The Valhalla Exchange

15

Claudine Chevalier was sitting at the piano in the dining hall playing 'The Girl with the Flaxen Hair' by Debussy. It was one of her favourite pieces, mainly because the composer himself had tutored her in how to play it when she was twelve years of age.

There was a knock at the door and Finebaum entered. His M1 was slung from his left shoulder, a Schmeisser from his right, and there were three stick grenades in his belt.

She kept on playing. 'Trouble, Mr Finebaum?'

'Well, I'll tell you, ma'am. General Canning, he thought it would be a good idea to have someone look out for you personally. You know what I mean?'

'You?' she said.

'I'm afraid so, ma'am. Mind if I smoke?'

'Not at all — and I couldn't be in better hands. What do we do?'

'I'll take you up to the top of the tower when the time comes — out of the way of things.'

'But not now?'

'No need. They haven't even knocked at the gate yet. Say, my old lady used to play piano. Nothing like that though. I learned the clarinet when she got one cheap, from my Uncle Paul. He was a pawnbroker in Brooklyn.'

'Did you enjoy it?'

'Well, I ain't Benny Goodman but I made front row with Glenn Miller.'

'But that's wonderful. Do you like this piece that I'm playing now?'

'No, ma'am. It makes my stomach feel cold. It worries me, I don't know why, and that ain't good because I've got enough to worry about.'

'Ah, I see. Perhaps you would prefer something like this?'

She started to play 'Night and Day'. Finebaum moved round the piano to look down at the keys. 'Hey — that's great. That's really something. I mean, where did you ever learn to play like that?'

'Oh, one gets around, Mr Finebaum. Isn't that the phrase?'

'I guess so.'

A roar of engines shattered the morning stillness.

'Oh, my God,' she whispered and stopped playing.

As Finebaum ran to the window there was a sudden booming explosion and the rattle of machine-gun fire.

Gaillard, high in the woods now, on the upper slopes of the mountain, heard the echoes of that first outbreak of firing and paused to listen. His lungs were aching as he struggled for breath, leaning heavily on his sticks, and his legs were trembling slightly.

He was too old, of course. Too many years under his belt, and the truth was he simply wasn't fit enough. When it came right down to it, the only thing he really had going for him was technique and the skill born of his natural genius and years of experience.

The Finns, on the other hand, were young men, battle-hardened to endure anything and at the peak of their physical fitness. He really didn't stand a chance — had not done from the beginning.

He langlaufed across the small plateau that tilted gently upwards and paused on the ridge. On the other side the snow slope was almost vertical, dropping into grey mist, no means of knowing what was down there at all.

He turned and saw the first of the Finns appear from the trees on the other side of the plateau no more than thirty yards away. Gestrin was number three and the big Finn waved his hand to bring the patrol to a halt.

He pushed up his goggles. 'All right, Doctor. You've put up a wonderful show and we admire you for it, but enough of this foolishness. Now we go home.'

There were two more violent explosions somewhere in the mist below. The rattle of small-arms fire persisting. Gaillard thought of his friends; of Claudine Chevalier and of Claire de Beauville and what had happened to her.

He was filled with a fierce, sudden anger and shouted down at the Finns, 'All right, you bastards! Let's see what you're made of.'

He went straight over the edge of that near-vertical drop, crouching, skis nailed together, and plunged into the mist. The Finns, as they reached the edge, followed, one after the other, without hesitation.

Canning, Birr and Hesser were in the tunnel, Howard on the wall, when the engine's roar first shattered the morning calm. A few moments later, the half-tracks emerged into view and took up position. The Finns spilled out and started to deploy. Hoffer and the men under his personal command took up position to the left.

Howard trained his glasses on them, trying to make out what they were doing. In the moment of realization there came a tongue of orange flame; a second later, a violent explosion as the first Panzerfaust projectile struck the wall beside the drawbridge.

Everyone crouched. 'What in the hell was that?' Birr demanded.

'Panzerfaust,' Hesser replied. 'It's an antitank weapon rather like your bazooka.'

'So I see,' Canning said grimly, ducking as another violent explosion rocked the drawbridge — a direct hit this time.

'Obviously it's the chains they're after,' Birr said. 'I wonder how long it will take?'

