The Valhalla Exchange

8

There was no immediate easing of tension in the Storch for, as they flew across Berlin, the Russian artillery bombardment seemed to chase them all the way. There were numerous fires in many parts of the city and the darkness crackled with electricity on the edge of things as one shell after another found its target.

'Something to remember, eh, Major?' Strasser said, looking down at the holocaust. 'The Twilight of the Gods.'

'All we need is a score by Wagner,' Ritter said, 'to enjoy ourselves thoroughly. We have been well trained, we Germans, to appreciate the finer things.'

'Oh, it could be worse,' Strasser pointed out. 'We could be down there.'

The Storch rocked violently and something rattled against the fuselage. 'Anti-aircraft fire,' Berger cried. 'I'm going down.'

He threw the Storch into a sudden, violent corkscrew that seemed to last for ever, the whine of the engine rising to fever pitch; and finally and only when the fires below seemed very close indeed, he pulled back the column and levelled out.

Hoffer turned his head away and was violently sick. Strasser said, with a slight edge of contempt to his voice, 'He has no stomach for it, I think, your sergeant-major.'

'So what?' Ritter said. 'They tell me Grand Admiral Donitz is sick every time he puts to sea, but he's still Germany's greatest sailor.'

Gradually, the flames, the darting points of light on the ground, faded into the night. Berger shouted above the roar of the engine, 'I'll tell you something now we're out of it. I never thought we'd make it. Not for a moment.'

'You did well,' Strasser said. 'A brilliant piece of flying.'

It was Ritter, suddenly irritated, who said, 'Not out of the woods yet.'

'Nonsense,' Berger shouted. 'A milk run from now on.'

And he was right, for conditions generally could not have been more in their favour. They flew on through the night at 500 feet in darkness and heavy rain, Berger sitting there at the controls, a slight, fixed smile on his mouth, obviously thoroughly enjoying himself.

Hoffer fell asleep; Strasser, who was sitting next to Berger, made notes in his diary in the light from the control panel. Ritter smoked a cigarette and watched him, wondering what was going on behind the eyes in that calm, expressionless face, but that was a pointless exercise. Just as much a waste of time as asking himself what in the hell he was doing here.

It was like a chess game. You made a move in answer to one. A totally open-ended situation. No means of knowing what the end would be until it was reached. And in the final analysis, did it really matter? He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He came awake instantly in response to a hand on his shoulder. Strasser said, 'We're close to Plauen now. Berger's trying to raise the airstrip.'

Ritter glanced at his watch and saw, with a slight shock of surprise, that it was three o'clock. He turned to Hoffer. 'How are you?'

'Better, Major, much better, now that there's nothing left to come. I never could stand flying — any kind of flying. Remember that transport plane which brought us out of Stalingrad?'

Berger was talking away, using his throat mike. 'Red Fox, this is Valhalla. Do you read me?' There was only the confused crackling of the static. He tried again, adjusting one of the dials. 'Red Fox, this is Valhalla.' A moment later a voice broke through the static. 'Valhalla, this is Red Fox. I read you strength five.'

'I am coming in now for refuelling as arranged,' Berger said. 'What is your situation?'

'Heavy rain, slight ground mist, visibility about 150 yards. We'll put the landing lights on for you.'

'All the comforts of home,' Berger said. 'My thanks.' A moment later, two parallel lines of light flared in the darkness to starboard. 'I can see you now,' he called. 'I'm coming in.'

He turned into the wind and started his descent. Ritter said, 'Do we stay here for any length of time?'

'For as long as it takes to fill the tanks,' Strasser said. 'We've still got a long way to go.'

They drifted down through the rain and mist into the light, there was the sudden squeal of the tyres biting as Berger applied the brakes, they slowed, the tail going down.

And then Berger gave a cry of dismay for the trucks that raced out of the darkness on either side, converging on them, had red stars emblazoned on their sides.

'Get out of it!' Strasser cried.

Berger increased engine revs. The soldiers in the trucks were already firing. A bullet shattered one of the side-windows. Ritter shoved the barrel of a Schmeisser through and loosed off a long burst. And then they were really moving again, racing towards the end of the runway, the trucks trying to keep up with them and losing. Berger pulled back the column, they climbed up into the darkness.

