Angel, Archangel (36 page)

“I’ve already spoken to the PM about mobilizing our own chemical weapons in retaliation,” Welland said.
“He wants to hold off until there is more conclusive news about Branodz.”

“Where’s that to come from?
We can’t just sit and wait,” Staverton said.

“Perhaps now he has told the Americans ...”
Deering said.

“In my opinion, they should have been told the moment news of this first broke,” Welland said.

Staverton thumped the table with his fist.
“Guardian Angel would have worked.”

“Are you convinced it would still not be possible to go ahead with the attack?”
Deering said.
“You told us yourself that this pilot of yours could drop a bomb down a chimney if he was called to do so.”

“The crates are too close to the HQ, George,” Staverton said.
“I don’t think any of us has the right to take that risk.
With the prevailing wind coming from the north-east at this time of year, a few fractured shell casings could kill thousands of our men and countless more civilians.
A hundred shells .
.
.
well, I don’t have to tell you gentlemen what that would do.”

“So what next?”
Deering asked, his voice weary.

“The PM wants to hear what the Americans suggest before we move again,” Welland said.

“But time is running out, Admiral,” Staverton said.
“According to the Archangel document that attack is scheduled to happen within the week.
For all we know it might even have been brought forward.”

“Then we’re just going to have to pray to God that it hasn’t been.”

“In the meantime,” Deering added, “I’ll see to it that all men in the field within a hundred mile radius of Branodz are drilled in the use of gas masks and, where appropriate, new ones are issued.”

“Without arousing any suspicion, George - routine exercise and all that,” the Admiral interjected.
“We don’t want mass panic at the front.”

“Quite, Admiral,” Deering said, a trace of irony in his voice.
He was old enough to remember the piercing whistle blasts that signified the onslaught of chemical attack, the rush to don his gas mask and the first sweet smell of the mustard gas as it swept over his position in the trenches.

“The General Staff’s order to commanders in the field to stop their advance eastwards is still being implemented in some isolated parts of the front, but to all intents and purposes the drive for Berlin has halted,” Deering announced, his face sombre.
“We are now digging in to meet the Russians, although our men don’t know that,” he added.

“And the Americans?”
Welland asked.

“It can only be a matter of hours before they do the same thing,” Deering replied.

The meeting adjourned.

A few minutes later, Staverton scurried along Whitehall’s slippery pavements towards the Bunker.
As he crossed the road, avoiding the traffic that crept cautiously through London’s blackout, Big Ben chimed half-past six.
Another thirty minutes till the next news broadcast.
Thirty minutes in which to warn Kruze that Guardian Angel had been terminated.

CHAPTER FIVE

Malenkoy came round in the cool ward of the military hospital in Branodz, his head hurting like hell and the rest of his body limp from the nightmare.

An orderly saw him stir and moved over to his bedside.
He took Malenkoy’s wrist, fumbled for his pulse and, apparently satisfied that the rate was not unusual, plunged a thermometer under his tongue.
Malenkoy spat it out, ignoring his protestations.

“What happened to me?”
he asked.

“We were hoping you would tell us, Comrade Major,” the orderly said with reverence.
“Some troops brought you in several hours ago, said you were a hero, that you were to be given the best treatment.
Then they left, just like that, without another word.
May I ask what it was that you did?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly.

“Such modesty, Comrade Major.
Let me just tell you that it is an honour to have you here.”
The orderly began to pull him up the bed.

“What are you doing?’
Malenkoy asked with some irritation.

“I must make you presentable for the official visit.”
The orderly looked anxiously towards the door.
“The delegation will be here in no time.
You must be ready to receive it.”

“What delegation -” Malenkoy had no time to finish.
The double doors of the ward swung open, admitting a cluster of senior personnel.
They were some way off and Malenkoy had difficulty focusing on the individuals in the group.
He looked up at the orderly and was about to ask who was paying the visit, but the man had stopped fussing over the appearance of his bed and was standing rigidly to attention, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall.

The olive-green curtain of greatcoats parted for a moment and Marshal Konev swept down the central aisle, NKVD Major Shlemov by his side.
As they did so Malenkoy’s mind was flooded with images of the woodland execution.
The delegation, Konev now at its head, stopped at the end of his bed.
Malenkoy clamped his hands to his legs underneath the sheets to try and stop them shaking.

