The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) (2 page)

The two men watching said nothing. The shorter man snatched up the final drawing – a pencilled mass of flame and smoke. He stared at it for a moment, the fire from the nearest wall sconce reflecting in his glasses. Then Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler screwed the paper into an angry ball and threw it across the room.

The paper hit the wall, and dropped into the sconce below. It rested intact for a moment in the pool of burning oil, then burst into smoky flame.

BY LATE APRIL
1941, the Battle of Britain was over. The price of the Allies’ first victory was high. Nazi Germany had suffered its first defeat.

But in the mind of Standartenfuhrer Hans Streicher of the SS the war was practically won. How long could a tiny island continue to hold out against the might of the Reich? Some of Streicher’s men were afraid Britain would surrender before they saw action. Streicher knew that Hauptsturmfuhrer Klaas in particular resented not being at the forefront of the struggle.

‘When the Wehrmacht marched into Poland, we were excavating in the Austrian Alps,’ Klaas said. ‘When Paris fell, we were digging through Roman ruins in Northern Italy. Now, we’re stuck here in France when the battle’s over and we should be fighting the British.’

Streicher sympathised. But he had no such reservations himself about their work. ‘You’ve been with me since ’34, Gerhardt,’ he said quietly, glancing across at the third man with them. ‘You know how important our work is to the Reich. For us, the front line is here.’

Klaas looked round, peering into the gloom. ‘An ancient chamber hidden beneath a churned-up field in the middle of nowhere?’ He sighed and nodded. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I know you are right of course. It’s just… frustrating. Everything takes so long.’

‘Check on the progress,’ Streicher ordered. ‘And remember, however long it takes, however frustrated we might get, the work we are doing here could determine the future not just of Europe but of the entire world.’

Streicher took pride in that. He was a man who took pride in everything he did, never giving less than total dedication, commitment and loyalty. Even the tiniest things were important to him – like the fact that his own English was more precise and grammatical than that of the American standing beside him.

Together they watched Klaas talking to the soldiers tunnelling through the unforgiving ground. It had taken three weeks to dig their way this deep. Three weeks of unrelenting, backbreaking work. Anything less sensitive, less important, and Streicher would have rounded up able-bodied men from Oulon and the surrounding villages and used them as slave labour. But not for this… Two years of research had led Streicher here. The imminent results were for the eyes of a select few within the SS only.

And the American. He was useful, and just as the United States as a whole maintained a studied neutrality, so the American seemed supremely unconcerned about what happened in Europe. Just so long as it did not interfere with his own researches or with sites of historic interest.

The American certainly agreed that this site was of historic interest.
Pre
-historic, possibly. Despite his lazy drawl, and the scraggy beard, Professor Carlton Smith evidently knew his subject.

Streicher was wary. America might be neutral but she was no ally. That said, Smith did seem genuinely immune to the increasing tide of pro-British feeling that was flowing over the United States.

‘Hell,’ he’d told Streicher when they first met, ‘you guys can blow each other to Kingdom Come far as I’m concerned, just so long as you leave me to my digging and notes.’

Smith could see for himself, he told Streicher, that the Reich was by no means the all-conquering monster that the
warmonger Churchill and his cronies made it out to be. In fact, Smith’s politics, on the rare occasions when he ventured an opinion or betrayed a belief, seemed refreshingly in line with Streicher’s own.

Of course, Streicher had checked as soon as he met him that Carlton Smith really was a professor of Archaeology at Harvard University. His credentials, it was confirmed through the Reich’s sources in New York, were impeccable. His political leanings were indeed slanted in the right direction.

For all his arrogance and brash tone, Smith had offered invaluable advice on the dig and useful insight to some of the finds. It was a lucky coincidence that he had been touring the area making notes on local churches and chateaus for a proposed book. Especially lucky for the men who would have died with Sturmmann Hagen if Carlton Smith hadn’t seen the iron spike set in the ground under the wall and shouted a warning.

It was a simple enough mechanism, little more than a lever primed to bring down a ton of rubble on anyone digging through the entrance of the burial mound. Perhaps the most surprising thing was that it still worked, even after thousands of years.