He levelled off at 3,000 feet. Strasser said, 'Now what?'

For the first time his composure seemed to have deserted him and he actually looked worried. For some reason Ritter found the spectacle strangely comforting.

'The only thing I'm certain of at the moment is that I've got fuel for forty minutes, and that includes the reserve tank,' Berger said. And in the crisis it was Ritter he turned to. 'Have a look at the Luftwaffe area map, the one on top. See what there is close to our line fifty miles south of here.'

Ritter spread the map across his knees and switched on his torch. 'There's a place called Plodin marked with a red ring. Perhaps forty miles. According to the key that means reserve feeder station. What's that?'

'Part of the back-up system for night-fighters. The sort of place they can put down if they run into trouble. A hangar and a single runway, usually grass. Probably a private air club before the war. I'll see if I can raise them.'

'You raised somebody last time,' Strasser said. 'They answered in excellent German and look what happened.'

'All right, what do you want me to do?' Berger demanded. 'I can't see what we're getting in to unless I go down because you won't get even a touch of grey in the sky before four o'clock. I'll be out of fuel twenty minutes before then by my reckoning. You may have read that in such situations people often jump for it. Unfortunately, we only have one parachute and I'm sitting on it.'

'All right, I take the point,' Strasser said. 'Do as you think fit.'

He sat there, his jaw working, fists tightly clenched. He's thrown, Ritter thought, and badly because, for once, he isn't in charge. He has no control. He isn't playing the game — the game's playing him.

Berger was using plain language. 'This is Fiesler Storch AK40, calling Plodin. I am dangerously short of fuel and urgently require assistance. Come in, please.'

There was an immediate response. A voice said urgently, 'Suggest you try elsewhere. We've been completely cut off by Russian troops since seven o'clock last night.'

'I'm afraid I have no choice in the matter,' Ritter told him. 'My estimated time of arrival is o-three-forty. Five minutes after that, and if I'm still airborne, I'll be gliding.'

There was silence, only the static, and then the voice said, 'Very well, we'll do what we can.'

'Right, gentlemen, here we go again,' Berger said, and he started to descend.

Two aircraft were burning at the side of the runway as they went in. 'Expensive landing lights,' Berger said, 'but I'm grateful, nevertheless.'

There were a couple of hangars, a small control tower, a complex of huts a hundred yards or so away, some trucks parked beside them. There was no sound of conflict, no shooting, only the two planes burning at the side of the runway as they touched down, an old Dornier 17 and a Ju 88s night-fighter.

As Berger taxied towards the control tower, half a dozen ground crew ran forward, two of them carrying wheel blocks, and the door opened and an officer stood there framed in the light.

He was an Oberleutnant, his Luftwaffe fliegerbluse open at the neck. He was twenty-three or four, badly in need of a shave and looked tired.

Berger held out his hand. 'Heini Berger. Not too worried about blackout, I see?'

'What would be the point?' the Oberleutnant said. 'With those two blazing like the candles on a Christmas tree. Our water main was fractured in the initial bombardment so we've no fire-fighting facilities. My name's Frankel, by the way.'

'You are in command here?' Strasser asked.

'Yes, the commanding officer, Captain Hagen, was killed last night. Russian tanks shelled us at eleven o'clock and raked the buildings with machine-gun fire.'

'No infantry attack?' Ritter asked.

Frankel took in the uniform, the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords, and straightened his shoulders. 'No, they stayed out there in the dark, Sturmbannfuhrer. Shelled us again approximately an hour ago. That's when the planes got it.'

Ritter walked forward into the shadows. There were bodies here and there and on the far side of the runway, another Junkers tilted forward on its nose, tail up, an enormous ragged furrow in the ground indicating where it had belly-landed.

He turned and came back to the others. 'How many men have you left?'

'Half a dozen,' Frankel said. 'The aircrews of those planes all got away before we were hit. And then there are some of your people. Arrived last night just before the Russians. They're down at the huts now. You can just see their trucks — four of them.'

'My people?' Ritter said. 'You mean by this SS, I presume. Which unit?'

'Einsatzgruppen, Sturmbannfuhrer.'

Ritter's face was very pale. He reached out and grabbed Frankel by the front of his fliegerbluse. 'You will not mention scum like that in the same breath as Waffen-SS, you hear me?'

