A Tiny Little Job, Part 1

by Alekto





Summary:

Hogan's Heroes encounter Mallory, Miller and Andrea from the Guns of Navarone. The Brass in London decide there's a little job for them to do while they're in Germany, just a tiny little job really…





Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters from Hogan's Heroes or the Guns of Navarone by Alistair McLean. I'm just borrowing them. This story is not written for profit and is not intended to infringe on anyone's copyright. As far as I know, Hogan's Heroes are owned by Viacom and Paramount, and the Guns of Navarone by Devoran Trustees Ltd.





Acknowledgements:

Mike - for putting me straight on planes and things, Aaron, Jason and Susan - for taking the time and trouble to read it through and see if it all made sense. Thanks everyone. Any mistakes left are all mine.





Author's note:

This is Part 1 of a 2 part cross-over story. The characters from the Guns of Navarone are written following their descriptions in the book rather than from the later film of the same name. Throughout I've used the correct historical rank titles as far as possible. In the case of the German army this can become quite confusing as the rank titles used by the SS were completely different from those used by the regular army - the Wehrmacht. In Britain, the RAF still uses different rank titles to the army even today. (In the show, Hogan's Heroes, Col. Crittendon became a Colonel because of concerns that American viewers would be unfamiliar with the RAF equivalent: Group Captain.) Apart from the familiar Hogan's Heroes characters, and Mallory, Miller, Andrea and Jensen from Guns of Navarone, all other major characters are mine. Ask before borrowing.





Rating:

PG-13 for violence and occasional language.









****



Nor dread nor hope attend

A dying animal;

A man awaits his end

Dreading and hoping all;

Many times he died,

Many times rose again.

A great man in his pride

Confronting murderous men

Casts derision upon

Supersession of breath;

He knows death to the bone-

Man has created death.



W.B.Yeats,

"Death"





Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel, East London, 27th February 1944



Dan Bowman was coming to the end of another shift. The flow of injured into the hospital from the night's air raid had finally stopped. In his youth, Bowman had served in the trenches back in the first war. Too old now to be drafted, he took his current job as air raid warden with a characteristic seriousness. The 'all clear' had sounded two hours ago and he had made his way to the hospital as he had on other days to check on things, praying that the night's missing would be there. After four years of the war, Bowman was a well known visitor. Older than most, he took an almost paternal interest in the well being of the hospital volunteer staff after his own family had been killed in the blitz back in 1940.



He spotted a woman trudging down the corridor towards him. She smiled in greeting as she saw him. He forced a smile in return, shocked by her pallor and red rimmed eyes. She, like most of the medical staff, looked permanently exhausted. Taking charge, Bowman gently steered her into the nearby Doctors' lounge. "'Ere, Mum, 'ave yerself a cuppa tea before y'fall down. You look all done in."



Dr Edith de Momerie Windermere had been born in South Africa and even after working in London's East End for three years it still took her a few moments to comprehend the thick cockney accent.



"Thank you," she replied, gratefully collapsing into a sagging armchair, "exactly what I need." It had been another long night of bombing on London. Even though she had long ago become inured to the sight of the horrific injuries she had to deal with on a regular basis, it still repelled her that children were so often casualties in this war.



"You'll be wantin' to go 'ome an' get some kip. Beggin' yer pardon, Mum, but you won't be doin' no-one no good if you fall asleep when yer operatin'."



Edith glanced upwards, really noticing the speaker for the first time: an old man, face streaked with dirt, clad in a tatty workman's jacket with an ARP helmet on his head - Bowman. "G'wan, Mum, you go 'n' get yer 'ead down. We'll all be 'ere when Jerry comes visitin' again this evenin'."



Too tired to argue, Edith wearily pulled herself out of the chair. "I think I might just do that. If you or the hospital need me, you know where I'll be, assuming my lodgings have survived the night," she could not help adding dryly.



She walked out of the imposing Victorian hospital which had so far survived the bombing raids largely intact to make her way to the tube station. The early morning light was hazy with smoke and brick dust, casting a deceptively unreal aura on the destruction that nearly four years of bombing had wrought on London. People walked purposefully to and fro on their way to work, ignoring the devastation as if it was no more an inconvenience than snow or smog. Double decker buses manoeuvred carefully around rubble still lying on the road. The general air of insouciance had surprised Edith when she had first arrived in London back in 1941, before she realised that it was London's way of telling Hitler that they would not be intimidated.



Edith headed west into the centre of London. She had taken rooms in Bloomsbury as the use of the huge house in fashionable Belgravia had been donated to the war office as accommodation. With most of the family in uniform, it would have been virtually empty otherwise. Leaving the tube at Russell Square station she trudged homewards. The debris cloud from the fires still burning in the East End lent a twilight murkiness to the old garden square that had been dug up to build a bomb shelter. Few cars were around. Fuel rationing had curtailed most non-essential driving.



Idly she noticed an ambulance driving around the square. A few moments later it pulled up beside her. A medical orderly leaned out of the window, waving to attract her attention. "Excuse me, Miss, but do you know where 17, Gordon Square is?"



"Certainly," Edith responded, "It's not too far from here."



As Edith turned away to gesture in the appropriate direction, the ambulance door opened behind her. A sweet smelling pad was clamped over her mouth. Chloroform. She had used it herself in surgery enough times to recognise it. Unable to resist, she felt herself being dragged backwards into the ambulance and the surge of acceleration as it pulled away. As the world began to drift away, she heard the man who was holding her speak to the driver: something about a transfer point and an approaching deadline. With a distant lack of surprise she realised that her kidnappers had been speaking German.



****



German transport plane, 15 000' over Germany, 2nd March 1944, 1500 hrs.



Flight Lieutenant Bradley checked the course and altitude for the seventh time that hour. Not that he was nervous, mind you. After all, he reflected wryly, here he was transporting three clearly important passengers in a German Junkers Ju-52 transport which had been 'acquired' by the RAF, across the heart of Germany in broad daylight. He had already landed for refuelling at Innsbruck using forged papers. The Ju-52 was the workhorse of the German transport fleet but it did not have the range to fly directly from the Mediterranean to England on a single tank of fuel. Bradley had had to refuel at German occupied Innsbruck often enough that his German alter ego, Leutnant Baum, was on a first name basis with some of the ground crew.



Bradley had been selected for this project as he spoke perfectly the Austrian dialect of German, having grown up in Vienna. He was dressed in Luftwaffe uniform carrying papers that identified him as Leutnant Karl Baum. He had been seconded to the SOE for nearly four months, flying supplies and agents into occupied Europe right under Jerry's nose. His current passengers though were something else.



For a start they were old. He guessed them to be in their forties though their evident exhaustion made them seem older. In his squadron where Bradley was one of the oldest at twenty-seven. His current co-pilot Tom Jenkins was only nineteen. The three men in the back of the plane were like no soldiers he had yet carried.



Their apparent leader was a Captain Keith Mallory, a New Zealander, allegedly of the Long Range Desert Group, but he looked like no captain Bradley had ever seen. There again, from what he had heard the Long Range Desert Group was scarcely the Coldstream Guards. They were one of those behind-enemy-lines outfits that people often talked about but seldom actually saw. He figured that would go some way to explaining the captain's unusual appearance. He wore no uniform but instead a poorly fitting mixture of khaki battledress and civvies carrying no rank insignia. He was lithe and rangy, with dark, slightly greying hair and pale eyes peering intently from a lean, tired face. Before they had taken off they had chatted awhile in the officers' mess, the three men eating as if they had not eaten well for days. Mallory had been courteous and soft-spoken, but there was something about him that made Bradley feel uncomfortable for reasons he could not quite explain.



Of his two colleagues, one was a lugubrious American, Corporal Miller. You could see in his face the cynicism of a man who had been around the block too many times and seen enough that he had no illusions left. If he had been uncomfortable being in the officers' mess he hid it well. He was also the least military corporal Bradley had come across. Listening to him complain in his sarcastic mid-western drawl, he could not help but wonder how he had had not been court-martialled for insubordination long ago. The other man had contributed nothing more than a snort of amusement to the conversation following some comment of Miller's. He had sat down, leaning back against the wall, smoking a pipe and nursing a glass of brandy.



Gazing back into the passenger section of the plane Bradley noted Miller sprawled on one of the uncomfortable benches that ran the length of the hold, seemingly asleep despite the deafening drone of the engines. The case he had brought on board with him was tucked protectively under his legs. Mallory too was stretched out, though not asleep. As Bradley had turned to look at him, his eyes had flickered open, alert and watchful. The third man, whom Bradley had gathered was called Andrea, was sat at the rear of the plane. He was as tall as the others but more heavily built, his black hair and olive skin suggesting Mediterranean origins. There was an expression of faint if genial amusement on his face, usually directed at Miller. Even in his rough clothes, he looked like a slow-witted, but kindly bear of a man. In that company Bradley seriously doubted he could be the simple buffoon he so resembled.



Returning his attention to the task at hand, Bradley once again checked the controls and scanned the horizon. Jenkins matched his actions.



"Skipper, I've got two fighters at four o'clock. Looks like they're on an intercept course."



"Right, I see them." Messerschmitt 109s. "Go and make sure our passengers are strapped in and hand out the 'chutes, just in case, then get on the machine gun."



Jenkins crawled back to comply. The three men were already awake and alert. Swiftly Jenkins tossed the parachutes to them before heading towards the dorsal mounted 7.92mm gun. He put on the intercom headphones to hear Bradley on the radio with the fighters. His German was passable enough to understand his skipper's words.



"I am Leutnant Baum from the supply depot at Regensburg. I'm carrying medical supplies which are urgently needed in Bremen. I have my orders from General von Kratow that they are to be delivered with all speed."



"Leutnant Baum, I am Hauptmann Kleist. You are ordered to land immediately for a complete inspection of your papers and cargo."



"I have my orders, sir. These supplies are needed or more people will die. Contact General von Kratow and he will confirm this."



"Leutnant Baum, or who ever you are, Regensburg was attacked last night, the airfield destroyed and General von Kratow was killed during the bombing. I fail to see how you could have taken off from there under von Kratow's orders. You will land immediately or I will shoot you down." The messerschmitt pilot's voice was harsh and mocking.



Bradley turned off the RT and watched the fighters as they lined up for an attack run on the lightly armed transport. "Oh, bugger!" he muttered, as he put the transport into a steep bank under the approaching fighters. It would buy him only a few more seconds. The attacking messerschmitts were faster and more manoeuvrable than the ponderous transport. He could not escape. It would only be a matter of time now. Leaning backwards he shouted over his shoulder, "Sorry, chaps, it's all gone a bit wrong I'm afraid. Make sure you've got your 'chutes. I won't be able to keep this kite away from those fighters for long. Probably best if you bail out now before it gets too sticky, eh? Jenkins and I will see if we can't keep jerry occupied for a bit."



Mallory nodded tersely and stood up. Holding onto whatever came to hand as Bradley jinked to avoid the fighters, Mallory made his way to the hatch. Behind him he heard their own machine gun open up as the messerschmitts made their run. Miller and Andrea followed, Miller hooking a tether from the parachute harness to his case. Within a few seconds they got the hatch open, the chill high altitude air taking their breath away. The plane shuddered and they heard the unmistakable sound of heavy calibre bullets stitching their way through the fuselage. Moments later a crash came from the cockpit. They were out of time. One after the other the three men leapt from the plane. Miller for once deciding that parachute jumping wasn't such a bad thing after all.





Germany, Stalag 13, 2nd March 1944, 1520 hrs.



The sound of distant machine gun fire drew Hogan's eyes upwards. The other prisoners too had noticed the dogfight going on high above them. Squinting and shielding his eyes in the bright light Hogan frowned at what he saw. Two Messerschmitts shooting at a Junkers tri-motor transport. Far off as they were, Hogan had no problem identifying them. It had been a combination of Ack-Ack fire and Messerschmitt 109s that had shot down his B- 17 in that last raid he had led the 504th in over Hamburg back in 1942.



"Nice of the krauts to shoot each other, ain't it Guv'nor," commented Newkirk in his characteristically sarcastic cockney drawl. "D'ya suppose we could convince 'em to do it a bit more. It'd save us an awful lot of trouble in the long run."



"Yeah," agreed Hogan non-committally, still studying the dogfight and not really concentrating on Newkirk's words.



"Just think of all the planes that would save us. Hey, a lot of our flyers could take some time off, y'know," put in Carter, missing Newkirk's sarcasm as he generally did.



"Some 'ow, Carter, I don't think the krauts would go for it, more's the shame," retorted Newkirk. "So, what d'ya think it's all about then Colonel?"



"I don't know…yet," mused Hogan. Sergeant Schultz had been in Hammelburg for the day. He was due back before evening roll call. "Newkirk, Carter, what's left over from the Red Cross packages? I think we need to have a chat with Schultz, see if he's heard anything in town. It's unusual enough for people to be wondering about what's going on. Kinch, get on the radio to London, tell them about it."



High above them the Ju-52 was losing the fight to stay airborne, trailing smoke as the messerschmitts managed to hit at least one of the engines. As it began its final dive, Hogan saw three parachutes blossom from the hatch. Passengers, it looked like. Hogan idly wondered who they were.





Germany, 15 000' above Hammelburg, 2nd March 1944, 1520 hrs.



Behind them the plane tilted slowly onto its left wing before turning over and beginning the long tumble to earth streaming smoke and fire. Mallory yanked the ripcord on his parachute and looked around to find the others. To his relief he saw two more parachutes open a few hundred yards off. Knowing it was futile he watched their plane go down, hoping all the while to see two more parachutes appear, yet certain that he would not.



Then his own predicament became all too clear. The land directly below him was a swath of forest. He noted the presence of a medium sized town off to one side. Miller and Andrea looked to be having better luck than he was. They were coming down on the edges of the wood in an area of farmland, further away from the town than he. From his vantage point he could see army trucks coming along the road Following the descending parachutes. They would reach his position before they got through to Andrea and Miller on the other side of the wood. A few seconds later he crashed through the canopy. The parachute snagged on one of the branches, bringing his descent to an abrupt halt, and slamming him into the trunk. Another branch caught him in the side, the impact driving the air from his lungs. He slipped a few feet lower as the silk of the parachute tore, then stopped again hanging twenty feet above the ground.





Wood outside Hammelburg, 2nd March 1944, 1600 hrs.