They tunnelled in from the other side after that. Smith’s advice had been to abandon trying to get through the tomb’s entrance. ‘Who knows what other traps the cunning old bastards laid? But you cut your way in from the back, and it’s a whole different ball game.’

Now they were digging deep underground, their work lit by electric lamps on metal tripods and by bare bulbs strung from cables fastened to the walls that ran back to the generators at the edge of the dig. Makeshift wooden props shored up the tunnels. The soldiers had worked their way through three caverns, each littered with artefacts all of which were catalogued and crated up ready for later shipment.

Two more men had been killed by hidden traps getting this far. One fell through a thin flagstone that shattered under his weight, the second was crushed by a slab that swung down
from the roof. Several others had lucky escapes.

Now, finally, they had reached what seemed to be the final chamber. Streicher’s men were scraping the mud and dirt from the last wall. Once through that, the long hard work would be justified…

The project was overrunning. Streicher was under pressure to get into the chamber and recover what he was sure was inside. He was cautious, wary of making rash promises, but everything pointed to this being the place. He tried not to raise the expectations of his superiors. Even so, they asked daily for the impossible. He was aware of one of the Enigma operators pushing through the narrow tunnel behind him and into the cavern where they stood. He could guess what the message said. It would be from Reichsfuhrer Himmler, or possibly his lackey Hoffman. The wording would be clear and short and direct.

Streicher took the flimsy message paper without looking at the operator. Glanced at it. ‘No reply. Just acknowledge receipt.’

‘More words of wisdom and encouragement from the Fatherland?’ Smith asked, his smile masked by the beard.

‘Something of the sort,’ Streicher said in English. The American spoke no German, and hardly any French. It was a miracle he’d survived in France at all before meeting Streicher.

So the Standartenfuhrer made no effort to conceal the message slip as he handed it back to the operator. If Carlton Smith had bothered to look, he’d have seen a single line of text:

HAVE+YOU+SECURED+THE+UBERMENSCH

In fact, Carlton Smith did understand some German and his French was more than passable. But he knew that the less he seemed to know about what was really going on, the more likely Streicher was to keep him involved. He was under no illusions that he was dealing with the SS. If they thought he’d found out something he shouldn’t, they’d shoot him. So he
smiled and nodded and feigned complete ignorance, and offered as much help and advice as he thought would be well received.

He played a similar game with his politics – venturing only rare opinions or thoughts, and always carefully clouding what he really thought of the Third Reich and what was happening in Europe.

As well as the historical interest of the site, Smith was fascinated by Streicher’s involvement. The Standartenfuhrer’s men, while no doubt efficient and brutal soldiers, were evidently also veterans of previous archaeological digs. They worked with care and diligence, and at least some appreciation of the past they were unearthing.

Klaas returned, raising his arm in an abrupt
Heil
which Streicher reciprocated. The wall was clear – they were ready to break into the tomb.

Smith kept his expression neutral. The beard helped. He saved his excited enthusiasm for Streicher’s translation.

Armed with heavy torches, the two of them followed Klaas across the cavern to the exposed wall. Two more soldiers, stripped to the waist, stood ready with pickaxes.

‘Let me see, let me see.’ Smith pushed past. He ran his hand over the rough stone surface of the wall, nodding. ‘Yeah – this is absolutely typical of the ninth century. See the way the stones have been interlaced? Looks like you’ve got yourselves the tomb of an ancient chieftain.’

‘Much more than that,’ Streicher murmured in German. He nodded for the men to start work on the wall.

The stone was brittle with age. There was no mortar to hold the wall together, and in minutes the soldiers had torn a ragged hole large enough for a man to get through. Streicher stepped forward, determined to be the first to see what lay beyond the wall.

But Smith caught Streicher’s arm. ‘Be a bit careful there.’

It was sensible advice. Streicher stepped cautiously through, testing the ground on the other side before he committed his full weight to it. It seemed firm enough. Once through,
he waited for Smith to join him, several of the SS soldiers clambering after the academic. Two of them still carried their pickaxes.