Einsatzgruppen, action groups or special commandos, had been formed by Himmler prior to the invasion of Russia. They were, in effect, extermination squads, recruited from the gaols of Germany, officered by SD and Gestapo officers. Occasionally soldiers of the Waffen-SS convicted of some criminal offence were transferred to them as a punishment. The phrase scum of the earth summed them up perfectly.

It was Strasser who moved forward to pull Ritter away. 'Easy, Major. Easy does it. What are they doing now, down there?'

'Drinking,' Frankel said. 'And they have some women with them.'

'Women?'

'Girls — from the camps. Jewish, I think.'

There was a nasty silence. Berger said, nodding towards the blazing wrecks, 'Why didn't they fly those out of it while the going was good?'

'They landed here because they were low on fuel in the first place and we didn't have any. Used our last a fortnight ago.'

'No fuel,' Strasser cut in. 'But you must have something surely, and the Storch doesn't need much. Isn't that right, Berger?'

'If it was only ten gallons you wanted, I still couldn't oblige,' Frankel said.

Berger looked towards the Junkers on the far side of the hangar, the one which had crash-landed. 'What about that? Nothing in the tanks?'

'We syphoned the fuel out of her a couple of weeks ago.' Frankel hesitated. 'There could be a few gallons left, but not enough to get you anywhere.'

There was a sudden burst of laughter and singing from the huts. Ritter said to Berger, 'Am I right in assuming that a workhorse like the Fieseler Storch doesn't necessarily need high-octane aviation spirit to be able to fly?'

'No. She'll function on stuff a lot more crude than that. Reduced performance, of course.'

Ritter nodded towards the huts. 'Four trucks down there. I should think their tanks between them would hold forty or fifty gallons. Would it do?'

'I don't see why not,' Berger said. 'Especially if we can syphon a few gallons out of the Junkers to mix with it.'

Ritter said to Frankel, 'All right?'

The Oberleutnant nodded. 'As far as I'm concerned. But the gentlemen of the Einsatzgruppen may have other ideas.'

Strasser said, 'We are on a special mission of vital importance to the Reich. My orders are signed by the Fuhrer himself.'

'Sorry, Mein Herr,' Frankel said, 'but strange things are happening in Germany today. There are actually people around for whom that kind of talk doesn't cut much ice. I suspect that's particularly true of these characters.'

'Then we must change their minds for them,' Ritter said. 'How many are there?'

'Thirty or so.'

'Good. Put a couple of your men to the task of syphoning the JU. Send the rest to the trucks. I'll deal with these — ' here he hesitated. 'These gentlemen of the Einsatzgruppen.' He turned to Strasser. 'You agree?'

Strasser smiled slightly. 'My dear Ritter, I wouldn't miss it for anything.'

There was no one at the trucks, no guard at the steps leading up to the door of the mess hall as Ritter marched briskly across the compound, Strasser a pace behind his left shoulder.

'I must be mad,' Strasser said.

'Oh, I don't know. Like we used to say about those chairborne bastards at HQ, it does a man good to get up off his backside occasionally and go up front to see what it's like for the ordinary troops. A little action and passion for you, Reichsleiter.'

He paused at the bottom of the steps to adjust his gloves. Strasser said, 'Why do you call me that, Major?'

'You mean I'm mistaken?'

'To the best of my knowledge, Reichsleiter Martin Bormann is at present in his office in the Fuhrerbunker in Berlin. Even in this day and age, it would take a rather large miracle for a man to be in two places at once.'

'Simple enough if there were two of him.'

'Which would raise the problem of who is real and who is only the image in the mirror,' Strasser said. 'A neat point, but relevant, I think you'll agree.'

'True,' Ritter said. 'And perhaps in the final analysis, an academic point only.' He smiled ironically. 'Shall we go in now?'

He opened the door and stepped into the light. At first he and Strasser went completely unnoticed, which was hardly surprising for the men who crowded the tables before them were mostly drunk. There were perhaps a dozen girls huddled into a corner at the far end of the room — hair unkempt, tattered clothes, faces grimy with dirt. In fact, the faces were the most interesting feature about them, the eyes dull, totally without hope, the look of trapped animals waiting for the butcher's knife.

