Читать книгу The Valhalla Exchange - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 8

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And at Schloss Arlberg on the River Inn, 450 miles south from Berlin and fifty-five miles north-west of Innsbruck, Lieutenant-Colonel Justin Birr, 15th Earl of Dundrum, leaned from the narrow window at the top of the north tower and peered down into the darkness of the garden, eighty feet below.

He could feel the plaited rope stir beneath his hands, and behind him in the gloom Paul Gaillard said, ‘Is he there?’

‘No, not yet.’ A moment later the rope slackened, there was a sudden flash of light below, then darkness again. ‘That’s it,’ Birr said. ‘Now me, if I can get through this damned window. Hamilton certainly can pick them.’

He stood on a stool, turned to support himself on Gaillard’s shoulders and eased his legs into space. He stayed there for a moment, hands on the rope. ‘Sure you won’t change your mind, Paul?’

‘My dear Justin, I wouldn’t get halfway down before my arms gave out.’

‘All right,’ Birr said. ‘You know what to do. When I get down, or perhaps I should say if I do, we’ll give you a flash. You haul the rope up, stick it in that cubbyhole under the floorboards then get to hell out of it.’

‘You may rely on me.’

‘I know. Give my regards to the ladies.’

‘Bon chance, my friend.’

Birr let himself slide and was suddenly alone in the darkness, swaying slightly in the wind, his hands slipping from knot to knot. Home-made rope and eighty feet to the garden. I must be mad.

It was raining slightly, not a single star to be seen anywhere and already his arms were beginning to ache. He let himself slide faster, his feet banging against the wall, scratching his knuckles, at one point twirling round madly in circles. Quite suddenly, the rope parted.

My God, that’s it! he thought, clamping his jaws together in the moment of death to stop himself from crying out, then hit the ground after falling no more than ten feet and rolled over in wet grass, winded.

There was a hand at his elbow, helping him to his feet. ‘You all right?’ Canning said.

‘I think so.’ Birr flexed his arms. ‘A damn close thing, Hamilton, but then it usually is when you’re around.’

‘We aim to please.’ Canning flashed his torch upwards briefly. ‘Okay, let’s get moving. The entrance to the sewer I told you about is in the lily pond on the lower terrace.’

They moved down through the darkness cautiously, negotiated a flight of steps and skirted the fountain at the bottom. The ornamental lily pond was on the other side of a short stretch of lawn. There was a wall at the rear of it, water gushing from the mouth of a bronze lion’s head, rattling into the pool below. Birr had seen it often enough on exercise. ‘Okay, here we go.’

Canning sat down and lowered himself into the water, kneedeep. He waded forward, Birr followed him and found the American crouched beside the lion’s head in the darkness.

‘You can feel the grille here, half under the water,’ Canning whispered. ‘If we can get that off we’re straight into the main drainage system. One tunnel after the other all the way down to the river.’

‘And if not?’ Birr inquired.

‘Short rations again and a stone cell, but that, as they say, is problematical. Right now we’ve got about ten minutes before Schneider and that damned Alsatian of his come by on garden patrol.’

He produced a short length of steel bar from his pocket, inserted it in one side of the bronze grille and levered. There was an audible crack, the metal, corroded by the years, snapping instantly. He pulled hard and the entire grille came away in his hands.

‘You see how it is, Justin. All you have to do is live right. After you.’

Birr crouched down on his hands and knees in the water and switching on his torch crawled through into a narrow brick tunnel. Canning moved in behind him, pulling the grille back into place.

‘Don’t you think you’re getting a little old for Boy Scouts, Hamilton?’ Birr whispered over his shoulder.

‘Shut up and get moving,’ Canning told him. ‘If we can reach the river and find a boat by midnight, we’ll have six or seven hours to play with before they find we’re gone.’

Birr moved on, crawling on hands and knees through a couple of feet of water, the torch in his teeth. He emerged after a few yards into a tunnel that was a good five feet in diameter so that he could actually walk if he crouched a little.

The water was only about a foot deep here, for the tunnel sloped downwards steeply, and the smell was not unpleasant, like old leaves and autumn on the river in a punt.

‘Keep going,’ Canning said. ‘From what I found out from that gardener, we emerge into the main sewer pretty quickly. From there, it’s a straight run down to the Inn.’

‘I can smell it already,’ Birr told him.

A few minutes later the tunnel did indeed empty into the main sewer in a miniature waterfall. Birr flashed his torch at the brown foam-flecked waters which rushed by several feet below.

‘My God, just smell it, Hamilton. This really is beyond a joke.’

‘Oh, get in there, for Christ’s sake.’ Canning gave him a shove and Birr dropped down, losing his balance and disappeared beneath the surface. He was on his feet in an instant and stood there cursing, still clutching his torch. ‘It’s liquid shit, Hamilton. Liquid shit.’

