He cut Wulfenbach off before he could make more than a token comment. Wulfenbach continued explaining to his dense underling, “The Reichsführer-SS wanted to ensure that Occupied Britain becomes mainly an SS state controlled by us for the benefit of the SS and the Reich, as what is good for us is good for the Reich. The recent change in the war situation is not necessarily to our advantage. If our illustrious Generalfeldmarschall is unable to prevent the British from stabbing back into our lodgement, the invasion will come to an end and we will be lucky not to fall into British hands.”
“They will not succeed,” Wulfenbach protested. His voice dropped into a brainwashed monotone. “We are the Masters of the Will, and the Will is the Key to Success.”
“There are times,” Stahl said without any hope that Wulfenbach would understand, “when I think that the training and induction courses include too much propaganda and too little common sense. The British intend to launch as powerful an attack as they can muster, one that will aim to punch through the defence lines and push us into the sea. We need Rommel to handle that part of the invasion, which means, for the moment, doing as Rommel orders.”
Wulfenbach worked it out slowly. “So what are we going to do?”
“What we have been ordered to do,” Himmler had issued them his orders personally, and Stahl was determined to see that they were carried out. Of course, if he failed, he meant to ensure the Army got the blame. “We’re going to keep Felixstowe and the surrounding area as peaceful as possible.”
He yawned suddenly, ignoring the shock on Wulfenbach’s face as he continued, “And that will keep us occupied and free of any tint of the blame for failure. Yes, we may fail and lose the lodgement, and if that happens, the SS must not be blamed, understand?”
Wulfenbach nodded slowly. Stahl said. “Good. You are dismissed.”
Stahl’s mind raced as soon as Wulfenbach closed the door behind him. He still hadn’t solved the mystery of what Brigadefuhrer Franz Deininger had been doing with the French tart, something that only fed his frustration. Had Deininger organised his own torture and interrogation? Stahl doubted that Deininger had that sort of courage. It was possible that he might have done just that and somehow hidden it from Stahl and his investigators, or maybe his crazy tale was true. He’d been packed off back to Berlin, and was probably shaking his head in relief at having left Occupied Britain, but Stahl had gotten something out of it. He removed his tunic before standing.
He went into the next room. He had wanted to keep the girl close, and no one would bat an eyelid at an SS man taking a local mistress. He ordered, as he undid his pants, “Stand up and bend over the bed. Now, bitch!”
“Jawohl, Herr Übermensch,” Janine said as she bent over. Deininger, Stahl considered, had definitely found a spectacular piece of ass. Sweet, obedient, and very aware of what could happen to her if she failed to obey. “I am here to serve.”
“Fuck you,” Gregory Davall growled as soon as they had all appeared in the hidden shack. “I don’t fucking care any longer.”
McAllister looked at him grimly. “What have you done with James?”
“I sent him to one of his friends and asked them to take care of him for a few weeks,” Davall hissed. “How the fuck do we tell him that his mother died because his father was too much of a fucking coward to give himself up?”
He punched the ground hard enough to hurt. “The poor boy doesn’t really understand, not yet. Did I ever tell you that he got married to one of the Davidson girls? Oh, they were just toddlers at the time, but they pretended to be husband and wife for a few days until they got bored of the game. He doesn’t even understand that he won’t see Sally again, let alone his mother and…”
“You had no choice,” McAllister said. “Kate was dead the minute they took her…”
“How can you be so fucking cold?” Davall demanded. “What are you made of?”
“I know that the Germans have done this everywhere and will do it here unless we stop them,” McAllister hissed. “I work in the docks, remember? I worked with Frenchmen, Danes, even Spaniards who landed and came out for some rest and relaxation. They talked after a few drinks, Greg. They talked about their lives under the Nazis. There wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t have wanted to live in Britain or America instead, not one… and do you know why? It’s because the Nazis were slowly making their lives unliveable!”
“We all knew what the Nazis were doing up here,” Davall said tapping the side of his head. He moved his hand to his chest. “We just didn’t believe it down here. I have been involved in this movement since 1940, in one role or another, but very few of us really believed just how bad it could become…”
“It’s going to get worse,” McAllister said. “The Germans talk as well, you know, and the BBC was right. They lost a lot of ships at the hands of the boys in the navy.”
“Our boys,” Davall said.
McAllister shrugged. As someone affiliated with the Merchant Navy, he tended to hold the Royal Navy in a certain kind of contempt. He replied, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the Germans have lost most of their supply lines.”
Davall shook his head. “So?”
McAllister blinked and stated, “So? So the Germans are going to be short of food, fuel, weapons… everything they need to fight the war. What that means, as far as we are concerned, is that the Germans are probably going to start putting people on short rations…”
“Well,” Davall snapped, “they’ve certainly reduced the town’s population a little, haven’t they?”
“And they’re going to start restricting us even more,” McAllister continued. “I must say that I find your attitude a little odd… because a little bird told me that the Germans are about to face the might of the British Army.”
Davall looked up, feeling, for the first time, some real hope. “The Army is going to get the Germans out of here?”
“They hope so,” McAllister said. He had taken over some of the communication duties when Davall’s mood had turned too black and depressed. “They want us to do as much as we can to hammer the Germans, cutting their supply lines, harassing their rear areas…”
“Encouraging them to make more reprisals,” Davall added mournfully.
“You don’t have anything else to lose,” Rigby said. “You’re free and easy.”
Davall almost smashed him in the nose.
“I’ve lost my wife,” he complained. The raw pain in his voice made the others flinch. “They want one final effort, right?”
“Right,” McAllister said. He reached out and placed a comforting hand on Davall’s shoulder. “You could sit this one out if you want, Greg. No one here would think any less of you…”
“Count me in,” Davall replied harshly. He wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass him by. “There is one condition. The SS bastard, Stahl, I want him dead and screaming in Hell. I don’t care anymore about rules or something that will let the bastards in London allow him to get away with his crimes. I want him dead!”
In the distance, an owl hooted softly. Davall frowned at the reluctance in McAllister’s voice and understood, but he was beyond caring about anything, but revenge. “That won’t be easy. Greg, I’ll come with you, but he’s well protected.”
“Or so he thinks,” Davall said, hearing the noise of a fox moving through the undergrowth. The old thrill was gone, replaced now by a cold murderous desire… and an understanding of what it would take to get at his enemy and kill him. “Guess who he’s taken into his bed.”