The Division of the Damned (3 page)

Von Struck saw no problem with the mission in hand. Babysitting some
political o
fficer in friendly territory sounded like a nice trip to Romania. Drink their foreign schnapps, sleep with their women and then come home with honours. What could go wrong?

Chapter 5

London

Early 1944

The Brigadier’s office was at the end of the corridor. Major James Smith almost marched its length, digging his heels in on the polished wooden floor. Tall, blond, with glass-clear blue eyes, he was the personification of the Nazi racial ideal, but for the fact that he came from Dover. His martial bearing had made him unpopular with the other officers but that suited him down to the ground. He preferred to be alone and aloof from the social politics and intrigues of the Mess.

He was completely in the dark about why he had been called to Baker Street, the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive. Indeed, he was baffled. To the best of his knowledge, he hadn’t contravened any secrecy laws and had no intention of joining Military Intelligence. His regiment wa
s undergoing a complete refit
—
new wagons and new bodies for the planned invasion of Europe. He had been due to take command of C Squadron 67th Dragoon Guards when the
c
hief
c
lerk had called with travel documents and reporting papers. Even the
c
olonel of the
regiment was in the dark. The old m
an shrugged it off with, "Well there is a war on, you know.”

It was all very odd. He stood in front of the solid oak door marked
Brigadier D. Lycard and knocked.
"Come in," bellowed a voice from within.

He walked in and introduced himself.
"Smith, sir.
Major James Smith.
67th Dragoon Guards.”

The b
rigadier looked up from his desk. Even sitt
ing down, Smith could see that B
rigadier Lycard was a very imposing figure. His dark brown hair swept back from a square face that looked to have been cut out of a solid block of granite. Construction worker’s muscles bulged under his uniform, giving the impression that the
b
rigadier would be more at h
ome in a boxing booth than the Officer’s M
ess. Brilliant white teeth shone through as he opened his mouth in a welcoming smile. However, any impression of benevolence was immediately quashed by the devilishl
y cruel glint in his eyes. The b
rigadier radiated violence and intimidation but Smith took the unease he felt as a challenge and he
met the b
rigadier’s gaze full on.

Unexpectedly, Smith felt the subtle tug of recognition. Did he know this man? Impossible, how could he? Nevertheless, the feeling lingered.

"Ah yes, Smith.”
Slow, openly appraising him.
"At ease, major.”
He sat back in his chair and blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"You’re probably wondering what this is all about, eh? Of course you
are.” He stubbed his cigarette out into an overflowing ashtray next to him. "Now I know you’re security cleared for what I’m about to tell you, but I want to say now that we
run a tight ship here, Smith.
A
very tight ship.
Outsiders, people who don’t know the rules, just bring trouble. You are an outsider, so I’m telling you now that I’ve got my eye on you. Whatever you hear, see or touch is
top s
ecret. Nothing goes beyond these walls. Nothing, regardless of what you feel about how you’ve been handled or how other people have been handled, goes outside of these walls. Understand?”

Smith raised a querying eyebrow but kept his thoughts to himself. The feeling that he knew the
b
rigadier was gathering a slow momentum but, infuriatingly, he couldn’t’ yet place him.

"Sir, with all due respect, I don’t know why I’m here yet. I think there must be some mistake. I honestly don’t know what is required of me or if I can even fulfil these unknown requirements.”

The b
rigadier looked at him
. "Yes, I can imagine,
”
he said slowly
, pushing
a thin folder across the desk. "Read through this file.”

Smith picked it up and fl
icked through the pages as the b
rigadier started to elaborate. "Well, it’s all very strange. We see this sort of thing with the French all the time, but this for me is a first. We recently got wind of a high-ranking Romanian
c
ount who wants to do a spot of business for us. Well, it’s only to be expected, I suppose, now that Jerry’s on the back foot they’re all coming out of the woodwork." He stopped briefly to stand up and walk to the window. He was enormous and Smith felt his defiance against the other man’s aura wilt somewhat. With his back tur
ned to the m
ajor, he continued. "You see
,
the writing is on the wall for the Third Reich and nobody wants to be the last one holding the ball, as they say.” He chuckled to acknowledge his clumsy mixing of metaphors.

Smith took in the file. It consisted of two photos, a map and a set of orders. The first picture was of a woman. Dark haired and wild-eyed, she was, even from the picture, stunning. Her long ebony mane hung loosely around her bare shoulders and framed a face so captivating he found it hard to look away.

"Quite a dilly, eh?"
Lycard smiled wolfishly.

"Very striking, sir.”
  Smith drank in the picture.

"The next fellow is the other contact. We don’t have a good picture of him but we think he’s the count that has contacted us. Apparently, he has information about some secret weapon that Himmler has personally overseen. Himmler is convinced that this weapon will save the Third Reich. Whatever it is, it better be good, eh?" He smiled benignly and Smith was instantly reminded of a picture he’d once seen of Joe Stalin laughing, sharing a joke with someone. However, the jovial smile stopped at his mouth, while his eyes held the cold glare of murder.

Smith looked at the photo and saw a man of indeterminate age, regal in his looks, with a wide mouth and aquiline features topped by dark, sullen eyes. Arrogance scarred his features like smal
lpox. The photo was so bad
it was hard to make out if it was day or night.

