The Valhalla Exchange

13

Jackson went down the rear staircase quickly and paused at the bottom, staying well back in the shadows, but his caution was unnecessary for the hall was quite deserted. He opened the door on his left, slipped inside and switched on the light.

As Claire de Beauville had indicated, it was a cloakroom, and there was an assortment of coats and caps hanging on the pegs — even a couple of helmets. He hesitated, debating, then selected a field cap and heavy officer's greatcoat. He and Hesser were, after all, the same build, and it was a reasonable assumption that in the darkness he would be mistaken for the colonel by anyone who saw him.

When he opened the front door, snow filtered through. He moved out quickly and paused at the top of the steps to get his bearings. Most of the courtyard was in darkness, but in the centre a group of German soldiers, supervised by Howard and Sergeant Hoover, worked in the light of a storm lantern on Big Bertha.

Jackson went down the steps to the left and moved into the protecting dark, following the line of the wall towards the main gate. He paused at the end of the tunnel. It was very quiet except for an occasional murmur of voices from the men in the middle of the courtyard, and a sudden, small wind dashed snow in his face.

It was as if he was listening for something, waiting, he wasn't sure what for, and he felt a shiver of loneliness. Suddenly, in one of those instant flashes of recall, he was once again the fifteen-year-old minister's son, standing in a Michigan snowstorm at one o'clock in the morning, despair in his heart. Home late and the door locked against him for the last time.

And from that to Arlberg — so much in between and yet in some ways so little. He smiled wryly, moved into the tunnel. First door on the left, Claire de Beauville had said. He held the Schmeisser ready and tried the handle of the iron-bound door. It opened gently, he pushed it wide and stepped inside.

The place was lit by a single bulb. Gunther Voss, Gaillard's ertswhile guard, sat in helmet and greatcoat on a stool by a small woodstove, back towards the door, reading a magazine.

'Is that you, Hans?' he demanded without turning round. 'About time.'

Jackson pushed the door shut with a very definite click. Voss glanced over his shoulder, his mouth gaped in astonishment.

'Just do as you're told,' Jackson said, 'and everything will be fine.'

He stepped lightly across the room, picked up Voss's Mauser rifle and tossed it on top of one of the bunks, out of the way.

'What are you going to do?' Voss asked hoarsely. He was absolutely terrified, sweat on his face.

'You've got it wrong, my friend. It's what you're going to do that counts.'

A cold breeze touched Jackson on the back of the neck, there was the faintest of creakings from the door. Finebaum said, 'That's it, hotshot — you're all through.'

Jackson turned in the same moment, the Schmeisset coming up, and Finebaum shot him through the right arm just above the elbow. Jackson was knocked back against the table, dropping the Schmeisser. He forced himself up, clutching his arm, blood spurting between his fingers.

'What are you bucking for, a coffin?' Finebaum demanded, and he nodded to Voss. 'Search him.'

Voss emptied Jackson's pockets of the plastic explosive and the detonators. He held them up without a word and the door was flung open and Howard and Hoover rushed in.

'What goes on here?' Howard demanded.

Finebaum took one of the packets of plastic explosive from Voss and threw it across. 'Just like I said, Captain. The Ardennes all over again.'

Claire de Beauville, waiting in the darkness of her room, heard the shot. Her window looked out over the water garden, not the courtyard, so she couldn't see anything, yet the shot was trouble, whatever the cause. It meant that Jackson had failed. She lit a cigarette and sat on the bed in the dark, smoking nervously, but that wasn't any good. She had to know what had happened, there was no avoiding that fact. She opened the washstand door, took out another Walther automatic pistol, slipped it into her jacket pocket and went out.

When she went into the dining hall, Claudine Chevalier was already there with Canning, Birr and Hesser.

'What's happened?' Claire said. 'I heard a shot.'

'Nothing to be alarmed about.' Canning put an arm about her shoulders. 'Everything's under control. I've just had Howard on the field telephone from the gate. It seems friend Jackson wasn't all he pretended to be. They're bringing him up now.'

She turned away and moved to join Madame Chevalier by the fire. The door opened and Howard entered, followed by Jackson and Finebaum. Jackson was no longer wearing the greatcoat. A scarf was tied about his right arm, blood soaking through.