There was a burly Hauptsturmfuhrer seated at one end of the longest table. He was a brute of a man with slanting eyes and high Slav cheekbones. He had a small, dark-haired girl on his knee, an arm around her neck, holding her tight, while his other hand was busy under her skirt. She couldn't have been more than sixteen.

And she saw Ritter first, her eyes widening in amazement, and the Hauptsturmfuhrer, becoming aware of her stillness, turned to see what she was looking at.

Ritter stood, hands on hips, legs slightly apart, and it was as if a chill wind had swept into the room, Death himself come to join them. The Hauptsturmfuhrer took in that magnificent black uniform, the decorations, the dark eyes under the peak of the service cap, the silver death's-head gleaming.

'You are in charge here, I presume?' Ritter inquired softly.

The captain shoved the girl off his knee and stood up. The room had gone absolutely quiet. 'That's right,' he said. 'Grushetsky.'

'Ukranian?' Ritter said, his distaste plain. 'I thought so.'

Grushetsky turned red with anger. 'And who in the hell might you be?'

'Your superior officer,' Ritter told him calmly. 'You're aware that there are Russians out there in the dark who might have a more than passing interest in getting their hands on you, and yet you don't even post a guard.'

'No need,' Grushetsky said. 'They won't come in before dawn, I know how they work. We'll be driving out of here long before then. In the meantime…' He put an arm around the girl and pulled her close.

'Sorry,' Ritter said. 'But you won't be driving anywhere, I'm afraid. We need your petrol for our aircraft.'

'You what?' Grushetsky cried.

'Show him your orders,' Ritter said casually to Strasser. He glanced at the girl again, ignoring Grushetsky, then walked to the end of the room and looked at the others.

Strasser said, 'I'll read it to you. From the Leader and Chancellor of the State. Most secret. You recognize the name at the bottom of the page, I trust. Adolf Hitler.'

'Yes, well, he's in Berlin and this is here,' Grushetsky said. 'And you take that petrol from those tanks over my dead body.'

'That can be arranged.' Ritter raised his right arm casually and clicked his fingers. A window was smashed as a Schmeisser poked through, Berger's smiling face behind it. The door crashed open and Hoffer came in holding another Schmeisser.

'You see,' Ritter said to the girl whom Grushetsky had released now. 'It is still possible for the best to happen in this worst of all possible worlds. What's your name?'

'Bernstein,' she said. 'Clara Bernstein.'

He recognized her accent instantly. 'French?'

'That's what it says on my birth certificate, but to you bastards, I'm just another dirty Jew.'

In a strange way it was as if they were alone. 'What do you want me to do — say I'm sorry?' Ritter asked her in French. 'Would that help?'

'Not in the slightest.'

'Positive action then, Clara Bernstein. You and your friends go now. Out there in the darkness beyond the perimeter wire there are Russian soldiers. I suggest you turn towards them, hands high in the air, yelling like hell. I think you will find they will take you in.'

'Here, what in the hell is going on here?' Grushetsky demanded in his bad German.

Ritter rounded on him. 'Shut your mouth, damn you. Feet together when you speak to me, you understand? Attention, all of you.'

And they responded, all of them, even those far gone in drink trying to draw themselves together. The girl called to the others in German. They hesitated. She cried, 'All right, stay and die here if you want, but I'm getting out of it.'

She ran outside and the rest of the girls broke instantly and went after her. Their voices could be heard clearly as they ran across the runway to the perimeter wire.

Ritter paced up and down between the tables. 'You believe yourselves to be soldiers of the German Reich, a natural assumption in view of the uniforms you wear, but you are mistaken. Now, let me tell you what you are, in simple terms, so that you can understand.'

Grushetsky gave a roar of rage and pulled out his Luger, and Strasser, who'd been waiting for something like this to happen for the past few minutes, fired twice through the pocket of his leather coat, shattering the Ukranian's spine, killing him instantly, driving him across one of the tables.

Several men cried out and reached for weapons and Berger and Hoffer both fired at the same moment, dropping four men between them.

Ritter said to Hoffer, 'All right — collect their weapons and hold them here until we're ready to go.'