Heavy machine-gun fire raked the top of the wall, bullets ricocheting into space. 'Give them everything we've got,' Canning cried. 'Really pour it on.'

Schneider opened up with the MG34 and the rest of the Germans backed him with their Mauser rifles, sniping from the embrasures in the wall. The Finns took refuge behind the half-tracks, one of which moved position slightly to cover the Panzerfaust group.

The fourth projectile, fired by Hoffer personally, scored a direct hit on the drawbridge just below the chain-mounting on the left-hand side. The woodwork disintegrated, the chain coupling tore free, the drawbridge sagged.

'Strike one,' Howard said. 'Not long now.'

Two more projectiles homed in, a third landing just below the top of the wall above the gate, its shrapnel killing Schneider and the other two men in the machine-gun crew instantly, hurling the MG34 on its side, battered and useless.

Canning crawled across to Howard, blood on his face.

'Not long now.' He turned to Birr and Hesser. 'Justin, you and Howard stay up here as long as you can with half a dozen men. Max, you drop back on the tower.'

'And what about you?' Birr demanded.

'Big Bertha and I have business together. You make things as hot for those bastards as you can on the way in, then get off the wall and join Max in the tower.'

Birr started to argue, but in the same moment there was another frightful explosion just below them. The remaining chain disintegrated, the drawbridge fell down across the moat with a resounding crash.

There was a general cheer from the Finns, and Ritter jumped from the half-track to join Hoffer.

'How many have you left?'

'Two, Sturmbannfuhrer.'

'Make them count, Erich. The gate this time.' He ran to the other half-track and Sorsa leaned down.

'Hoffer is going to blast the gate,' Ritter said. 'You make your move as soon as you like. Smash straight in and we'll cover you. Good luck.'

Sorsa smiled, waved a gloved hand and pulled down his Panzer goggles. He shouted an order in Finnish and a dozen men scrambled over the side and joined him in the halftrack. He clapped his driver on the shoulder and, as they started to move forward, took over the machine gun himself.

The first of Hoffer's last two projectiles punched a hole through the massive gate and exploded at the end of the tunnel. The blast knocked Canning, standing beside Big Bertha, clean off his feet, showering him with dirt and tiny fragments of shrapnel.

There was more blood on his face, his own this time, and as he started to get up, Hoffer fired the remaining Panzerfaust. The left-hand side of the gate sagged and fell in.

The lead half-track was half-way there, Sorsa firing the machine gun furiously, his men backing him up, and Ritter followed in the second half-track, spraying the top of the wall with such a volume of fire that it was virtually impossible for the handful of defenders to reply.

Howard tossed a couple of stick grenades over at random as the lead half-track got close and Birr grabbed his arm. 'Let's get out of here!'

Of the German soldiers who had stayed on the wall with them, only three were left on their feet. Howard beckoned to them now, and they all went down the steps on the run and started across the courtyard to where Hesser and seven of his men waited on the steps of the tower entrance.

Canning leaned heavily on the cannon, blood running into his eyes, and Howard swerved towards him. The general sagged to one knee, groping for the length of smouldering fuse he had dropped as Howard joined him.

'Get the hell out of here!' Canning ordered.

But by then it was too late, for, as Howard handed him the fuse, the lead half-track smashed what was left of the gates from their hinges. It emerged from the tunnel, Sorsa firing the machine gun, and Canning touched the end of his fuse to the powder charge.

Big Bertha belched fire and smoke in a thunderous roar, rocking back on her solid wheels, disgorging her improvised charge of assorted metal fragments and chain at point-blank range, killing Sorsa and every man in the half-track instantly, hurling the vehicle over to one side and back against the wall.

Both Canning and Howard were thrown down by the force of the explosion. As the roar of Ritter's half-track filled the tunnel, Howard grabbed the general by the arm, hauled him to his feet and urged him into a stumbling run.

Hesser and his men were firing furiously now, retreating up the steps and back through the door at the foot of the north tower, but continuing to give them covering fire. As Howard and Canning made it to the steps, the half-track emerged from the tunnel across the courtyard and its machine gun tracked them across the cobbles.

