Brigadier Trotton as soon as possible but I was cutting my visit to him since I now had other urgent matters to attend to. I sent the driver on his way and asked the police for transport to 6D2 HQ, a request to which they acceded with many apologies for the inconvenience caused by their compatriots. The ones I spoke to were definitely not Nazi sympathisers. I saw one of them, as I was getting into the police vehicle with Jason Clutch, approach a man on the ground and kick him about the head. It was brutal but understandable, just the sort of treatment a Nazi would appreciate, about the only thing that would penetrate. But this time it didn’t help. The mob began to gather again, howling insults, and as we drove away we ran slap into more and the police car was forced to a halt. The mob dragged the doors open and Jason Clutch took his chance, preferring the mob to arrest and interrogation no doubt. Before anyone could stop him he was out, with helping hands from the police-haters. He vanished fast. There was no hope of getting him back. With the doors half open we barged through and got away and I was dropped at 6D2 HQ.