One of the Einsatzgruppen took an involuntary step forward. 'But Sturmbannfuhrer. Without weapons we shall be totally unable to defend ourselves, and the Russians — '

'Can have you,' Ritter said, and he walked outside, followed by Strasser.

Frankel walked to meet them. 'It's worked quite well. We've managed to get about fifteen gallons of aviation fuel out of the Junkers. Mixed with petrol from the trucks, it means we can give you full tanks.'

'How long?' Strasser asked. 'Before we're ready to go?'

'Five or ten minutes.'

Ritter offered the young Luftwaffe lieutenant a cigarette. 'I'm sorry we can't take you with us, you and your men. We leave you in a bad situation.'

'The moment you've gone, I'm going to go out there and ask for terms,' Frankel said. 'I can't see much point in any other course of action, not at this stage.'

'Perhaps you're right,' Ritter said. 'And I'd keep those bastards back there in the mess hall under lock and key until the Russians get here, if I were you. It might help.'

A sergeant hurried towards them and saluted. 'The Storch's all ready to go now, Herr Leutnant.'

There was some movement out there in the darkness beyond the perimeter, the sound of an engine starting up. Ritter turned and shouted, 'Berger — Erich! Let's get out of here. It looks as if the Russians are starting to move in.'

He ran back towards the hangar, followed by Strasser. As they scrambled up into the cabin of the Storch, Hoffer and Berger arrived. Berger didn't even bother to strap himself in. He got the door closed and started the engines instantly so that the Storch was moving down the runway and turning into the wind in a matter of seconds.

The flames from the burning planes had died down and the field was almost totally dark now. 'If you believe in prayer, then now's the time,' Berger cried and he pushed up the engine revs and took the Storch forward.

They plunged headlong into darkness and Ritter leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, totally unafraid, consumed only by curiosity to know what it would be like. Was this it? he asked himself. Could this possibly be the final moment after all these years? And then the Storch lifted as Berger pulled back the stick and they climbed up into the darkness.

Ritter turned to find Strasser examining the bullet holes in his coat. 'My thanks, but I hardly expected to see the day when you would lay yourself on the line to defend the rights of Jews.'

'What happens to those girls back there is a matter of complete indifference to me,' Strasser told him. 'You on the other hand, are an essential part of this operation which could well fail without you. That was the only reason I shot that Slavic ape back there.'

'I should be thankful for small mercies, it would seem.'

'No more empty gestures, my dear Ritter, I beg you.'

'Empty?'

'A fair description. I should imagine the Russians will rape those girls with an enthusiasm at least equal to that of Grushetsky and his motley crew, or had you really imagined it would be different?'

Dawn was a gradual affair from about 4.30 as they flew onwards through heavy cloud — at first merely an impression of light, no more than that. Strasser and Hoffer both slept, but Berger seemed as cheerful and relaxed as ever, whistling softly between his teeth.

'You love it,' Ritter said. 'Flying, I mean?'

'More than any woman.' Berger grinned. 'Which is saying a lot. For a long time I worried about what I would do when it was all over — the war, I mean. No more flying, not for the defeated.'

'But now you don't?'

It was a statement as much as a question and caught Berger off guard. 'Plenty of places to go, when you think about it. Places where there's always work for a good pilot. South America, for instance. The Reichs — ' He pulled himself up quickly. 'Herr Strasser already has a pipeline organized that should ensure that some of us live to fight another day.'

'A charming prospect,' Ritter said. 'I congratulate you.'

When he leaned back, he realized that Strasser was awake and watching through half-opened eyes. He smiled and leaned forward, a hand on Berger's shoulder.

'He likes to talk, my young friend here. A conversationalist by nature. A good thing he's such a brilliant pilot.'

Strasser was smiling genially, but his fingers were hooked into the shoulder so tightly that Berger winced with pain. 'I'll take her up now,' he shouted. 'Try and get above this shit and see what's what. We should be nearly there.'

He pulled back the stick and started to climb, but the heavy cloud showed no signs of diminishing. Finally, he levelled out. 'No good. I'll have to try it the other way. Nothing else for it. Hang on and we'll see what the state of things is downstairs.'