Mallory took a few deep breaths to steady himself. He had no time to lose. Taking hold of part of the harness he hit the release catch and used the guy lines to swing over to a nearby branch. With deceptive ease he climbed down the tree and crouched quietly near the trunk. Yes, there: dogs and soldiers were moving through the wood towards him. There was no way to stand them off with a knife and pistol. He had to find Miller and Andrea and hole up somewhere. He had spent a great deal of time behind enemy lines but never in Germany itself. Getting his bearings, he headed away from the soldiers at a steady lope. The coldly analytical part of his mind knew that he had to find some way of getting the dogs off his trail. He knew he had not come down near a river - he would have noticed it during his descent, and the sky was too clear for there to be any chance of a downpour to wash away his scent trail. If he couldn't lose them, the only thing left was to lead them away from Miller and Andrea, giving them at least a chance to get away.



About a mile away Miller and Andrea landed in a field. With a speed born of necessity, Andrea quickly gathered his parachute, then turned to help Miller who had rolled on landing and was now hopelessly entangled. He was soon freed and both were able to hide the parachutes in the dense undergrowth at the edge of the wood. Further into the wood they found a hollow under an uprooted tree where they concealed Miller's case. As he put the finishing touches on the camouflage hiding the case, Miller glanced at Andrea. The Greek was standing, gun held loosely at his side, listening for any movement. He had seen Mallory go down deeper into the wood and had caught a glimpse of the trucks moving down the road.



Andrea had worked with Mallory a long time, back when he had been a Lieutenant-Colonel of the Greek army's 19th motorised division just before the outbreak of war, and the New Zealander had been a British army second lieutenant, assigned as his liaison because he spoke Greek. After the Greek army had been defeated, they had gone into the guerrilla business together, first in Macedonia, then on Crete. For eighteen months Mallory and Andrea had conducted a guerrilla war on the island, turning it into a running sore for the Nazis. They had often played cat and mouse with the WGB, the German army's elite mountain troops in Crete's desolate White Mountains. On Crete, they had called Mallory 'The Ghost' as he was never seen when he didn't want to be. These woods were a world away from the dry, rocky terrain of Crete and none of them knew the area. Here, there were no places where they knew to make for.



A faint, staccato rattle of automatic fire brought Andrea out of his reverie. Mallory was probably in trouble and too far away for him to help. The only thing left to do was to get Miller and himself into cover and try to make contact with the local resistance - if there was one. The light was beginning to fade as they made their way along the hedge line towards a barn. With luck, it would do for a hiding place for the evening.



Deeper in the wood, Mallory knew he was in trouble. He guessed there were about twenty men after him, SS, not Wehrmacht. The wood was getting darker as evening wore on. If he could stay ahead of his pursuers until nightfall he knew he had a chance of slipping by them under cover of darkness. Turning as he ran, he fired a couple of shots behind him. Not that he was going to hit anyone, just enough to let them know he was armed, persuade them to keep their heads down, slow them up, give him more time.



Overhead the moon rose in the clear sky. The SS troops were moving methodically through the wood, sweeping the undergrowth with powerful torches. As he ran Mallory ejected the empty clip from his luger and reloaded. Only eight rounds left. He had noticed a dense thicket nearby that might serve his purpose. With the insolent grace of a man who had been one of the world's greatest climbers before the war, he scaled an ancient oak. Other trees were close enough for him to travel some way through their branches. Beneath, the SS had caught up, their dogs leading them to the base of the oak. Torch beams scoured the branches followed by an impatient spurt of machine gun fire. Slipping silently downwards, Mallory doubled back, easily avoiding the SS who had gathered around the base of the old tree. He drifted noiselessly from shadow to shadow, invisible as a wraith in the darkness below the canopy. Time to head back to the road and get some transport.





London, Allied HQ, 2nd March 1944, 1830 hrs.



"Sir, we've had a message from Papa Bear. He reports that two German fighters shot down a German transport plane near his position."



General Parnell looked up as the messenger placed the decoded transmission on his desk. He was little more than a boy, with an eagerness the war had not yet driven out of him. Parnell sighed. Sometimes he felt very old. He had seen too many of these eager youngsters die these past few years. He brought his mind back to the job at hand. German planes apparently shooting down German planes. Either some sort of a mix up by the Luftwaffe, or something underhanded was going on. The messenger was hovering, waiting for a reply.



"Send an acknowledgement to Papa Bear and confirm that we'll check it out."



"Yes sir." The messenger saluted and left.



Parnell absently returned the salute, his thoughts already on the problem. Underhanded goings on in occupied Europe. He pressed a toggle on his intercom. "Mildred, see if you could set up a meeting with Commodore Jensen. You can reach him through the Admiralty. If he has no other arrangements, tell him I'll meet him for dinner this evening at the Connaught."



When it came to underhanded goings on in Europe, that deceptively bluff and hearty Royal Navy Commodore was definitely the man to consult.





Germany, Stalag 13, Barracks 2, 2nd March 1944, 2040 hrs.



Peter Newkirk, Andrew Carter, and Louis LeBeau were sat around the rough wooden table at the centre of the barracks playing cards. The pot was a mixture of cigarettes, chocolate and cookies. Fifteen minutes earlier they had heard from one of their lookouts that Schultz had got back to camp. It had given them more than enough time to set up the bait.



The door of the barracks opened and a German sergeant the size of a small Alp entered.



"Hi, Schultzie," called LeBeau. "Did you get my shopping?"



"Come off it LeBeau," interrupted Newkirk, "Schultzie's been visitin' that new fraulein at the Haus Brau again. What's 'er name? Lisa?"



"Lisl. Ah she is my liebling. So elegante, so schöne," he enthused. The others exchanged an amused look. Schultz had always been an easy sell on any new pretty face in town.



At that moment Schultz noticed the food on the table. The schöne Lisl was momentarily forgotten as he gazed longingly at the pot. Deliberately misinterpreting his interest, Newkirk pulled over another stool. "Sit down Schultzie, we'll deal you in."



Mesmerised by the lure of the chocolate Schultz sat. "Ach, nein. I have nothing to bet with. But," he continued optimistically, "my credit should…"



He got no further before he was cut of by outraged refusals by the other players.



"Cash game, Schultz, you know the rules," put in LeBeau, happily ignoring the irrelevant detail that gambling was prohibited under camp regulations.



"Okay, okay, Schultz, yer clearly wastin' away before our eyes. 'Ow about this…" Newkirk subconsciously picked up a bar of chocolate from his winnings and used it to gesture as he explained his proposal. Schultz's eyes tracked the chocolate with undisguised interest. "You tell us about the gossip in Hammelburg and we'll let you into the game, after all, we 'ear so little about what's goin' on in the outside world locked up in 'ere!"



"Agreed," said Schultz as the cards were gathered in, shuffled and dealt. "It has been a very interesting day…" He paused to study his hand: two jacks, two fours and a three. The openers went into the pot.



"So, what happened Schultz?" inquired LeBeau as the game paused.



"Everything in Hammelburg is on alert, the SS are searching for commandos near here. Eine karte, bitte," added Schultz, discarding the three. Newkirk dealt him a card. Schultz carefully pulled it towards him - another jack. He added it to the cards in his hand, failing to maintain any pretence at impassivity.



The bet went round again. Carter raised. LeBeau folded. Eyes turned towards Schultz who was still wrestling to contain a smirk due to his now complete full house.



"They say that a German plane carrying Allied commandos was shot down. Allied commandos, stealing a German plane. For shame, it's not a very nice thing to do, even in wartime," he chided.



"Do you know if they've caught any of 'em yet?"



"No, none yet. The SS are still looking. Call!" Schultz laid the cards on the table, "full house, jacks over fours." He leaned forwards to rake in the pot.



"Full house? Hey, me too," piped up Carter as he spread his cards out in front of him: three queens and a pair of twos. "I guess that means I win."



Schultz stood up, unable to conceal a growl of annoyance. That verdammt Englander was behind this somehow, he felt. He seldom won at cards anyway. The most annoying thing about playing cards with Newkirk was that it always seemed like he was about to win and then lost at the last minute. Particularly when it was the Englander who was dealing.



As he left the barracks he carefully failed to notice the card game fold up behind him and the trio head over towards one of the bunks. Something funny was definitely going on. He knew for a fact that he had no desire at all to find out what it was. He had worked out long ago that it was far safer to know nothing.





Hammelburg Road, 2nd March 1944, 2230 hrs.



An hour or so later Mallory came upon the trucks. Only one soldier was there, greatcoat around his shoulders, rifle propped up by the cab as he leaned into the engine compartment of one while the headlights of the other floodlit the area. Mallory paused a moment to check if any other soldiers had been left there. It looked like their CO was being overconfident as they were in the heart of Germany. He waited awhile, listening - nothing. There was about 50 yards of open ground between the tree line and the road. A risk certainly, but one he had to take. With a truck, papers and a uniform he stood at least a chance of finding the others and getting out of Germany. He couldn't stay skulking in the wood forever.



Mallory broke cover and padded softly towards the soldier, knife in hand. No sense in advertising his presence with a gun shot. Half-way there…10 yards…Unaware, the soldier was still tinkering with the engine. Then everything was suffused in glaring light.



"Halt, hands up!" The order was shouted in German, backed up by a burst of gunfire over his head. The soldier who had been working on the truck turned around holding a Walther P-38 pointed at Mallory's midsection. Underneath the greatcoat he wore the unmistakable uniform of a Standartenfuhrer: a full Colonel of the SS. He was about fifty years old with severe, aristocratic face, neatly trimmed grey hair and keen pale blue eyes. For a brief moment Mallory hesitated. He had seen the results of SS interrogations. Shot while trying to escape seemed a better, cleaner way out. The Standartenfuhrer almost read the thoughts going through Mallory's mind. He had seen it many times before.



"You will not escape that way, mein freund," he warned quietly, in barely accented English. "Their orders are to shoot you in the leg first. We would not want to pass up the chance for a talk. I think we will have interesting things to discuss, you and I… starting with who you are and what you were doing in that plane."



Mallory knew he had run out of options and dropped the knife and gun. Guards cuffed his hands behind his back and threw a hood over his head. They searched him with a laudable thoroughness but found nothing. There was nothing to find. Mallory was too old a hand at this game to carry anything incriminating. Although he held captain's rank in the British army, he had seldom carried ID in his own name outside of England. Officer's rank was no protection if you were caught out of uniform.



Standartenfuhrer Friedrich Haussner watched as the prisoner was loaded into the truck. He had not spoken a word since his capture. The man was a puzzle. He was too poorly equipped to be a commando, but after the way his troops had been dealt with in the woods he knew he was no stranger to combat, or to being hunted. He was dangerous. Haussner was certain of that. The calm calculation the man had shown staring down the guns of a platoon of SS. He had watched men facing death many times over the years. He had seen reactions from defiance, stoicism and courage through to fear, despair and panic. This man showed as much nervousness and panic as a bag of cement. Yes, he reflected, this was going to be a very interesting conversation.





Stalag 13, in the tunnel beneath Barracks 2, 2nd March 1944, 2300 hrs.



Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter headed down to the radio room. Kinch was on the line to London. He had just got the message back from Allied HQ. If the plane had been carrying commandos as Schultz had said, surely HQ would have known about it. Kinch glanced up to see Hogan similarly deep in thought.



"What do we do, Colonel?"



"Put the word out to the underground - any information they come across without putting themselves at greater risk. Have we heard anything yet on the phone tap to Klink's office?"



"Nothing so far."



"You'd almost guess the SS didn't trust our gallant Kommandant," remarked Hogan wryly. "Perhaps it's time for Kommandant Klink to talk to the SS for us…"



"How are you going to manage that, Colonel? Klink wouldn't dare question the SS," argued Kinch.



"I'll just have to appeal to him at his weakest point," grinned Hogan, "his vanity!"



****



SS HQ, Dusseldorf, 3rd March 1944, 0800 hrs.



Standartenfuhrer Haussner gazed thoughtfully at the photographs lying on the desk in front of him. All were of the same man: his prisoner. There was a memory nagging the back of his mind. Haussner was sure he had seen this man somewhere before. He scrawled a brief note and attached it to one of the photographs. The SS kept comprehensive records. He suspected this man was on file somewhere, but with only a photo the search would take time.



There was a knock on his door. He looked up to see his aide, Hauptsturmfuhrer von Schleich, enter. Von Schleich had worked for him for three years, unambitious but meticulous and dependable. They were qualities Haussner appreciated. "Good morning, sir. How is the game going?" he gestured at the ornate ormolu chess table, the pieces frozen mid game. An open envelope bearing foreign stamps lay next to the chessboard. Haussner had been waiting for the next move for weeks now. Now, it had finally arrived, guessed von Schleich.



"Well enough," murmured Haussner. "It seems we have another game to play. That fugitive we picked up last night. I think he shows promise."



Haussner's voice trailed off into silence. Ignoring von Schleich, he wandered over to the chess table and studied the position for several minutes. "It's all a game, isn't it my friend," he finally said sardonically. "It was an Englishman of all people who described it best: 'To set the cause above renown, to love the game beyond the prize, to honour, while you strike him down, the foe that comes with fearless eyes.'" Haussner paused again then looked back at his aide. "You, I suppose, have only read Nietzsche," he joked.



"May I ask a question, sir?" von Schleich said after a while. Haussner moved his attention from the chess board, then went back to sit behind the imposing desk. He gestured for von Schleich to continue. "Thank you, sir. I had wondered how you had managed to catch the fugitive after he lost us in the woods. The dogs were unable to pick up any fresh trails…"



Haussner smiled indulgently. "It is a matter of getting into the mind of the prey. Human prey is not rabbit or deer or boar. Human prey is capable of thinking and planning. Our prey heard the dogs. He knows he has to break the scent trail. He has several choices: water will cut the trail, so find a river or pray for a deluge, or find a route where the dogs cannot follow. There were no streams, and as you know it was not raining, so he takes the latter option. I knew this when you contacted me to say you had lost his trail at a tree near a thicket. An agile man may return to the ground away from where he climbed the tree, but where to go from there? He knows his pursuers still have the dogs and reasons that they will spread out in order to pick up his trail, which they will do. He was in a plane and shot down so he likely does not know the area beyond what he could make out on his descent. It is imperative for him to get out of the search area as quickly as possible, so he backtracks. Crossing his own trail will confuse the dogs, he knows this, and the trucks he will have noticed will provide transport. Once you had confirmed you had not been able to pick up a clear trail, it was easy to predict his most likely course of action and prepare accordingly."



"So you were able to set up the trap at the truck and he walked straight into it. Brilliant!" completed von Schleich enthusiastically.



"Most men do not think so clearly when they are being hunted. This one did. It sets him apart, makes him…interesting."



"There is a Major Hochstetter of the local Gestapo in Hammelburg who is unhappy about the way you propose to deal with the prisoner. I understand he is considering contacting Gestapo headquarters in Berlin," pointed out von Schleich.



