Bad Company

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Authors: Jack Higgins

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Undercover enforcer Sean Dillon tackles a new crisis as Presidential skeletons threaten to burst from the closet – in the dramatic new thriller from the master of suspense, the author of the international bestsellers Day of Reckoning, Edge of Danger and Midnight Runner. In the waning days of World War II, Hitler gave his diary to a young aide for safekeeping. Now it’s threatening to resurface, with explosive contents: the details of a meeting between emissaries of Hitler and Roosevelt to reach an armistice and turn their collective efforts against the Soviet Union. The American representative: a close relative of none other than the current US President, Jake Cazalet. Powerful enemies of Cazalet will do anything to get their hands on that diary – and it is up to White House operative Blake Johnson, together with his colleague in British intelligence, Sean Dillon, to make sure they don’t… Filled with hairpin twists and high-tension action, with characters as dark and surprising as any he has created, this is Jack Higgins working at the peak of his powers.
Jack Higgins
Bad Company
Book 11 in the Sean Dillon series, 2003
For Amber

 

On the morning of 26 April 1945, two Junker 52s loaded with tank ammunition managed to land in the center of beleaguered Berlin on a makeshift runway constructed from a city road. Russian artillery was pounding the city hard, and within a few days it would be the end of the Third Reich and Hitler would be dead by his own hand
.
The Junkers were not the only planes to land that way. That same day Luftwaffe General Ritter von Greim flew in to Berlin in a Fieseler Storch, accompanied by air ace Hannah Reitsch. Von Greim became badly wounded, however, and Reitsch took over and managed to land the plane on East West Avenue near the Brandenburger Tor. Von Greim, promoted to field marshal, left again the following day in an Arado piloted by Reitsch
.
There are reports of many other light aircraft at that time leaving Berlin using streets as runways. Legend has it that Martin Bormann, himself the most powerful man in Germany next to Hitler, escaped to Norway that way to join a U-boat bound for South America
.
And there is another legend, one even more extraordinary: the story of SS Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger, who escaped in a Fieseler Storch, taking off from East West Avenue shortly after the Führer’s marriage to Eva Braun and carrying with him Hitler’s most enduring legacy
…
DaunceyVillage
West Sussex
London
2002
1.
IT WAS RAINING when they buried Kate Rashid, Countess of Loch Dhu, a rain that swept in across Dauncey Village like a solid curtain, sending people hurrying for the shelter of the church. They were all there, the great and the good, to say farewell, their cars blocking the High Street.
General Charles Ferguson’s Daimler had just arrived. He sat in the rear with Sean Dillon, who took a silver flask from his inside pocket, swallowed a little Bushmills whiskey and lit a cigarette.
“Are we going in?”
“No,” Ferguson said.
“Then why are we here?”
“It’s the civilized thing to do, Dillon. It’s a great story, after all. The world’s richest woman crashing into the sea off the English coast at the controls of her own plane. Her cousin Rupert mysteriously disappeared.” He leaned back. “You couldn’t improve on it if it was a made-for-television movie.”
Dillon took another swig from his flask. “I’ve said it before, but it’s the cold-blooded bastard you are, General.”
“Really? I thought that was you, Dillon.”
“All right. But I repeat: If we’re not going in, what are we doing here?”
“Patience, Dillon. I’m waiting for someone.”
“And who might that be?”
“Well, for starters, a good friend of yours.” A Mercedes rolled in and braked behind them. “And here he is.”
Blake Johnson emerged, ran through the rain and scrambled into the back of the Daimler.
“Great to see you, General.” He took Dillon’s hand. “And you, my fine Irish friend.”
“And where in the hell have you come from?” Dillon demanded.
“The White House, of course.”
Blake was in his early fifties, his hair still black, and an ex-Marine. He was also director of the White House’s General Affairs Department, though everyone who knew it – which wasn’t many – just called it “the Basement.” In actuality, it was the President’s private hit squad, totally separate from the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service or any other governmental organization.
Dillon was intrigued. “But what are you here for?”
Ferguson ignored him. “Is it true? About the Baron?”
“Yep. Just announced. The President ordered me straight to you, General, and here I am.”
“And who’s this Baron creature when he’s at home?” said Dillon.
“You’re about to find out,” Ferguson said.
A Rolls-Royce pulled in at the church gate. A uniformed chauffeur emerged, got an umbrella up and opened the rear door. A young man in his early thirties emerged, a trench coat over his shoulders, and hurried to the other door and waited.
The man who stepped out was very old, wore a black leather overcoat and slouch hat, and carried a silver-topped walking stick. The young man held the umbrella over him, offered his arm, and they went up the path to the church.
“There he goes,” Blake said.
Dillon frowned. “Who is he?”
“Baron Max von Berger,” Ferguson said. “An exceedingly rich man. And – as Blake has just confirmed – none other than Kate Rashid’s silent partner.”
“Rashid?” Dillon said. “Just a minute. Are you saying Berger as in Berger International?”
“That’s right.”
“But they’re worth billions.”
“Exactly.”
“And they now have control of Rashid Investments?”
“Unfortunately so.”
“Well,” Dillon said, and paused. “
That
could be a problem.”
The rain hammered on the roof, organ music swelled from the church. Blake said, “Why does it always rain at funerals?”
“It’s the way Hollywood does it,” Dillon said. “It’s life imitating art. Who was the hard man?”
“The one escorting him?” Blake nodded. “Interesting you should call him that.”
“It’s the broken nose, Blake. I’d hate to see what was left of the man who did that to him.”