He pushed the column forward, taking the Storch into a shallow low dive. The cloud became darker, more menacing, boiling around them, hail rattling against the fuselage, and Berger had to hang on to the column with all his strength. They were at 4,000 feet and still descending, Berger hanging on grimly, and Hoffer gave an involuntary cry of fear. And then at 3,000 feet they emerged into the light of day and found themselves, as Berger levelled out, drifting along the course of a wide valley, pine trees very green against the snow, the peaks of the Bavarian Alps rising on either side of them.

'Somebody on board must live right,' Berger said. 'Now have a look on the Luftwaffe area map and see if you can find Arnheim, Major.'

It was no more than a feeder station, had never been more than that. There was a single runway, two hangars. No control tower — simply a couple of single-storeyed concrete huts with tin roofs.

Snow was falling gently, but there was no wind to speak of and the Fieseler Storch came in from the north like a grey ghost, her engine barely a murmur. Her wheels touched and there were two puffs of white smoke as snow spurted beneath them.

Strasser said, 'Straight up to the hangars. I want her under cover.'

'All right.' Berger nodded.

When they were close enough, Strasser, Ritter and Hoffer all got out and opened the hangar doors between them. Berger taxied inside and cut the engine. He laughed out loud as he jumped to the ground.

'So we made it. The Victory Column to Arnheim in five and a half hours.' He helped Ritter pull the door across. 'Smell that mountain air.'

Hoffer had gone through the connecting door into the next hangar, and now he returned. 'There's a field car in there, Major,' he told Ritter. 'A basket in the back.'

'Good,' Strasser said. 'I've been expecting that.'

He led the way in and the others followed. The basket was of the picnic type. There was also a small leather suitcase with it. Strasser placed it on the bonnet of the car and opened it. Inside there was a radio transmitter and receiver of a kind Ritter had never seen before.

'Excellent,' Strasser said. 'The best in the world at the present time. Came to us by courtesy of an agent of the British Special Operations Executive.' He checked his watch. 'Five-thirty — am I right?'

'So it would appear,' Ritter said.

'Good.' Strasser rubbed his hands briskly. 'There's a nip in this mountain air. We'll have something to eat, a hot drink and then…'

'Something to eat?' Berger said.

'But of course. What do you think is in the basket?'

Berger unstrapped it and raised the lid. Inside there were three loaves of black bread, sausages, butter, boiled eggs, two large vacuum flasks and a bottle of schnapps. Berger unscrewed the cap of one of the flasks and removed the cork. He inhaled deeply, an expression of delight appearing on his face.

'Coffee — hot coffee.' He poured a little into the cup and tasted it. 'And it's real,' he announced. 'A miracle.'

'See how good I am to you,' Strasser said.

'You certainly have a flair for organization,' Ritter told him.

'It's been said before.' Strasser glanced at his watch.

'And then?' Ritter said. 'After we've eaten? You were saying?'

Strasser smiled. 'I'm expecting another aircraft at seven o'clock. A very reliable man, so he should get here right on time.' Ritter opened the small judas gate, set in the main gate, and stepped outside, turning his face up to the snow. 'What air. It makes things feel clean again.'

Hoffer passed Ritter a cup of coffee and a piece of black bread. 'But I don't understand, Major. This other plane he's expecting. Who is it? Why won't he tell us?'

'Probably the Fuhrer himself, Erich.' Ritter smiled. 'After the events of the past couple of days, nothing would surprise me.'

It was at precisely five minutes to seven when Heini Berger, lounging against the bonnet of the field car, smoking a cigarette, straightened. 'There's a plane coming now, I hear it.'

Ritter opened the judas and stepped outside. Snow was still falling softly, the flakes brushing against his face when he looked up. The sound was still some distance away, but real enough.

He went back inside. 'He's right.'

Strasser had the suitcase open, the microphone in his hand. He adjusted the dials and said, in English, to everyone's surprise, 'Valhalla Exchange. Valhalla Exchange. Plain language. Do you receive me?'

An American voice answered with startling clarity. 'Valhalla Exchange. Odin here. Am I cleared for landing?'

'All clear. Closing down now.'

He stowed the microphone and closed the case. Ritter said, 'Are we permitted to know what that was all about?'

'Later,' Strasser said impatiently. 'For the moment, let's get these doors open. I want him under cover and out of sight the moment he's landed.'