'Okay, what happened?' Canning demanded.

Howard held up the packets of plastic explosive. 'He was going to blow up the drawbridge winding gear with this. Lucky for all of us Finebaum was on the ball.'

Canning turned to Jackson. 'All right, Bannerman, or whatever your name is. Who are you? What are you?'

'Sorry, General,' Jackson said. 'I've been trying to work that one out for myself for the past thirty years with a total lack of success.'

Before Canning could reply, the door opened and Hoover looked in, 'General, sir?'

'What is it?'

'The German sentry who was on duty in the winding gear room, Private Voss, is out here asking to see you or Colonel Hesser. He says he has information about this man.'

'Let's have him in then.'

Hoover snapped his fingers and Voss stepped into the room. His army greatcoat and the helmet were too big for him and he looked faintly ridiculous.

'He doesn't speak English,' Hesser said. 'I'll deal with this. You've got something to say, Voss?' he carried on in German.

It poured out of Voss like a dam bursting, the words seeming to spill over themselves, and several times he gestured towards Jackson. He finally stopped and Hesser turned, a frown on his face.

'What is it?' Canning demanded. 'Good news or bad?'

Hesser looked at Jackson gravely. 'He says he's seen this man before, yesterday, at Arlberg sitting in a field car with Strasser and Ritter when they first drove into the square.'

'Is that so?'

'He was at that time wearing the uniform of a Hauptsturmfuhrer in the SS.'

'Now that,' Canning said, 'really is interesting. Where did you learn your American, Bannerman? I must congratulate you. They did a first-class job.'

'I think you'll find he was raised to it,' Hesser said. 'You see, Voss noticed that the armshield on this — this gentleman's uniform was a Stars and Stripes.'

There was a heavy silence. Canning glanced at Jackson, then turned back to Hesser incredulously, 'Are you saying this man is a genuine American?'

'In the Waffen-SS, Herr General, there are what are known as the foreign legions. Units of volunteers raised from every country in Europe. There is even a Britisches Freikorps raised from English soldiers, recruited from prisoner-of-war camps.'

'And you're trying to tell me there are Americans who would sell out their country like that?'

'Not many,' Hesser said gently. 'A handful only. They are called the George Washington Legion.'

Canning turned, his arm swinging, and struck Jackson back-handed across the face. 'You dirty yellow bastard,' he shouted.

Jackson staggered back, cannoning into Madame Chevalier. In a second he had an arm around her throat and produced the Walther from the waistband at his back.

'Okay, just stand clear, all of you.'

Claire de Beauville remained where she was on his left, apparently frozen, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jacket.

Jackson said, 'It's a funny old world, General. Not too long ago I was one of the gallant American boys flying for the Finns against the Russians. Remember that one? Then all of a sudden, the Finns are allies of the Nazis and back fighting the Russians again. Now that kind of thing can be just a little confusing.'

'You should have got out,' Canning said hoarsely.

'Maybe you're right. All I know is I was flying with the same guys against the same enemy. Hurricanes, by the way, with swastikas on them. Can you beat that?'

'Just let her go,' Canning said. 'She's an old woman.'

'I'm sorry, General. I can't do that. She's going to walk me right out of that front gate, aren't you, liebling?'

Claire stepped in close, her right hand came out of her pocket, clutching the Walther. She rammed the muzzle into his side and pulled the trigger.

The sound seemed very loud, sending shock-waves round the room. Jackson bucked, crying out in agony, and staggered back. She swung the Walther up, clutching it in both hands now, and pulled the trigger again and again until the gun was empty, driving him back against the wall beside the fireplace.

As his body slumped to the floor she threw the Walther away from her and turned to Canning, her face contorted. 'Hamilton?'

He opened his arms and she ran into them.

She lay on her bed in the dark, as Jackson had lain no more than an hour ago, waiting, afraid to move in case they came back. And then, finally, when all seemed quiet, she got up, went to the door and shot the bolt.

She lifted the washbasin out of its mahogany stand and took out the small compact radio which was secreted inside. An S-phone, they had told her. A British invention, far in advance of any German counterpart, obtained when an OSS agent in France had been picked up by the Gestapo.

She pressed the electronic buzzer that processed the call sign automatically and waited. Strasser's voice sounded in her ear almost instantly, clear and distinct.