Hesser's men were already getting the doors closed when, as Howard urged Canning up the steps, the general stumbled and fell. Hesser and Birr ducked out through the narrowing opening and hurried down the steps to help.

Howard and Birr got Canning between them and dragged him up the steps. Behind them, Hesser turned, firing a Schmeisser one-handed across the courtyard, catching a full burst from the machine gun in reply that drove him across the steps, hurling him over the edge into the snow.

A second later, Howard and Birr staggered in through the narrowing gap with Canning and the massive doors closed.

Gaillard's speed was tremendous as he hurtled down into the grey mist, yet he was entirely without fear. What lay ahead it was impossible to say. He could be rushing straight to his death, his only consolation the knowledge that his pursuers would follow him.

And what good would that be? he asked himself, suddenly angry, and moved into a parallel swing, changing course, the right-hand edge of his skis biting into the snow.

The mist was thinning now and he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the lead Finn was perhaps forty yards behind, closely followed by another. Gestrin and the other two were a little further back.

Gaillard came out of an S-turn and went down vertically again, knees together, and suddenly, a gust of wind dissolved the remaining shreds of mist in an instant and below was the valley, an awesome sight, the present slope vanishing into infinity fifty yards further on.

Gaillard didn't deviate, but held his course true, skis so close together that they might have been one. At the last possible moment, that edge which meant certain death rushing to meet him, he hurled himself into a left-hand Christie. It came off beautifully and he had a brief impression of the glacier far below as he skirted the ultimate edge.

His pursuers were not so lucky, for behind him the lead Finn went straight over the edge with a terrible cry, his companion following him.

Gaillard, out of the area of immediate danger, started to traverse the lower slope. Above him, Manni Gestrin and his two remaining comrades changed course and went after him.

Canning had a deep cut in his forehead above the right eye of a kind that would require five or six stitches at least. Howard hastily bound a field dressing around it.

'Is he all right?' Birr asked.

'Sure I'm all right,' Canning told him. 'How many of us left?'

'Six Germans and us three. Finebaum upstairs, of course.'

'Not so good.'

He peered out through a spyhole in the door. The remaining half-track had retreated into the tunnel. Nothing moved.

'I'd say they could walk in here any time they choose,' Howard said.

'Then we retreat upstairs, floor by floor, like I told you.'

The half-track nosed out of the mouth of the tunnel and stopped. Its heavy machine gun, Hoffer firing, started to spray the door at the rate of 850 rounds per minute. As Canning and the others went down, the door started to shake to pieces above them.

'This is bad,' the general cried. 'No good staying. Better get up those stairs now while we still have a choice.'

He called to the Germans and they all started to drop back.

Gaillard was incredibly tired. His body ached and his knees hurt. The amazing thing was that he hadn't fallen once, but now, as he went into a right-hand Christie to make for the cover of pine trees, he snarled a ski and took a bad tumble.

He slid for some considerable distance before coming to a halt, winded. His skis were still on and apparently undamaged, which was something. No broken bones in evidence. But God, how tired he was. Hardly enough strength to get up. He turned and saw Gestrin and his two comrades traversing the slope above him, terribly close now.

Suddenly, the earth shook, there was a tremendous rumbling like an underground explosion, and above the Finns the snow seemed to boil up in a great cloud.

Avalanche! Not surprising really, fresh snow falling so late in the season. But already Gaillard was on his feet and dropping straight down the slope, taking that vertical line again, for the only way to beat an avalanche was to stay in front of it — one of the first lessons he'd learned as a boy in the Vosges.

And the trees were not too far away, some sort of protection there. He moved to the right in a wide curve that took him into their shelter within seconds. He halted, turning to glance back.

The avalanche had almost overtaken the Finns. The enormous cloud of white smoke rolled over the one in the rear, enveloped him completely, but Gestrin and the remaining man rode the very edge, managing to turn at the last minute, coming to a halt above the line of trees.

The rumble of the avalanche died away, Gestrin pushed up his goggles, searching for Gaillard whose red anorak gave him away instantly. They started down the slope at once and the Frenchman turned and pushed himself forward and through the trees, every bone aching.

From the shattered great window of the upper dining room Finebaum sniped down and across the yard at the half-track.

'What's happening, Mr Finebaum?' Claudine Chevalier, crouched on the floor, asked him.

