Cold Harbour (16 page)

He went up the marble stairs, turned along the corridor and entered his office suite. In the ante-room, his secretary, a middle-aged woman in the field grey uniform of an SS Auxiliary, stood up behind her desk. Himmler had his office personnel working shifts twenty-four hours a day.

“Is Hauptsturmführer Rossman in the building?” Himmler asked.

“I saw him having breakfast in the canteen a little while ago, Reichsführer.”

“Send for him at once.”

Himmler went into his office, placed his briefcase and cap on his desk and went to the window where he stood, hands behind his back. After a while, there was a knock at the door. The young captain who entered was in black uniform and the silver cuff title on his sleeve carried the legend, RFSS. Reichsführer der SS. The cuff title of Himmler’s personal staff. He clicked heels.

“At your order, Reichsführer.”

“Ah, Rossman.” Himmler sat behind his desk. “You’ve had the night shift? You’re due to go home?”

“Yes, Reichsführer.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d stay.”

“No problem, Reichsführer. My pleasure to serve.”

“Good.” Himmler nodded. “I was with the Führer last night. He raised the matter of this conference which is to take place at Château de Voincourt in Brittany this weekend. Do we have a file?”

“I believe so, Reichsführer.”

“Bring it to me.”

Rossman went out. Himmler opened his briefcase, took out some papers and looked at them. A moment later, Rossman came in again with the file. He passed it across and Himmler took out the contents and worked his way through them. Finally, he sat back.

“Atlantic Wall conference?” He laughed coldly. “The Führer was concerned about this affair last night and rightly so, Rossman. There is devilry afoot.” He looked up. “I have always been able to count on your loyalty?”

“To the death, Reichsführer.” Rossman sprang to attention.

“Good, then I will tell you now of things I’ve had to keep very personal, very private. There have been numerous attempts on the Führer’s life, but then you know that.”

“Of course, Reichsführer.”

“By the mercy of God they have always been foiled, but there is evil behind all this.” Himmler nodded. “Generals of our own High Command, men who have taken a holy oath to serve the Führer are engaged in a conspiracy to assassinate him.”

“My God!” Rossman said.

“Amongst others I’m having watched are Generals such as Wagner, Stieff, von Hase.” He took a sheet of papers from his briefcase. “And others on this list, some of whom may surprise you.”

Rossman ran his eye over the list and looked up in astonishment. “Rommel?”

“Yes, the good Field Marshal himself. The people’s hero.”

“Unbelievable,” Rossman said.

“So,” Himmler told him. “As the Führer so rightly said, we would be failing in our duty not to suspect that this conference at Château de Voincourt was not simply a cover for something more. Atlantic Wall conference. What nonsense!” Himmler laughed entirely without mirth. “A cover, Rossman. Rommel himself will be present. Why does he go all the way to Brittany for such an affair?”

Rossman, who had always found it politic to agree, nodded eagerly. “I’m sure you are right.”

“This General Ziemke, for example, who’s in charge of the place. I’m sure he is involved.”

Rossman, looking for some way of involving himself to his own advantage, said, “There is one thing in our favour about the de Voincourt set-up, Reichsführer.”

“And what is that?”

“That security there is in the hands of the Waffen-SS.”

“Really?” Himmler looked up, immediately alert. “You’re sure of this?”

“Oh, yes, Reichsführer.” Rossman sifted through the file. “See, the officer responsible for all matters of security and intelligence. Sturmbannführer Max Priem.”

Himmler examined Priem’s record. “Quite a hero, this Priem.”

“Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords, Reichsführer. The only reason he is not at the Front would seem to be the severe nature of wounds received in Russia.”

“I can see that.” Himmler tapped his fingers on the desk while Rossman waited nervously. “Yes,” Himmler said. “I think this Major Priem will serve our purpose very well. Get him on the phone, Rossman. I’ll speak to him personally.”

AT THAT PRECISE
moment, Max Priem was running through the wood on the other side of the lake from Château de Voincourt. He was an inch under six feet, the short black hair tousled, sweat on his face. He wore an old track suit, a scarf around his neck and one of the security guard’s Alsatians ran with him.