'Valhalla here.'

'Exchange. It didn't work. He was caught in the act.'

'Dead?'

She hesitated, but only for a moment. 'Yes.'

'Very well. You'll have to do it yourself. You have sufficient materials left?'

'Yes.' She hesitated again. 'I'm not sure that I can.'

'No choice. You know the consequences if you fail. You should stand a good chance. The Jackson affair will have taken the edge off things. They won't be expecting a similar move from inside. Why should they?' He paused then said, 'I repeat: You know the consequences if you fail.'

'All right.' Her voice was barely a whisper, a dying fall.

'Good. Valhalla out.'

She sat there for a long, long moment, then got up slowly and took the S-phone back to the washstand. Then she got down on her knees, removed the bottom drawer and took out the two packets of plastic explosive and detonators that remained from what she had stolen from the armoury earlier.

Strasser, seated at the desk in Meyer's office, closed the lid of the case containing the radio and locked it. He sat there thinking for a moment, his face grave, then stood up and went out.

Ritter was seated by the fire in the bar enjoying a late supper. Cheese, black bread and beer. Hotter lurked in the background as usual in case of need.

As Ritter looked up, Strasser said, 'Total failure, I'm afraid. He's dead.'

Ritter said calmly, 'What now?'

'The plan still stands. My agent will make another attempt.'

Ritter selected a cigarette from his case and lit it with a splinter from the fire. 'One thing puzzles me. Why didn't this contact of yours make the attempt in the first place? Why the elaborate charade with Jackson?'

'It's really very simple,' Strasser said. 'You see, she's a woman.'

Meyer went up the stairs from the kitchen carrying a tray containing sandwiches, a pot of coffee and a cup. The big Finn on the door regarded him impassively, one of the few who didn't speak a word of German as Meyer well knew. In fact, communication had proved impossible. He spoke fair English, but that had provoked no response, neither had the few phrases of French that he knew. He raised the tray and gestured inside. The Finn slung his Schmeisser, unlocked the door and stood back.

Gaillard was sitting beside the bed, wiping Arnie's damp forehead. The boy, obviously still in high fever, moaned, tossing and turning, clutching at the blankets.

'Ah, there you are, Johann,' Gaillard said in German. 'I'm about ready for that.'

'How is he, Herr Doktor?'

'A little better, though you might not think it to look at him.'

Meyer put the tray on the bedside locker and started to pour the coffee. 'I was in the passageway that leads from the bar to the kitchen just now,' he said in a low voice. 'Don't worry about this one. He can't understand me.'

'So?'

'I heard Herr Strasser and Major Ritter talking. Something about the castle. Strasser said he had a contact in there. A woman.'

Gaillard looked up at him in astonishment. 'Impossible. There are only two women in the place. Madame Chevalier and Claire de Beauville. Frenchwomen to the core, both of them. What are you saying, man?'

'Only what I heard, Herr Doktor. I think they're waiting for something to happen.'

The Finn said something unintelligible, strode into the room and grabbed Meyer by the shoulder. He shoved him outside quickly and closed the door.

Gaillard sat there, staring into space. Impossible to believe. Meyer must have got it wrong. Must have. The boy cried out and Gaillard turned quickly, squeezed out his cloth in the bowl of water and wiped the forehead gently.

Claire de Beauville paused in the shadows at the bottom of the back stairs, listening. All was still. She opened the door on her left gently and stepped into the cloakroom. When she slipped out a few seconds later, she was wearing a military greatcoat and a steel helmet, both far too large for her, but that didn't matter. In the darkness, it was only the general impression that was important.

It was snowing lightly when she went outside and the entire courtyard was shrouded in darkness, no one working on Big Bertha this time. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, went down the steps and started across to the gate.

There was a murmur of conversation up on the wall where the sentries talked in subdued voices. In the tunnel itself, silence. She hesitated at the door of the winding-gear room, then tried the handle gently. The door opened with a slight click. It was dark in there. With a tremendous surge of relief, she stepped inside. Her groping hand found the switch and she turned on the light.

Canning was standing there with Hesser and Birr, Howard and Finebaum against the wall. She stood there, very pale, looking suddenly like some little girl in a macabre game of dressing-up that had gone wrong, lost in that ridiculous greatcoat and steel helmet.

