Stranger at the Gates (18 page)

Savage's hands were stuck to the wheel with sweat. ‘Hurry! Open the gates!' The angry command brought the sentry to instant attention; he saluted, gave back the pass, and ran to do as he was told. Savage let in the clutch; he forced himself to drive slowly. The main courtyard was deserted, but the left-hand side was in deep shadow, overhung by the building. The moon, which had been full the night he arrived at St. Blaize, was now on the wane but the light was bright enough to show him everything. He swung the car round and left it in the patch of darkness, its bonnet pointed to the gate. As he switched off the ignition, he wondered briefly whether he would ever get the chance to drive it out, and then dismissed the thought. There was no time for speculation or for premonitions. He had got in, and that was the first obstacle overcome. The second, and equally dangerous, was the entrance to the Château itself.

Walking across the courtyard, he felt naked and conspicuous in the moonlight. The entrance was level with the courtyard. As a senior staff officer perhaps he should have a key. Cautiously he tried the ring handle. It didn't move. There was nothing he could do but press the modern bell-push on the wooden lintel. It seemed a long time waiting there in full view. When the door swung open it made no noise and Savage jumped as the yellow shaft of light fell full upon him. Two soldiers stood in the entrance, both wore revolvers and one had unbuttoned his holster, his right hand poised over the gun butt. There was no question of palming the yellow pass in front of them. And if that pass was examined the name and the face wouldn't match. Instinct fired in him like a rocket. He stepped across into the hallway and shouted, ‘You idiots! Where the devil have you been—why weren't you by the door?' The guards stiffened immediately. The man who had been about to draw his revolver snapped to attention. Savage swung round on them, scowling. ‘Names! You'll be on report for this!'

‘Vogel, S.S. korporal, Herr Major!'

‘Schumann, S.S. Mann, Herr Major!' Neither was looking at him, their heads were rigid, their eyes fixed in front. Savage paused for effect. His heart was pounding.

‘You'll hear about this in the morning!' He snarled the threat at them. Both flung up a stiff arm in salute, petrified by discipline. The reaction to an officer had saved him; fear and habit threw them into confusion when he reprimanded them. They were used to being shouted at, abused, even struck, by their officers. Numbed by his accusation of negligence, they never thought of checking on him. The German military system might have its faults but disrespect for superiors wasn't among them. He'd have been a dead man by now if it had been. He was in a huge entrance hall, a lofty ceiling with marble walls. Tapestries and paintings glimmered in the lowered electric light; a massive console table of carved and gilded wood was directly in front of him, with a red tortoise-shell clock that showed the time as 2.40 a.m. The massive marble staircase rose on his left, there was a pair of double doors to the right. For a moment he stood, hesitating; the ground plan he had studied in Jean de Bernard's reference book refused to focus in his mind. He heard the sound of one of the guards on duty moving behind him. He took off his cap, pinned it beneath his arm and turned to the door on the right, opened it and went inside. The room was in darkness; he felt for a light-switch, found it, and an overhead chandelier bathed everything in light. It was a spacious room, obviously in use as a mess; besides some fine period furniture, there were leather chairs and sofas, newspapers and magazines arranged on tables, and flowers by the windows. Savage stayed still, looking round. He pulled at Minden's collar; the jacket was too small for him and it was tight.

‘Who the devil are you!' He spun round. A figure had risen from behind one of the sofas; the jacket hung open, the face was red and the eyes peered suspiciously. The man wore Colonel's badges. He must have been, in one of the chairs. Savage came to attention and saluted.

‘I'm sorry, sir! Excuse me for disturbing you.' You fool. You bloody fool. You won't bluff your way past this one … He turned back to the door. The German was a big man, thick necked and bald; Savage noticed that he swayed a little. Drunk and sleeping it off.

‘Stay where you are!' Savage waited, watching the officer come nearer. He had picked up his holster belt and was taking out the revolver. There was nothing Savage could do; if he tried to leave the room the Colonel would raise the alarm, or even fire. He was not quite sober, and suspicious as an angry bull. He came close to Savage, glaring, the revolver held loosely in his right hand.

‘What are you doing here? I've never seen you before! Who the hell are you?'

