Blood Red City (26 page)

She pursed her lips and frowned. ‘Do
you
want to see me later? Is that it?'

‘I would love to. But sadly I have other things to do.'

She turned to go, then changed her mind and turned back. ‘Thank you. I'm not used to kindness.'

He raised his glass. ‘None of us is. Stay safe.'

The colonel looked up in surprise as Hoffman pulled up a chair beside him. He looked annoyed, but struggled to hide it as he saw Hoffman's SS uniform. The colonel might outrank Hoffman, but he knew who had the real power.

‘Herr Oberst, a word, if I may?'

The colonel nodded. ‘Sturmbannfuhrer, what can I do for you?'

‘The girl. The young one.'

‘You noticed her too?' the man licked his lips.

‘I think everyone has noticed her. Unfortunately for you – and, I have to say for me too – one of her admirers is my commanding officer. Gruppenfuhrer Streicher, perhaps you know him? He has quite a reputation amongst his SS comrades.'

The colonel shook his head. ‘My apologies to the Gruppenfuhrer,' he stammered. ‘I never intended, that is – I didn't mean…'

Hoffman waved his hand. ‘Don't worry. You were not to know. Can I buy you another drink to compensate you for the loss of your evening's entertainment?'

‘You're very kind.'

‘Not at all.' Hoffman called over the nearest waitress.

‘I am not usually…' the colonel said as he accepted another drink. ‘That is, tonight is my last night here in Dresden. After that…' His voice tailed off.

‘After that?' Hoffman prompted.

‘My unit leaves tomorrow. We have been deployed to the Eastern Front.'

‘I see.' Hoffman nodded sympathetically. ‘I hear things are quite difficult there.'

‘You have been to Russia?'

‘Oh yes,' Hoffman admitted. ‘One way or another I have spent quite some time there.'

‘Our armies are making great progress, huge advances. But you hear stories – about the winter cold, the summer rain and mud, the barbaric fighting of the Russian scum. And it's such a long way from home, of course.'

‘Yes,' Hoffman echoed. ‘Such a long way from home.' He drained his glass and signalled for another. ‘So what unit are you with, and when are they leaving?'

He listened carefully as the colonel told him the details. He could have the man court-martialled for revealing such information. But that wasn't Hoffman's intention.

He had decided what he had to do. He'd been playing this deadly game for too long now. It was partly that he'd been away from Alina for too long – he didn't even know if she was still alive. But partly, he remembered where he had seen the pattern before, the radiating lines. It was indeed on a photograph. A set of photographs, spread across Stalin's desk when he sent Hoffman into Germany. If Stalin knew, then perhaps Hoffman's reports had not been ignored. Had he helped? Was someone in Russia aware of the Vril and, like the British, working to stop them? He had to know.

The axe-head could wait. He would work out what to do with it on the way. But first, Werner Hoffman – although that wasn't his real name – was going home.

 

CHAPTER 25

The sound of the small Lysander seemed a deafening roar in the quiet of the night, so far from civilisation. That, of course was why they had chosen this area. The fields were surrounded by woodland, so there was little chance of anyone seeing the plane. The only problem was the strong crosswinds, which had been picking up all day.

‘They won't try to land in this,' Mihali shouted above the noise as the plane approached. ‘They'll drop the supplies and keep going.'

‘It's very low,' Brinkman pointed out.

The bright moon meant that the pilot would be able to see the field – and the people waiting – quite clearly. The disadvantage was obviously that the plane too would be more visible on its journey into enemy-held territory. It continued to descend, buffeted by the wind, until the wheels connected with the turf and the plane bounced and juddered across the field. Finally it came to a sudden stop, slewing drunkenly to one side.

‘There's a pilot who knows how to fly,' Mihali said as they set off towards the plane. ‘I don't know many who'd have attempted that.'

‘I've an idea who it might be,' Guy said. He could tell from Brinkman's severe expression that he was thinking the same thing.