'Whatever it is, it ain't good, ma'am. I figure it's time maybe you and me made a move upstairs.'

There was a burst of firing and more of the window shattered above their heads, spraying them with glass. Amazingly, she showed no fear.

'Whatever you say, Mr Finebaum.'

'You're something special,' Finebaum said. 'You know that?'

He took her arm and helped her towards the door, and below in the courtyard the half-track surged forward.

For Gaillard, the sight of the road below was like a shot in the arm, and he dropped towards it with renewed hope, although his pursuers were closer than ever now, Gestrin trailing his companion, a young man called Salmi.

Gaillard glanced over his shoulder, aware that this couldn't go on, that he had been existing on will-power alone for too long. There was one final suicidal chance, and he took it, dropping straight down through the trees like a bullet to the embankment at the side of the road below.

As he hit, he dug in his sticks at precisely the right moment, launching himself into space. The road flashed beneath him, he soared across, landing perfectly in soft snow on the other side, sliding broadside on in a spray of snow. At the last moment, the point of his left ski caught a branch hidden beneath the white blanket. As he crashed heavily to the ground, the ski splintered.

He lay there, winded, and Salmi soared through the air across the road, smashing straight into a pine tree with a terrible cry.

Gaillard sat up. There was no sign of Gestrin. He tore at the frozen bindings of his skis and got them off. When he rose to his feet, he was convinced for a moment that his limbs had ceased to function. He took a hesitant step forward and fell headlong over the embankment, sliding down to the road.

He picked himself up and started to walk, putting one foot in front of the other, a roaring in his ears, and Gestrin slid down the embankment about fifteen yards in front of him. He'd taken off his skis and held his rifle.

'No!' Gaillard said. 'No!'

He turned away, and Gestrin shot him in the right shoulder. Gaillard lay on his back, the roaring in his ears louder, then pushed himself up on one elbow. Gestrin stood, holding the rifle across his chest, and now he started to raise it.

The roaring became the sound of an engine and a Cromwell tank came round the bend in the road. Gestrin swung to face it, raising his rifle. A burst of machine-gun fire hurled him back into a snowdrift at the side of the road.

Gaillard lay there, aware of footsteps approaching, his eyes closed, breathing deeply, hanging on to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw to his astonishment that the officer leaning over him in a tanksuit wore a kepi.

'Oh, my God,' Gaillard said in his own language. 'Can it be true? You are French?'

'But of course, monsieur.' The officer dropped to one knee. 'My name is Dubois. Captain Henri Dubois of the 2nd French Tank Division. We are at present pushing towards Berchtesgaden. But who are you?'

'Never mind that now,' Gaillard said hoarsely. 'You know Arlberg?'

'The next village, two miles along the road from here.'

'Only two miles?' Gaillard said in wonder. 'I must have been running in circles up there.' He pulled himself up and caught hold of Dubois by the front of his uniform. 'Listen to me, my friend, and listen well for lives depend on it.'

When the half-track started across the courtyard Ritter himself was at the wheel, a dozen Finns packed in behind him. Hoffer at the machine gun. The rest followed behind on foot.

In the tower, the defenders had already retreated up the main staircase and taken up position on the first landing, except for Howard who stayed at the shattered door, peering out.

'Here they come!' he cried and started to fire his Thompson furiously.

Ritter gunned the motor, giving the halftrack everything, roaring straight up the steps, hitting those shattered doors at full speed. Howard was already half-way up the marble stairs as the doors disintegrated, the half-track smashing through, sliding to a halt, broadside on.

The defenders immediately started to pour it on from the landing, Canning and Birr firing Schmeissers between the pillars of the balustrade, Howard backing them with the Thompson.

The Finns were badly caught, three or four of them going down as they scrambled from the half-track. Hoffer took a bullet in the shoulder that knocked him over the side, and Ritter, without hesitation, stood up and grabbed the handles of the machine gun.

He started to spray the landing expertly, shattering the windows behind the rows of marble statues, an awesome figure crouched behind the gun, his face pale beneath the black cap. Howard loosed off one burst after another, even standing up on occasion, all to no effect, for it was as if the German bore a charmed life.

