Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (42 page)

“Good morning, Sabine. How are you today?”

“Much better thank you
, Herr General.”

She had tried the day before, but the arrival of some Ranger officers had prevented her, and she had feigned a sudden sickness to excuse herself from the room
, in case anyone noticed the contents of her bucket.

She moved quickly around the room, tidying and dusting, the map stands covered with their light linen covers to ensure prying eyes saw nothing of value.

She swept, moving around the room with barely concealed haste, Patton so engrossed in his writing that he failed to notice that she did not clean around the desk.

Moving the bucket to the window,
Sabine pulled out the mop. Any casual glance at the implement would have betrayed its dry state. The bucket contained a Walther PPK, now in the hand of the vengeful Faber.

The sudden silence associated with lack of movement broke into Patton’s con
sciousness, the sole sound he recognised being the heavy breathing of Sabine Faber.

He turned.

‘What the...’

“Say nothing
, you murdering swine. Say nothing at all. Keep your hands in front of you, and sit still. Just listen.”

The General nodded his understanding
, and leant back in his chair, displaying a calmness he did not feel inside. He forced himself to focus on the woman, knowing that she had something she wanted him to hear, or he would already be dead.

“In Sicily, you ordered your men to kill prisoners. One of them was my brother. Your men killed him at the
Biscari airfield.”

She snarled, her words almost hissing through her teeth in the increasing anger.

“He pleaded for his life, and they shot him in the head.”

She took half a step closer
, and gestured with the small automatic.

“I want to hear you plead for your life
, you bastard.”

Patton’s face became thoughtful, almost as if he were debating his response. But no words came. He just maintained eye contact.

“Plead for your life, General, or I will shoot you down now, like the dog you are.”

Sabine moved closer, the muzzle of the PPK now three feet from her target.

Raising her voice, she lashed out with her foot, catching Patton on the shin.

“Scream for your miserable life, get on your knees. GET ON YOUR KNEES!”

Her raised voice blotted out the sound of the opening door, as the cleaner who had actually been detailed to clean the room, entered to investigate.

The PPK erupted, the first bullet aimed at Patton.

Swivelling quickly, the next bullet took the new cleaner in the chest, and dropped her to the tiles, where her head smashed into the solid floor and knocked her out.

It took Sabine Faber less than three seconds to fire both shots and return the weapon to cover Patton.

It took General George Scott Patton just over two seconds to snatch up the paper opener and ram it through the assassin’s solar plexus.

The pain was so total and debilitating.

Faber tried to bring the pistol up again, but the strength was not there.

Suddenly
, she was flung against the far wall, as a .45 slug smashed into her. She was dead before her corpse had finished its bloody slide down the Mediterranean mural.

“Sonofabitch!”

The Captain who had shot Sabine down could not better that. Others rushed into the room, keen to confirm that their General was alive.

Her shot had missed, passing through the gap between his epaulette and shoulder
, and clipping away some of the woodwork beyond.

The area was quickly secured, the Lieutenant Colonel in charge of security acting swiftly, conscious of the fact that there had been a grave error
, and that they had been very lucky that day.

Still unconscious, the wounded cleaner was stabilised and whisked away to the medical facility, where later Patton would visit her and thank her for saving his life.

The body of Sabine Faber was removed from the room, drawing a cursory look from Patton as he spread the word through other Allied commands.

Whilst the woman had spoken of her own reasons, it did not pay to take chances
, and so the alert went out to all commands in Allied Europe.

Knocke was pleased to see Anne-Marie Valois waiting on the steps.

It had previously been agreed that he would not be told when the OSS operation to rescue his family would take place.

That had been for sound operational and personal reasons.

But he sensed something was in the air
, and the presence of the ‘Deux’ agent confirmed it in his mind.

He alighted from the jeep, smiling at the pretty agent.

His smile was not returned, and his heart twisted in agony.

“Madem
oiselle Valois? Are you well?”

“Yes
, perfectly, thank you, Général Knocke.”

Wh
ich she very obviously was not.

His body cold, Knocke did not know what to say or do.

“Shall we walk together, Général?”

Side by side, the two
strode around the Hotel and into the garden, the area where it had been agreed that Anne Marie de Valois would break the news.

Sitting down in a small arbour, Valois invited Knocke to sit.

‘Mein Gott!’

“I shall stand
, if that’s alright with you?”

“Please
, Ernst, please sit.”

That did it, and as he sat down
, his resolve started to disintegrate.

A hand found his
, and he looked up into the moist eyes and knew that he had lost them all.

‘Nein! Nein! Nein!’

“Ernst...I...”

Instinctively, her other hand moved to comfort the grieving man.

The timing went astray, the minder misunderstood the signals from Valois, and he set the pair loose ahead of schedule.

Running for all they were worth, Greta and Magda Knocke sprinted from the hotel
, and threw themselves upon their father.