'How did you know?' she said tonelessly.

'Well, I'll tell you, miss, you'll have to blame me for that.' Finebaum slung his M1, crossed to her side and searched her pockets, finding the explosive and detonators instantly. 'You see, the general here, being highly suspicious of our old pal Bannerman, put me on his tail. I was sitting it out up there in the passage by his room when he came out, and the plain fact is, miss, he called on you. The rest, as they say in the movies, you know. I didn't get a chance to tell the general about it right away because everything sort of happened on wheels after that.'

'That'll do, Finebaum,' Canning said.

'Anything you say, sir.'

Finebaum moved away. She stood there, defenceless. Canning glared at her, eyes burning, agony on his face.

It was Hesser who said, strangely gentle, 'Strasser is Bormann then?'

'I don't know. I've never met him. Remember the Gestapo security check on the castle two months ago when we were all interviewed personally? I received my instructions then from that SS colonel, Rattenhuber. He said he was acting for Bormann. A special radio was secreted in my room. I was given times when I could expect messages.'

'The damage to our own radio spares?' Hesser said. 'That was you?'

'Yes.'

'Why, for God's sake?' Canning cried harshly.

'It's really quite simple,' she said. 'Remember my husband, Etienne?'

'Of course. Shot dead while trying to escape from SD headquarters in Paris.'

'So I believed,' she said, 'until Rattenhuber was able to prove to me that wasn't true. Etienne is alive, Hamilton. Has been all along. An inmate of Mauthausen concentration camp.'

'I see,' Justin Birr said. 'And the price of his continued existence was your cooperation.'

'It wasn't enough,' Canning cried. 'You hear me? Not to excuse what you have done.'

The rage, the anguish in him was personal and obvious to everyone there. His hand came up, clutching his Walther.

'Shoot me then, Hamilton, if you must,' she said in the same flat voice. 'It doesn't matter. Nothing matters any longer. Etienne is as good as dead now.'

It was Finebaum who moved first, getting in front of her and facing Canning, his M1 still slung from his shoulder.

'General, I respect you — I respect you like hell, but this isn't the way, sir, and I can't just stand by and let you do it.'

Canning gazed at him wildly, the Walther shaking in his hand, and then something seemed to die inside him, the light faded; he lowered the pistol.

'Captain Howard.'

'Sir.'

'Lower the drawbridge, then open the gate.'

'I beg your pardon, sir?'

'You heard me.' Canning's voice was flat. 'I don't want her here, you hear me? Let her go. She can't harm us now.'

He brushed past her and went outside.

It was Sorsa, in the observation post the Finns had set up in the trees above the first bend, who noticed the drawbridge descending. Ritter had only just arrived from the village and was still in the field car on the road below.

Sorsa called softly, 'Something going on up there at the gate. They're lowering the drawbridge.'

Ritter scrambled up the bank to join him, and as he did so the judas opened and Claire de Beauville stepped into the light. She started across without hesitation, and the moment she reached the opposite side the drawbridge lifted again behind her. She came on.

'You know who it is?' Sorsa demanded.

'Madame de Beauville, one of the prominenti.' Ritter lowered his night-glasses. 'Now I wonder what friend Strasser will have to say about this rather singular turn of events?'

As the drawbridge started to rise again, Canning went back into the winding-gear room. Finebaum and Hoover were turning the massive wheels by hand, Howard watching them. Hesser and Birr talked together in low voices.

Canning's face was white with fury. 'Okay, that's it. I've had enough of hanging around and nothing happening. I'm going out there to see what the situation is.'

'Good God, Hamilton, how on earth are you going to do that?' Birr demanded.

'Leave by the water gate. There's an old skiff in the tunnel there. We can cross the moat in that. They'll be heavily occupied with the woman at the moment. They won't expect any move like this.'

Birr shrugged. 'All right, Hamilton. If that's how you want it — I'm your man.'

'No, not you. You're needed here.'

Howard said, 'If you're looking for volunteers, sir.'

'Captain, in my entire career, I never asked anyone under my command to volunteer for anything. If I need a man, I tell him.' He nodded at Hoover and Finebaum. 'I'll take these two. You stay here to back up Colonel Birr. Any questions?'