Ferguson joined in. “The name is Marco Rossi. He studied economics and business at Yale, then joined the Italian air force and flew a Tornado in Bosnia. You’d have a lot in common with him, Dillon. He was shot down and had a very energetic time behind Serb lines. Very unreasonable people, the Serbs, but then you know that. His mother once worked for the Baron. She was born in Palermo, and, yes, her uncle, one Tino Rossi, was Mafia in a very big way.”
Dillon said, “So what’s young Marco up to now?”
It was Blake who answered. “Amongst other things, he’s taking over all security operations for Rashid Investments worldwide. Don’t kid yourself, Sean. This guy is good. He’s not to be screwed with, even on the pavement.” He shrugged. “I’ve even met him on the social circuit in Washington. He’s charming and civilized, and the women love him.”
“Only don’t push him the wrong way,” Ferguson said. “When he was on the run behind the Serb lines in Bosnia, he killed at least four men that we know of. He keeps an ivory Madonna in his pocket. When you press the button, the blade jumps out and shears right up under the chin.” Ferguson smiled thinly. “Your kind of man, Dillon.”
“So if he’s taken over all the security operations at Rashid Investments, that means that he can access everything the Rashids ever had on us in their computers.”
“Exactly,” Ferguson said. “Including how you shot Kate Rashid’s three brothers and interfered rather harshly in their oil operations in Hazar. And I do think he’s going to find it more than a remarkable coincidence that Kate Rashid subsequently went into the drink at the controls of her Black Eagle and her dear cousin Rupert vanished off the face of the earth.”
“So they’re going to be coming for us.”
“Oh yes, Dillon. I should very much think so.”
He reached into his briefcase and extracted a large envelope.
“You’ll want to read all of that. Especially the bit about what von Berger did in World War Two. That’s especially enlightening.”
He leaned back. “Yes, Dillon, I think we’re in for a very,
very
interesting time of it.”
Berlin
The Führer Bunker
30 April 1945
2.
IF THERE WAS a hell on earth, it was Berlin. It seemed to be on fire, a charnel house, black smoke drifting everywhere. The city was doomed, everyone knew that, and the Russians were already in control of the eastern half.
The people were on the move, refugees from their own city, carrying what they could, a few pitiful belongings, with the desperate hope that they might somehow get to the West and reach the advancing American army.
Groups of SS were stopping anyone in uniform. Those without a pass or some sort of order were shot on the spot. Shells were dropping in, fired at random by Russian artillery. People cried out in alarm and scattered.
Sturmbahnführer
Baron Max von Berger sat in the front passenger seat of a
Kübelwagen,
the German equivalent of a jeep. He had an SS corporal driving, a sergeant in the rear seat clutching an MP40 Schmeisser machine pistol. As they moved along the Wilhelm-strasse close to the Reich Chancellery, they saw three SS soldiers with two men in civilian clothes on their knees, about to be shot.
Von Berger told his driver to halt. “Stop!” he said. “What is your authority for this?”
The men paused. Their leader, a sergeant, had a brutal unshaven face. He took in von Berger’s black leather coat and the young face, and failed to notice the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords under the collar of the coat.
“And who the hell are you, sonny?”
“
Sturmbahnführer
von Berger.”
The smell of brandy was powerful. “At your age? You look about nineteen. I bet you stole the uniforms, you and your mates here.” He cocked his Schmeisser. “Let’s see
your
authority.”
“Oh, I can show you that.”
Max von Berger took a Luger from his right-hand coat pocket and shot him between the eyes. The sergeant in the rear of the
Kübelwagen
sprayed the other two as they turned to run.
The two men who had been faced with death got up in a daze and von Berger waved them away. “Clear off.” He turned to his driver. “Carry on.”
The
Kübelwagen
turned out of the Wilhelmplatz and into Vorsstrasse and approached the Reich Chancellery, which was, like everything else, a victim of the bombardment, defaced and crumbling. It had long since passed functioning as any kind of headquarters, but under thirty meters of concrete was Adolf Hitler’s last command post, the Führer Bunker. It was a self-supporting, subterranean world complete with electricity, fresh water and extensive kitchens; still in touch with the outside world by radio and telephone; and crowded with people like Bormann and Ribbentrop and numerous generals, all trying to avoid the harsh reality that, thirty meters over their heads, the Third Reich was coming to a disastrous end.
The vehicle ramp was ruined, but there was room to park the
Kübelwagen
to one side. The SS sergeant got out and opened the door for von Berger. “Quick thinking, Herr Baron.”
“A reflex, Karl – it’s been a long war. You didn’t do too badly yourself.” He got out, reached for a briefcase, turned and walked to the two SS sentries at the Bunker entrance.
They sprang to attention. “
Sturmbahnführer.
”
“One of you deliver this to Major General Mohnke’s aide. It’s the report the general wanted on the state of Number Two Brigade’s readiness for the final assault.” One of the men took it and went downstairs. Von Berger turned to the other and clapped him on the shoulder. “Find me a drink. I got shot in the left hip last year, and some mornings it hurts like the devil. I’ll be in the garden.”
The boy went off on the double and von Berger said, “Come on, Karl,” and went round to the once-lovely garden, now a wreck, with some trees uprooted, the occasional shell hole. There was a sadness to the place for what once had been and, for a moment, the artillery seemed like only the sound of distant thunder on the horizon. He took out a cigarette case, selected one, and Karl Hoffer gave him a light. A tough, hard young man of twenty-five, Hoffer was a forester from the Baron’s great estate in the forest of Holstein Heath, the
Schwarze Platz,
the dark place. They’d served together for four years.

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