"Hochstetter is little more than a thug in uniform. He can do what he likes. The prisoner was captured by the SS and is therefore SS responsibility. I will conduct his interrogation as I see fit. Ensure that Major Hochstetter knows this."



Von Schleich saluted and left. Haussner leaned back in his chair. Of course the Gestapo had wanted to start the interrogation straight away, convinced of their ability to get a confession. Naturally he had refused them. He wanted to break the man, but not just to get him to sign some meaningless confession of generic crimes against the Third Reich. Haussner wanted the truth about the prisoner. He knew the process would take time and more thought than his subordinates or the Gestapo usually bothered with. It might even take weeks. His critics would say it was a waste of time. Haussner disagreed. He was certain the effort would be worthwhile. Haussner had an instinct about people, and now it was telling him that this man was somebody. He had to get to know his subject, how to manipulate him, to find out what drove him. It would take weeks, and from what he had seen of the man already, it would be a challenge. Standartenfuhrer Haussner had always enjoyed a challenge.





SS HQ Dusseldorf, basement, 3rd March 1944, 0800 hrs.



Mallory had been delivered to one of the basement cells hours earlier. Apart from a few jabs from the butts of guards' rifles, he had to admit he was not in too bad shape overall. The hood and cuffs had been removed. He had been forced to strip and given a one piece grey overall to wear that did nothing to keep out the penetrating cold of the concrete cell. It was a ten foot by six foot box, drain in the middle of the floor, light bulb recessed in the ceiling protected by wire mesh. There was no furniture and no window. Just the steel bound door with a barred spy hole and a hatch at the base, presumably for food, not that he had seen any so far.



He had always known it could end up like this. He had come too damn close to it many times in the past to be ignorant of the possibility. Objectively he could appreciate the technique. He remembered the dry, emotionless voice of one of many instructors telling him and others about interrogation methods, to give them some idea of what they might have to deal with if they were caught. It seemed an age ago. That elegant wood panelled classroom incongruously at odds with the matter of fact brutality of the subject being taught. It was one lesson he had hoped never to have to put into practice.





Stalag 11, near Dortmund, 3rd March 1944, 0830 hrs.



The two car convoy rolled through the gates of the luft stalag into the main compound, pulling to a halt in front of the Kommandantur. Men identically clad in dark suits and black trench coats got out. With them was a woman, petite and attractive despite her weariness and dishevelment. She studied her surroundings, worry clearly evident on her features. Her escorts took an arm each and led her up the steps into the Kommandant's office.



The men in the camp had a more than fair idea of the identity of their visitors. The Gestapo needed no introduction. Word of the new arrivals spread quietly through the camp, quickly reaching the ear of the senior POW officer. Squadron Leader George Thurleigh put on his coat, picked up his cane and limped towards the Kommandantur to see for himself what was going on. By the time he reached the open space in front of the Kommandantur there were about a hundred others, watching the Gestapo with bored disinterest. There were extra guards stationed in front of the office. Thurleigh knew there was no chance of finding out anything now. Best to wait. There were few things that stayed secret for long in the stalag. He would put the word out for his people to talk to whatever contacts they had amongst the guards.



There was nothing for him to do at the moment. He turned and slowing made his way back to his barracks, cursing, not for the first time, the Focke- Wulf pilot who had shot him down and nearly taken his leg off in the process. In his more charitable moments he would reluctantly admit that the German surgeons had done a good job in saving his leg. With his leg aching miserably in the early morning chill, he did not feel the least bit charitable. Thurleigh had been in Stalag 11 for over a year. He looked out for the other POWs where he could. He chaired the escape committee, freely acknowledging that his injury barred him from any attempt, knowing that he was there for the duration. His fairness and efforts on their behalf had earned him the grudging respect of most of the POWs if not always their obedience.



Throughout the afternoon and into the evening the reports started coming in about the unknown woman. It turned out that she was an English doctor called Edith Windermere. She was to be held at Stalag 4 indefinitely. The leader of the visiting Gestapo, a Herr Kluge, had promised dire consequences should anything happen to her or if she should escape. Whoever this Edith Windermere really was, she was clearly of value to the Nazis, mused Thurleigh. It was something that London could well be interested in. He took a small piece of paper and wrote the details on it in pencil, then used it to roll a cigarette. After evening roll call he would hand it to one of the guards along with the packet of cigarettes. By tomorrow, with luck, the information should be on its way to London.





Barn, near Hammelburg, 3rd March 1944, 0640 hrs.



Miller and Andrea woke up at dawn, chilled and hungry. They had spent the night up in the hay loft, huddled between bales of hay to keep out the worst of the cold. Miller was getting ready to climb down when Andrea grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the cover of the hay. Below them they could hear someone fiddling with the latch on the barn door.



Without exchanging a look, Andrea began to creep to one side of the barn, moving with an unnerving silence for a man of his size. Behind him Miller had reached into his jacket and was screwing a bulbous tube onto the muzzle of his pistol, keeping his eyes always on the door. They had worked together long enough to know what the other would do.



The door of the barn opened. Silhouetted against the doorway they could see eight figures, six of which were carrying rifles. Of the remaining two, one was a blonde teenager wearing the peaked cap of an officer while the other was a farmer if his clothing was anything to go by. Andrea, fluent in German, listened to the disagreement they appeared to be having. He knew Miller would wait for him to act before opening fire.



"Enemy commandos? Hiding in my barn? Surely not, Untersturmfuhrer Schenk, I have been in already this morning to check on the hens. I saw no-one."



In the hayloft Andrea frowned. The farmer was lying, he was certain of it. He had heard the sound of the latch being opened. It would have been more than loud enough to wake him. Andrea was a light sleeper: a fact that had kept him alive before now.



The soldiers, SS troops, quickly checked the floor of the barn. The senior NCO of the group headed towards the ladder to the hayloft. Peering through a gap made in the pile of straw he was hiding behind, Miller aimed at the point where the soldier's head would appear at the top of the ladder.



"Enough, Unterscharfuhrer," ordered the Untersturmfuhrer, "this has already taken too long. We have to be in Hammelburg for 0700. Let's go."



The disapproval clear on his face, the Unterscharfuhrer gathered his men and left. Shortly afterwards they heard the faint sound of a truck driving away. The farmer watched them leave from the door of the barn. After a few minutes he turned back.



"Hello? Is anyone here?" The question came in heavily accented English. "I am friend. No gun."



There was a pause as the farmer scanned the barn for any signs of movement or disturbance. From his corner in the hay loft Andrea stood up, his gun held loosely at his side.



"You are here. Good. Macht schnell. More SS soon, I think," said the farmer. "You are English, nicht wahr. Es tut mir leid, but I speak not good English. Speak German, ja?" he added hopefully, gesturing all the while for Andrea to come down.



Andrea obliged, knowing Miller would be watching.



"I speak German," he stated. Miller, too, spoke a little German as well as some Greek picked up from Mallory and Andrea.



The farmer smiled in relief. "This makes everything much easier. I am Johann Maurer. There is no one else living on the farm; you are safe, for a little while. But enough talking. You are doubtless hungry, yes? I'll get you some food, then I will take you to a place to hid. We best go quickly: I think that arrogant Hitlerjugend pup may come back."



Andrea nodded. "There are two of us, Herr Maurer." Then he half turned, still keeping his eyes on Maurer, saying in English: "It's okay. Come down."



Miller stood up and tucked the silenced pistol inside his jacket. Without a word he climbed down the ladder and walked past Maurer to the barn door. Carefully he checked outside. There was no sign of anyone. He looked back at Andrea and gave a slight nod.



Maurer caught the gesture and led the way to the house. He quickly gathered up a large piece of sausage, slab of cheese, a loaf of bread and a large earthenware jug, handing them to Miller and Andrea. "Follow me," he instructed, heading up a steep flight of stairs from the scullery of the cottage. The stairs were tight and low enough that both men were forced to stoop. They opened out into a surprisingly large attic, with a tiny, low window at one end overlooking the track leading to the farm. Maurer walked over to the opposite wall. "Watch carefully," he said as he twisted an apparently solidly attached piece of wood. A small hatch at floor level opened up, just large enough for a man to crawl through. The room beyond was barely six feet square, mostly taken up by two narrow bunks with only an eighteen-inch gap between them. "You can sit out in the attic, but hide quickly if you see anyone at all on the road. If you are discovered it will be death for us all."



"So we stay here for now," agreed Andrea, "but what next? Do you know anyone who has access to a radio to reach London? Also, we have a friend who came down in the woods. Is there anywhere he could be hiding, friends of yours who might be sheltering him?"



For a moment Maurer just looked at them, regret clear on his face. "I'm sorry, my friend. The Untersturmfuhrer boasted to me that a commando had been caught last night. I think it must be your friend. If the SS are following the Kommandobefehl, he will have been shot soon after his capture. If he is still alive he will most likely be in the SS HQ in Dusseldorf by now. All that can be done for him is to pray for a quick death. It is the kindest thing you can do for him. The SS are not known for their observance of the Geneva Convention," he finished sadly.



Miller could sense Andrea's tension. There was no way the Greek was going to leave Mallory to die. They had been through too much together for it to end like this. Miller sympathised with him. There were few enough people in the world whom corporal Dusty Miller respected. Captain Mallory was at the top of that very short list. He knew Andrea would try to get Mallory out and just as surely he knew that he would be with him in the attempt. The only problem was, they had no idea yet where to start.





Stalag 13, Kommandantur, 3rd March 1944, 1100 hrs.



"Colonel Hogan wishes to see you, Herr Kommandant," announced Schultz.



"Tell him 'no', Schultz, I'm too busy. Does Berlin think I have nothing better to do than fill in paperwork? It takes time and effort to run the toughest POW camp in all of Germany."



Schultz remained silent. He had heard this rant of his Kommandant's too many times before to even bother professing an answer. He knew Klink did not actually need one. It was just a reiteration of his one achievement in a distinctly mediocre military career.



"Never mind, Schultz, show him in."



Hogan walked in, offering the Kommandant a vague approximation of a salute which the Kommandant punctiliously returned.



"Just dropped in to see how it was going, Kommandant."



"How what is going, Hogan? What are you taking about?"



An expression of almost theatrical surprise crept over Hogan's features. He had learned early on that with Klink, overacting was the safest course. He reserved subtlety for those more able to appreciate it.



"The search, Kommandant. I would have thought that the SS were co- ordinating their troops with you. I mean, with your expertise in the field it seemed natural that even the SS would seek the advice of the great Colonel Klink. After all, sir, you've never lost a prisoner."



"True, true," agreed Klink, accepting the accolade as if it was no more than his due.



"Hey!" exclaimed Hogan, clicking his fingers urgently as if he had just had a sudden inspiration, "maybe the SS guy in charge isn't local. Maybe he doesn't even know he has such an expert as yourself in the area. Why don't you call and ask for an update. As soon as the SS commander knows who he's talking to, he's sure to ask for you help and advice. Just think how that will look in Berlin, sir…" Hogan trailed off, leaving the bait dangling. He watched as a smile crept across Klink's face at the idea.



"Thank you, Colonel Hogan. Dismissed." Hogan saluted and left. He wanted to get back to the barracks before Klink made the phone call. There were some things he really wanted to hear first hand.





Stalag 13, Barracks 2, 3rd March 1944, 1115 hrs.



Five men were crowded into Colonel Hogan's office, gathered around the table, listening to the Kommandant's voice issue tinnily from the filter on a coffee pot. He had clearly taken Hogan's advice and was on the phone to the SS HQ in Hammelburg.



"Hello. This is Colonel Klink, Kommandant of Stalag 13. I wish to speak to the officer commanding the search for the missing commandos.….yes…..yes, I'll hold…..Standartenfuhrer Haussner? No? Well put me through to his deputy…..Hauptsturmfuhrer von Schleich."



"Seems like ol' Klink's being given the run around," murmured Carter, "I used to have the same problem with the phone company back in Bullfrog…"



"Sh! Listen!" ordered Hogan.



"Hauptsturmfuhrer von Schleich? This is Kommandant Klink, Stalag 13…..oh, you knew that.….what do I want? Well, I thought you might want to consult with me on the search…..You don't…..You've caught one of them already? I'll have you know I have never lost even a single prisoner from Sta…..oh, you knew that too…..General Burkhalter told you of me?…..oh…..yes, that was all…..no, nothing else, auf wiederhören…..what?…..of course, Heil Hitler."



"So they've picked up one of them already," mused Hogan. "Three men made it out of that plane before it went down. If the SS haven't got the others they must be holed up somewhere."



"They might 'ave been shot instead," pointed out Newkirk.



"No, the search is still going on. They're out there and we need to find them first. If the SS are after them, they're probably people we would want to meet. They might even be able to collect one of our all-expenses- paid trips to England. Kinch, get on the radio to our people in Hammelburg. Keep it brief. If the SS are out in force there's usually a radio detector truck around somewhere."



"Right, Colonel." Kinch left for the tunnel.



"So what do the rest of us do, mon Colonel?" asked LeBeau.



"We wait."





Stalag 13, main compound, 3rd March 1944, 1400 hrs.



Hogan leaned against the side of the barracks, taking advantage of the brief warmth offered by the afternoon sun. It was a pleasant change after another long, bitterly cold German winter. He hated waiting. Patience had certainly never been a talent of his before he was shot down. It was something he had always had to work at. He still had to. He vaguely remembered someone describing war as long stretches of tedium interspersed by moments of utter terror. It was a sentiment he could appreciate, particularly here. Sure, it had been risky flying bombing missions. He had seen enough of his own people killed up there not to be aware of how dangerous it had been.



On the ground it was different. It was a very different kind of war. Somehow the proximity made it all more immediate, more real. He knew objectively that he had killed hundreds, possibly thousands through the bombing raids he had led. It had not overly worried him back then. They had been the enemy. Distant. Hidden far below in the darkness. He had not seen their faces. Seeing the faces made the difference. He saw the faces now, in his dreams, his nightmares. He had had to kill people close up - to save his men's' lives, his own life, the secret beneath Stalag 13. And between all the killing and the sabotage and the spying was the boredom of waiting.



Hogan hated waiting.





Stalag 13, main compound, 3rd March 1944, 1540 hrs.



Kinch stepped out of the door of barracks 2, looking for Colonel Hogan. In his hand was a piece of paper with the message he had just finished decoding. Allied command in London had finally got back in touch with them with more information about their visitors.