‘You can have a wash when we get to the river,’ Canning said and he lowered himself down to join him. ‘Now let’s make time.’

He started down the tunnel, torch extended before him, and Birr followed for perhaps sixty or seventy yards and then the tunnel petered out in a blank wall.

‘That’s it then,’ Birr said. ‘And a bloody good job too as far as I’m concerned. We’ll have to go back.’

‘Not on your sweet life. The water’s got to go somewhere.’ Canning slipped his torch into his pocket, took a deep breath and crouched. He surfaced at once. ‘As I thought. The tunnel continues on a lower level. I’m going through.’

Birr said, ‘And what if it’s twenty or thirty yards long, you idiot – or longer? You’ll not have time to turn and come back. You’ll drown.’

‘So I’ll take that chance, Justin.’ Canning was tying one end of the rope about his waist now. ‘I want out – you understand? I’ve no intention of sitting on my ass up there in the castle waiting for the Reichsführer’s hired assassins to come and finish me off.’ He held out the other end of the rope. ‘Fasten that round your waist if you want to come too. If I get through, I’ll give it a pull.’

‘And if not?’

‘Winter roses on my grave. Scarlet ones like those Claire cultivated in the conservatory.’ He grinned once, took a deep breath and disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Justin Birr waited. The electric torch gave only a minimal light, barely sufficient to pick out the slime on the ancient stone walls or the occasional rat that swam past in the dark water. The stench was frightful – really most unpleasant – and by now the cold had cut through to his very bones, or so it seemed.

He was aware of a sudden tug and hesitated, wondering for the moment whether it was simply imagination. There was another tug, more insistent this time. ‘All right, damn you,’ he said and extinguished the torch and put it in his breast pocket. His hands felt under the water for the edge of the arched roof. He took a deep breath and went down.

His feet banged against the stonework, but he kicked desperately, aware of the rope tugging at his waist, and then, just when he was convinced he couldn’t keep going any longer, he saw a faint light ahead and surfaced, gasping for breath.

Canning, crouching out of the water on the side of a larger tunnel, reached down to pull him up. ‘Easy does it.’

‘Really, Hamilton, this particular small jaunt of yours is getting out of hand. I smell like a lavatory gone wrong and I’m frozen into the bargain.’

Canning ignored him. ‘Listen – I can hear the river. Can’t be far now.’

He set off at a fast pace, slipping and sliding on the slope of the tunnel, and Birr got to his feet wearily and went after him. And then Canning was laughing excitedly and running, splashing knee-deep in the brown water.

‘I can see it. We’re there.’

‘Indeed you are, gentlemen. Indeed you are.’

A brilliant spot was turned on, flooding the tunnel with light. Birr hesitated, then went forward and dropped on his hands and knees beside Canning who crouched at the large circular grille which blocked the end of the tunnel. Schneider knelt on one knee at the other side, several armed men behind him.

‘We’ve been waiting for you, gentlemen. Magda was growing impatient.’

His Alsatian bitch whined eagerly, pushing her muzzle between the bars. Canning tugged at her ears. ‘You wouldn’t hurt me, you silly old bitch, would you?’

‘All right, Sergeant-Major,’ Justin Birr said. ‘We’ll come quietly.’

Oberstleutnant Max Hesser leaned back in his chair, got out his cigarette case and opened it one-handed with a skill born of long practice. Oberleutnant Schenck waited at the other side of the desk. He was dressed for duty, a pistol at his belt.

‘Extraordinary,’ the colonel said. ‘What on earth will Canning get up to next?’

‘God knows, Herr Oberst.’

‘And the note you received telling you that the escape attempt was to take place. You say it was unsigned?’

‘As you may see for yourself, Herr Oberst.’

He passed a slip of paper across and Hesser examined it. ‘“Canning and Birr escaping through the main sewer tonight.” Crudely done in pencil and block capitals but perfect German.’ He sighed. ‘So there is a traitor in the camp. One of their friends betrays them.’

‘Not necessarily, Herr Oberst, if I might make a suggestion.’

‘But of course, man. Carry on.’

‘The general’s knowledge of the sewer and drainage system must have been gained from somewhere. One of the soldiers or a servant, perhaps.’

‘Ah, I see your point,’ Hesser said. ‘Who took a bribe, then slipped you that anonymous note to make sure the escape attempt would prove abortive.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t like it, Schenck. It leaves a bad taste.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, I suppose I’d better have them in.’

Schenck withdrew and Hesser stood up and moved to the drinks cabinet. He was a handsome man in spite of the deep scar which bisected his forehead, curving into the right eye which was now glass; the uniform was trim and well-fitting, the empty left sleeve tucked into the belt.

He was pouring himself a brandy when the door opened behind him. He turned as Schenck ushered Canning and Birr into the room, Schneider behind them.