The torches illuminated a narrow passageway sloping downwards ahead of them.

‘So, not quite at the main chamber yet,’ Smith noted. ‘Can’t be far, though.’

Streicher’s impatience got the better of him and he set off along the passage. If they didn’t find the chamber soon, the messages he received daily from Wewelsburg would become more insistent. He knew only too well that in the Third Reich in general and in the SS in particular you could be transformed from hero to pariah in a matter of hours.

Again, Smith caught Streicher’s shoulder.

‘Take it easy. There could still be surprises.’

As he spoke, something moved in the shadows ahead of them. A trick of the wandering torchlight, perhaps. But it seemed like a patch of darkness scuttled back from the edge of the shadows and buried itself deeper against the wall. Streicher moved his torch, following the motion. But there was nothing. Just a dark, narrow gap where the stone-flagged floor of the passage didn’t quite meet the rough, crumbling brickwork of the wall.

‘Is that the end of the tunnel?’ Smith wondered. ‘We must be nearly there.’

Streicher nodded. It was a shame – the American had saved lives and helped them get this far. But depending what they found at the end of this passage, Smith might become a liability. Streicher would do it himself. He owed the man that.

‘Wait!’

Smith’s warning shocked Streicher out of his thoughts. He froze – one foot raised. Smith gently helped him step back.

‘What is it?’

‘Not sure.’

Professor Smith stooped down, shining his torch at the stone slab where Streicher had been about to put his foot. The edges seemed darker than the slabs around it.

‘Pickaxe.’ Smith held his hand out behind him, not turning to look.

Streicher repeated the instruction in German to the nearest soldier, who handed Smith the short-handled pickaxe he was carrying.

Smith positioned the handle of the upright pickaxe on the slab of stone, and pressed down hard. There was a grinding sound – stone on stone. The ground shuddered, and Smith pitched suddenly forwards as the slab dropped away. Smith stumbled as he fought to keep his balance. In front of him, the whole section of floor had disappeared.

The soldier who had carried the pickaxe staggered, and fell. He pitched sideways with a cry. Another soldier made to grab him, but was too late. His hand closed on empty air. The falling soldier disappeared over the edge and into the darkness. His shout echoed round the passageway – the sound of hopeless terror.

Streicher had firm hold of Smith’s arm, pulling him up and back from the brink.

Ahead of them was a gaping hole, about ten feet across. The section of floor had pivoted on the far side, tilting away. Below was darkness. The cries of the falling soldier faded into the distance.

Smith handed the pickaxe to another soldier and took a deep breath. ‘A bit more extreme than I was expecting,’ he admitted. ‘Sorry about that poor fellow. But thanks for the helping hand.’

‘My pleasure.’ Streicher smiled grimly. It might have saved a problem later if Smith had fallen. There again, it looked like they might still need the man’s help. The loss of another soldier was regrettable, but Streicher was used to death.

The jump was made more difficult by knowing the consequences of not making it. No one asked if the ground on the other side would be secure, but everyone was wondering. Streicher went first.

He took a short run up, and leaped across the abyss, landing heavily on the other side. The ground was firm. Smith
followed, taking a longer run up, moving clumsily, arms flailing in the air as he made his ungainly journey across. He landed close to Streicher with a loud sigh of relief followed by a nervous laugh. The others crossed without incident.

‘I think this could be it,’ Smith announced, aiming his torch down the passage.

A short way ahead, what Streicher had taken for more shadows and the continuing passage was now visible as a huge barrier. It was caked in mud and grime. Smith rubbed his hand over it.

‘Metal,’ he announced with surprise. ‘Bronze, perhaps? Or iron. Difficult to tell in this light. Not what I was expecting, though, whatever it is.’

The door – and there was soon no doubt that it was a door – was embossed with a series of circles and lines. It was hinged on one side. A heavy latch slid into a socket on the other side. It took two of the soldiers to slide the latch back out of the socket. It finally gave in a shower of dirt and rust. The door creaked on its hinges as if it too was sighing with relief.