He spotted the Colonel idly wandering the wire, hands in pockets, alternating his gaze between the ground and the outside world. Kinch smiled faintly. Sometimes his CO's attempts to pretend he wasn't at all impatient did not quite work. Kinch saw the Colonel halt at his approach, perking up, suddenly interested.



"News from London, Colonel. The three men from that plane…they're SOE. You remember hearing about the rescue of over a thousand troops from Kheros, that island off the coast of Turkey, and the blowing up of the guns at Navarone last year? These are the guys who blew up the guns, and most of the fortress in the process. From what London says, it seems like they've been kept busy since then."



"What were they doing on that plane? Did London say?"



"Yeah, Colonel, " There was a rueful expression on Kinch's face. "They were going home for a furlough."



"Some furlough," muttered Hogan sympathetically. "They give us any names?"



"Their CO is Captain Keith Mallory."



"The climber?" interrupted Hogan. He remembered seeing pictures of Mallory in the papers before the war, usually with the Himalayas or Alps or some other mountain range in the background and carrying a report of yet another peak that the man had climbed.



"The very same. The other two are Lieutenant-Colonel Andrea Stavrou, late of the Greek army, and corporal Dusty Miller, an American and their demolitions specialist."



"Any orders?"



"Yeah, we've been told to find them and get them out of Germany."



"Oh, good," muttered Hogan with a distinct lack of sincerity. "Well, as long as they don't want us to do anything difficult," he could not help adding sarcastically.





****





SS HQ Dusseldorf, basement, 4th March 1944, 0400 hrs.



Mallory guessed he had been in the cell for about a day. It was already becoming difficult to keep track of the passage of time. Food had been delivered twice so far: a cup of water, bowl of thin tepid soup and a sort of dried biscuit on each occasion. After the second delivery he had curled up in a corner to try to get some sleep. He hadn't slept since they had left Termoli. Had that been two, or was it three days ago? He didn't know for sure. Before now he had not truly realised how disconcerting it was to not even know if it was day or night. As he drifted off to sleep, the door slammed open and three huge masked guards rushed in. Two of them were carrying short rubber hoses, while the third held a bucket. Before Mallory could react the bucket was upended over him, drenching him with a torrent of icy water. The others hauled him away from the wall and started striking him with the hoses.



Acting on instinct and adrenaline, Mallory jabbed savagely with his bare heel at the nearest man's kneecap. He had the brief satisfaction of hearing a yelp of pain before a renewed flurry of blows drove him away. As quickly as it started, the attack ceased and the guards left. Mallory lay for a few minutes where he had fallen, then pulled himself back to the corner, shivering from the cold. The beating had been cold-blooded, methodical and unhurried, even after he had kicked the man. He checked himself over: bruises, but no broken bones. The guards clearly knew their trade too well to make mistakes like that.



Some time later the hatch opened and the now familiar food was pushed into the cell as if nothing had happened. Moving stiffly, Mallory took it and ate. Paper cup, paper bowl, no utensils, nothing he could use as a weapon.



An hour later the stomach cramps started. The remains of the scant meal were quickly vomited as Mallory began to retch uncontrollably. Diarrhoea followed. It felt as if his whole gut was on fire. A foul mixture of vomit and ordure soon covered the floor of the cell. His grey overall too was soon stained and rancid. Gradually the spasms subsided. Mallory lay hunched on the floor, too weak even to move.





Scientific Research Establishment, Nordhausen, Germany, 4th March 1944, 1000 hrs.



"Good morning, Herr Professor, how are you this fine day?" Paul Venner looked up at his visitor, biting back his normal acerbic response. Venner disliked the false affability. The dull but persistent ache from his ribs reminded him of how superficial that affability could be. Herr Schaub of the Gestapo was both his minder and his jailer.



Venner was lounging in an armchair in a large, well-equipped laboratory. The place was spotless. Everything was neatly stacked, stored or filed, ready for immediate use. Two white-coated assistants stood almost at attention near one wall. The wall on the opposite side of the room was taken up with a bookcase and a large blackboard. Getting the lab prepared to such a specification in the middle of the war had taken Schaub a great deal of time and effort. Now Venner, the genius for whom it had been prepared, refused to work. His superiors had impressed on him the importance of Venner's work in the development of a dependable, accurate rocket delivery system. Before the war Venner had been one of the pioneers in the research into rocket propellants and controlling their combustion.



Loyal German scientists working both in Nordhausen and at Peenemunde on the Baltic coast were wrestling with the problem. Many had cited the excellence of Venner's work. Several of them had moved the research on further, but it was generally agreed within the German scientific community that having Venner himself join the project would give it a huge boost. There was just one small problem: Venner did not like Nazis. He had been working at the university in Oslo when the Germans invaded. For the next three years he brewed explosives for the Norwegian underground before he was betrayed and captured. A bright young SS lieutenant recognised him and spirited him away from the inevitable firing squad and into Germany.



For three months the Germans had tried to coerce, cajole or bribe Venner into working for them without success. They were stuck in an impasse. As Venner had pointed out, he was of no use to them dead. Each morning Schaub would come into the lab, greet him, and enquire whether he had changed his mind about working for them. The answer had always been no.



This morning, however, Schaub did not leave. Venner leaned back, expecting some tedious nazi polemic about the honour of working for the master race. Instead Schaub reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a plain envelope which he handed to Venner. Intrigued despite himself, Venner took it. Opening it he withdrew a stack of photographs. Each was a different image of his niece, Edith, whom he had thought safely in London. With an increasing sense of urgency he fanned through the pictures, noting the backgrounds. The first few were clearly taken in London. Edith walking along the street, entering or leaving buildings. The later ones were taken in Germany. Edith tired and drawn, huddled in a coat, surrounded by Germans in uniform. In the background was a wooden building marked 'Kommandantur'. She was in a prison camp.



Venner looked up from the photographs to see Schaub staring down at him triumphantly. "What do you want?" he asked quietly, already knowing the answer.



"Your genius, Herr Professor. As long as you work for us, the girl remains unharmed. I think you have a fair idea of the …unpleasantness…that can befall your young, pretty niece if you do not co-operate."



His features taut with anger Venner got up. Schaub stood his ground, daring the man to try something. Venner lowered his eyes and wandered over to the bookcase. He pulled down two books, then glanced back at Schaub. "If anything happens to her…" he let the sentence trail off. He was in no position to threaten, but he promised himself that if Edith died, he would take out Schaub and his research in the best explosion he could come up with. It was a sobering if satisfying image.



That would not help Edith, however. It would be far better plan if he could manage somehow to get her out of Germany. However much as he liked the idea of the grand, dramatic exit, it was in a way his fault that Edith had been kidnapped. A faint smile playing on his mouth, he started planning a way to get word to London.





Maurer's Farm, near Hammelburg, 4th March 1944, 1500 hrs.



It was Miller who spotted the lonely figure on the bicycle approaching the farm. He could hear Maurer below in the scullery.



"Company!" he warned Andrea.



The entrance to the hidden room had been left open earlier. The two men crawled inside. Andrea glanced around sharply, looking if they had forgotten anything that might be incriminating. Finding nothing, he joined Miller and closed the secret panel behind them.



The minutes passed. They could faintly make out conversation from the scullery, too quiet and muffled to pick out words, then the sound of people climbing up the stairs to the attic. Beside him Andrea saw Miller pull out the silenced handgun. For close work like this promised to be, Andrea preferred his knife.



The footsteps came nearer, into the attic, then over to the wall they were hidden behind. Someone started fumbling with the release mechanism on the panel. At the last moment, the fumbling stopped. The sound of two short taps resounded through the hidden room, then Maurer's voice. "It's okay, it's me, Maurer. I have a friend here. He can help you."



Warily Andrea opened the panel. Maurer was there. Another man was crouched beside the low window, watching the road.



"This is Josef," introduced Maurer. Then saying to Josef, "These two are careful. They do not say their names."



Josef turned from the window and nodded in greeting before going back to watching the road. He was dark haired, younger than Maurer. "Careful is good. I would appreciate it if you stay careful, if only for my sake," he added. "We're moving you tonight. Be ready to go at 2030 hrs. I'll meet you then."





Allied HQ, London, 4th March 1944, 1530 hrs.



General Parnell leaned over the conference table, holding a cup of the tannic, sugared paint remover that passed for British army tea. Not for the first time he wondered just how much pull he had and if it could extend to getting a coffee machine installed. Strewn across the table were a number of maps, files and reports, each stamped 'top secret'. He was due to give a briefing that evening at the War Office. The government wanted some idea of the scale of current covert operations within occupied Europe. Dealing with politicians was Parnell's least favourite part of holding field rank. It would make things so much easier if politicians stuck to giving speeches and left the military to wage the damned war, he thought.



A WAAF flight officer came into the conference room. "General, we've received word through the underground that there's a British civilian doctor being held under special Gestapo guard in Stalag 11."



"Anything to do with Papa Bear?"



"No, sir, at least not that we're know of. The message code came through from Cormorant. As far as we've

been able to determine, Cormorant is operating independently of Papa Bear's group. Mostly as a courier."



"What information do we have on this doctor?"



"Not much, I'm afraid, sir. The message described the prisoner as being referred to by the Gestapo as 'fraulein Doktor Windermere'. I did some checking and a Doctor Edith de Momerie Windermere failed to turn up for her job at the Royal London Hospital on 28th February. She has no relatives in London. Staff at the hospital filed a missing persons report, but with so many missing in the bombing, nothing further was done about it."



"Get me whatever information you can put together on our missing doctor. See if she's done any work that might be significant to the German war effort, and find out about any relatives. It wouldn't be the first time the krauts have used emotional blackmail to force people to work for them," warned Parnell.





SS HQ Dusseldorf, 4th March 1944, 1900 hrs.



Haussner sat alone in his office, his thoughts straying to his prisoner. At last he had a name to put to him: Keith Mallory. His aide, Erich von Schleich, had called from SS central records in Berlin. The Reichssicherheitshauptampt (RSHA) there was the destination of virtually all intelligence reports, concerning both foreign and domestic security.



The clerks who worked there had recognised the photo he had sent as the famous climber. Once they had the name, it was merely a matter of retrieving the information from the immaculately arranged files. The file itself had been quite substantial, a testament as much to the man's activities during the war as before it. The clerks had provided von Schleich with a copy to return with to Dusseldorf.



While waiting for von Schleich's arrival he reviewed the log that had been kept since Mallory's incarceration nearly two days earlier. Minimal food and water had been provided at irregular intervals. The purgative had been administered at 0800 with predictable results. Twice since then, the guards had entered to ensure Mallory got no sleep. To a man as famous as Mallory had been, the systematic degradation and stripping away of any remaining shreds of human dignity should have greater effect than usual, reasoned Haussner.



The process of wearing down the man's resistance was well under way, he noted. With Mallory now suitably debilitated, they could move on to the next stage of the process. Haussner reached for the log and wrote in the instructions. He would not see Mallory yet. It was still up to the faceless interrogators to continue for now. He would not interfere until later, when the man would need to see a face and a friend. Meanwhile he would have time to go through Mallory's file. It promised to be an interesting read.





Maurer's farm, near Hammelburg, 4th March 1944, 2030 hrs.



Josef arrived on time and on foot. "There are SS checkpoints on the roads, too many to risk travelling by car. We'll go cross-country. I hope you like walking: our destination is several kilometres away and it will take us four to five hours to get there."



Andrea almost laughed out loud at the horrified expression on Miller's face.





SS HQ Dusseldorf, basement, 4th March 1944, 2300 hrs.



Once again guards burst into Mallory's cell. Two of them hauled him to his feet. The now filthy overall was stripped off and another put on. His hands were cuffed again and a hood thrown over his head. Then suddenly he was struggling for breath as a cord cut into his throat. The tension eased for an instant allowing him to grab a breath, then jerked him to one side. Unable to catch himself he lost his balance, only to be prevented from falling by the noose around his neck. There was another sharp jerk and Mallory was propelled forwards.



He soon lost track of direction. The floor was cold, smooth and damp under his bare feet. The heavy footfalls of the guards rang hollowly, the sound muffled by the hood. None of them spoke. He was taken down a flight of stairs, a bit further on the level, then down another flight, all the while being half choked by the noose. They were taking a lot of precautions, Mallory reflected, considering at the moment he could barely stand unaided.



Finally they halted. Mallory was forced to his knees. The noose, cuffs and hood were removed. He looked around. The room looked like a large communal shower, floor, walls and ceiling all tiled in the same clinical white. He heard a metallic click from behind him. Before he could turn he was blasted to the floor by a jet of frigid water. The force bowled him over and he caught sight of two guards struggling to hold a fire hose. Behind them were about half a dozen others dressed in heavy oilskins, wearing boots and gloves.



They used the water to force him up against the back wall, changing the direction of the jet to follow him whenever he tried to crawl away. The pressure hammered against his bruised torso. When he fell to the ground and curled up to escape the water, two guards came forward and pinioned him against the wall. They took turns holding him. The weight of the water battering him was relentless. The cold left him shivering and gasping for each breath. With increasing frequency he inhaled water, coughing and choking as he did so. The end of the room was soon awash, drains struggling to keep up with the sheer volume of water. After an eternity the hose was shut off. Mallory slumped in the guards' grasp. When another approached holding noose, cuffs and hood he had not the strength to pull away.



Hooded and cuffed he was taken back to his cell which had evidently been washed out during his absence. Soon after his return, food was delivered. Not trusting it, Mallory left it where it stood. Exhausted, wretched and in pain he huddled in the corner of the cell.





Woods near Stalag 13, 4th March 1944, 2330 hrs.



Josef had led them through woods for the most part. Overhead the moon was full, giving them enough light to travel by. Whatever else he was, Josef was a good woodsman, picking his way unerringly through the trees. At the base of a towering pine he stopped and hunkered down, gesturing for the others to do the same. "Our contact will meet us here," he whispered.



They crouched in the dark, alert for the slightest sound. Andrea heard it first, footsteps, coming towards them. Miller had his gun out and ready. Beside them Josef glanced at him and gestured: wait. The footsteps stopped then from the darkness came a low, soft whistle. Josef responded. Seconds later two black clad figures appeared from the undergrowth.



"Ta, Josef," said one, as their guide drifted back into the wood. The other, much shorter than the first was stood off a way, keeping watch. "I'm Newkirk," he continued, then pointed to the shorter man, "and that's LeBeau. Come with us."



They headed off, LeBeau first, then Miller, Andrea and finally Newkirk. The forest which had been limned in the hard edged silver of moonlight, darkened occasionally as clouds drifted overhead. Now given no choice, Lebeau and Newkirk pulled out torches to see their path. They spread out, LeBeau several yards ahead on point. Eyes and ears alert for any sign of patrolling Germans, they moved forwards.