‘Major Friedman, sir.' Savage gave the first name he could think of; his football coach at college had been a man called Friedman. Freddy for short. ‘Friedman,' he repeated. ‘I've just arrived from Paris.'

‘At this hour? What the hell do you mean by coming here in the middle of the night? Friedman—I want to see your papers.' The muzzle of the gun came up and pointed at Savage. Colonel Von Gehlen was sober enough now.

‘Certainly, sir.' There was no way out. He had Minden's pass in his pocket and the moment the Colonel saw the name he was discovered. Savage took the pass out, stepped up to the Colonel and gave it to him. There wasn't a hope of grabbing the gun, because it would go off in the struggle. He couldn't afford shouts or noise. The Colonel snatched the pass and looked down at it; not long enough for Savage to move. He breathed in sharply.

‘Put your hands up,' he said, ‘and turn round. You're under arrest.' Savage raised his hands and turned his back. Once they reached the door he was finished.

‘Slowly,' the Colonel warned. ‘Go to the door. One move from you and you'll get it in the back!'

‘All right,' Savage said. ‘I surrender. I won't try anything.' They reached the door. Now. He had one chance, and only one. When that door opened they were in sight of the guards on duty at the entrance. If the Colonel knew what he was doing he would stay just behind out of reach. But his brain wasn't quite clear; he took two steps forward because they had come to a stop by the door. Savage heard him breathing heavily and made a guess. He aimed a violent kick behind him, and caught the Colonel on the shin with his heel. Savage had registered that he wasn't wearing boots. He gave a cry of pain and at the same moment Savage swung round, his right arm curved back from the elbow, his hand stretched out, the fingers rigid. The blow was so fast the German didn't even see it. It caught him across the cheekbone. The revolver fell out of his hand, and Savage kicked it across the carpet. He struck again, and this time the blow was lethal. It hit the Colonel across the side of the neck. He gave a choking grunt and his knees sagged; Savage caught him before he fell. There was an open wound across his face and blood was running down it. His eyes were open but the eyeballs showed white. Savage dragged him across the room, looking for a chair in a corner. He propped him in it; he stood over him for a moment, making sure there was no heart-beat, no breath. But the Colonel was dead. Savage turned his head to one side, hiding the ugly slash across his face. He picked up Minden's pass and found the revolver. He threw it into the chair with the Colonel. Then he remembered that cry when he cracked the German's shin. They had been close enough to the door for some sound to penetrate through to the guards outside. But if they'd heard anything they would have come by now. He rubbed the heel of his right hand. In training they had hardened it by constant hammering against wood. He glanced once more at the dead man. At a casual look he seemed to be asleep. Savage crossed the room, opened the door and switched out the lights. The two soldiers were seated by the door; they saw him and immediately jumped up, standing to attention.

