Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (3 page)

“The landlady says her tenant was a schoolmaster,” he said, shortly.  He eyed the body darkly, then stepped around it.  “Apparently, he taught at the school just down the road.”

“Oh,” Herman said.

He looked back at the body.  A schoolmaster?  Maybe it was just his flawed memory - he hadn't been a schoolboy for nearly forty years - but the man didn't look anything
like
intimidating enough to be a schoolmaster.  They were all kicked out of the SS for extreme violence - or so the schoolboys had joked, as they lined up each day, rain or shine, to enter the building and begin their lessons.  He’d believed it too, back then.  School might have toughened him up, but he remembered it with little fondness.

“She said he was normally out of the door at the crack of dawn,” Kuls added, darkly.  “He was rarely home until late at night, at least until the government fell.  Since then, he merely stayed in his room and never left.”

Herman snorted.  “Did she happen to know when he had visitors?”

“Apparently, one of the boys would occasionally come and clean the apartment for him,” Kuls said.  “But he never had any other visitors.”

“I see,” Herman said.  A landlady in Berlin could be relied upon to know
everything
about her tenants, from where they worked to how often they slept together.  They were often the best sources a policeman could hope for.  “Did anyone come today?”

“Not as far as she knows,” Kuls said.  “But that proves nothing.”

“No,” Herman agreed. 

He contemplated the possibilities, one after the other.  An SS officer - a
Standartenfuehrer
- would have been very useful, if he’d reported to the provisional government.  It wasn't as if there weren't
other
SS officers helping to rebuild the
Reich
.  But he’d stayed where he was, hiding.  A spy?  A coward?  No,
that
was unlikely.  He’d disliked the SS long before it had arrested his daughter, but he had to admit that SS officers were rarely cowards.  They often led their men from the front.  And yet, this one had become a schoolmaster.  Jokes aside, schools weren’t
actually
war zones ...

But he would probably have impressed the brats
, Herman thought, grimly. 
A man who has marched into the teeth of enemy fire isn't going to be scared of a naughty teenage boy
.

Herman shook his head.  The victim had known his killer, he was sure; he’d let him directly into the apartment.  Or killers, if there had been more than one.  And yet ...

He sighed.  Normally, a team of experts would tear the dead man’s life apart, looking for the person who’d killed him.  A murderer could not be allowed to get away with killing a
Standartenfuehrer
, even if the
Standartenfuehrer
had retired.  It set a bad example.  And yet, with the police force in such disarray, it was unlikely there would be a solid attempt to find the killer.  Herman doubted they’d even take the time to dust for fingerprints before dumping the body into a mass grave and handing the apartment back to the landlady.

Unless we find something that leads us straight to the killer
, he thought. 
But what
?

“We search the apartment, thoroughly,” he said.  “And if we find nothing, we’ll just have to make arrangements to dispose of the body.”

“Of course,” Kuls said.

Herman shot him a sharp look as they walked back into the kitchen and began to search with practiced efficiency.  The landlady would be furious, when she discovered all her drawers dumped on the floor, but there was no help for it.  Herman’s instructors - when he’d joined the police - had shown him just how easy it was to conceal something, particularly something small, within a kitchen or bedroom.  Taking the whole edifice apart was time-consuming, but it was the only way to be sure there was nothing hiding there. 

“My wife would have a heart attack,” Kuls said, when they’d finished the kitchen.  “No tools at all.”

“Mine too,” Herman said.

He smirked at the thought as they walked into the bedroom and started dismantling the wardrobe, piece by piece.  It was an older design, practically fixed to the wall.  And yet, there was enough space behind the panel for something to be hidden ... he grinned in sudden delight as he felt a concealed envelope.  It refused to budge until he tugged the panelling back completely, then pulled.  The envelope came free and fell into his hand.

“He
was
hiding something,” Kuls observed.

“Looks that way,” Herman agreed.

He led the way back into the living room and opened the envelope.  A handful of photographs fell out and landed on the floor.  He sighed, picked the first one up ... and froze in horror as he saw the picture.  It was ... it was unthinkable.

“Shit,” he breathed.  He’d seen horror, from burned homesteads and raped women in Germany East, but this ... this was far worse.  He had to swallow hard to keep his gorge from rising.  “No
wonder
someone wanted him dead!”

“He must have taken the photographs himself,” Kuls observed.  “Trying to buy this sort of shit ... it would get him killed.”

Herman looked back at the body, fighting down the urge to kick it as hard as he could.  A schoolmaster with connections to the SS ... even if someone had suspected something, they would never have dared take their concerns to higher authority.  The boys - his victims - would have been compromised for life.  They would have known they were doomed, when he tired of them ...

... Until now.  Until the SS’s power had been broken.  Until they’d found the nerve to brutally murder their tormentor.  Until ...

That could have been my son
, he thought, numbly.  Few would have dared to pick on a policeman’s child, but an SS officer - even a retired one - might have had other ideas. 
It could have been any of them
.

He glanced at his partner.  “You know what?  I don’t want to find the killers.”