About half an hour after they had met up, they head the faint but unmistakable sound of a schmeisser sub-machinegun being cocked. LeBeau was ahead of them, scrambling down a slope. Newkirk extinguished his torch and hissed a warning. LeBeau half turned, startled.



"Halt! Hande hoch!" the order was shouted tersely.



The Frenchman completed his turn with pulling out a gun, then a fusillade of shots rang out. LeBeau's torch cartwheeled away in the wood as he tumbled to the base of the slope. He came to a stop clutching his arm, illuminated in the light of two torch beams from the wood below. From the top of the slope, the others could make out the German patrol as it neared the fallen Frenchman who, to Newkirk's relief, was still alive. Peter Newkirk had a very specialised knowledge of the French language, certainly enough to recognise many of the epithets LeBeau was busily hurling at the approaching Germans.



Four Germans in the uniform of the Waffen-SS had emerged from the wood and surrounded the wounded Frenchman. Newkirk, gun in hand, was drawing bead on one when a hand gently restrained his shooting arm. It was the lankier of his two charges. "You just hold on. Won't do your friend no good you going off half cocked," he said complacently in a soft American drawl. "This is more Andrea's kind of thing. Trust me."



Newkirk looked around. The other man had left without making a sound. "What good's one man goin' to do against four of 'em? 'E don't stand a chance," he whispered urgently. The Germans had dragged LeBeau to his feet. Two stood guarding him while the others headed back into the undergrowth, schmeissers held ready. Then the other two headed back, LeBeau between them, still holding his arm.



"It's the Germans who don't stand a chance. All we can do now is wait. We go down there, we'll just be in his way," said the American, almost resignedly.



Newkirk heard the utter confidence in the American's voice of the outcome. It was compelling. He waited. Fifteen minutes passed without a sound from the wood. The light from the Germans' torches was long since blocked by the trees. Then from below the stillness was punctuated by the brief, otherworldly 'bleep' of a Scops owl. He heard the American beside him murmur, "it's okay, Andrea's back."



Newkirk could see for himself. LeBeau led the way, his upper right arm wrapped in a crude bandage. Behind him followed Andrea, four schmeissers hung over his shoulder by their straps. He climbed the slope easily and hunkered down next to the others. Newkirk looked at him as Andrea unlimbered the schmeissers and handed them round. He glanced over at LeBeau, concern in his eyes.



"You alright, Louis?"



"Oui, mon ami. It's not too serious. The bullet just winged me really. I was lucky." Then he turned to Andrea who had been checking over the schmeisser. "Merci, M'sieu."



"De rien," replied Andrea with a glimmer of a smile. "We should continue. Your M'sieu LeBeau will need to get that wound cleaned and bandaged properly as soon as possible."



Newkirk picked up on the order implicit in Andrea's tone. For a moment the scruffy, unshaven bear of a man seemed almost to be something else entirely, something far more military. "Right, then. I'll lead the way. We're only about an hour away now," he said.



Nearly an hour later, they spotted a light gleaming through the wood. LeBeau's arm had been aching throughout the walk, but the bleeding had stopped. Miller had rigged up a sling for the arm and had stayed nearby to steady the Frenchman over the rougher areas of the terrain. To their relief they had seen no other German patrols.



"Follow me, and keep low," Newkirk warned, continuing in the direction of the light. As they neared, they could make out wooden structures, guard towers and fences.



"A prison camp!?!" exclaimed Miller quietly. He paused, thinking, suddenly worried. Newkirk was certainly English: a Londoner, if he had placed the accent correctly. LeBeau was as French as a pavement café or the Eiffel Tower, not to mention his having just been shot by Germans. He just could not work out why an Englishman and a Frenchman would be leading them towards a prison camp.



"Welcome to Stalag 13," their escort said softly.



Miller was about to try and make a break for it when the Englishman pulled the top off a tree stump to reveal a ladder leading downwards. Miller noticed a slight frown on Andrea's face, as close to an expression of consternation as Andrea ever achieved, then he shrugged and climbed down into the tree trunk.



The ladder led to a tunnel running back under the wire. It was well shored with timber at regular interval and lit by electric lights. "Like I said, gents, welcome to Stalag 13. Come with me. I'll take you to meet the Guv'nor, Colonel Hogan."



Newkirk preceded them down the tunnel. They passed a couple of others on the way, all in worn Allied uniforms. Newkirk flagged down one of them. "Get sergeant Wilson over here, LeBeau got winged while we were out." None of the others spared them a glance. It was evidently quite an extensive tunnel network. They passed a few junctions before they were led into a room set up with a table and stools. The three men who were in the room looked up at their entrance.



A tall, slender man in a leather flight jacket walked over to them. He had clear, brown eyes and wore a crumpled officer's cap tilted back on his head. "I'm Colonel Robert Hogan, US Army Air Corps, semi-retired," he added with an impish grin. "These are Kinch and Carter and you've already met Newkirk and LeBeau. London told us to pick you up."



"LeBeau caught one in the arm, Guv'nor," started Newkirk. "I've passed the word for sergeant Wilson to get over 'ere to clean it up. It doesn't look too bad," he added, forestalling Hogan's next question. Hogan nodded gratefully and returned his attention to his guests.



The taller of the two newcomers took a step forwards. "Thank you, Colonel. I am Andrea Stavrou. This is Dusty Miller."



"Colonel Stavrou, Miller." Hogan acknowledged.



"Andrea," corrected the Greek. Next to him Miller was looking around in shock. One of the Allied soldiers they had spotted in the tunnel came in carrying a tray: bowls of stew, bread and even a bottle of wine.



"My gawd," he exclaimed, "the rigours of the war in a POW camp." Miller took the glass of wine which had been filled for him, muttered "cheers", tipped it back then sat down to eat the stew. Next to him Andrea was eating, all the while studying the room and its occupants.



Hogan took out his pack of cigarettes and lit one. For all that his new guests looked old, tired and scruffy, he was glad they were on his side. The people used by the SOE might be a little eccentric by regular army standards, but they undertook and accomplished almost suicidal tasks. It was a role he and his men could appreciate.



They quickly finished eating, then Andrea turned questioningly towards Hogan. "Tell me, Colonel, have you heard anything about Captain Mallory? The farmer who sheltered us said he had heard an SS man boasting that they had captured one of the 'commandos'."



"We've heard the same thing. Our Kommandant spoke to an SS captain early yesterday. He confirmed that they had a man in custody."



"And your Kommandant told you this?" interjected Miller with disbelief.



"We tapped his office," explained Carter cheerfully. Hogan sighed. Carter was too trusting and open for his own good.





****



Stalag 11, hut 20, 5th March 1944, 1100 hrs.



It had been the second time Edith had read the same story in the paper. There was nothing else to do. Since her arrival at Stalag 11 she had been allowed out of the hut for only an hour each day, escorted by four silent guards and a Gestapo officer whose conversation began and ended with the wonderfulness of the Third Reich. So Edith was reduced to reading whatever old German newspapers she could get hold of. For any similarity in the reporting of events to the British papers, they could as well of been reporting a different war.



At least some effort had been made on the hut where she had been billeted, she thought. Spare clothes had been found from somewhere that almost fitted her and rudimentary washing facilities had been provided. She had noticed the crowded conditions in the rest of the camp, the stench of sweat and poor sanitation hovering over the area. It took little imagination to think of the ease with which disease could take hold here. The conditions were all too ripe for typhus, cholera or dysentery to name just a few. In this environment the death toll would be appalling. She was considering approaching the Kommandant with some suggestions to try and reduce the risk when she heard a knock at the door.



"Enter," she called in German.



Her captors had known from the outset that she spoke their language. The Kommandant walked in. Major Hilgenfeldt was a stocky, dark haired Prussian in his thirties, the inevitable duelling scar on his cheek and a patch over his left eye. Edith was suddenly nervous - it was the first time he had called on her since they had been introduced on her arrival.



"Good morning, fraulein Doktor," he said politely, punctuating the greeting with the abrupt half bow of the Prussian aristocracy.



"Good morning, Herr Major," returned Edith, "to what do I owe the pleasure." The routines of polite conversation took over from fear. For a brief, surreal, moment Edith was back in London Society before the war, welcoming visitors to the house. Then the major continued, breaking the spell.



"I was hoping to prevail on you for your medical services, fraulein Doktor. One of the prisoners here, the senior POW officer in fact, was hurt when his plane was shot down. A multiple leg fracture, I believe. It has been causing him trouble and I was wondering if you would have a look at it."



It was not at all what she had expected. A German Kommandant concerned for the welfare of a prisoner. She remembered Hilgenfeldt was there, waiting for her reply.



"I'm afraid I don't have any of my equipment with me, but I will do what I can. Where is he."



"Come with me," he said. They left the hut and crossed the compound, escorted by two guards. Eyes followed them as they entered another hut. Edith suddenly realised the gulf between her own accommodations and the rest of the camp. Hilgenfeldt led her through the hut, almost entirely taken up by bunks, into a small annex. Propped up on the cot was a man in the uniform of a Squadron Leader of the RAF. Hilgenfeldt performed the introductions in English with pedantic correctness.



"Doctor Windermere, may I present Squadron Leader George Thurleigh of the Royal Air Force. Squadron Leader Thurleigh, I have the honour to name Doctor Edith de Momerie Windermere."



Thurleigh put out his hand. Edith took it. "Charmed, I'm sure."



Even in a prison camp in the middle of a war, the formalities had to be dealt with before Edith got down to business examining the Squadron Leader's leg. As she did so, he explained what had happened: femur broken by a bullet as he had been in the cockpit, breaks of the tibia and fibula when he had made a forced landing. Edith had to admit that the German surgeons had done well saving the leg. As she was making the examination, a call came from outside, summoning the Kommandant.



The moment he was out of earshot, Thurleigh leaned forward urgently. "Why have the Gestapo got you here?"



After a brief moment of confusion, Edith replied: "I don't know. I've been trying to work that one out myself. Only thing I can think of is that it might be something to do with an aunt of mine. Rumour had it she was doing something hush-hush in North Africa, something to do with the DDT apparently." Thurleigh recognised the Whitehall shorthand for the Department of Dirty Tricks, fifth columnists working for the War Office.



"Anyone else?"



"Can't think of anyone. Pretty much everyone else is regular army or navy. Or dead," she murmured, half to herself.



"I'm sorry," sympathised Thurleigh, "but the distraction we set up won't keep Hilgenfeldt away for long. Get thinking. Try to see if you can get anything out of your Gestapo companion. I'll keep playing up the leg so you can come back to do a check up. If needs be, I can get messages out of here."



Edith looked down at the leg and nodded her understanding. "I know it must be uncomfortable, but I was fairly sure you were hamming it up a bit," she smiled. "Hilgenfeldt's coming back… so try to keep off the leg as far as possible. I'll speak to the Kommandant about any possibility of getting painkillers."



"Thank you, Doctor," replied Thurleigh.



Edith left the Thurleigh's hut to return to her own. Time to think about how to try to worm information out of that Gestapo fanatic.





Stalag 13, Kommandantur, 5th March 1944, 1400 hrs.



A staff car arriving at Stalag 13 was by no means an unusual occurrence. A staff car carrying an SS Colonel who had come to visit the Kommandant was worthy of note. Almost as soon as the car had cleared the gate, Hogan had been informed. The visiting colonel had gone straight into Klink's office. Hogan and his men were ready with the coffee pot to hear Schultz introduce Standartenfuhrer Haussner.



"Welcome to Stalag 13, Standartenfuhrer. This is a great honour for me. I am always glad to entertain the SS. What brings you to our humble abode?" began Klink unctuously.



There was silence. The mere presence of the SS had always rattled him, particularly when they gave him no clues as to what to agree with them about. Klink had discovered that the easiest way of dealing with the SS was to agree with them, then hope they would leave. The Standartenfuhrer, unlike previous such visitors, was not telling Klink what to do, and it was making him nervous.



"Some refreshments, perhaps," suggested Klink with a fragile laugh, heading over to the sideboard.



"Thank you, no."



"No, no, of course not. So, um, how may we at Stalag 13 serve the SS?"



"An interesting question," murmured Haussner. He was studying this Kommandant. Before his visit he had reviewed the man's service record. Until he had been placed in command of Stalag 13 it had been a study in mediocrity. But here, suddenly, he ran the only POW camp from which there had never been a successful escape. Having seen the man, Haussner was at a loss to explain how.



"Yes, I do manage to ask interesting questions, even if I do say so myself," Klink babbled, trailing off to an uncomfortable silence, waiting for the Standartenfuhrer to continue.



"Yet since you took over here, no prisoner has ever escaped…" mused Haussner, apparently to himself. It brought Klink back onto familiar ground.



"Yes, sir, never a successful escape, despite many attempts. I run the toughest POW camp in all of Germany. My prisoners are completely cowed. They know if they try they will be caught and severely punished."



"I would like to see some of your cowed prisoners, Colonel," Haussner requested politely.



"Certainly, Standartenfuhrer. A great pleasure to be of any assistance to the SS. Schultz, bring Colonel Hogan here immediately."



"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."



Hogan arrived five minutes later. He offered the Kommandant his usual relaxed salute which Klink returned. "Colonel Hogan, reporting as ordered Kommandant."



Klink performed the introductions. More salutes were exchanged.



"Please sit down, Colonel Hogan," invited Haussner, neatly taking control of the interview from Klink. "Refreshments?" he offered, gesturing at the decanter and glasses on the sideboard.



"Don't mind if I do," Hogan replied. At Haussner's bidding Schultz poured schnapps for all three officers. Klink and Hogan drank. Haussner merely tasted his, the remainder left untouched on the side of Klink's desk. All the while, Hogan could feel the Standartenfuhrer's intense scrutiny.



"So, Colonel Hogan, never a successful escape…you are all too cowed…too disheartened," mocked Haussner deliberately, studying Hogan's expression, watching for any involuntary response.



"Yes, sir. We keep on trying but with the great Kommandant Klink, we've got no real chance," Hogan added ingenuously.



"Of course, of course. But as you say you have to keep on trying." Haussner was eyeing him carefully. It's not sycophancy, is it Hogan? You are adept at playing the Kommandant, as an angler plays a fish on his line, decided Haussner. Fascinating, I had not expected this. It would appear I have someone else to watch out for. As Herr Holmes would doubtless have said: the game's afoot…



Hogan swallowed his usual glib answer as he saw the expression of amusement in Haussner's eyes, not triumph or arrogance, just a disconcertingly knowing amusement. He realised in that instant that this German colonel was someone he would have to handle very carefully if it became necessary.