"So why am I here then, sir? Why me? I can’t think of one good reason why you are showing me this.”

The b
rigadier turned to look at him
.
"It’
s quite simple, old chap. This count, duke, p
rince, whatever he is, has actually asked for you by name.”

Smith didn’t react at first. That he, James Smith, formerly of the Duke of Monmouth’s Military School and then, straight after that, the 67th Dragoon Guards, was being asked for by a Romanian count was out of the question. The idea was just too ridiculous to entertain.  Regardless of the fact that he had never been further east than the Dover Docks, he couldn’t even remember having ever met a Romanian, not to mention a Romanian
c
ount.

"There must be some sort of mistake, sir," he stammered.

"No mistake, old boy. He knew your name, regiment, number,
the
whole damn lot. We have of course been asking a few questions ourselves, but it seems you’re on the up-and-up, so we invited you here.”

The b
rigadier looked him squarely in the eye as
if judging his response. "This c
ount chappy has asked that you meet him and he’ll show you what Himmler has. It could all be nonsense, of course, but we’re not willing to take that chance. If you agree, and I’m sure you will, you’ll be parachuted into Northern Romania and be met by the lovely lady in the photo. There she will take you to meet the count and you can decide whether it really is as bad as the higher-ups think.”

The b
rigadier glossed over the whole operation as though it were a picnic. Smith could only listen with half an ear as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. He spoke no Romanian, had no desire to go to Romania, and was not even sure he believed what was going on. The
b
rigadier droned on about the logistical problems, extra fuel tanks and extended flight ranges, and completely ignored the dazed and bemused look on Major Smith’s face.

"You’ll get a full briefing in the morning but, for now, I suggest you write or phone your unit and tell them that you’re out of the picture for a while. The colonel will also get a full briefing so there won’t be any problems, national security and all that, eh?”

"Shouldn’t I be asked if I want to go at all, sir?” Smith blurted. "I mean, this is most irregular, isn’t it?  Don’t you ask for volunteers or something?”

“Do you think I like it, Major? Do you?
Well, I do not; but this, this c
ount, has asked for you. No other, just you. I’m damned if I know why.
We’ve checked up on you, as I said, and you seem all right. So we can only go with the flow of events and see what happens. It’s as simple as that. Who knows, perhaps you’ll find something there to your liking, something we can all benefit from." He smiled deviously.

"But I
—
”
Smith started.

"Major Smith
,”
the b
rigadier butted in
. "T
his is not up for discussion. We cannot afford to ignore this. The
c
ount thinks this could change the course of the war. You have been asked for by name. You are the only one that he’ll deal with, so you will go. End of conversation. If you feel that you are not up to it, feel free to file a complaint, but do it after you have completed the mission. Do I make myself understood?”

Lycard hadn’t raised his voice but had spoken with a steely quiet that would brook no quarrel. Smith realised that forces beyond his control had already decided that he must go.

He stood to attention and answered,
“
Yes, sir!”

"That will be all.
Report to Admin tomorrow morning at 0830 for briefing and a training schedule.
Good day to you, Major.” With that the
b
rigadier sat back down to his paperwork. Smith about-turned and marched smartly out.

*  *  *

Later that evening, in the privacy of his room in the Officers' Mess, Brigadier Dorian Lycard wrote a letter.

Master,

It is done as you wished.

He is ready to meet his destiny.

Soon we will be free of the shackles of secrecy and darkness.

Soon the chosen shall rule as is it is written in the Cronica Insangerata.

Your humble servant always

Chapter 6

Romania

Two days later

Smith stepped out into the howling blackness of the night and fell for what seemed like far too long. He was suddenly jerked in his harness by the parachute opening up and he listened as the plane droned off, leaving him behind. It was a cold, cloudless night and the stars were bright and numerous. With the sound of the propellers no longer raging around him as it had when he first stepped out into the ether, the silence was almost tangible, and he felt a euphoric pleasure in the steady, soundless descent.

The countryside below was a sea of fir trees, with white flecks of snow showing through the foliage. Miles on miles of conifers ranged up to the mountains on the horizon and the view held him captive to its majesty. The exhilaration was overpowering and any fear he might have harboured was now distant and forgotten. A light in the wood below brought him back to the present and he wrestled with the toggles to try to turn into the wind and onto the marker, if it was his marker.

He felt wholly unprepared for the mission ahead. His training had been six hours in a parachute harness in a draughty hangar somewhere in Essex, the practical test being the jump he was now performing. He spoke no Romanian and had only the grainy picture to identify his contact. Even the rendezvous point was in the middle of a wood. An impending sense of disaster lingered above him regardless of the
b
rigadier’s assurance that his anxiety was normal and that the mission would be a piece of cake.

During the flight over he’d checked that he had his maps, pistol, stengun, civilian clothing and torch. He must have taken out the picture of the young lady and looked at it over twenty times. He couldn’t decide what it was that was so enchanting about her.

The man in the picture, the
c
ount, looked like a pompous ass. One of the drawbacks about a Cavalry Officers Mess was the a
mount of supercilious idiots who
were drawn to the glamour of being a horse soldier. The man in the picture would fit right in with the vainglorious clique of buffoons in his mess, he’d decided. He didn’t like him already which didn’t bode well for the mission.