Tears of joy spilled down his face as he swept them up
, hugging them, and kissing them in his happiness.

As he held them close, his brain connected one vital piece of information.

He mouthed the words to the watching Valois.

“My wife?”

Anne-Marie did not need to reply, her face spoke for her.

More tears ran down his face
, as he took solace in the presence of his girls.

Later, he listened to the events of that night
on the Baltic; the rescue, the substitutions, and how his wife had died.

O
r at least, the version that they chose to tell him.

All the senior medical staff had protested, but it was to no avail.

The infantry Colonel was there under orders, and he
was not prepared to take no for an answer.

Major Swift
and Captain Montoya had secured the man’s agreement that they would be able to veto those who simply were too sick to go, so they accompanied the emotionless officer into the prime recovery ward of the hospital, a room containing thirty-four cots.

“Attenshun!”

Those that could, in the main, did. Those that couldn’t, didn’t. And there were those that could, but chose not to.

“Men, I appreciate that you are here because you have already paid a price in action, but the situation is grave
, and I have to ask more of you all.”

There was a general hubbub, and the keen ear could pick out some uncomplimentary words, and some that would have made a vicar blush.

“Uncle Sam needs volunteers, and we are going through the hospitals to find men who are nearly recovered, to sign up to lighter duties, releasing fit men into the fighting zone.”

No one
could fail to hear the general reply of ‘bullshit’.

Colonel
Stoltzfus let the sound die away, and went to start again.

A low rumble in the nearby bed preceded a vile smell that pervaded the entire unit
, invading the respiratory passages of everyone present.

The wounded man had been on liquids only until the day before
, when the bandages were taken off his facial wound, and his wind had been known to clear the building.

“Shorry
, Colonel, but I was shoth in the assh.”

The obvious damage to his face made his voice slurred, although they all knew he was emphasising his speech problem for comic effect; all except the Colonel of course.

Corporal Rosenberg had been badly wounded, but his backside had actually escaped damage.

“That will be all the kosher crap you eat, you yiddisher bastard,” and a pillow sailed across the space in front of the Colonel, landing precisely on target.

“Oh Nursh, Nursh, the bad man attacked me again! Oi Vay, but can’t an honesth man get reshpite from the Genthiles!”

The only one there who was not privy to the relationship between the two men was
Stoltzfus, and as a god-fearing son of an Amish Rabbi, he took exception to the NCO’s tone.

“Now you can cut that out
, Master-Sergeant. We leave that sort of crap to the Germans!”

A look of innocence crossed the NCO’s face, the sort of innocence that a certain type of officer
could see as a challenge.

Colonel Stoltzfus was such an officer.

“Attention! Name and rank?”

The NCO
made an upward body movement that more paid lip service to the order, rather than obeyed it.

He fixed the officer with a neutral
eye and spoke, using as much of the tone of his second language as was possible.

“Hässler, Friedrich,
Master Sergeant, Sir.”

Rosenberg giggled uncontrollably.

So did Nurse Captain Montoya.

So did most of the men
, who were being thoroughly entertained.

Hässler dropped back onto his bed, maintaining his deadpan face.

The Colonel wisely decided to cut his losses.

“We need men, combat veterans, to insert into units
presently reforming. Men who can pass on their knowledge, and let the greenhorns know what to expect in battle with the Commies.”

The medical Major interrupted.

“That means, no combat, just instructor stuff for you men. Nowhere near the front lines.”

The reaction from the wounded men was universal.

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit!
”

“Bullshith.”

The Major retreated behind Belinda Montoya.

Stoltzfus welcomed the
medical man’s distraction, and spoke up again, playing his trump card.

“Your country needs you this one last time. Once it is over, it’s Stateside for every man of you.”

A man-mountain rose from the bed next to Hässler.

“I will go
, Colonel, but not stateside. My duty is here.”

Hässler looked at Bluebear
as if he was a rabid dog.

“Pardon
the Chief, Colonel. He’s a little loopy after a shindig a’ways back. He don’t know what he’s saying.”

Rosenberg followed behind quickly, the two statements almost
blending together.

“He’sh fucking mad ash
tually, Colonel. No-one wantsh a mad Commanshee, do they now?”

Waiting for a sign from Montoya, Colonel
Stoltfus welcomed the nod, and turned back to the huge Indian.

“Uncle Sam will gladly take you, son. What’s your name and rank?”

“Sergeant Charley Bluebear, Sir.”

“Oh shit!”

“Oh shith!”

Hässler and Rosenberg made their decision, confirming it to each other with a swift nod.

“Well, if the chief’s going, best I go too. Someone’s gotta look after him.”

Hässler stretched and swung his feet out of the bed, the aching in his body apparent on his face.

Montoya shook her head.

“I think not
, Master Sergeant,” the Colonel understanding that the man was not yet healed.

“Well
, I think so, Sir. We here’ve bin through a lot together, and reckon we’ll be sticking together. Eh boys?”