The landing had become a charnel house, four of the Germans hit, one of them crying out continuously. Birr had taken a bullet through the right hand, and below, in the hall, at least nine of the Finns were down.

The stench of cordite, the smoke, the cries of the dying, the rattle of the machine gun in that confined space, made it a scene from hell. Birr took another bullet, in the chest this time, and went down.

Canning pulled at Howard's sleeve, eyes wild. 'This is no good — we'd better get out of here.'

'Take Birr with you,' Howard said. 'I'll cover you.'

He rammed another clip into the Thompson, and behind him the two surviving Germans got Birr by the shoulders and dragged him along the landing. Ritter stopped firing. He looked down and found Hoffer leaning against the side of the half-track, stuffing a field dressing inside his uniform blouse.

'All right, Erich?'

Hoffer nodded, his face twisted with pain, and from up there in the smoke on the landing, Howard called, 'What's keeping you, Ritter?'

Something flared in Ritter's eyes. He picked up a Schmeisser and vaulted to the floor. He did not say a word, gave no command, simply went up the stairs into the smoke and the Finns went after him.

The curtains were on fire now, the wood panelling on the walls, smoke swirling, billowing along the landing so that it was impossible to see more than a few feet. Howard fired blindly, moving a step or two, then turned and started up the stone staircase.

He paused at the bend, slinging the Thompson over his shoulder, and took two stick grenades from his belt. He could hear voices below, stumbling steps on the stair. He tossed the two grenades down into the murk, one after the other, went round the corner and continued to climb without pause.

There was an explosion below followed by another, cries of pain. He could hardly breathe now, smoke everywhere, choking the landing outside the dining hall. He groped his way round the wall, found the entrance to the upper staircase, and started to climb to the top of the tower.

Had he but known it, the others had got no further than the upper landing, Birr having collapsed completely so that the two Germans had been compelled to drag him into the dining hall.

Canning crouched over him, almost overcome by smoke, waiting for the end that seemed inevitable now. He got to his feet, lurched across to the window, and smashed what glass remained in the lower half. The Germans dragged Birr across the floor, choking and coughing.

They all crouched at the window, drawing in deep lungfuls of fresh air. Canning cried, 'The table — get it over.'

They crouched behind it, waiting for the end.

On the landing at the foot of the stairs, Ritter rolled over, pushing a body away from him. There was blood on him, but not his own, and he pulled himself up and leaned against the wall. A hand reached out to steady him — Hoffer.

'Are you all right, Sturmbannfuhrer?'

'Everything in perfect working order, or so it would seem, Erich.' An old, bad joke between them, no longer funny.

A gust of wind blowing in through the shattered doorway, below, cleared the smoke from the landing. It was a butcher's shop, bodies everywhere, blood and brains sprayed across the walls.

There were perhaps a dozen Finns left alive and unwounded, crouched at the head of the stairs. Ritter glanced at his watch. It was almost 8.30.

'All right, damn you. You're still mine for another thirty minutes. Still soldiers of the Waffen-SS. Let's get it done.'

They made no move. It was not that there was fear there. Only emptiness — faces drained of all emotion, all feeling.

'It's no good,' Hoffer said. 'They've had enough.'

As smoke swirled back into place again, the Finns retreated, simply melted away.

'So?' Ritter said, and he leaned down and picked up a Schmeisser.

As he turned, Hoffer caught his arm. 'This is madness. Where are you going?'

'Why, to the top of the tower, old friend.' Ritter smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. 'We've come a long way together, but no more orders. It is over. You understand me?'

Hoffer stared at him, horror on his face. Ritter started upstairs.

When Howard lurched out of the smoke on to the roof, Finebaum almost shot him. Howard fell on his hands and knees and Finebaum crouched beside him.

'Is he all right?' Claudine Chevalier demanded.

Howard answered her, struggling for breath. 'All I need is a little air.' He looked around him. 'Where's the general?'

'No sign of him up here,' Finebaum said. 'What happened below?'

'It was bad,' Howard told him. 'The worst I've ever known.' He got up on his knees. 'I'll have to go back. See what's happened to them.'

Madame Chevalier, who had gone to the parapet to look down, cried, 'There are tanks coming. A whole column.'