"That will be all, Klink," said Haussner abruptly, "thank you for your time. Perhaps if I may visit again. I'm sure Colonel Hogan and I will be able to find something interesting to talk about…" he added.



"Certainly, Herr Standartenfuhrer. Heil Hitler."



Haussner saluted and left. Alone in the office Klink turned to Hogan. "For one of the SS he seemed to be quite personable," assessed Klink generously.



Hogan did not reply. That Standartenfuhrer was one Kraut he sure as hell did not want to see anytime in the immediate future if at all possible. On his walk back to the barracks, he decided he needed to know more about Haussner. From what had happened in Klink's office he was fairly sure that Haussner would be returning the favour.





Stalag 13, tunnels under barracks 2, 5th March 1944, 1900 hrs.



Miller and Andrea were resting downstairs when Colonel Hogan walked into their room. The Colonel's normal, faintly jaunty attitude was nowhere in evidence. In his hand he carried a sheet of paper which he wordlessly handed to Andrea. The Greek read it, then handed it to Miller.



"No way! They have got to be kidding. Who the hell sent that, anyway?" protested Miller.



"Jensen," replied Andrea with quiet certainty. "With what Captain Mallory knows about the SOE set-up in Southern Europe, he has no choice."



"But to give us orders to kill him if we can't get him out…"



"We will get him out." There was an utter conviction in Andrea's voice. Miller looked over at him, into his eyes. He could see the determination there, coupled with a deep sadness. Mallory was Andrea's best friend, but if it became necessary, Miller realised that Andrea would do what needed to be done, whatever it cost him personally.



"Yeah," agreed Miller almost inaudibly. He dropped his gaze, no longer able to meet Andrea's stare.



In the doorway, Hogan had been watching the exchange. He felt like an intruder. As quietly as he could, he turned and left.





****





Scientific Research Establishment, Nordhausen, Germany, 6th March 1944, 0630 hrs.



Venner woke up early. He had a great deal to do before the official work of the day got started. It had taken a couple of days, but he finally had what he needed. From the moment he had accepted Schaub's ultimatum he had had a plan in mind.



It had been alarmingly straightforward to put it into effect. A few hours after starting work he had presented Schaub with a list of things he needed that had been four pages long. Every item had a legitimate reason in line with his research for being included. Some of the items also had alternative uses, more in keeping with what Venner had in mind for them, which had mandated their inclusion. Schaub, with the zeal of a fanatic, had accomplished the near impossible and had arranged for the delivery of every single item on the list.



In the meantime, Venner had been working in the lab. He had always had the reputation for being a tyrant when it came to lab work. Normally he worked hard to curb his more autocratic tendencies. Here, he did not bother. He gave his uncertain temper free rein. The two research assistants assign to help him were experts in their own right, albeit young and inexperienced. He swore at them, harangued them, piled work on to them, much of it of only passing relevance to the task at hand. They were set lengthy analyses to do or the dull but necessary work of measuring out exact amounts of chemicals for future use. Venner was not too concerned by their results. All he had wanted was to keep them out of his way.



The once pristine lab had soon become the kind of semi-ordered chaos that Venner preferred. Hidden behind piles of books, notes, apparatus and a variety of detritus he had been quietly building a radio. Time to get in touch with London.





London, Allied HQ, 6th March 1944, 0645 hrs.



The early morning shift radio operators at Allied HQ were picking up transmission from their various contacts in occupies Europe. For the people operating radios in Europe it was always risky. The staff who were based in London were trained to pick up on even the weakest signals.



That morning, Corporal Kenyon was transcribing a message when it occurred to him that he did not recognise the call sign of the sender. He finished writing down the message, and passed it on to the lieutenant on duty. Over the next hour the message went up the chain of command until it reached Group Captain Howard's desk. Howard looked over the message, noting the call sign - Ragnarok. He remembered back in 1941 on a supply run to Norway for the underground when a flying officer, fond of Norse legend, had come up with the code name for the Norwegian's explosives expert. Ragnarok had been missing, presumed dead fir more than six months. Now, according to his message he was being held in Nordhausen, in Germany itself and being blackmailed to work for the Nazis.



Howard walked out to the WAAF flying officer. "When General Parnell gets in, tell him I need to see him as soon as is convenient."





SS HQ Dusseldorf, 6th March 1944,1000 hrs.



The morning sun reaching through the gaps in the shutters seemed to cover Haussner's office with bars. The dust in the air lent each band a glowing solidity. Open on his desk was Mallory's file. He had been studying it since the night before. After his meeting with Hogan he had sent von Schleich to get hold of the POW's file. Haussner stood up, stretching, releasing the kinks that had knotted up his back and shoulders. He really was getting too old for all-nighters, he admitted to himself. He strolled over to the shutters and opened them. Light flooded into the office, the highly polished antique furniture blazing in response. A small unit of troops were being drilled in the central courtyard, presumably on some punishment detail. For a few minutes he watched them.



He brought his attention back to Mallory. Four times now he had been taken to the 'treatment room'. Further, he was refusing to eat. A common enough occurrence after the discovery that a meal had been laced with drugs. He wrote an order in the interrogation record: to start force feeding if he continued to refuse food. It was not a long-term solution. A prisoner could still manage to starve himself to death: force-feeding simply extended the process. On previous occasions, many prisoners had started eating again after the experience of being fed through a pipe forced down into their stomach. Idly Haussner wondered which option Mallory would take, not that it would have much difference in the long run.



Haussner returned to his desk. According to his file Mallory had managed to cause the Third Reich no small amount of inconvenience. He had been either very good or very lucky to have stayed alive for as long as he had. Fighting a minimally supported war behind enemy lines had never been a safe occupation. For eighteen months in Crete the best mountain troops in the German army had not even managed to get close to him. He might be on the other side, but Haussner could respect the man's achievements. To have done so well in that sort of war took a level of ruthlessness, cunning and determination that most lacked. His mind went back to when he had looked into Mallory's face back in the forest. It had been the eyes that had given him away. Cold, flat, somehow distant. The British chose their killers well.



The man's inevitable execution would be a waste: a regrettable but ultimately necessary waste. It was really too bad. Perhaps tomorrow he would talk to him.





Stalag 13, tunnels under barracks 2, 6th March 1944, 1200 hrs.



Miller was in Carter's underground lab being given the guided tour. The night before Andrea had gone out and retrieved the case that they had hidden in the hollow under the uprooted tree. It contained the explosives and timers that had been left over from their last mission. With the ingredients Carter had available in the lab and the youngster's know how, Miller felt they could put together some very interesting creations. The kid might be a bit naive and have a real problem with keeping his mouth shut, but Miller had to admit he knew explosives. The only problem was the kid's enthusiasm.



Miller was not an enthusiastic person. Carter's exuberance, particularly around the collection of high explosives was disconcerting. For all the care Carter took, he seemed to think he was playing with a junior chemistry set. Miller was used to treating explosives with more respect.



Carter was equally unsure about Miller. The man was cynical and sarcastic enough to make Newkirk seem like a beacon of joy and happiness. He seemed to have little respect for anyone except the Greek, Andrea. The way he sometimes spoke to the Colonel, you would think that it was the Colonel's fault that they had been shot down. Carter could appreciate Miller might be upset that his CO was missing, but to his mind it gave him no right to rag the Colonel. Besides, Miller did not seem that upset, just sarcastic.



He sure knew explosives, though. Miller had brought some really interesting things with him in that case: new sorts of fuses, detonators, booby traps. When he described how they worked, there was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. It was a side of Miller that Carter felt far more comfortable talking to than his normal, abrasive persona.





Rathaus, Dusseldorf, 6th March 1944, 1500 hrs.



Hogan and Andrea entered the Town Hall dressed as a Major and a Captain in the Engineering branch of the army. They had left Stalag 13 after noon roll call and headed into Dusseldorf in a borrowed motorbike and sidecar.



The clerk at the front desk stood up as they approached. "Can I help you, Herr Major?"



"Yes," replied Hogan, flicking through a notepad covered artistically with a mixture of illegible scrawl and arcane diagrams. "Yes, we need to see the plans for the buildings on the north and west sides of Beusselplatz."



"Jawohl, Herr Major. The planning department is upstairs. My assistant will escort you."



They were led upstairs and into a long, dusty room, filled with bookcases and cabinets. A group of workmen were making repairs to some slight bomb damage at one end of the room. Apart from them it was empty. Hogan turned to their guide, "Thank you. We can manage from here. You may return to your duties."



"Zu befehl, Herr Major." He straightened to attention, turned and left. Hogan and Andrea waited for the door to close behind him, then started looking along the shelves, searching for Kreuzburgstrasse, the location of the SS HQ.



Twenty minutes later, Hogan, still speaking German for the benefit of the workmen, called Andrea over. He had found a set of plans filed before the war started covering the conversion of a private hospital into the local HQ for the nazi party. There were no later plans, though at some point someone had pencilled in a number of speculative alterations. Both men realised it was as much as they were going to find. Anything more recent would surely be classified. Using a bookcase to shield his actions, Andrea folded the plans and tucked them inside his coat. There would be time to study them more closely when they got back to camp.





****





Stalag13, Colonel Hogan's office, 7th March 1944, 0900 hrs.



Seven men crowded around the table in Hogan's office. A map of the country around Dusseldorf was displayed on the wall. A town plan was spread out on the table along with the blue prints of SS HQ which Hogan and Andrea had acquired.



"If they've got Mallory's there, he's most likely being held in one of the basement cells," Hogan speculated. "Problem is, we've no way to be certain which. We've also got no way of telling if he's even still alive. On the chance that he is, I want to go in tonight, I know it's short notice," he admitted over the complaints, "but if he is still alive, they've had him there already for five days. Given the SS, I don't think we can afford to wait any longer. I want you all to understand from the start that this is a purely volunteer mission. I'm not ordering you to go."



"What about you two?" Kinch asked Miller and Andrea.



Miller answered for both of them, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "We're going to get him." Andrea merely nodded his agreement.



Hogan looked around at the faces of his men. His staff, he called them. They could relate to the sentiment expressed by Miller. They had had to prove it on his behalf more often than he cared to recall.



"I'm in, Colonel," averred Kinch.



"Moi aussi," LeBeau added.



"Right, boy, uh, sir, I mean Miller's been showing me some really interesting explosives. Be nice to see what they could do."



Eyes turned to Newkirk. "I'm not going bloody stay 'ere on my own now, am I," he said, his voice full of mock indignation.



Hogan said nothing for a moment, then very quietly, "Thanks, guys."



"You have access to forged papers here, Colonel?" queried Miller.



Hogan's men exchanged amused glances. "Why? Did you forget your invite to Berchtesgaden?" joked Newkirk.



"That's definitely the only way to do it," said Hogan, his voice cutting through the general laughter. "There's too many guards on duty to even think of breaking in. Our best bet will be to go in as a high-ranking delegation from Berlin with orders to transfer an important prisoner who may have information about a possible invasion or something. Newkirk, what do we have in the way of SS uniforms in stock?"



"More than enough, sir. I just need to know what ranks you want them to be, and I'll need to do some fittings for people."



"Would it be possible to add SD lozenges to the sleeves?" Andrea asked. "The SS are generally as uncomfortable with the SD as everyone else is about the SS. Additionally the SD would be more likely to be involved in an intelligence matter."



"Right, we'll need fake IDs for everyone going. Carter can take the photos down in the tunnel. Also I'll need a letter of authority, and prisoner transfer orders. Can we manage for the documents to be signed by Himmler?"



"No problem, Colonel. We lifted a set of genuine documents off an SS colonel a while back. It'll give us something to use as a template."



"I also want there to be some sort of diversion to go off in Dusseldorf this evening. Carter, Miller, I want you to come up with some ideas. If we end up having to pull rank and bully our way into SS HQ I want to make sure they're as off balance as possible. Kinch, I'm sorry but I need you to stay here. If something goes wrong I need someone I can trust who knows the operation to take over, either to keep it going or to get everyone out." Kinch nodded unwilling agreement.



"Carter and I will work something out, Colonel. I've got some 'toys' in my case that we can use. Give us some idea of targets and we'll put together a few surprises," promised Miller.



"You bet, boy, uh, Colonel," Carter added.



"Good. Get Andrea and Miller ready to go first. They'll be going out this afternoon. It'll be their job to get the transportation ready for the trips there and back. We can't leave camp before evening roll call, so you two will have to set up the diversion as well. Newkirk, get them requisition orders for a car and a truck from the motor pool."



"No problem with the truck, sir, but Klink's is the only decent car there."



"Okay, plan B. We'll do the dashing officer out to impress his new fraulein routine. Andrea, it'll have to be you. Corporal Langenscheidt would recognise any of us. Just spin him the usual line about needing a fancy car to impress the girl. We'll give you some cigars to convince Langenscheidt of your sincerity."



"Where the hell do you get hold of cigars in a POW camp?" put in Miller.



"Kommandant's office," replied Hogan evenly.



"Oh, okay." Miller shrugged. He had seen enough of Hogan's set-up at Stalag 13 that he no longer felt quite so surprised at the apparently impossible happening on a regular basis. Hell, for all he knew they probably even had a sauna downstairs.





SS HQ Dusseldorf, basement, 7th March 1944, 1500 hrs.



Haussner made his way through the labyrinthine passages that stretched beneath SS HQ, the regular click of his boot heels the only noise. Apart from those who worked there, it was a place no one returned from. It had the grim, oppressive atmosphere of a morgue.



For days now he had received reports of how Mallory's interrogation was proceeding. So far the man had not said a word, not that any questions had yet been put to him. It was part of Haussner's technique. By the time this stage in the process had been reached, many of his subjects had been begging to be asked questions, if only to escape the pain. Others had still been holding out, throwing insults at the guards. Crude attempts to incite the guards to kill them prematurely so their information would die with them. It never worked. The guards were too disciplined, too inured, too scared of the consequences to let a prisoner goad them into killing them.



Mallory had not said a single word. Haussner understood the significance. A man, however clever, brave and determined may let slip some tiny detail by accident while trying to deceive an interrogator. It was the young over- confident ones who most often made that mistake. They trusted in clever lies to befuddle their interrogators. They had not yet discovered how hard it was to maintain a coherent lie when they were in pain and exhausted. Youthful self-assurance was often fatal. It was the youngsters who usually cracked first. Those older, more experienced, shut up and let their interrogators do the work.



Haussner found the SS Oberscharfuhrer in charge of the unit of SS who had been conducting Mallory's interrogation in the Guardroom.