Sarah was pulling off her flying goggles as they reached the plane. She jumped down to the ground, and listened silently to Brinkman's angry rebuke before replying. Her insistence that she had brought vital information that he needed to hear in person went some way to appeasing him, as did the crates of supplies in the plane's hold. There were guns, grenades, explosive, and a replacement radio set.

‘I also don't see,' Brinkman said as they unloaded the equipment, ‘why it took two of you to relay whatever this information might be.'

Leo Davenport had jumped down from the plane after Sarah. He stared innocently back at Brinkman. ‘Well, I had nothing much else on this week, and I thought you could do with some help.'

Brinkman made it clear that, if he could, he'd have sent them both back home immediately. But one of the wheel struts on the plane had buckled.

‘I think I hit a rock or something,' Sarah confessed. ‘I felt it go.'

‘Easily done,' Mihali said. ‘There's so many rocky outcrops round here, you're almost certain to hit something. Can you move the plane at all?'

‘If I take it slow and careful. Certainly couldn't take off again, though, not till it's fixed.'

Once they had finished unloading, Sarah taxied the plane awkwardly to the edge of the wood, so it wouldn't be seen from the air. They covered it with branches and leaves. Mihali told them he would arrange for some of the partisans to assess the damage and do what they could.

‘We have a blacksmith, he should be able to weld the strut back in place. But it'll take a day or two to organise.'

Sarah, Guy and Mihali went on ahead, carrying as much as they could load into their backpacks. Brinkman and Davenport followed with the rest of the equipment, carrying a crate between them by its rope handles. Out of Mihali's earshot, Leo brought the colonel up to date on the photographs from Sumner's reception, and Wiles's news that Himmler might also have people looking for the axe-head on Crete.

‘Why do I feel like I'm playing gooseberry here?' Mihali asked, looking from Sarah to Guy.

‘Probably because you are,' Sarah told him.

‘Well, try to keep your feelings under control,' he told them both. ‘Lose concentration or get distracted for a moment, and it could get you killed.'

‘We'll stay focused,' Guy assured him.

*   *   *

They sheltered for the night in an old, deserted cattle barn, not far from the German fuel depot. Guy took first watch. Brinkman, Davenport and Mihali seemed able to slip immediately into a deep sleep. Sarah fidgeted, uncomfortable on a makeshift bed of straw. Finally she came over to join Guy as he sat close to the door, looking out through a gap between the planking of the wall.

She sat down beside him, pulling the thin blanket round them both and nestling into his shoulder. He put his arm round her, grateful for the warmth and affection of her body close to his. Their relationship so far was limited largely to moments like this – stolen hours together, hugging, kissing. He knew more would follow, but neither of them was in a hurry. It was strange, he thought. The danger and uncertainty of the war should surely hasten their relationship. But somehow it drew it out, made the slow, steady, growing feelings they had for each other all the more precious. All the more to be treasured.

‘You shouldn't have come,' he said quietly. ‘But I'm glad you did.'

Sarah didn't answer, and Guy realised she was already asleep.

After two hours, he gently roused Sarah, and led her half asleep to the back of the barn. He settled her down again before waking Davenport for his turn at keeping watch, Then he lay down beside Sarah, one arm protectively over her as he too drifted into oblivion.

Mihali's comrades in the local resistance movement met them at first light. Brinkman and Mihali had agreed their plan the previous night, and now Mihali briefed his men. He also arranged for the blacksmith and another man to check on the Lysander and mend the broken wheel strut.

*   *   *

The uniform was from a German lieutenant – an oberleutnant. It wasn't a particularly good fit, but Davenport assured Guy it would do.

‘There should be a hat, surely,' Guy said.

The man who had provided the uniform laughed, seeing Guy looking for the cap. He was a broad-shouldered man with a mass of thick dark hair and a moustache that might have been borrowed from a villain of the silent movie era. ‘There was a cap,' he told Guy in Greek. ‘But it has a hole through it. Right here.' He pointed to the middle of Guy's forehead. ‘How do you think we got the uniform?'