‘Good God in heaven,’ Hesser said.

They indeed presented a sorry sight, barefoot, covered in filth, water dripping on to the carpet. Hesser hurriedly filled another two glasses.

‘From the looks of you, I’d say you needed it.’

Canning and Birr slopped forward. ‘Very civil of you,’ Birr said.

Canning grinned and raised his glass. ‘Prosit.’

‘And now to business.’ Hesser went back to his desk and sat down. ‘This is a nonsense, gentlemen. It must stop.’

‘The duty of an officer to make every attempt to achieve his liberty and rejoin his unit,’ Canning said. ‘You know that.’

‘Yes, under other circumstances I would agree with you, but not now. Not on the 26th of April, 1945. Gentlemen, after five and a half years, the war draws to a close. It’s almost over – any day now. All we have to do is wait.’

‘What for – an SS execution squad?’ Canning said. ‘We know what the Führer told Berger when he asked about the prominenti. He said shoot them. Shoot all of them. Last I heard, Himmler agreed with him.’

‘You are in my charge, gentlemen. I have tried to make this plain many times before.’

‘Great,’ Canning said. ‘And what happens if they drive up to the front door with a directive from the Führer? Will you pull up the drawbridge or order us to be shot? You took the soldier’s oath, didn’t you, just like everyone else in the German armed forces?’

Hesser stared up at him, very white, the great scar glowing angrily. Birr said gently, ‘He does have a point, Colonel.’

Hesser said, ‘I could put you gentlemen on short rations and confine you to your cells, but I won’t. Under the circumstances and considering the point in time at which we all stand, I shall have you returned to prisoners’ section and your friends. I hope you will respond in kind to this gesture.’

Schenck placed a hand on Canning’s arm and the general pulled himself free. ‘For God’s sake, Max.’ He leaned across the desk, voice urgent. ‘There’s only one way out for you. Send Schenck here in search of an Allied unit while there’s still time. Someone you can surrender to legally, saving your own honour and our skins.’

Hesser stared at him for a long moment, then said, ‘Have the general and Lord Dundrum returned to their quarters now, Schenck.’

‘Herr Oberst.’ Schenck clicked his heels and turned to the two men. ‘General?’

‘Oh, go to hell,’ Canning told him, turned and walked out.

Birr paused. For a moment it was as if he intended to say something. Instead, he shrugged and followed. Schenck and Schneider went after them. Hesser went back to the cabinet and poured himself another drink. As he was replacing the bottle, there was a knock on the door and Schenck came back in.

‘Would you care for one?’ Hesser asked.

‘No thank you, Herr Oberst. My stomach takes kindly only to beer these days.’

He waited patiently. Hesser walked across to the fire. ‘You think he’s right, don’t you?’ Schenck hesitated and Hesser said, ‘Come on, man. Speak your mind.’

‘Very well, Herr Oberst. Yes, I must say I do. Let’s get it over and done with, that’s my attitude. If we don’t then I greatly fear that something terrible may take place here, the results of which may drag us all down.’

‘You know something?’ Hesser kicked a log that rolled forward back into place in a shower of sparks. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you.’

Canning and Birr, followed by Schneider, two soldiers with Schmeissers and Magda, crossed the main hall and mounted the staircase, so wide that a company of soldiers could have marched up line abreast.

‘I was once shown over MGM studios by Clark Gable,’ Birr said. ‘This place often reminds me of Stage Six. Did I ever tell you that?’

‘Frequently,’ Canning told him.

They crossed the smaller, upper landing and paused at an oaken, iron-bound door outside of which stood an armed sentry. Schneider produced a key about a foot long, inserted it in the massive lock and turned. He pushed open the door and stood back.

‘Gentlemen.’ As they moved in he added, ‘Oh, by the way, the upper section of the north tower is out of bounds and, in future, there will be two guards in the water garden at all times.’

‘That’s really very considerate of you,’ Birr said. ‘Don’t you agree, General?’

‘You can play that vaudeville act all night, but I’ve had it,’ Canning said and started up the dark stone stairway.

Birr followed him and the door clanged shut behind them. They were now in the north tower, the central keep of the castle, that portion to which in the old days the defenders had always retreated in the last resort. It was completely isolated from the rest of Schloss Arlberg, the lowest window fifty feet from the ground and heavily barred. It made a relatively secure prisoners’ section under most circumstances and meant that Hesser was able to allow the inmates certain freedom, at least within the confines of the walls.

Madame Chevalier was playing the piano, they could hear her clearly – a Bach prelude, crisp and ice-cold, all technique, no heart. The kind of thing she liked to play to combat the arthritis in her fingers. Canning opened the door of the dining hall.

It was a magnificent room, a high arched ceiling festooned with battle standards from other times, a magnificent selection of fifteenth-and sixteenth-century armour on the walls. The fireplace was of baronial proportions. Gaillard and Claire de Beauville sat beside the log fire, smoking and talking quietly. Madame Chevalier was at the Bechstein.