"Oberscharfuhrer Kunitz, any progress with the prisoner, Mallory since your last report?" Haussner asked as Kunitz leapt to attention. He had not been expecting the Standartenfuhrer to visit until later. It was all too typical of Haussner to turn up unannounced and unescorted.



"The prisoner has been taken twice more to the treatment room since the last report, sir. The most recent session lasted no more then two hours before he lost consciousness. We had to force feed him only once. Since then he has been eating without additional persuasion," reported Kunitz.



"Take me to the cell, but do not open it. I wish to observe him."



"Zu befehl, Standartenfuhrer," barked Kunitz, and marched off down one of the many corridors. Haussner followed. They reached Mallory's cell. Kunitz opened the spy hole in the door and stood back. Haussner moved forwards and peered inside. Mallory was leaning against the back wall of the cell, apparently dozing. As Haussner was studying him, he noticed the man's eyes open and gaze unblinkingly at Haussner's own, hidden though he was.



He stepped back from the door. There was more work to be done there yet. Outside the cell on a hook on the wall was a clipboard holding the records of the interrogation to date. Haussner took it down, flicked through it and added a notation on the final page. He handed it to Kunitz. "To start immediately, Oberscharfuhrer."



"Zu befehl, Standartenfuhrer," he acknowledged as Haussner walked off. Kunitz waited a moment, staring at the closed door of the cell, a glimmer of regret on his face. He was no sadist. He did not enjoy inflicting pain unlike, it seemed, some of his comrades. The only alternative however was service on the Eastern Front. Against that option, Kunitz was well able to steel himself for what had to be done. Without another glance at the door, he returned to the Guardroom to make preparations.





Rathaus, Dusseldorf, 7th March 1944, 1640 hrs.



Andrea and Miller, both in German uniform arrived at the Town Hall in the borrowed truck. Andrea was dressed once again as a captain of engineers, with Miller in a lieutenant's uniform of the same branch. Andrea walked up to the clerk - the same clerk as the previous day, he noted. The clerk recognised him.



"Good afternoon, Herr Hauptmann," he greeted.



"Good afternoon," responded Andrea, "I'm afraid we need to check through some more of your records. Shall we just go up ourselves? I remember the way."



"As you like, Herr Hauptmann, but you know we have already started locking up for the evening," informed the clerk. "It might be easier for you to come back tomorrow."



"We shouldn't be too long. It's just a matter of making sure of a few details. It shouldn't take more than about fifteen minutes." Just long enough to get some of these explosives and incendiaries set, Miller added to himself.



"Ah, that should be alright. I'll leave you to it then."



Andrea smiled his thanks and hurried upstairs. The workmen had finished most of the repairs, he thought wryly, too bad. Next to him Miller was unloading a collection of compact bombs which he and Carter had been working on, made up about half-and-half of explosives and incendiaries. They set some of the bombs in the planning office then left to hide some of the rest around the building. Easy enough as nearly everyone else was gone.



At 1655 they left the building, the clerk bidding them a cheery 'good night'. That might be problematic afterwards, mused Andrea, if he puts two and two together later, he could probably get a fairly accurate description out.



For the next two hours as dusk fell, Miller and Andrea wandered around central Dusseldorf. Bombs went in waste bins, beside electrical junction boxes, wherever an explosion would cause the most chaos with the least civilian casualties. Both men had seen far too many innocent civilians die in the war to want to gratuitously add to the total. To his delight Miller found an abandoned workman's excavation where they had been repairing a large water pipe. Minutes later a bomb was snugly nestled below the pipe.





London, Allied HQ, 7th March 1944, 1830 hrs.



The same WAAF officer who had reported to Parnell about Edith Windermere knocked on the open door of the General's office, a file tucked under her arm.



"General," she started as he looked up, "I've managed to find something about Dr Windermere. Last year she failed a vetting by the SOE. She had volunteered to work for them. She speaks German and French fluently with only the slightest Dutch accent."



"How come a Dutch accent?"



"Her first language is Afrikaans, sir. Dr Windermere was brought up in South Africa," explained the WAAF.



"Oh, right, carry on."



"Yes sir. It turns out that she has an aunt, Dian Ferrers, who did some work for the SOE during the North African campaign. The problem was though, that there was an uncle on the other side of the family who got himself involved with the Norwegian underground several years back. This uncle, sir, is Professor Paul Venner, the rocket propulsion expert. He dropped out of sight some time ago. He's currently presumed dead. The thing is, the SOE didn't want to put an agent into occupied Europe who might be used against us as bargaining chip to motivate Professor Venner, if he's alive and in their hands."



"Understandable. A little paranoid, but understandable," nodded Parnell. "This is the best reason you've been able to come up with?"



"I've gone through everything we had on Dr Windermere. Thanks to the SOE check, that's actually quite a lot of material. If there's any other reason, I can't find it."



Parnell studied the WAAF's face, noting the weariness there. She had definitely been burning the midnight oil on this one. "Thank you, now get yourself some rest."



The WAAF saluted and left. Parnell leaned back, considering the situation. He had seen other intelligence reports of nazi experiments to create a weapon that was capable of attacking England from mainland Europe. Most of them had involved rockets of some shape or form. Damn, if Venner was alive and the nazis had got him and were forcing him to work for them. What a bloody mess! That lady doctor in a prison camp in Germany, an uncle probably being blackmailed by the krauts, an aunt working for the SOE. Parnell swore never to complain about his relatives ever again. All of a sudden, cousin Alec's passion for collecting garden gnomes seemed a wonderfully sane pastime.





Stalag 13, tunnels under barracks 2, 7th March 1944, 2130 hrs.



Five men stood at the entrance leading to the emergency tunnel. Andrea and Miller had slipped back into camp through the tunnel two hours earlier. On their way back from Dusseldorf Andrea had collected Klink's car and both it and the truck were hidden in the woods a mile from the camp, branches thrown over them as a simple camouflage. The SS search parties had been withdrawn from the area over the day and the extra checkpoints were mostly gone.



Four of the men wore German uniform. Miller and Carter were dressed as sergeants, Scharfuhrers. Andrea was a Hauptscharfuhrer, a sergeant major, Newkirk a Sturmbannfuhrer or major. The uniforms were the field grey of the SD in imitation of the Waffen-SS, rather than the more pedestrian black of the Allgemeine-SS. The white on dark SD lozenge was clearly visible on the sleeve. Neatly embroidered on Newkirk's cuff were the letters: RfSS. A member of the Hauptamt Personlicher Stab RfSS: Himmler's own personal staff. He enjoyed the irony that the embroidery had been done by a Russian prisoner only that afternoon who had been chortling in delight as he had done it. Hogan was purposely the only one not in uniform. He had added a few touches of grey to his hair and some subtle age lines putting his apparent age somewhere in his forties. He wore a severe black suit and tailored black trenchcoat. A black trilby completed the look. His papers named him as a Herr Doktor Menz who held the rank of a Gruppenfuhrer of the Allgemeine-SS.



He looked around at the others. All of them were a little jittery with the exception of the Greek. For all the concern he showed he might have been going down to the shop to buy a paper. They ran a last minute check on documents and weapons. None of them carried anything to link back to Stalag 13. The car and truck were a weakness. Both were registered to the camp. The thought occurred to Hogan that if the plan went pear shaped, then it would be up to Klink to come up with some imaginative explanations to explain their presence in Dusseldorf. It's a shame that if it comes to that, I probably won't be around to hear what he comes up with, thought Hogan ruefully.



He had just picked up the weather forecast on the radio: clouds and rain drifting up from the Alps, due to reach Dusseldorf sometime around dawn. The Airforce was scheduled to bomb Cologne that night. Close enough to Dusseldorf that it might provide a bit of extra confusion, something always useful, to Hogan's way of thinking. Misdirection and obfuscation were amongst his favourite tools, and if the environment was predisposed towards them, who was he to complain.





Bar of the Connaught Hotel, London, 7th March 1944, 2200 hrs.



General Parnell was sat at a table in the bar of the Connaught Hotel, taking his time over a glass of bourbon. Away over the other side of the room a pianist played softly, the tune lost in the quiet conversation. Cigar and cigarette smoke had cast a haze over the room. Nearly everyone was in uniform, officers from Britain and America, all service branches represented.



A stocky, bearded man in the uniform of a Royal Navy Commodore meandered through the crowd in the bar, a brandy snifter balanced in his hand. He would stop occasionally to speak to people, a cheery smile on his face, glad handing his way from group to group, the image of a bon vivant. Spying Parnell, he waved in greeting and walked over to join him.



"May I join you, General?" he asked, and sat down without waiting for an answer. The smile never left his face, but it was not matched by the shrewd, calculating look that had suddenly appeared in the Commodore's grey eyes. "I hear you've been trying to get in touch with me again. What can I do for you?"





Rathaus, Dusseldorf, 7th March 1944, 2230 hrs.



The Town Hall was all but deserted. A solitary night watchman walked through the building, checking doors. He did not expect to find anything amiss. Any papers worth stealing had been transferred to the SS building. Keeping the Town Hall open seemed little more than a sinecure. Struggling a little, he climbed the stairs to the second floor. At the top of the staircase he paused to catch his breath. He had never really fully recovered from too close an encounter with mustard gas back in the first war.



Slowly getting his breath back he noticed a smell in the air. Not the familiar mustiness of old papers, but something sharper, harsher. Smoke! He reached for the light switch, then stopped. Standing orders were no lights this late. The building had not been blacked out. With a quiet oath he moved forwards, scanning the hallway with his torch, sniffing the air. Around the corner at the top of another flight of stairs he spotted a thin wisp of smoke seeming to bubble up from under the door of the planning office. Through the frosted glass he could make out a leaping orange pattern - fire. He opened the door. The flames had taken hold of much of the room. There was nothing he could do but give the alarm.



He dashed out of the room, closing the door behind him, the smoke playing havoc with his tortured lungs. He had to make it to the telephone downstairs. Then the building shuddered. He could hear the sharp crack of an explosion from somewhere below. Within minutes there was the sound of more explosions. With a gasp of relief he made it to the front lobby and grabbed the telephone.



"Get me SS HQ, this is an emergency! The Town Hall is on fire. Explosions!" he coughed, suddenly very tired. The telephone seemed to be sliding away from him. The room was full of smoke, almost like cotton wool, he thought inconsequentially, as the cotton wool thickened and darkened quickly to black.





SS HQ Dusseldorf, 7th March 1944, 2245 hrs.



The staff car and truck swept into the central courtyard of SS HQ. The sentries noted the Sturmbannfuhrer in the front passenger seat and a man in plain clothes sitting in the back, that detail making him almost certainly more important that the Sturmbannfuhrer. The sentries came to attention and saluted. The man in the leather trench coat returned the salute casually. In front of the main door, the Sturmbannfuhrer got out and held the door open for the other man to leave the car. With him in the lead, they climbed the steps and entered the building with scarcely a sideways glance at the sentries.



The night had become very busy, reflected the sentry. An emergency at the Rathaus, bombs going off. The electricity for much of the city had gone off a few minutes earlier. The HQ was operating off its own emergency generator. Outside of the relative calm of the courtyard there was bedlam. The air raid sirens were going off. Search lights scoured the sky but found no trace of a plane. At least it wasn't raining and his shift ended at midnight.



Inside the building the grandiose entrance hall was filled with SS. Orders were being shouted. Civilians and SS were rushing around. Hogan hid a smile. As planned: chaos. Taking the lead, he strode to the desk. A Hauptsturmfuhrer was on duty, trying to field questions from a dozen sources. Hogan simply stood back from the desk and glowered. In his disguise the effect was decidedly sinister. The Hauptsturmfuhrer noticed Hogan, then the people standing with him. He took in the SD uniforms and patches, the huge Hauptscharfuhrer wearing the Knight's Cross. His eyes strayed to the Sturmbannfuhrer and the cuff embroidered simply RfSS. That was enough. The Hauptsturmfuhrer crashed to attention.



Hogan waited a few seconds for effect, then gestured Newkirk forwards. The other officers who had been around the desk cleared away. Newkirk put an envelope down on the desk and slid it across to the Hauptsturmfuhrer.



"These are orders for the transfer of a prisoner into my custody. Have him brought here immediately."



"Zu befehl, Sturmbannfuhrer," replied the Hauptsturmfuhrer reading the intentionally brief transfer orders, "we received the call from your office earlier. The prisoner will be brought up immediately, if you and the Reichsinspektorgeneral would care to wait in the side office."



Reichsinspektorgeneral?!? Where the hell did that come from, thought Hogan.



His mind working frantically, he led the way to the office where they had been asked to wait. Clearly someone really was on the way from Berlin to pick up Mallory. They were evidently expecting him to arrive about now. All the planning in the world, and we're stuck with a coincidence like this. Hogan glanced briefly upwards - I hope You're finding this amusing, because I'm not. Ah, well, if this was the hand he had been dealt, this was the hand he would play. A Reichsinspektorgeneral he would be.



"We're really goin' to 'ave to scarper once we've got Captain Mallory, guv'nor," reminded Newkirk redundantly. He too had seen the danger.



Hogan merely nodded in reply. The real Reichsinspektorgeneral turning up before they got out would not be a good thing. He caught himself unconsciously tapping the arm of his seat impatiently. He was worried as hell, no denying it, but it would not do to let the others see how worried he was.



"Herr Reichsinspektorgeneral," began a respectful voice, "the prisoner is here."



"Bring him in," ordered Hogan.



Two guards came into the room, virtually dragging a hooded, handcuffed figure with them, holding him propped up between them. He did not seem able to stand unaided. They came to a halt in front of Hogan. Behind them followed the Hauptsturmfuhrer holding a parcel of notes which he presented to Hogan.



"The interrogation records, Herr Reichsinspektorgeneral. Standartenfuhrer Haussner has been in charge of the prisoner since his capture."



"I am acquainted with the Standartenfuhrer," commented Hogan truthfully. He took a quick glance through the papers: dry as dust accounts of brutality. The papers recorded the prisoner's identity as Keith Mallory. Then he turned his attention back to the slumped prisoner. Just one thing left to check.



"Show me his face," Hogan continued, taking a photo of Mallory from inside his coat. Kinch had found it earlier in an old magazine and mounted it on a piece of cardboard. The guards removed the hood. One grabbed the damp hair and pulled the figure's head up so he was facing Hogan. Concealing his shock at the man's condition he compared the face in front of him with the photo. It was Mallory - unshaven, bruised, exhausted and looking half dead, but definitely Mallory.



