The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) (32 page)

‘You hoping the devil and his hordes will give you some supernatural insight into enemy plans, is that it?’

‘You have no idea,’ Miss Manners said.

Alban wasn’t listening. He looked at Wiles. ‘And who’s this? High Priest of Darkness? You haven’t a clue, you lot, have you?’ His voice rose as Green practically shoved him out into the corridor. ‘Don’t you understand? We’re fighting a war, not playing some bloody parlour game! You’re unhinged – the lot of you. I’ll shut you down.’ His voice faded. ‘I’ll see you never get funding for anything ever again…’

‘Can he do it?’ Wiles asked nervously. ‘Can he really get us closed down?’

‘He can try,’ Miss Manners said. She looked away. ‘And yes, there’s a chance he could succeed. He has powerful friends.’

Alban grabbed the sheet of paper Brinkman gave him without a word. His mind was reeling from what he had just seen. What were they doing? What could they possibly hope to achieve? He was well aware of the value of unconventional thinking, but Brinkman’s Station Z was something else. Did they seriously think they could defeat the Nazis by
magic
?

Not for the first time he wondered who these people were and what their mission actually was. He couldn’t imagine that they’d retain their funding once he’d told the committee what he’d seen today. Couldn’t for a moment believe that it was covered by whatever remit they had.

He was outside, gulping in fresh, cold air before he knew it. He didn’t remember even coming down the stairs. The car was on the other side of the road. He crossed over, acknowledging Hedges his driver with a nod as the man opened the back door for him.

‘You all right, sir?’ Hedges asked.

‘What? Oh, yes.’ He stuffed the sheet of paper into his coat pocket.

‘Had they heard?’

‘Sorry?’ He could still see the black candles burning in
that room. The flickering light reflected in the facets of the upturned glass tumbler.

‘I was wondering if Colonel Brinkman had heard the news.’

‘No, no, I don’t think so. He didn’t mention it.’

Hedges started the car. ‘Did you tell him?’

Alban was staring out of the window at the door to the offices where Station Z was situated. ‘No. He’ll find out soon enough.’

As the car pulled out, he saw the woman hurrying along the pavement. Sarah Diamond, half American and in a hurry, he thought. She was almost running, mind elsewhere – he could guess what she was thinking about. She didn’t seem to notice the car as they passed her.

‘In fact, he’ll find out in about half a minute from now,’ Alban said. ‘Because she’s obviously heard.’

VEN AT NIGHT
, the Kremlin was an awe-inspiring sight. The Spasskaya Tower gleamed in the moonlight. A red star, added to the top of the spire in 1937 was still the colour of blood, even though it was now two years old.

Mikhael had seen enough blood. He knew he would see a lot more yet, and the thought sickened him. Three days ago, his best friend, Alexei, had been shot dead right beside him. Alex didn’t die at once. He spent an agonising hour coughing up rich, ripe, foaming blood and screaming. That was the first time Mikhael had seen death. 20 September 1939 – the day that Mikhael’s life changed for ever.

Now, three days later, Mikhael had been brought to the Kremlin to die.

They escorted him in through a side entrance. Two soldiers on guard duty barely spared them a glance. Down a narrow, ill-lit passageway and out into a wide corridor. Their boots rang on the marble floors. Such opulence – Mikhael had never seen anything like it. He struggled to keep looking straight ahead, but his eyes were seduced by the glittering chandeliers, the paintings, the panelled walls…

The General Secretary sat at a large desk at the side of a huge office. He did not look up when they came in, giving no acknowledgement that he knew Mikhael and the three men with him had arrived. The four of them stood to attention in
front of the desk, waiting.

After several minutes, the Secretary put down his pen, and looked up. He fixed his deep, dark eyes on Mikhael, his stare so intense he might be looking into the man’s soul. Still he said nothing.

Finally, the Secretary turned to the man standing beside Mikhael – the only one of the four not in uniform. ‘Is this the man?’

‘It is.’ The reply was strained with nervous anxiety.

‘His rank?’

‘He is a corporal.’

‘Then promote him.’ The Secretary turned his attention back to Mikhael. ‘They tell me you speak perfect German.’

‘They tell me that too.’ He tried to smile, but the Secretary’s expression did not change.

‘But is it true?’