“Is this Major Malenkoy?’
Konev asked the gaggle of officers around him.
There were several curt nods.

Konev took three paces forward.
Malenkoy watched wide-eyed as he bent down, grasped him by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.
Then the Marshal stood straight, a thin smile on his lips, and clicked his fingers.
A lieutenant marched up, handed over a box and withdrew.

“Major Malenkoy,” Konev began.
“Thanks to your maskirovka, the enemy will be wrong-footed when our final assault is launched a few hours from now.
The fascists have mustered almost all their forces in the sector against your ghost army, clearing a path for our divisions here in Branodz to assault Berlin from the south.
A last-minute overflight by one of their aircraft has not prevented the deception from working to the full.
In recognition of your work, I present you with a token of the esteem in which you will shortly be held by the Soviet people when they learn of the part you have played in our total victory.”

Konev took the Order of Lenin from the box and pinned it to Malenkoy’s shirt.
He stepped back to the end of the bed and saluted.

Malenkoy didn’t see Konev.
His gaze rested instead on Shlemov, who was standing a few paces behind the Marshal’s left shoulder.
The NKVD major held Malenkoy’s stare for a few seconds and then nodded, a gesture so slight that it was missed by everyone else in the room.
To Malenkoy the significance of that moment was crystal clear.
His silence had just been bought by the state.

Konev turned to the delegation, which parted to admit him, swept through the middle and was gone through the double doors.
When Malenkoy looked again, the party had left, leaving an unnatural silence in the ward, as if the whole thing had never happened.

Malenkoy stared down at the glittering disc for several seconds.
Then the cheers of the other patients began to ring out.
He brought a trembling hand from beneath the bedclothes and fingered the Soviet soldier’s most valued prize.
He thought of his father back home, of how proud he would be.

But his thoughts returned to the clearing.
A few spent cartridges scattered on the grass would be the only sign of the demise of Shaposhnikov, Nerchenko and Krilov.
He looked down at the medal again and its lustre had dulled.

Malenkoy threw back the bedclothes and jumped out of bed.
He pulled his trousers and jacket on and was just squeezing into his boots when the orderly appeared.

“Major, this is most irregular -”

“I am fit and well and wish to return to my unit,” Malenkoy said, waving him aside.
He marched from the ward, ignoring the looks of envy from the other inmates as he swept past them.

When he got outside, he commandeered a jeep and ordered the driver to take him to the motor pool at Chrudim.
He felt the need for a drink with Sheverev as he never had before.

* * * * * * * *

Kruze and Herries had been sitting silently on their mattresses in the basement, smoking the Rhodesian’s last two ersatz cigarettes, when the old man came down the stairs.

“You must go now,” he said, his face taut.
“The car is in the garage at the back of the house.”
He held his hand out.
“Here is the key.
Now go!”

Herries held up his hand.
“Simmer down, you old fool, we’re not due to leave for another five hours.”

Schell was too nervous for the insult to register.
He sensed only that Herries was trying to obstruct him.
“No, there is not a moment to lose.
If you stay here any longer you will be caught.”

Kruze was on his feet.
“What’s happened?
Why the change of plan?”

“Relax,” Herries said, blowing cigarette smoke lazily from his nostrils, “we’re not going anywhere.”

“Keep your mouth shut, Herries,” Kruze said.
He touched the old man gently on the shoulder and felt that he was shaking.
“What is it?”
he asked softly.

“There is a KG squad at the end of the street, coming this way.
The SS are turning everyone out of the houses to form work parties.
They want us to build the street barricades that they believe will halt the Americans.”

“Where are the Americans?”

“They say their tanks have entered the northern suburbs and that we are to fight to the finish.
I have been in the presence of death too long to care for myself any more.
But Joseph, he must live to see his mother again and build a new life when this is all over.
I don’t know what it is you have come here to do, but if you stay, the Nazis will find him and he will die for nothing.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the special hiding place.
They will not find him there - not if you leave now.”
He looked imploringly into the Rhodesian’s eyes.

Kruze did not need to hear any more.
“We’re on our way,” he said, taking the key from the old man’s quaking hand.
“The car, does it work?”

“I have turned the engine over every week for the past year.
And there is enough petrol to get you to your destination.”