Finebaum ran to join her in time to see half a dozen Cromwells, several Bren-gun carriers and trucks, moving towards the castle at full speed. The surviving Finns had just emerged from the entrance. As they started across the courtyard, the first Cromwell emerged from the tunnel and opened up with its machine gun. Two Finns went down, the rest immediately dropped their weapons and put up their hands.

Finebaum turned and found Howard leaning over the parapet beside him. 'Did you ever see a prettier sight?' Finebaum demanded. Howard gazed down blankly, eyes remote, and Finebaum shook him roughly. 'Hey, noble Captain, it's over. We survived.'

'Did we?' Howard said.

And then Claudine Chevalier cried out sharply.

Ritter stood there at the head of the stairs, smoke billowing around him. He wore no cap. There was blood on his face and the blond hair flashed pale fire in the morning light. The black Panzer uniform was covered in dust, but the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords still made a brave show at his throat.

'Captain Howard?' he called.

Finebaum turned, unslinging his M1, but Howard knocked it up. 'My affair — stay out of it.'

He was smiling, his eyes full of life again. He leaned down slowly and picked up the Thompson.

Ritter said, 'A first-rate show. My congratulations.'

Howard fired then, a long burst that ripped the Iron Cross First Class from Ritter's tunic, hurling him at the wall. The German rebounded, falling to his knees. He flung up the Schmeisser, arm extended, firing one-handed, driving Howard back against the parapet, killing him instantly. For a moment, the young German hung on to life, on his knees there in the snow, and then he fell forward on his face.

Hoffer emerged from the smoke, a Walther in his good hand, and crouched beside him. Finebaum dropped to one knee by Howard. There was a pause, then the American's M1 came up.

It was Claudine Chevalier who finished it, her voice high on the morning air. 'No!' She screamed. 'Enough! Do you hear me? Enough!'

Finebaum turned to look at her, then back to Hoffer. The German threw down his Walther and sat back on his heels, a hand on Ritter's shoulder. Finebaum, without a word, tossed his Mi out over the parapet to fall through clear air to the courtyard below.

It was on the steps outside the main entrance that Canning met Henri Dubois for the first time. The Frenchman, a pistol in one hand, saluted. 'My respects, mon General. My one regret is that we couldn't get here sooner.'

'That you got here at all is one small miracle, son.'

'We must thank Monsieur Gaillard for that.'

'Paul?' Canning caught him by the arm. 'You've seen him?'

'He escaped from the village this morning and skied across the mountains, hotly pursued by some of these Finnish gentlemen. It was only by the mercy of God that he came across us when he did. He is in the ambulance now, at the rear of the column.'

'Thanks.' Canning started down the steps and paused. 'There was a man called Strasser in the village. He was in charge of this whole damn business. He had Madame Claire de Beauville with him. Did you get them?'

'We came straight through without stopping, mon General. Naturally Schloss Arlberg was our main objective, but if this man Strasser is there, we'll find him.'

'I wouldn't count on it.'

He found Gaillard on a stretcher in the ambulance at the rear of the column as Dubois had indicated. The little Frenchman lay there, a grey army blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes closed, apparently sleeping. A medical orderly sat beside him.

'How is he?' Canning demanded in French.

'He is fine, Hamilton. Never better.' Gaillard's eyes fluttered open. He smiled.

'You did a great job.'

'And the others — they are safe?'

'Claudine is fine. Justin got knocked about a bit, but he'll be all right. I'm afraid the rest makes quite a casualty report. Max is dead and Captain Howard — most of the Finns. Ritter himself. It was quite a shooting match up there.'

'And Strasser?'

'We'll get him — and Claire. Only a question of time now.'

Gaillard's face was twisted with pain, and yet concern showed through. 'Don't leave it, Hamilton. He is capable of anything that one. What he did to that girl was a terrible thing.'

'I know,' Canning said soothingly. 'You get some sleep now. I'll see you later.'

He jumped down from the ambulance and stood there, thinking of Strasser, wanting only to get his hands on his throat. And then there was Claire. Suddenly, he knew that she was by far the most important consideration now.

There was an empty jeep standing nearby. Without the slightest hesitation, he jumped behind the wheel, gunned the motor and drove out through the tunnel and across the drawbridge.