‘It is. My mother was German, though her own mother was English. She worked at the—’

The Secretary waved a hand to cut him off. ‘Are you a good Soviet? You know where your loyalty lies?’

‘Of course.’

The Secretary beckoned to Mikhael. ‘Come closer.’ He pointed to the other side of his desk, where several piles of papers were laid out neatly. ‘Take a look.’

Mikhael tried to ignore the rest of the desk. There were other stacks of documents. A pile of photographs lay on the blotter – beside the note the Secretary had been writing when they came in. The photographs showed what looked like an aerial view of a forest, except that all the trees were lying down, radiating out from a dark area in the centre like broken matchsticks. The whole landscape blasted across. What weapon could do that?

He forced himself to concentrate on the papers the Secretary had indicated. They were crumpled and old. Identity papers with photographs, letters, a blood-stained page torn from a journal.

‘Please, take them with you. All that remains of the lives
of three men. Study them carefully,’ the Secretary went on as Mikhael gathered up the papers. ‘See which is the most like you, which will be the easiest life to slip into. Not the most comfortable, but the one you can become most convincingly. Names are important,’ he added. ‘Make sure you like the name of the man you will be when we send you back to Poland.’

There was silence for several moments, then the Secretary leaned forward to study the photographs again. It was obvious that the meeting was over. Mikhael waited for one of the others to move first, then followed them from the room. At the door, he glanced back at the man at the desk – still absorbed in his work. He could see why he had adopted the name ‘man of steel’ – Stalin.

Hoffman’s fingers brushed against the Iron Cross at his throat. ‘They gave me this. As the only survivor of an entire unit killed by the last remnants of the Polish army, they thought I deserved it. Whereas in fact, there were no survivors.’

‘And the unit was ambushed by the Russians,’ Davenport said.

They were speaking in English, sitting on dusty wooden chairs in the hut at the edge of the woodland beside the quarry. The plan had been for Pentecross to stay hidden in the woods, but the first thing Hoffman said to Davenport was:

‘Tell your friend to join us. If I’d wanted you killed or captured I’d have done it in the bar last night. I watched the two of you for a good ten minutes before I spoke to you.’

Now they sat round a rough wooden table – none of them the nationality they claimed to be.

‘You seriously expect us to believe all that?’ Guy said. ‘That you’re really Russian?’

‘Mostly Russian. My mother had some German blood in her.’ Hoffman smiled. ‘But that wasn’t really her fault. Some English too, which is how I know your language.’

‘So when the Soviet Army liberated, as they call it, Eastern Poland – you became German.’

‘From the sets of papers I was offered I picked out Werner
Hoffman. The candidates were chosen because none of them had any living relatives so far as we could tell. I was decorated, promoted, applied to join the SS.’

‘And you’re a Russian spy.’ Guy shook his head. ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ he said in fluent Russian. ‘I don’t know what you’re really up to, but you’re no more Russian than I am.’

Hoffman laughed. His reply was also in Russian. ‘Your accent is very good. I’d guess that you learned your Russian from someone who spent most of their life in Moscow, am I right? It’s very formal.’

‘What are you two rattling on about?’ Davenport asked.

‘Just establishing our credentials,’ Guy said. ‘All right, suppose we accept that you’re Russian and you’ve successfully infiltrated the SS. Why are you talking to us?’

‘Please, we’re all allies together now.’

‘You’re risking your cover,’ Davenport said.

‘I need your help.’

‘In what way? You looking to escape, back to Russia?’

Hoffman shook his head. ‘There are things happening here. Things I have to tell you about.’

‘Have you told Moscow?’

‘They wouldn’t believe me. I have told them some of it, and had no response. Not even an acknowledgement of the signal.’

‘How do you communicate?’ Davenport asked. ‘Under the circumstances, I can’t believe you have colleagues in the village.’

‘I have a radio. It’s risky. I use it rarely, and only when I can be fairly sure that there is a distraction.’

‘Where is this radio?’ Guy asked.

‘You are sitting on it. Under the floorboards. Buried in the sand beneath.’

‘All right,’ Guy said. ‘Everything you’ve told us is improbable but I guess it’s not impossible.’

‘You haven’t explained how you knew we were coming,’ Davenport said. ‘You haven’t explained how you come to
have a drawing of me in your pocket.’

‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ Hoffman replied. ‘The drawing… Well, I can explain that later.’

‘And what makes you think we will believe you if your own superiors don’t?’ Guy asked.

‘Because you don’t have to believe me. I can show you the evidence. And I know from this –’ he drew out the picture of Davenport and unfolded it on the table ‘– that you already know some of it.’

‘From a drawing?’ Davenport sniffed. ‘And not a very flattering one at that.’

‘I don’t know what you call these creatures,’ Hoffman said, ‘but we know them as Ubermensch.’ He nodded as Guy and Davenport looked at each other. ‘I see you are familiar with the term.’

‘You have one of them here?’ Davenport demanded. ‘At Wewelsburg?’

‘No. Not any more.’ He smoothed the picture out, hesitating before looking up again. They could both see the fear deep behind his eyes. ‘What we have here is much worse.’

‘You can get us into the castle?’ Guy asked.

‘I’ve brought uniforms. If necessary, I shall vouch for you, although that could cause problems for me later.’

‘No need,’ Davenport announced. ‘Standartenfuhrer Streicher already knows me, assuming he is here.’

‘He’s here. Although he’s organised an expedition to North Africa in a couple of weeks. But how does that help?’

‘Because he thinks my name is Carlton Smith, an American archaeologist.’

Hoffman laughed. ‘
You’re
Smith? Oh that is good. Yes, I like that. And a week ago – even a few days ago – that might have worked in our favour. But not now.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘You haven’t heard the news?’

‘Tell us,’ Guy said.

‘Yesterday the Japanese attacked an American base in Hawaii. Pearl Harbor.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Davenport said.

‘As far as we can tell, the attack was without warning, and the US Pacific Fleet was practically destroyed.’

‘Christ,’ Guy muttered.

‘President Roosevelt has asked Congress to declare war on Japan,’ Hoffman told them. ‘And I think we can safely assume that it will only be a short time before the United States and Germany are also at war.’

SHE WAS SO
angry she didn’t trust herself to speak. To Sarah, it seemed the most obvious thing in the world to get the Americans involved with Station Z. They should be setting up briefing meetings through the embassy – she’d offered to talk to Whitman, without letting on quite how well she knew him.

But Colonel Brinkman was adamant. Even now he was still not willing to talk to the Americans. Discussion over.

So Sarah stormed out of his office, grabbed her coat off the back of her chair and left. She clattered down the stairs, swearing under her breath, barging past a startled man heading up to the offices above. By the time she reached the street, she’d made up her mind. If Brinkman wasn’t going to talk to the Americans, then she was. She set off towards the embassy, praying that Whitman was there today. Chances were everyone was there. Just so long as she could persuade him to see her. They’d be busy, but as the Japanese attack had taken place thousands of miles away it was unlikely they could actually do anything. He’d see her, she’d make sure of that.

Focused on the pavement ahead, mind full of anger and nervous anticipation, Sarah didn’t notice the man in a light grey raincoat. He had been leaning against the wall at the corner of the street, smoking. Now he flicked his cigarette away, and followed Sarah down the road.

The opportunity to derive information from a new source was too good to miss. The confusion and disarray that the Ubermensch was watching afforded him that opportunity. His latest target was from a very different group of people, and could provide very different data – social, political, tactical… The target would tell him everything.

Rather than simply observe as usual, the Ubermensch followed the target into the building. He walked close behind, matching the man’s stride, apparently following him – a friend or colleague. In the confusion, no one stopped him.

Once inside the building, the Ubermensch dropped back. He did not want to be seen until the target reached his office or another quiet place where they could talk. If the target realised he was being followed, that might cause problems.

The first problem was the soldier. Coming the other way down the corridor, the uniformed man nodded in greeting to the target. But frowned as he saw the Ubermensch.

The soldier opened his mouth to speak, hand reaching for the pistol in his holster. But he was too slow. The Ubermensch’s own hand was over the man’s face, covering his mouth, choking off his shout. At the end of the corridor, the target turned out of sight. The Ubermensch slammed the soldier against the wall. The man’s head hit it so hard that the plaster cracked. The soldier slumped forwards, and the Ubermensch hoisted the dead body over his shoulder.