“Remember in future,” the surgeon had told him on the day of his release from hospital. “For a man with a silver plate in your head, you’ve done very well, but walk from now on. Walk, don’t run. That must be your new motto.”

“Well, to hell with that,” Priem told himself, rounded the lake and went across the lawn to the main entrance in a final burst of speed, with the Alsatian, Karl, hard on his heels.

He went up the steps past the sentries, who saluted, and into the great entrance hall. He went along the corridor to the right, stopping at the cloakroom to get a towel with
which to mop his face. The first office was that of his aide, Hauptsturmführer Reichslinger. Priem passed on, aware of the phone ringing in his own office. He opened the door, still mopping his face and found Reichslinger, who had come through from his own office, answering the phone.

“Yes, this is Sturmbannführer Priem’s office. No, but he’s just come in.” He paused, then turned and held out the phone to Priem, his narrow eyes widening. “My God, it’s Reichsführer Himmler himself.”

Priem held out his hand for the phone, his face giving nothing away. He pointed to the other office. Reichslinger went through, closed the door, then hurried to his desk and picked up his phone gently.

He heard Himmler say, “Priem?”

“Yes, Reichsführer.”

“You are a loyal member of the SS brotherhood? I may rely on your help and discretion?”

“Of course, Reichsführer.”

“You have a remarkable record. We’re all very proud of you.”

What’s the bastard got up his sleeve now? Priem wondered.

“Listen to me attentively,” Himmler said. “The life of your Führer could be in your hands.”

PRIEM FONDLED THE
Alsatian’s ruff as it sat beside him. “So, what would you wish me to do, Reichsführer,” he asked when Himmler was finished.

“Surveillance of this conference at the weekend which I’m convinced is spurious. This General Ziemke seems heavily suspect to me and as for Rommel—the man is beyond the pale. A disgrace to the officer corps.”

In spite of having Germany’s greatest war hero dismissed in such a fashion, Priem stayed calm. “We are not talking arrests here, I take it, Reichsführer?”

“Of course not. Total surveillance, a log of everyone who is present and, naturally, a record of all telephone calls the Field Marshal and any other general officer make. This is a direct order, Priem.”

“Zu befehl, Reichsführer,”
Priem said automatically.

“Good. I look forward to your report.”

The phone went dead, but Priem still had the receiver to his ear. There was the faintest of sounds. He glanced at the adjoining door, smiled slightly, put his phone down gently and crossed the room, followed by the Alsatian. When he opened the door, Reichslinger was just replacing the receiver. He turned, guilt written all over his face.

Priem said, “Listen, you miserable little toad. If I ever catch you doing that again, I’ll give Karl here permission to feed off your balls.”

The Alsatian stared fixedly at Reichslinger, its tongue hanging out. Reichslinger, face ashen, said, “I meant no harm.”

“You are, however, now privy to a state secret of the utmost gravity.” Priem suddenly barked, “Heels together, Reichslinger.”

“Zu befehl, Sturmbannführer.”

“You took an oath to protect your Führer, a holy oath, repeat it now.”

Reichslinger gabbled, “I will render unconditional obedience to the Führer of the German Reich and People, Adolf Hitler, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, and will be ready, as a brave soldier, to stake my life at any time on this oath.”

“Excellent, so keep your mouth shut or I’ll have you shot and remember—failure is a sign of weakness.”

As he opened the door to his office, Reichslinger called, “I would remind the Major of one thing.”

“And what would that be?”

“You also took the oath.”

MAX PRIEM HAD
been born in Hamburg in 1910, the son of a schoolteacher who had been killed on the Western Front as an infantry corporal in 1917. His mother had died in 1924, leaving him a small legacy, enough to enable him eventually to enter the University of Heidelberg where he had studied law.

By 1933 he was well qualified, but without employment. The SS, with the rest of the Nazi party, were looking for bright young men. Priem, like so many others, joined more for employment than anything else. His language ability had caused him to be recruited by the SD, SS intelligence, but on the advent of war, he had managed to secure an appointment to an active service unit of the Waffen-SS. When the 21st SS Paratroop Battalion was formed, he was one of the first to apply, serving in Crete, North Africa and Russia. Stalingrad had finished him. The bullet in the head from a Russian sniper. So now he sat here behind a desk, miles from the war, living in a fairy tale château in the midst of beautiful Breton countryside.

