“My name’s Hartmann, Herries,” the Gestapo investigator said, exposing a row of jagged, yellowing teeth. “Oh, how careless of me, I should really have addressed you by your full title, Obersturmführer Christian Herries, late of the Britische Freikorps.”
Herries felt the bile rising in the back of his throat, but he managed a harsh, guttural laugh. “Britische Freikorps? It sounds like a Gestapo fantasy to me. I take it you are Gestapo, Hartmann.”
“Your accent is flawless and your papers are good, Giesecke tells me, but SD records in Berlin tell a different story.” He clicked his fingers. “Obergefreiter, disarm this man and take him to the block-house.”
Hartmann took his eyes off his captive for only a moment, but it was enough for Herries to pull his automatic from his holster and point it unerringly at the spot where Hartmann’s thick, greasy eyebrows joined on his forehead.
Even though four firearms were bearing down on him, Herries liked the feel of the rough stock in his hand; it gave him the authority he needed.
“This is all an outrageous lie,” he stormed.
Hartmann glanced easily from the barrel of Herries’ gun and into the eyes of its owner.
“The SD in Berlin has a file as long as my arm on you, Herries. It reads well… an easy assimilation into the Waffen-SS, a model foreign-service recruit at Bad Tolz and a good record in combat on the Eastern Front. Then you disappear and show up here. You are the same Christian Herries, are you not?”
Herries held the gun steady. They had him, knew exactly who he was, but there was not a ghost of a chance that they could have unravelled what had happened in Czechoslovakia, learnt of the massacre of his unit in the forests above Chrudim or his trip to Britain.
“Yes, I am he,” he said.
Hartmann gave a disarming smile. “Good, we’re getting somewhere. Why all the fuss, then?” He lowered his Walther and motioned for the three soldiers behind him to do the same.
“I don’t take kindly to having accusations of treachery levelled at me, let alone guns.”
“A little hastiness on our part, I assure you. I have to say, though, that I am still curious as to why you doctored your papers and denied all knowledge of the Britische Freikorps.”
“That’s simple,” Herries said. “Since I returned from the front, I’ve found that the British aren’t too popular here, not after what the RAF did to Dresden and Berlin. I found it was… easier if my nationality was conveniently erased from my service papers.”
“I see,” Hartman said, “that sounds plausible enough, if a little irregular.”
Herries brought his arm down slowly and holstered his automatic. He moved over to the stove and took a swig of coffee from the private’s mug. His eyes flickered around the hut, looking for something with which to retaliate if things started to turn nasty again. They rested for a second on the panzerfaust leaning against the wall, then moved on round the room, finally falling on Hartmann’s face.
“If you would allow me to go on my way now I will forget about this outrage,” he said.
“You’re good at forgetting, aren’t you, Herries?” It was said casually, but there was enough menace there to raise the short hairs on the traitor’s neck.
“What do you mean, Hartmann?” The panzerfaust was close now. If he could squeeze off the round, the detonation in that confined space might just give him a chance.
“Your unit, the men you fought with, for instance. Have you forgotten them, too?”
“They’re all dead, unfortunately.”
“Not all. There was one survivor.”
Herries froze. “Tell me about it, Hartmann. Were you there?”
The Gestapo man laughed. “No, I had better luck than to serve on the Eastern Front. But a certain sergeant by the name of Dietz did not. He made it back to our lines and lived long enough to make a full deposition to the authorities: that you killed your platoon on a mountainside in Czechoslovakia and were last seen heading for Allied lines. In my book, that’s treachery and desertion — and murder.”
Hartmann watched as the blood drained from Herries’ face. “Dietz, it’s not possible…” he mouthed in English.
Hartmann moved in for the kill, keeping his eyes all the time on Herries’ face. He did not notice the traitor take a small step backwards towards the wall.
“You have become quite a celebrity in Berlin,” Hartmann said. “A very thorough description of you, based on your sergeant’s report, is currently circulating around headquarters. The SS don’t like to leave these loose ends untied, much like the Gestapo.” His eyes went cold. “When you altered your papers, Obersturmführer Christian Herries, you should have changed your name, too.”
Herries whipped round and pulled the panzerfaust away from the wall before Hartmann or the guards could react. He pointed it roughly in the middle of the group, briefly registered the horror on their faces, and squeezed the trigger, preparing himself for the detonation of the anti-tank round as it rocketed towards its target.
In the frozen silence of the moment, everyone heard the soft click. The round never left the tube.
In the same instant that Herries realized the panzerfaust was a dud, the private leapt from his chair and knocked it to the ground. Then the others were on him, pinning him against the wall. Herries disintegrated, the sobs racking his body, drowning the savage cries of the soldiers who had cheated death by the miracle of a worker’s carelessness in a munitions factory hundreds of kilometres away.
Hartmann clicked his fingers. Giesecke and the two guards disarmed and dragged Herries to the stove. Hartmann opened the lid, grabbed Herries by his short, blond hair and pushed his face close to the glowing red and white coals.
“Now tell us,” he said, “why make your way back from Czechoslovakia to this place? And who the hell is Stefan Krazianu?” He pushed his head further into the furnace until Herries’ skin drew taut and his eyebrows began to singe.
Herries screamed out. “First we do a deal,” he babbled in English. “You and I. I’ll tell you everything about Archangel. Just let me go.” His voice had risen an octave.
“I don’t care about anything called Archangel,” Hartmann said, pulling him away from the furnace. “I want to know about Krazianu.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. But it’s good information, the best. It does not come cheap.” Herries fell on his knees, clutching at the hem of Hartmann’s coat. The Gestapo officer brought the barrel of his P38 across Herries’ face, cutting his cheek. He cried out with the pain. “No deals,” Hartmann said. “Talk, or your face goes back into the furnace.”
“All right. Krazianu’s no Rumanian, he’s a Royal Air Force officer, real name Squadron Leader Kruze. He’s going to steal an aircraft from this base.”
“What?” Hartmann roared. “Where is he now?”
“I could find him…”
“Then do!” Hartmann pulled him from the guardroom into the half-light of dawn. Herries stumbled in the direction of the hangars, now clearly visible several hundred yards away, beyond the flight operations complex where he had last seen Kruze. The Gestapo policeman and his escort were a few short paces behind him.
“But why?” Hartmann shouted after him. “Why is an RAF officer here, why does he want one of our aircraft?”
“He’s after Archangel,” Herries spluttered, nursing the cut on his cheek with his hand.
“And who is this Archangel?”
Herries turned round to face him. “No,” Hartmann barked, “you talk while you walk.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kruze hid the last earthly remains of Stefan Krazianu — trousers, jacket, tie and documents — under the raised floor of the barrack hut. He stepped out from the narrow gap between the two sleeping blocks, where he had effected his change of persona, as Major Rolf Peiper of 10/KG 77, one of the resident Arado Kampfgeschwader units operating from Oberammergau.