He forced a smile onto his face. "Good, give the Hauptscharfuhrer the keys to the handcuffs. You two, take charge of the prisoner," he ordered Miller and Carter. The two came to attention and moved to relieve the guards of their burden. Outside, the air raid siren began to wail again. A teenager of the Hitlerjugend ran into the room, presenting the Hauptsturmfuhrer with a note, then stood back waiting for orders. The Hauptsturmfuhrer scanned the note, then looked up at Hogan.



"Herr Reichsinspektorgeneral, we have reports from our radar stations that American bombers will be overhead in a few minutes. May I respectfully suggest the Reichsinspektorgeneral and his staff wait in the bomb shelter here for the raid to pass."



Bombers? Weren't they supposed to be over Cologne tonight? How much more of this plan can go wrong?



"Thank you, no. It is necessary that I return to Berlin as soon as possible." And before the real Reichsinspektorgeneral arrives, he silently added.



Too well disciplined to question the decision, however unreasonable, of so senior an official, the Hauptsturmfuhrer merely saluted. From outside they could hear the sound of anti-aircraft fire begin to open up and the rumbles of not so distant explosions. It had seemed the German radar operators had overestimated the proximity of the bombers.



Possessed of a genuine urgency, Hogan directed his group out of the building. Outside he could see the silhouette of buildings outlined by the orange glow of fires, hear the whine of falling bombs getting closer. Before America had joined the war he had been an observer in London during the blitz. He was all too aware of the dangers of being outside in this sort of raid. It was less dangerous than staying at the SS HQ, even with the bomb shelters. While waiting for Mallory to be brought to them, Carter and Miller had taken advantage of the chaos to leave some gifts for the SS. Gifts that Carter in particular had been very taken by. Hogan knew he did not want to be anywhere near when they went off.



Two staff cars screamed to a halt at the base of the main steps. A group of officers rapidly decamped heading into the building at a flat run, but not so quickly that Hogan had missed the RfSS cuffs on three of them. Hogan turned sharply to Miller and Carter. "How long left on those timers?"



"'Bout fifteen minutes," replied Miller.



Too long, thought Hogan. It would give them more than enough time to get into the shelter. They would have the names of the fake IDs they had used to sign the transfer papers on record. Depending on how eager the real Reichsinspektorgeneral is to get to shelter, they might have an alert out on them within minutes, particularly if they manage to speak to that Hauptsturmfuhrer. They could not risk using the IDs to get back to Hammelburg. It would leave too obvious a paper trail. The thoughts had rushed through his mind in barely a second. Miller was still looking at him.



"That SS captain's gonna be trouble," he drawled. "You look after the boss, Colonel," he said, nodding in Mallory's direction, "I'll be back in a few minutes. If I'm not, don't wait." He turned and ran back up the steps. Through the half-light and confusion Hogan could make out the shape of a silenced pistol appear in Miller's hand.



The howl of falling bombs was now almost deafening. Explosions sounded from all around. Hogan grabbed Newkirk and dragged him into the scant cover offered by the stone balustrade. The other got the idea and joined them. At the front of the building was a blinding flare, then the pressure of the shockwave rushed over them, hot and acrid. Splinters of stone tugged at their clothes. Andrea was hunched protectively over the barely conscious Mallory, unlocking the cuffs even as he shielded him.



Hogan looked up. One wing of the building had taken a direct hit. "Quick, everyone in," he yelled heading for the staff car. Andrea loaded Mallory into the back seat and the others piled in. Hogan himself leapt behind the wheel, starting the car up. He manoeuvred it so it was pointing towards the exit.



"How long do we wait?" he called to Andrea. The Greek's eyes were on the entrance, as if willing Miller to appear. More bombs were dropping nearby. Then Hogan made the decision himself. "Sixty seconds more and we're out of here." Andrea glanced back for a moment and then nodded.



Fifty four seconds later Miller tore out of the doors, going down the steps at a flat run. Hogan got the car moving as Miller reached it. The others' willing hands dragged him on board. He manoeuvred the car out of the gates and out into the city. Fires were raging everywhere. Rubble strewn from collapsed buildings blocked the street.



"With the Hauptsturmfuhrer dead we should have a few hours grace, Colonel," pointed out Andrea as Hogan swung the car around the obstacles on the road. How he was sure Miller's mission had been a success, Hogan did not know. Miller did not dispute the assessment.



It was becoming increasingly difficult to find space for the big staff car to fit through the streets. The only piece of luck was that in the chaos and confusion of the bombing raid no one was overly inclined to notice how overcrowded the car was. On only one occasion were they stopped; Hogan, acting the part of the irate Gruppenfuhrer Doktor Menz to the hilt, soon had the troops at the road block urging them through as he threatened them variously with firing squads, Gestapo and the Russian Front.





****



Road between Dusseldorf and Hammelburg, 8th March 1944, 0100 hrs.



Behind them the fires of Dusseldorf had faded into an orange glow that lit up the sky. It had clouded over and started raining shortly after they had left the city. The weather front must have moved in quicker than the Met guys had originally forecast, blocking off Cologne, reasoned Hogan. Should have checked to see of Dusseldorf was the alternate target. That was an oversight on my part, he berated himself. I'm not sure how, but we pulled it off. Mallory doesn't look so good. Not really surprising, considering what he's gone through. Doc Freiling's place in on the way back to camp. I'll get him to check Mallory out before we head back in to camp. We'll have to wait somewhere anyway while Andrea returns the staff car. It's in a bit of a mess - Have to get some people to wash it before Klink sees it.



The car pulled up to the side of Doctor Freiling's house, out of sight of all but the most inquisitive watcher. Mallory had been so deeply asleep during the journey from Dusseldorf that it sometimes seemed he was dead. Andrea picked Mallory up, carrying him as effortlessly as if he were no more than a child. Miller had checked him over once they were outside of Dusseldorf, displaying a concern at odds with his usually cynical, sarcastic nature. On seeing the condition he was in, some of the things that Miller had said to describe the SS had brought a flush of embarrassment to Carter's face. There had been a depth of anxiety and feeling behind the string of SS-directed insults that belied Carter's earlier impression of Miller's indifference. Andrea had said nothing, but from the expression on his face none of the other wanted to see what would happen to any German who got in their way on their drive back from Dusseldorf.



Hogan had run in front of Andrea and was knocking on the door. Lights went on upstairs, the palest glow visible from behind heavy curtains. The door opened revealing a grey haired, middle aged man. He looked at Hogan's face, then at the supine figure cradled in Andrea's arms. "You'd better come in," he said quietly.



"Doctor Freiling has helped us before," Hogan explained to Andrea and Miller. "Let him give Captain Mallory a check over before we get back to camp."



Freiling led the way into a consulting room. Andrea followed, laying Mallory down on the table. The doctor checked the curtains were tightly closed then turned on the main light over the table. In the brightness Mallory's condition was painfully apparent. His features were gaunt and haggard, eyes sunken deep in their sockets, cheeks dark hollows. Livid red abrasions ringed throat and wrists.



"You will wait outside while I perform the examination," Freiling ordered. Andrea and Miller tried to demur but the doctor was adamant. Hogan ushered them out into Freiling's sitting room. About twenty minutes later Freiling came out to them.



"What is his condition, Doctor?" asked Andrea before any of the others could speak. Freiling looked askance at Hogan who merely gave a slight shrug in response.



"He is weak and exhausted," began Freiling. "Additionally he has been beaten repeatedly over about a week, I would think. Much of the damage is superficial but I think he has a cracked rib which I have taped. There are more recent signs of electrical burns. I will be able to give you an ointment for these. I have also given him a painkiller. I can give you some more to take with you. Ideally he needs at least two weeks of rest to recover from his physical injuries. As far as his psychological condition is concerned though, I don't know. He has gone through a terrible ordeal." Freiling paused, then looked at Hogan. "You will be moving him to England?"



"Yes, as soon as he can travel."



Freiling nodded his agreement. "Try to give him a few days to get some of his strength back. He will be travelling with others, yes? Good."



"Can we see him, Doc?" asked one of his visitors. Freiling did not recognise him. He had spoken in poor, American accented German.



"Of course. When you get back to Stalag 13, give him these pills." He handed a foil wrapped packet to Miller. "They will put him out for about twelve hours. He needs the rest. I have seen the results of SS sleep deprivation techniques before. Those subjected to it soon learn to fear falling asleep for the consequences that it brings. Be patient with your friend. He will need it."



"Thanks, Doc."



Andrea went to pick up Mallory, but the Captain was conscious and awake. He looked up at Andrea, put out an arm for support, and gingerly eased himself off the table. He looked around at the others, silently grouped there in German uniforms. "Thanks," he said, his voice rough from disuse. Then, with Mallory leaning heavily on Andrea the group moved silently back out to the car.





Stalag 13, tunnels under barracks 2, 8th March 1944, 0230 hrs.



Tired yet relieved, six men arrived back at Stalag 13. They had taken a risk and driven most of the way in the car. The Greek had quickly returned the car to the car pool while the others had gone down the emergency tunnel through the tree stump. Miller was supporting Mallory who was clearly at the end of his endurance. They took him into one of the rooms where a cot had been set up. Miller and Andrea settled him in and gave him the sedative Freiling had provided.



The rest of them settled down, taking off the now sodden, slightly torn uniforms. The POWs who did the covert side of the laundry detail would have their work cut out to salvage them, reflected Hogan. LeBeau passed around coffee, glad that the others had got back safely. He and Kinch had both been annoyed to have been left behind. LeBeau had had to accept that Himmler, that exponent of the myth of the Aryan superman, would have been unlikely to allow someone of his stature into the SD, not to mention the still painful wound in his arm.



Hogan stood up, yawning. "Try to get a few hours sleep before roll call, everyone," he suggested.



He was just at the base of the ladder leading up to barracks 2 when Kinch came up to him. "Colonel, we've had a radio message through from London."



"Can't it wait until morning?" Hogan complained. Kinch, familiar with his CO's habits, just grimaced at him, handing him the decoded message. Hogan might cavil sometimes, but he was always the first to admit that duty was duty. He took the message and read it, a frown of sheer disbelief creeping across his face. "Are you sure you've decoded it right?" he accused. He had long ago come to the conclusion that Allied HQ in London had the convenient ability to forget that he really was a POW when it suited them - like now for instance.



"Get everyone in here, Andrea and Miller too," he told Kinch. Then he sat down and poured himself another cup of coffee. Soon the others arrived, all looking as if they needed at the very least a week's holiday somewhere warm.



"I'm sorry to be dropping this on you so late, but new orders have come through from London." He paused, gazing at the faces around him. He caught the expression of forlorn resignation cross Miller's features as if he knew what was coming next. Hogan continued regardless. "We have been ordered to break a Doctor Edith Windermere out of Stalag 11 where she's being held under Gestapo guard."



"Sure, no problem," drawled Miller. "After breaking the boss outta SS HQ, a Stalag's gonna be a stroll in the park for you guys."



"In addition," carried on Hogan, with a brief frown at Miller's interruption, "we have to get a scientist, Professor Paul Venner out of a secure research facility in Nordhausen, which, if I may remind you is more than a hundred miles from here. It seems that Doctor Windermere is being held in order to compel Venner to work for them, which we understand is something he has until this point refused to do. Because of this, the rescues need to be done simultaneously to avoid any retaliation against the remaining prisoner. Furthermore we've been ordered to destroy the Nordhausen research facility if we can. As you're here," Hogan said to Miller and Andrea, "Commodore Jensen has suggested that you might help us out with this 'little job' as he refers to it."



Miller leaned back, closing his eyes as if in pain. Andrea merely carried on filling his pipe, his expression unreadable.





Site of SS HQ, Dusseldorf, 8th March 1944, 0600 hrs.



In the grey light of dawn a heavy pall of smoke still hung over Dusseldorf. It had taken hours to get the fires under control, the effort not helped by a broken water pipe. About half of the SS HQ building lay in ruins, smoke still rising from the wreckage. Medical teams were ferrying out the wounded. They had finally managed to access the deep underground shelter where many of those in the building had managed to take shelter. The weight of collapsing masonry had caused some parts of the basement levels to give way. The rest of the building was deemed to be unsafe. Teams were being sent in to retrieve as many documents as they could find. Survivors and SS men who had been away from the building during the raid had begun to congregate.



Standing apart from the main group was a figure in the dust-covered uniform of a Standartenfuhrer. He was looking over the area, hardly seeming to be aware of the report being given to him by a subordinate. His was the most senior rank on site, the rescue workers and emergency crews reporting to him.



A dust covered Major of the Wehrmacht approached him and saluted: an army salute, not the nazi 'heil'. "Standartenfuhrer Haussner, we have completed our preliminary assessment of the damage to the headquarters. It is considerable, but some unusual details have come to light." Haussner looked at the Major, for the first time giving him his undivided attention. Paling somewhat under his intense scrutiny, the Major continued: "Firstly, we have so far found seven bodies where the main lobby was. It is assumed these men were unable to reach the shelter in time. Six were crushed by falling masonry. The seventh, while similarly crushed, had also been shot twice, in the heart. He was an SS Hauptsturmfuhrer. Secondly, the pattern of explosion in the main lobby is not consistent with a typical aerial bombardment. It is too early to be certain, but it has many of the characteristics of sabotage based on the type of damage."



"I see. Carry on, Major. Continue your investigations into the source of the explosion in the lobby and report to me. Also, have the Hauptsturmfuhrer's corpse taken to the hospital. I want it autopsied as soon as possible, and inform the local Gestapo of the shooting. I'm sure they will want to look into it," finished Haussner dryly.



"Zu befehl, Standartenfuhrer." The Major came to attention and left. Haussner stood there, his eyes on the ruins of the building, his thoughts miles away. Amongst the wounded had been a Reichsinspektorgeneral, sent from Berlin to collect his prisoner. A piece of information he had not been made aware of until that morning. Perhaps the decision had come to transfer Mallory had come from Hochstetter's meddling. No way to tell…yet.



Onlookers noted with curiosity the ghost of a smile cross the Standartenfuhrer's face. It was an unnerving expression to be seen on so senior an officer of the feared SS. They speculated on the reason for such an odd reaction to the bombing of the HQ.



Haussner felt a glow of anticipation he had missed for many years. Since the fuhrer had won power in 1933 and the SS had been made independent of the order of the SA a year later, everything had been too easy. Whatever any of the others might say, he knew that he had unearthed some of the pieces of a much larger jigsaw. It promised to be a very interesting jigsaw indeed…





To be continued…



NB.

The lines Haussner quotes:

To set the cause above renown,

To love the game beyond the prize,

To honour, while you strike him down,

The foe that comes with fearless eyes.

are from "Clifton Chapel" written by Sir Henry Newbolt.