He went upstairs to his room, showered and changed, inspecting himself in the mirror when he was ready. Except for the silver death’s head in his cap and his SS rank badge, his uniform was all paratrooper. Not the Luftwaffe blue-grey, but the field grey of the Army. Flying blouse, baggy jump trousers tucked into jump boots. A gold wound badge,
Iron Cross First Class and gold and silver paratrooper’s qualification badge studded his left breast, the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords hung from his neck.

“Very pretty,” he said softly. “Nothing like keeping up appearances.”

He went out on the landing as Maresa, Anne-Marie’s maid, passed with a stack of towels. “Is General Ziemke with the Countess, do you know?” he asked in excellent French.

She curtseyed. “I saw him go into her suite five minutes ago. They ordered coffee.”

“Good. Your mistress returns tomorrow?”

“Yes, Major.”

He nodded. “Go ahead, get on with your work.”

She walked away and Priem took a deep breath, then walked across the landing above the great hall and went up the steps leading to the Countess de Voincourt’s bedroom.

AT COLD HARBOUR,
it was raining steadily, mist draped across the trees, shrouding the Abbey in mystery as Genevieve and Julie, wearing yellow storm coats and sou’westers, walked down to the village.

“So much for the weather forecast,” Julie said. “They always get it wrong, those people.”

“But what will happen?” Genevieve said.

“God knows. They’ll come up with something.”

They came to where the
Lili Marlene
was tied up to the quay. Hare came out of the wheelhouse and up the gangplank. “Going to the pub?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Julie said. “I’ve got to get lunch ready.”

Hare smiled at Genevieve. “Are you over last night?”

“Just about.”

“Good. I’ll join you. Craig and Munro went in a little while
ago with Grant. I think they’re having a council of war.”

Inside The Hanged Man, they found the three men sitting at the table by the window. Munro looked up. “Ah, there you are. We’re just having words. Join us.”

Craig said, “As you may have noticed, the weather isn’t too good. Tell them, Grant.”

The young pilot said, “We were supposed to have a moon tonight and dry weather. Ideal conditions, but this stinks. You see, it isn’t just the visibility. We land in ordinary fields. If they get waterlogged by heavy rain, it would be impossible to take off again.”

“So what happens?” Genevieve asked.

Craig said, “There’s an outside chance, according to the Met. people, that it might clear by seven or eight this evening.”

“And if not?”

“You have to go, my dear, we can’t delay,” Munro told her. “So, if there’s no plane it will have to be a fast boat and a passage by night, courtesy of the Kriegsmarine here.”

“Our pleasure,” Martin Hare said.

“Good, we’ll leave it till seven this evening, then make the decision.”

Julie stood up. “Coffee, everyone?”

Munro sighed. “How many times do I have to remind you, Julie, I’m a tea person.”

“But Brigadier,” she told him sweetly, “I’m always reminded of what you are every time I look at you,” and she went into the kitchen.

PRIEM KNOCKED ON
the door, opened it and went into the ante-room. Chantal was sitting in a chair by the bedroom door. She was, as always, thoroughly unfriendly.

“Yes, Major.”

“See if the Countess will receive me.”

She opened the door, went in and closed it. After a while, she returned. “You may go in now.”

Hortense de Voincourt was propped up against pillows. She wore a silk gown and a kind of cap covered the red-gold hair. She had a tray in front of her and was eating a buttered roll.

“Good morning, Major. Did I ever tell you that you look like the Devil himself coming through the door in that preposterous uniform?”

Priem liked her immensely. Always had. He clicked heels and gave her a military salute. “You are as radiant as the morning, Countess.”

She sipped champagne and orange juice from a tall crystal glass. “What piffle! If you want Carl, he’s reading the paper on the terrace. I will not allow a German paper to be read in this house.”

Priem smiled, saluted again and went out through the french windows. Ziemke was seated at a small table on the terrace, a glass of champagne in front of him. He was reading a two-day-old copy of a Berlin newspaper. He looked up and smiled.

“I see from the front page that we are winning the war.” Priem stood there, looking at him, and Ziemke stopped smiling. “What is it, Max?”

“I’ve had a phone call from Reichsführer Himmler.”