Ritter shrugged and nodded to Hoffer, and with Berger's assistance they got the doors open. The sound of the plane, whatever it was, was very close now and they all moved outside and waited.

And then, suddenly, she was there, coming in out of the greyness at the north end of the runway, twin-engined, camouflaged and entirely familiar to at least one man there, Berger, who cried, 'God in heaven, that's an American Dakota.'

'So it would appear,' Strasser said.

'Is nothing impossible to you then?' Ritter asked.

'My dear Ritter, if I'd needed it, I could have had a Flying Fortress or an RAF Lancaster.'

The Dakota landed, snow rising in a cloud around her as she rolled forward, turning in towards them as Strasser waved his arms, and then she was close enough for them to see the pilot in the cockpit, the American Air Force insignia plain against the green and brown camouflage.

The plane taxied into the hangar; for a moment, the din was colossal, and then suddenly the engines cut. 'Right, get these doors closed,' Strasser ordered.

As they turned from the task, the hatch was opened and the pilot appeared. He had a dark saturnine face and appeared to be in his early thirties. He was wearing a side-cap with an SS death's-head badge and a flying jacket. He removed the jacket and caused something of a sensation.

He wore a beautifully tailored uniform of field-grey. Under the eagle on his left sleeve was a Stars and Stripes shield and the cuff-title on his left wrist carried the legend 'George Washington Legion' in Gothic lettering. His decorations included the Iron Cross, Second and First Class, and he wore the Winter War Ribbon. When he spoke, his German was excellent, but with a definite American accent.

'So, you made it?' he said to Strasser. 'Amazing, but then, I should have learned to believe you by now.'

'Good to see you.' Strasser shook hands, then turned to the others. 'Gentlemen — allow me to introduce Hauptsturmfuhrer Earl Jackson. This is Heini Berger who got us out of Berlin in the Storch.'

'Captain.' Berger shook hands. 'It gave me something of a shock when I saw you dropping down out of the sky, I can tell you.'

'And Sturmbannfuhrer Karl Ritter.'

Jackson held out his hand, but Ritter ignored him and turned to Strasser. 'And now we talk, I think.'

'My dear Ritter,' Strasser began.

'Now!' Ritter said sharply and he opened the connecting door and went into the next hangar.

'All right,' Strasser said. 'What is it now?'

'This American, Jackson — who is he? I want to know.'

'Come now, Ritter, the Waffen-SS has recruited men from almost every nation possible, you know that. Everything from Frenchmen to Turks. There's even an English contingent, the Britisches Freikorps. There have been, admittedly, only a handful of Americans in the George Washington Legion. Ex-prisoners of war, recruited by prospects of unlimited liquor and women. Jackson is a different specimen, believe me. He flew for the Finns against the Russians in their first war, stayed on in their air force and got caught up in their second bout with the Russians when they joined our side. When the Finns sued for peace last year, he transferred to us.'

'A traitor is a traitor, however you wrap it up.'

'A point of view, but not objective enough, my friend. All I see is a superb pilot; a brave and resourceful man with a highly specialized background which makes him peculiarly suitable for my purposes. May I also add, that as his own people would most certainly hang him if ever they succeed in getting their hands on him, he has no other choice but to serve my cause. It is his only chance of life. Now, have you anything else to say?'

'I think you've made your point,' Ritter said.

Strasser opened the door and led the way back into the other hangar. He made no reference to what had happened, simply took a map from his pocket and unfolded it across the bonnet of the field car. They all crowded round.

'Here is Arnheim. Arlberg eight or nine miles south of here. Ten miles to the west, there's a farm marked on the edge of the forest. That's where the Finns are.'

'Do we all go?' Ritter asked.

'No, Hauptsturmfuhrer Berger can stay with the planes.'

'And me?' Jackson said.

'No, you might well be useful in other ways. You come with us.' The American didn't look too pleased, but there was obviously nothing he could do about it. Strasser added, 'And from now on, as what might be termed the military part of the operation starts, Sturmbannfuhrer Ritter will be in sole command.'

'You mean I have a totally free hand?' Ritter said.

'Well, a little advice now and then never hurt anyone, did it?' Strasser smiled. 'Still, no point in crossing over bridges until we come to them, Major. Let's get these Finnish barbarians sorted out first.'