Birr shrugged helplessly. 'You give the orders, Hamilton. You're in command.'

It was damp in the tunnel, and cold. They waited while Schneider got the water gate unlocked and then the sergeant-major and a couple of his men got the skiff into the water.

Hesser said, 'It's in a pretty rotten condition, Herr General. Careful your boot doesn't go through the bottom.'

Howard handed Canning his Thompson. 'Better take this, sir. You could need it.'

'Thanks,' Canning said. 'We'll hit those trees as fast as we can, then work our way through and see if we can make out what's happening round that first bend in the road. In and out again, nice and fast. I'd say we should be back here in thirty minutes.'

'We'll be looking for you,' Birr called softly.

Hoover and Finebaum were already in the skiff. Canning joined them sitting on the stern rail and Howard gave them a strong push. The skiff glided across the moat, its prow bit into the snow of the other bank and Finebaum was ashore in an instant. He knelt there, covering Hoover and Canning while they pulled the skiff up out of the water a little.

'Okay,' Canning whispered. 'Let's go.'

'Excuse me, General, but I figure we've got something to settle first.'

'What in the hell are you talking about, soldier?'

'You did say this was a reconnaissance mission, General?'

'Yes.'

'Well, that's good because that's what Harry and me and the captain have been kind of specializing in for the past eighteen months, only I always take point, sir. I mean, I lead the way on account of I seem to have a nose for it and we all live longer. Okay, General?'

'Okay,' Canning said. 'Just as long as we get moving.'

'Right. Just keep your mouth shut and follow my ass.

He was away in an instant, moving very fast, and Canning went after him, Hoover following. They reached the tree line and Finebaum paused to get his bearings. In spite of the darkness, there was a faint luminosity because of the snow.

Finebaum dropped to one knee, his face close to the ground, then he stood up. 'Ski tracks, so these mothers are still around.'

He set off again, going straight up the slope through the trees at a speed which had Canning struggling for breath. Once on top, the ground inclined to the east more gently, through pine trees whose branches were covered with snow.

Finebaum was some yards in advance by now, and suddenly signalled to halt and went forward. He waved them on.

He was crouched beside a snow-covered bush in a small hollow on the ridge above the road. The Finns were encamped below beside the three half-tracks and the field car. The scene was illuminated by a couple of storm lanterns, and in their light it was possible to see Sorsa, Ritter and Claire de Beauville standing by the field car. The Finns squatted around portable field stoves in small groups.

'Hey, this could be a real Turkey shoot,' Finebaum said. 'There must be thirty to thirty-five guys down there. We open up now, we could take half of them out, no trouble.' He caressed the barrel of his M1. 'On the other hand, that would probably mean the lady getting it and you wouldn't like that, would you, General?'

'No, I wouldn't like it at all,' Canning said.

Strange how different it seemed, now that they were apart. Standing down there in the lamplight, she might have been a stranger. No anger in him at all now.

'But when she moves out, General?' Finebaum said. 'That would be different.'

'Very different.' Canning eased the Thompson forward.

Finebaum leaned across to Hoover. 'You move ten yards that way on the other side of the bank, Harry. Give us a better field of fire. I'll look after the General.'

'And who'll look after you?' Hoover asked and wriggled away through the snow.

Finebaum took out a couple of German stick grenades and laid them ready in the snow. They were still talking down there by the field car.

Canning said, 'What are you going to do when you get home, Finebaum?'

'Hell, that's easy, General, I'm going to buy something big like maybe my own hotel up there in Manhattan some place. Fill it with high-class women.'

'And make a fortune out of them or plunge in yourself?'

'That's where I can't make my mind up.' They didn't look at each other, but continued to watch the group below. 'It's a funny old war.'

'Is it?'

'If you don't know, who does, General?'

Claire got into the field car. Ritter climbed in beside her and nodded to Hoffer, who started the engine. 'Beautiful,' Finebaum breathed. 'Just too beautiful. Get ready, General.'

The field car moved into the night, the engine note started to dwindle. And then, as Canning and Finebaum eased forward in the snow to take aim at the men below, there was a sudden whisper in the night like wings beating.

They both turned as a Finn in white winter uniform, the hood of his parka drawn up over his field cap, erupted from the trees and did a perfect stem turn, coming to a dead halt. Finebaum fired from the hip three times very fast, knocking him back among the bushes.