Kuls nodded.  “I don’t think I want to find them either,” he agreed.  He kicked the body savagely.  “Looks like an ironclad case of suicide to me.”

Chapter Two

RAF Fairford, United Kingdom

1 September 1985

“We’ve picked up a pair of escorts, sir,” the pilot said.  “Air Traffic Control is redirecting us around London.”

Andrew Barton nodded as he peered out of the window.  A pair of RAF Tornados were flying near the small jet, the air-to-air missiles clearly visible under their wings.  There would be others too, he knew; RAF Tornados and USAF F-15 Eagles, patrolling the English Channel and the North Sea for signs of trouble from the
Reich
.  It wasn't likely that the Germans
would cause trouble - both sides in the brewing civil war had too many other problems - but it was quite possible that a rogue officer might consider sparking a global war in hopes of using it to reunite the
Reich
.  He would have to be out of his mind, if he thought that would actually work ...

“As long as we get there,” he said, glancing at the radar screen.  “Has there been any update from the Joint Command Network?”

“Nothing,” the pilot said.  “Skies are clear.”

Andrew leaned back into his seat.  He’d never been a comfortable flyer, even in the jet permanently assigned to the Berlin Embassy.  Indeed, he would have preferred to take the train to Dunkirk and board one of the ferries to Dover, but time was pressing.  He’d been summoned to Britain and knew he couldn't disobey.  Besides, the sooner he was finished in Britain, the sooner he could return to Berlin.  There were too many interesting things happening in Berlin for him to want to be elsewhere.

The RAF Tornados peeled off as RAF Fairford came into view.  It was a smaller airfield than the fast-jet fighter bases to the east, serving the British Government as a private airport and conference chamber - although he was fairly sure the British would have plans to turn it into a fighter base if the long-feared war between the North Atlantic Alliance and the Third
Reich
finally became a reality.  The pilot spoke briefly to the ground, then steered the plane towards the runway.  Andrew had a flash of a blue and white plane parked at the far end of the airfield before the aircraft shook, violently, as it touched the ground.  He closed his eyes and kept them closed until the plane finally rumbled to a halt near a small cluster of buildings.

“I’ll be refuelling the plane while you’re gone,” the pilot said.  “Do you know if we’re going to be heading straight back?”

Andrew shrugged.  He’d had the
impression
that he wouldn't be kept for long, but Washington - and London - operated on their own timescale.  He might be expected to remain overnight, if there was a need for further debriefing, or he might just be ordered back to Berlin within the hour.  But there was no way to be sure.

“Get a nap, if you can,” he advised.  “I have no idea when we’ll be leaving.”

He rose to his feet and headed for the hatch.  The ground crew, working with commendable speed, had already pushed a mobile staircase against the plane, allowing him to descend to the ground.  He couldn't help noticing that security had been doubled or tripled; armed soldiers patrolled the fence, backed up by armoured cars, while Rapier missile launchers had been scattered around the airfield.  It had been years since Britain had faced a terrorist threat, since the last remnants of the IRA had been crushed or convinced to lay down their arms, but it was evident that no one was taking chances.  A strike at RAF Fairford could decapitate two governments at once.

“This way, sir,” a young man said.  He wore a black suit and tie, rather than a uniform, but he couldn't hide his military training.  “We have to get you through security.”

Andrew nodded, unsurprised, as he was led into the nearest building.  The guards were polite, but firm; they searched him thoroughly, examined everything in his pocket with cynical eyes and finally waved him through.  Andrew was tempted to make a crack about one of them buying him dinner afterwards, but thought better of it before he could open his mouth.  The guards probably wouldn't find it very funny.

“This is your badge,” his escort said, once Andrew was passed through the gate.  “You are scheduled to enter the main room in thirty minutes.  Do you want to take a shower and freshen up before then?”

“Yes, please,” Andrew said.  He felt grimy, even though the flight hadn't taken more than three hours.  “And is there coffee?”

“There are
gallons
of coffee,” his escort assured him.  “I’ll have some brought into the room for you.”

Thirty minutes later, feeling much better, Andrew was escorted into a comfortable conference room.  He stiffened, automatically, as President John Anderson rose to his feet, hastily snapping out a salute.  Beside the President, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher nodded politely as Andrew was shown to a chair.  There was no one else in the room, but Andrew would have been surprised if the meeting wasn't being recorded.  The government - both governments - would want a solid record of just what had been said, even if the recordings never saw the light of day.

“Mr. Barton,” Anderson said.  “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Andrew said.

He took a moment to study them both as an aide brought two cups of coffee and one of tea, placing them on the table.  They made an odd pair.  President Anderson looked more like a schoolteacher than a President, while Prime Minister Thatcher reminded him of one of the fearsome old biddies who’d dominated his hometown.  The
Reich’s
propaganda machine had turned her into a monster, even to the point of insisting she was really a man in drag.  They’d had some problems coming to terms with female politicians, Andrew recalled; they’d never really seen women as anything more than mothers, daughters and wives. 