They had debated whether they should go at night. But Brinkman reckoned it was better so see what was going on. They hoped to find a way down into the ground, and hunting for that with torches in the dark would soon attract attention. Instead, the plan was to distract the Germans so that Brinkman and Davenport could search the area. Not really knowing what they were looking for, they also needed daylight to find it.

*   *   *

They cut the fence at the furthest point. There was a good view along the length of it, and there were no guards within sight. Mihali folded back the wire, letting Guy through, then pulled it back into place. Unless someone inspected it closely, they wouldn't know the fence had been breached.

Guy hoped he looked calmer than he felt as he walked back beside the fence towards the fuel depot. He glanced at the indented area beyond the pipeline as he skirted round it, but there was nothing to see except the rock and patches of sparse grass springing up through it.

He was almost at the first huts on the edge of the depot before he saw anyone. A German soldier walked past, heading out along the fence line on patrol. If he thought it odd that Guy wasn't wearing his uniform cap, he showed no sign of it.

The trick was to find somewhere far enough into the complex – and far enough away from the indented ground – to draw attention away, but not too close to the fuel tanks. The first hut that Guy entered was occupied. Four soldiers sat round a wooden table playing cards. They leapt guiltily to their feet as Guy came in. He ignored their stammered excuses and apologies and left without comment.

He passed any huts that were obviously in use. From one he could hear raised voices – a heated argument about shift rotas. Through the window of another he could see a captain pointing out positions on a map of the complex to a group of soldiers.

Finally he found a small wooden building that was little more than a shed. It had been erected between two of the larger huts, which was ideal. Inside, there were shelves of paint, cleaning materials, pads of paper and other stationery materials. Guy closed the door behind him.

The only light filtered in through a grimy window on one side, but it was enough for him to lift down a pot of paint and stab his pocket knife through the lid. A quick sniff of the oil-based liquid told him it was likely to be inflammable.

For safety, he cut holes in several pots, then jammed folded paper torn from one of the notepads into the holes. He placed a pot against each wall, and another in the middle of the shelf of paint. Then, using a rather nice silver Dunhill lighter that Leo Davenport had lent him, Guy lit the paper.

A quick look round reassured him that no one was within sight. Guy walked briskly back the way he had come. As soon as the fire took hold, he would divert anyone heading out towards where Brinkman and Davenport were searching, sending them back to help fight the fire. Just so long as no one spotted the smoke and flames before it had a chance to take hold.

He need not have worried. From behind came the gratifying roar of an explosion as the paint in the sealed cans exploded. The shed was blown apart in a blast of splinters and fragmented paint cans. Burning liquid sprayed across the wooden huts either side and soon they too were burning.

Guy kept walking, shouting to anyone he saw to get across and help with the emergency. Black smoke drifted across the whole area, concealing how bad – or not – the fire really was.

*   *   *

Predictably, Sarah insisted on going with Brinkman and Davenport. ‘I'll be safer with you,' she pointed out. ‘If Mihali and his guys have to create another diversion, I'll be right in the thick of it. The whole point is to draw any attention away from what you two are up to. And I've been trained now.'

There wasn't time to argue, and from the amused way Davenport's moustache twitched, Brinkman knew he'd get no support from that direction if he objected. Besides, she was right. What was the use of sending her on the SOE training if he wasn't going to let her make use of what she'd learned?

‘All right, But keep close to us and do as you're told.'

‘Don't I always, sir?'

He didn't answer that. The three of them slipped through the gap in the fence, and hurried down the slight incline to the rocky area they had identified on the aerial photographs.

Smoke from the fire was drifting across, which was both a help and a hindrance.

‘Means they can't see what we're up to,' Brinkman said.

‘It also means
we
can't see what we're up to,' Leo pointed out.

‘According to the photos, it looked like there was some sort of opening right in the middle of the area, at the back,' Sarah said. ‘Where the two blades of the axe-head shape meet.'

They headed for what they hoped was about the right area. The smoke thinned slightly, blown away by the sea breeze. Even so, they had to stay close to each other so as not to get separated and lost.