At the sight of Canning and Birr, she stopped playing, gave a howl of laughter and started into the ‘Dead March’ from Saul.

‘Very, very humorous,’ Canning told her. ‘I’m splitting my sides laughing.’

Claire and Paul Gaillard stood up. ‘But what happened?’ Gaillard said. ‘The first I knew that there was anything amiss was when men arrived to lock the upper tower door. I’d just come down after securing the rope.’

‘They were waiting for us, that’s what happened,’ Birr said. ‘Dear old Schneider and Magda panting eagerly over Hamilton as usual. He’s become the great love of her life.’

‘But how could they have known?’ Claire demanded.

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Canning said.

‘I should have thought it obvious.’ Birr crossed to the sideboard and helped himself to a brandy. ‘That gardener, Schmidt. The one you got the information about the drainage system from. Maybe a hundred cigarettes wasn’t enough.’

‘The bastard,’ Canning said. ‘I’ll kill him.’

‘But after you’ve had a bath, Hamilton – please.’ Claire waved a hand delicately in front of her nose. ‘You really do smell a little high.’

‘Camembert – out of season,’ said Gaillard.

There was general laughter. Canning said grimly, ‘The crackling of thorns under a pot, isn’t that what the Good Book says? I hope you’re still laughing, all of you, when the Reichsführer’s thugs march you out to the nearest wall.’ He walked out angrily during the silence that followed. Birr emptied his glass. ‘Strange, but I can’t think of a single funny thing to say, so, if you’ll excuse me …’

After he’d gone, Gaillard said, ‘He’s right, of course. It isn’t good. Now if Hamilton or Lord Dundrum had got away and reached American or British troops, they could have brought help.’

‘Nonsense, this whole business.’ Claire sat down again. ‘Hesser would never stand by and see us treated like that. It isn’t in his nature.’

‘I’m afraid Colonel Hesser would have very little to do with it,’ Gaillard said. ‘He’s a soldier and soldiers have a terrible habit of doing what they’re told, my dear.’

There was a knock at the door, it opened and Hesser came in. He smiled, his slight half-bow extending to the three of them, then turned to Madame Chevalier.

‘Chess?’

‘Why not?’ She was playing a Schubert nocturne now, full of passion and meaning. ‘But first settle an argument for us, Max. Paul here believes that if the SS come to shoot us you’ll let them. Claire doesn’t believe you could stand by and do nothing. What do you think?’

‘I have the strangest of feelings that I will beat you in seven moves tonight.’

‘A soldier’s answer, I see. Ah, well.’

She stood up, came round the piano and moved to the chess table. Hesser sat opposite her. She made the first move. Claire picked up a book and started to read. Gaillard sat staring into the fire, smoking his pipe. It was very quiet.

After a while the door opened and Canning came in, wearing a brown battledress blouse and cream slacks. Claire de Beauville said, ‘That’s better, Hamilton. Actually you really look rather handsome tonight. Crawling through sewers must be good for you.’

Hesser said, without looking up, ‘Ah, General, I was hoping you’d put in an appearance.’

‘I’d have thought we’d seen enough of each other for one night,’ Canning told him.

‘Perhaps, but the point you were making earlier. I think your argument may have some merit. Perhaps we could discuss it in the morning. Let’s say directly after breakfast?’

‘Now you’re damn well talking,’ Canning said.

Hesser ignored him, leaned forward, moved a bishop. ‘Checkmate, I think.’

Madame Chevalier examined the board and sighed. ‘Seven moves you told me. You’ve done it in five.’

Max Hesser smiled. ‘My dear Madame, one must always try to be ahead of the game. The first rule of good soldiering.’

And in Berlin, just after midnight, Bormann still sat in his office, for the Führer himself worked through the night these days, seldom going to bed before 7 a.m., and Bormann liked to remain close. Close enough to keep others away.

There was a knock at the door and Rattenhuber entered, a sealed envelope in his hand. ‘For you, Reichsleiter.’

‘Who from, Willi?’

‘I don’t know, Reichsleiter. I found it on my desk marked Priority Seven.’

Which was a code reference for communications of the most secret sort, intended for Bormann’s eyes alone.

Bormann opened the envelope, then looked up, no expression in his eyes. ‘Willi, the Fieseler Storch in which Feldmarschall Greim and Hannah Reitsch flew in to Berlin has been destroyed. Get on to Gatow at once. Tell them they must send another plane by morning, one capable of flying directly out of the city.’

‘Very well, Reichsleiter.’

Bormann held up the envelope. ‘Know what’s in here, Willi? Some very interesting news. It would appear that our beloved Reichsführer, dear Uncle Heini, has offered to surrender to the British and Americans.’