He ignored them and turned to the right. The stairway was a magnificent sweep of marble, with a wide balustrade, curving up from the main hall to the upper floors. Savage had plotted the route so carefully before, that the lapse of memory when he first came into the hall seemed extraordinary. But the initial nervous tension had disappeared. Killing the Colonel had triggered off the reflexes of his training. He was cool and confident, and inside him burned the beacon of hate. He mounted the steps and began to climb. It seemed a long way up. Electric sconces on the walls gave a subdued light. He had reached the first floor; a long corridor stretched in front of him, with more sconces lighting the way on low-watt electric bulbs. Three more doors; there was a thread of light visible under one of them. He crept past it. Diane de Poiters' bedroom. It was at the very end, exactly as it had been marked on the plan, identifiable by its massive oak doors, gilded and carved, with the initial D and the crescent moon in a cartouche above it. So far, he said inside himself, so far and you have got away with it. He's on the other side of those doors. The face in the blown-up photograph, the murderer of your wife and your child. The handle turned without a sound. He stepped inside, keeping the door ajar, trying to see into the room by the light in the corridor outside. It took some seconds before his eyes became accustomed and could distinguish shapes. The bed towered like a tent directly in line with the doorway. He carried a pencil torch in the greatcoat pocket; the tiny beam picked out a gilt chair, a narrow table with ornaments and flowers on it. And then it crept towards the bed, moving over the draperies; he closed the door behind him and began to follow the small bright light. By the side of the bed he stopped and very slowly moved the torch upward. Brühl's head lay on the pillow, turned a little to one side. No spectacles, more hair than in the photograph where he had worn a cap; a younger man than Savage had imagined him. He slept with the innocence of a boy. The torch moved again, finding a table by the bed. It lit up a glass with an inch of milk at the bottom and a plate with an apple core. And a bedside light. Savage switched it on and sprang. He caught the hair in his left hand, jerking up the head, exposing the throat. As Brühl woke, he died. Savage's right hand smashed down and shattered his windpipe. There was a horrible gurgling sound, and his body threshed about under the bedclothes. Then it collapsed, quivered for a moment and didn't move again. Savage looked down at him. It was so quick, so painless. Patricia had died in agony, torn by convulsions, wrenched out of life in the midst of unthinkable terrors as the gas attacked her nervous system. He couldn't imagine his child … He stood without moving for some moments. He had lived for this act of retribution, dreamed of it, longed for it, lain without sleep fighting the pain of his grief with the antidote of hatred and revenge. Now it was done. His personal debt was paid. Hundreds of helpless victims had been sacrificed, the wives and children of other men, husbands, fathers, old and young, the human guinea-pigs selected to perfect the final infamy against the human race. He looked once more at the lolling head on the pillow; blood was trickling steadily out of the corner of the mouth, staining the white pillow. He had paid his personal debt. Now he was going to settle the others. Quietly he began to search the room.

There was a desk, a modern roll-top in a corner by one of the big windows. It was unlocked; inside were files and papers neatly clipped together, several small leather notebooks, and a letter written to Brühl's sister which had been put aside for posting. In the inside drawer he found what he was looking for. The General's personal oddments, a gold lighter, a matching cigar case and a pencil and a bunch of keys. He took the keys. It was a chance. It wasn't part of his mission but he was going to do what even his superiors had thought impossible.

He was going to find the laboratory. Outside in the corridor he stopped, freezing against the wall. He could hear voices coming up the stairs, they were low, and someone laughed. Some of the staff coming up to their rooms … He stepped back into Brühl's room and waited by the door, listening. Footsteps didn't reach him, they ceased further up, doors opened and closed, somebody called out goodnight.

When he came out again the corridor was empty. He put his cap on, pulling it low over his face, brought Minden's revolver out of its holster and slipped it in his pocket. The cellars. The laboratory must be below ground, hidden and well protected. On the ground plan they were reached from the main hall, through the kitchens. It was all too easy to walk down the stairs and out past the guards who had let him in. But to walk through the main hall, and go towards the top security area in the building in the middle of the night—he wouldn't get through without being stopped and he knew it. They had refused to give him explosives; the risk of setting off the gas and killing the French inhabitants for miles around wouldn't be countenanced by his superiors, although the English Colonel had tried to argue in favour of a single sabotage operation in which the Château was destroyed. For this reason they hadn't used bombers. The gas couldn't be unleashed. Killing Brühl, the genius of chemical destruction, was the most that they had hoped for. Savage had nothing but a revolver and his manual skill at silent killing. It couldn't be so simple; down through the main hall, on to the kitchens and down again to the cellars. The Germans would never have left such a primitive arrangement to house their hopes of victory over the world. There must be another, more sophisticated way for Brühl to reach his work. And then he saw the other door. Beside Brühl's bedroom. It was a narrow door, much narrower than the others, newly constructed to the same basic design so that it blended in.

He went and tried the handle. It was locked. The third of Brühl's keys opened it. Savage found himself standing in a three-man lift. There were two buttons, one marked ‘ground floor', the second, ‘XV centre'. That meant there were two entrances to the cellar by the lift shaft, one on the main floor for the staff and the one above, which allowed Brühl direct access from his room. Savage closed the door, shut the steel grid which came up to waist level, and pressed the button marked ‘XV centre'. The decent was soundless; for a moment he had feared the hydraulic whine which must surely have attracted attention at that hour. But there was nothing. German efficiency had anticipated that.