“You’re not actually going to do what this old coward wants, are you?”
The Rhodesian whipped round at the sound of Herries’ voice; he was still sitting on the mattress, puffing on his cigarette.
“Why can’t we share the Jewboy’s hidey-hole until the danger’s over?
As unpleasant as that sounds, it would be much better than setting off for Oberammergau now.”

Kruze’s hands were on Herries in an instant, pulling him to his feet.
The Rhodesian’s words were fuelled by hours of pent-up frustration and revulsion.
“Has it become just a little too hot for you Herries, is that it?
Do you want to switch sides again, rejoin your old friends out there?”
He saw the amazement spread across the traitor’s face.
“Oh yes, I know about you and the deal, but you’re not working for Staverton now, you’re working for me.
The plan’s changed and we’re moving out.”
He pulled him towards the foot of the stairs.

“Not that way,” Schell stammered.
“There is a basement exit that leads to the garage at the back of the house.”
He ushered them through to another room and unlocked the solid wooden door that was set in the far wall.

The cold, dark night, filled with the sounds of a dying city, forced the last traces of fatigue from Kruze’s body.
He could see another door across the little courtyard and pushed Herries towards it.

“The garage opens up onto Seitz Strasse,” Schell said.
“From there, it is only a short drive back to the Cornelius Bridge.
If you are in luck there will be no barricades up yet.”

Kruze started for the garage, but Schell held him back, gesturing towards the dim figure of Herries across the yard.
“I have lived among Nazis long enough for them all to look very much alike,” he whispered.
“But with him, it is not just the uniform he wears, there is evil deep within him too.
I do not know what passed between you just now, but take care of yourself.
He is out to do you harm, I felt it.”

“You and Joseph must come through this,” Kruze said.
“Thank you for everything.”
He did not know what else to say, so turned and ran for the garage.

The air inside was so thick with dust it almost choked him.
For a moment, Kruze felt dangerously exposed, for he could sense Herries close by, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.
Then the traitor lit a match, the sulphurous flare catching the anger and bitterness on the gaunt face beneath the black peaked cap.
They stood for a moment beside the Mercedes, eyeing each other cautiously, before Kruze moved towards the double doors.

“Kill the light and drive,” the Rhodesian said, maintaining the authority in his voice.
The one thing he did know about Herries was that he seemed to respond to orders.

He threw open the doors of the garage and cast a quick look down the street.
Some troops were attending to a fire that was raging in a house fifty yards away.
He jumped in beside Herries, handed him the key, and held his breath as the man’s finger pressed the ignition button.

The Mercedes started first time.

“Get us to Oberammergau,” Kruze shouted over the surging engine.

Herries maintained the revs, but made no move to engage first gear.

“I should kill you, flyboy,” he said, a wild look in his eyes.
“How long have you known about me?’

“If you want to talk, then let’s do it on the road.
Or do I have to use this?”
He brought the Luger out from his coat pocket and cradled it in his lap.
“Now drive!”

Herries swung the big car onto the cobbles and picked his way cautiously through the craters, fallen masonry and broken water mains that had marked their drive into the centre of the old city that morning.
To Kruze’s horror, he realized that dawn had merely seen Munich whimpering from the wounds it had received during the night; now it was crying out in agony.
Citizens of every age rushed around with hoses, or buckets, doing what they could to keep their city alive, but the fires seemed inextinguishable as the Mercedes swung round every twist and turn of the old town.

They crossed back over the Cornelius Bridge with none of the fuss of the morning.
Young troops ushered them along, glancing quickly from the car and the man at the wheel, to somewhere beyond the smoke and the flames, their eyes focused on the night sky.
It was only when they were some way from the bridge and Kruze stole a glance at a nearby 37 mm flak gun, its barrels patrolling the heavens, that he realized they had come through the worst part of the city unchallenged.

When the RAF was coming from the night sky, what was there to fear from the Americans on the ground?

Herries coaxed the car into the middle of Grünwalder Strasse, manoeuvring his way between the streams of refugees pouring from the city and the truckloads of reinforcements coming in.
He put his foot down on the accelerator and the Mercedes leapt forward, its tyres spraying the exhausted and bedraggled citizens with foul-smelling water that bubbled up from the shaken foundations.

The Rhodesian looked at his watch in the receding glow of the fires.
It was coming up to eight o’clock.
Only ten hours to go till the Meteors swept over the tarmac at Oberammergau.

* * * * * * * *