When he braked to a halt outside the Golden Eagle, the square was silent and deserted, everyone staying out of the way. There was an M1 in the rear seat of the jeep. He checked that it was loaded, then jumped out and kicked open the front door.

'Strasser, where are you, you bastard?'

It was very quiet in the bar — too quiet. He saw the bullet holes in the wall, the blood on the floor and the hair lifted on the back of his head. A stair creaked behind him. He turned and found Meyer standing there.

'Where is he?'

'Gone, Herr General. After the Finns left to hunt Herr Gaillard, he moved their field car to the rear courtyard where it was out of sight. When the French soldiers with the tanks came half an hour ago, they passed straight through without stopping. Herr Strasser drove away shortly afterwards in the field car.

'And Madame de Beauville — he took her with him?'

Meyer's face was grey, his voice the merest whisper, when he said, 'No, Herr General. She is still here.'

He stumbled along the hall, opened his office door and stood back. She lay on the floor, covered by a blanket. Canning stood there, staring down, disbelief on his face. He dropped to one knee and pulled back the cover. Her face was unmarked and so pale as to be almost transparent, wiped clean of all pain, all deceit. A child asleep at last.

He covered her again very gently and when he turned to Meyer, his face was terrible to see. 'Do you know where he went?'

'I overheard them speak of it several times, Herr General. There is an abandoned airstrip at Arnheim about ten miles from here. I understand there is an aeroplane waiting.'

'How do I get there?'

'Follow the main road to the top of the hill east of the village. A quarter of a mile on there is a turning to the left which will take you all the way to Arnheim.'

The door banged. A moment later, the engine of the jeep roared into life. Meyer stood there in the quiet, listening to the sound dwindle into the distance.

At Arnheim it was snowing again as the Dakota taxied out of the hangar. Strasser, standing behind Berger in the cockpit, said, 'Any problems with the weather?'

'Nothing to worry about. Dirty enough to be entirely to our advantage, that's all.'

'Good. I'll get out now and see to the Storch. I don't want to leave that kind of evidence lying around. You turn into position for takeoff and I'll join you in a few moments.'

Berger grinned. 'Spain next stop, Reichsleiter.'

Strasser dropped out of the hatch, skirted the port wing and ran towards the entrance to the hangar as the Dakota moved away. He took a stick grenade from his pocket and tossed it through the entrance, ducking to one side. It exploded beneath the Storch, which started to burn fiercely.

He turned away, aware of the Dakota turning in a circle out there at the end of the runway, and then a jeep swung through the entrance from the road and braked to a halt about thirty yards away.

Canning was aware of the Dakota turning into the wind out there, thought for one dreadful moment that he was too late, and then the shock of the Storch's tank exploding turned his eyes to the hangar. He saw Strasser in front, crouching as he pulled a Walther from his pocket.

Canning grabbed for the M1, fired three or four shots, then it jammed. He threw it away from him and ducked as Strasser stood up, firing at him coolly, two rounds punching holes through the windshield.

Canning slammed the stick into gear, revving so furiously that his wheels spun in the snow and the jeep shot forward. Strasser continued to fire, dodging to one side only at the very last minute, and Canning slammed his boot on the brake, sending the jeep into a broadside skid.

He jumped for the German while the vehicle was still in motion and they went over in a tangle of arms and legs. For a moment, Canning had his hands on his throat and started to squeeze, and then Strasser swung the Walther with all his force, slamming it against the side of the general's head.

Canning rolled over in agony, almost losing consciousness, aware of Strasser scrambling to his feet, backing away, the Walther pointing. Canning got to his knees and Strasser took careful aim.

'Goodbye, General,' he said and pulled the trigger.

There was an empty click. He threw the Walther at Canning's head, turned and ran along the runway towards the Dakota.

Canning went after him, forcing himself into a shambling trot, but it was hopeless, of course. Things kept fading, going out of focus, then back again. The one thing he did see clearly, and it was all that mattered, was Strasser scrambling up through the hatch. The Dakota's engine note deepened, and then it was roaring along the runway.

Canning slumped down on to his knees and knelt there in the snow, watching it flee into the grey morning like a departing spirit.