'Watch it, you two,' Hoover yelled. 'Three o'clock high.'

Canning swivelled in the right direction and found another Finn coming down the slope through the trees like a rocket. He started to fire the Thompson, snow dancing in fountains across the face of the slope, and the Finn swerved to one side and disappeared. There was uproar down below as Sorsa shouted commands, ordering his men forward in skirmish order. Someone started to fire from the trees above them, and then below on the road a big Finnish Rottenfuhrer jumped into one of the half-tracks, swung the heavy machine gun and loosed off a burst that cut branches from the trees above Canning's head.

'You wanted action, General, you got it,' Finebaum said, and called to Hoover, 'Hey, Harry, get ready to move out, old buddy. One, two, three — the old routine. Say if you understand.'

There was no reply. He emptied his rifle into the men and the road below and shoved in another clip. 'Okay, General, let's move it,' he said and crawled through the bushes towards Hoover.

The sergeant was lying on his back, eyes open wide as if surprised that this could happen to him after all this time. There was a large and very ragged hole in his throat where two machine-gun bullets had hit together.

Finebaum turned and started to crawl back to their original position. The Finns were half-way up the slope at the side of the road now. He picked up the first stick grenade and tossed it over. There was a deafening explosion and cries of anguish. He ducked as the Rottenfuhrer in the half-track swung the machine gun in his direction, kicking a wall of snow six feet into the air.

'Goodbye, old buddy!' Finebaum shouted and tossed the second grenade.

It seemed to drift through the night in a kind of slow motion. The Rottenfuhrer ducked, it dropped into the halftrack beside him. A second later it exploded, lifting him bodily into the air.

Finebaum yelled, 'Okay, General, let's get to hell out of here,' and he got to his feet and ran up the slope, head down.

Canning lost contact with him almost instantly, but kept on running, clutching the Thompson gun across his chest with both hands, aware of the spotlight over the castle gate in the distance.

There was a whisper of skis somewhere up above him on his right among the trees, and he swung the Thompson and fired. There were two rifle shots in reply and he kept on running, head down.

As he came out of the trees on the final ridge, there was a sudden swish of skis. He was aware of movement on his right, turned too late as the Finn ran straight into him. They went over the edge together, rolling over and over through deep snow, the man's skis tearing free.

Canning didn't relinquish his hold on the Thompson, not for a second, flailing out at the Finn wildly as the man tried to get up, but felt the side of the skull disintegrate under the impact of the steel butt.

He could hardly breathe now, staggering like a drunken man across the final section of open ground, aware of the deadly swish of skis closing behind, but as he fell down the bank of the moat, Finebaum was there, giving them one burst after another.

'Come on, you mothers! Is that the best you can do?'

Canning lurched into the water, thrashing out wildly, the Thompson still in his right hand. He went under once and then someone had him by the collar.

'Easy, General. Easy does it,' Jack Howard was saying.

Canning crouched against the wall, totally exhausted, in real physical pain. Hesser and Birr leaned over him. The German forced the neck of a flask between his teeth. It was brandy.

Canning didn't think anything could ever have tasted quite that good in his life before.

He realized that he was still clutching the Thompson and held it up to Howard. 'I lost your sergeant.'

'Hoover?' Howard said. 'You mean he's dead?'

'As a mackerel. Took two heavy-chopper rounds straight in the throat.' Finebaum squatted beside Canning. 'Anyone got a cigarette? Mine are all wet.'

Hesser gave him one and a light. Howard exploded, 'God dammit, Finebaum, is that all you can say? That's Harry out there.'

'What the hell you expect me to do, recite the prayers for the dead or something?'

Howard walked away along the tunnel. Canning said, 'You saved my skin out there, Finebaum. I won't forget that.'

'You did okay, General. You did as you was told. That's lesson number one in this game.'

'Game?' Canning said. 'Is that how you see it?'

Finebaum inhaled deeply and took his time in replying. 'I don't know about that, General, but I'll tell you one thing. Sometimes at night, I wake up frightened — scared half to death, and you know why?'

'No.'

'Because I'm afraid it'll soon be over.'

For the first time since Canning had known him, he didn't sound as if he was trying to make a joke.