And now a young girl started a movement that sundered the Reich
, Andrew thought,
will they change their attitudes?

“This is not a formal debriefing,” Anderson said, once the aide had retreated.  “We would merely like your impression of the current situation.”

Andrew took a breath.  “At last report” - he wasn't going to go into specifics, not when the recording wouldn't be kept in the US - “the provisional government has a reasonably firm grip on Germany Prime, but very limited control outside it.  Germany North and Germany South seem to be waiting to see who comes out on top, while Germany Arabia has effectively declared for Germany East.  That gives the rump government in Germany East  the ability to pressure the Turks into allowing shipments of troops and supplies through their territory.  I don’t expect the Turks to refuse.”

“I imagine the prospect of being devastated from one end of the country to the other will concentrate a few minds,” Thatcher said, dryly.

Andrew nodded.  The
Reich’s
allies knew, beyond any possibility of doubt, that resistance to the
Reich
would be utterly futile.  Vichy France, Spain, Portugal, Turkey, Italy, Finland ... the slightest hint of resistance, of disagreement, would be enough to start the Panzers rolling in their direction.  They were utterly prostrate before the
Reich
.  And yet, with the
Reich
itself torn in two, who knew which way the former allies would jump?

But they’d have to be sure of themselves first
, he thought. 
Whoever comes out on top will certainly seek revenge, if they feel that they were betrayed.

“It is hard to be sure just where the military balance actually stands,” Andrew continued, after a moment.  “The rump has a more deployable military force at its disposal, but the provisional government should be able to generate a larger force, given time.  I believe they will certainly
try
to recall troops from South Africa, yet there’s no way to know which way those forces will jump.  It might be better to keep them in the south until after the civil war is settled, one way or the other.”

President Anderson leaned forward.  “What do
you
think is going to happen?”

“The rump will attack,” Andrew said.  “I’m sure you’ve seen the orbital imagery of forces being moved westwards and positioned in place for a full-scale advance.  Launching an offensive and pushing it forward with maximum force has been part of German military doctrine for well over a century.  There’s no way they will allow a bunch of rebels - and that is how they will see the provisional government - to take and hold Berlin.”

He paused.  “In the long-term, it’s quite likely the remainder of the
Reich’s
economy will collapse,” he added.  “But I don’t know if that will happen in time to prevent the civil war from devastating the country.  The
Reich
stockpiled vast qualities of military supplies over the past forty years.”

“Which leads to the obvious question,” Anderson said.  “What about the nukes?”

Andrew took a long breath.  “Officially, the
Reich’s
stockpile of nuclear weapons can only be launched with command codes held within the Berlin Bunker,” he said.  His source within the provisional government had told him as much, although he wasn't high enough to be absolutely sure that was true.  “The missile silos in Siberia should be unable to launch without those codes, while the bombs assigned to the
Luftwaffe
cannot be detonated.  In theory, the rump should be unable to deploy nuclear weapons.

“In practice, Mr. President, I believe they may well be able to detonate tactical nukes.”

The President scowled.  “How?”

“I’m not a nuclear weapons expert, but I discussed the matter
thoroughly
with an officer at the embassy,” Andrew said, carefully.  “The problem with any sort of security system is it needs to strike a balance between two competing imperatives; the need to keep the weapon from detonating at the wrong time and the need to ensure that the weapon actually detonates at the
right
time.  It’s quite possible that a designer could accidentally ensure that the weapons
cannot
be detonated through making the security system too good.”

“Too good,” the President repeated.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Andrew said.  “If the wrong code is inputted, the security system will fry the detonator and render the weapon useless.”

He paused.  “We do not know the specifics of the
Reich’s
version of our Permissive Action Links,” he added.  “However, my expert believes that someone with a good knowledge of tactical nuclear weapons might well be able to remove the PAL and replace it with a makeshift detonator.  Indeed, given that a lucky strike on Berlin might destroy the command codes, it’s quite possible that the
Reich
was very careful
not
to make their PALs too good.  In the absence of a working model to examine, there’s no way to know for sure.”

“So the rump may have access to tactical nukes,” Thatcher commented.

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Andrew said.  “They may also be able to fire the ICBMs from Siberia, given time.”

“It sounds careless of them,” Thatcher observed.

“They need to strike a balance, Prime Minister,” Andrew said.  “I don’t think they envisaged civil war when they were planning how best to secure their nuclear arsenal.”

“Probably not,” Anderson said.  “Do you think the rump will deploy nukes?”

Andrew hesitated.  “I think they would be reluctant to take the risk,” he said.  “The provisional government could certainly retaliate in kind.  However ...”

He took a breath.  “Germany East has always been the most
fanatical
part of the
Reich
,” he added, after a moment.  “The SS isn’t just tolerated there, it’s actually
popular
.  Neither their leadership nor their population are likely to view the provisional government as anything more than a bunch of filthy traitors.  Indeed, they may even have a
point
.  By overthrowing the former government, the rebels have actually weakened the
Reich
.  I don’t expect them to be reluctant to deploy nukes if they think they need them.”