The Valhalla Exchange. Jack Higgins
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by the American writer Poe?’
‘No, I can’t say that I have, Reichsleiter.’
‘You should, Willi. An interesting parallel on the impossibility of locking out reality for long.’
An orderly clattered down the steps, brushed past Bormann and Rattenhuber and hesitated on seeing what was taking place. Krebs, who obviously recognized the man, moved to one side and snapped his fingers. The orderly passed him a signal flimsy which Krebs quickly scanned.
Hitler moved forward eagerly. ‘Is it news of Wenck?’ he demanded.
He was still convinced that the 12th Army under General Wenck was going to break through to the relief of Berlin at any moment.
Krebs hesitated and the Führer said, ‘Read it, man! Read it!’
Krebs swallowed hard, then said, ‘No possibility of Wenck and the 9th Army joining. Await further instruction.’
The Führer exploded with rage. ‘The same story as Sunday. I gave the 11th Panzer Army to SS-General Steiner and all available personnel in his area with orders to attack. And what happened?’
The fact that the army in question had existed on paper only, a figment of someone’s imagination, was not the point, for no one would have had the courage to tell him.
‘So, even my SS let me down – betray me in my hour of need. Well, it won’t do, gentlemen.’ He was almost hysterical now. ‘I have a way of dealing with traitors. Remember the July plot? Remember the films of the executions I ordered you to watch?’
He turned, stumbled back into the map room followed by Jodl, Keitel and Krebs. The door closed. Fegelein, moving as a man in a dream, signalled to one of the SS orderlies, who took the children away.
There was silence, then Ritter said, ‘What now, General?’
Fegelein started. ‘What did you say?’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Oh, go to the canteen. Food will be provided. Have a drink. Relax.’ He forced a smile and clapped Ritter on the shoulder.
‘Take it easy for a while, Major, I’ll send for you soon. Fresh fields to conquer, I promise.’
He nodded to an orderly, who led the way. Ritter and Hoffer followed him, up the steps. Bormann and Rattenhuber were no longer there.
At the top, Ritter said softly, ‘What do you think of that, then, Erich? Little children and old men led by a raving madman. So, now we start paying the bill, I think – all of us.’
When he reached his office, Fegelein closed the door, went behind his desk and sat down. He opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of brandy, removed the cork and swallowed deeply. He had been a frightened man for some time, but this latest display had finished him off.
He was exactly the same as dozens of other men who had risen to power in the Nazi party. A man of no background and little education. A one-time groom and jockey who had risen through the ranks of the SS and after being appointed Himmler’s aide at Führer headquarters, had consolidated his position by marrying Eva Braun’s sister, Gretl.
But now even Himmler had cleared off, had refused every attempt aimed at returning him to the death-trap which Berlin had become. It occurred to Fegelein that perhaps the time had come for some definite action on his own part. He took another quick pull on the brandy bottle, got up, took down his cap from behind the door and went out.
It was seven o’clock that evening and Ritter and Hoffer were sitting together in the canteen, talking softly, a bottle of Moselle between them, when a sudden hubbub broke out. There were cries outside in the corridor, laughter and then the door burst open and two young officers ran in.
Ritter grabbed at one of them as he went by. ‘Hey, what’s all the excitement?’
‘Luftwaffe General Ritter von Greim has just arrived from Munich with the air-ace, Hannah Reitsch. They landed at Gatow and came on in a Fieseler Storch.’
‘The general flew himself,’ the other young officer said. ‘When he was hit, she took over the controls and landed the aircraft in the street near the Brandenburger Tor. What a woman.’
They moved away. Another voice said, ‘A day for heroes, it would seem.’
Ritter looked up and found Bormann standing there. ‘Reichsleiter.’ He started to rise.
Bormann pushed him down. ‘Yes, a remarkable business. What they omitted to tell you was that they were escorted by fifty fighter planes from Munich. Apparently over forty were shot down. On the other hand, it was essential General von Greim got here. You see, the Führer intends to promote him to Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe with the rank of Feldmarschall, Göring having finally proved a broken reed. Naturally he wished to tell General Greim of this himself. Signal flimsies are so impersonal, don’t you think?’
He moved away. Hoffer said in a kind of awe, ‘Over forty planes – forty, and for what?’
‘To tell him in person what he could have told him over the telephone,’ Ritter said. ‘A remarkable man, our Führer, Erich.’
‘For God’s sake, Major.’ Hoffer put out a hand, for the first time real anger showing through. ‘Keep talking like that and they might take you out and hang you. Me, too. Is that what you want?’
When Bormann went into his office, Rattenhuber was waiting for him.
‘Did you find General Fegelein?’ the Reichsleiter inquired.
‘He left the bunker five hours ago.’ Rattenhuber checked his notes. ‘According to my information, he is at present at his home in Charlottenburg – wearing civilian clothes, I might add.’
Bormann nodded calmly. ‘How very interesting.’
‘Do we inform the Führer?’
‘I don’t think so, Willi. Give a man enough rope, you know the old saying. I’ll ask where Fegelein is in the Führer’s hearing later on tonight. Allow him to make this very unpleasant discovery for himself. Now, Willi, we have something far more important to discuss. The question of the prominent prisoners in our hands. You have the files I asked for?’
‘Certainly, Reichsleiter.’ Rattenhuber placed several manilla folders on the desk. ‘There is a problem here. The Führer has very pronounced ideas on what should happen to the prominenti. It seems that he was visited by Obergruppenführer Berger, Head of Prisoner of War Administration. Berger tried to discuss the fate of several important British, French and American prisoners as well as the Austrian Chancellor, Schuschnigg, and Halder and Schacht. It seems the Führer told him to shoot them all.’
‘Conspicuous consumption, I would have thought, Willi. In other words, a great waste.’ Bormann tapped the files. ‘But it’s these ladies and gentlemen who interest me. The prisoners of Arlberg.’
‘I’m afraid several have already been moved since my visit, on your instructions, two months ago. Orders of the Reichsführer,’ Rattenhuber told him.
‘Yes, for once Uncle Heini moved a little faster than I had expected,’ Bormann said dryly. ‘What are we left with?’
‘Just five. Three men, two women.’
‘Good,’ Bormann said. ‘A nice round number. We’ll start with the ladies first, shall we? Refresh my memory.’
‘Madame Claire de Beauville, Reichsleiter. Age thirty. Nationality, French. Her father made a great deal of money in canned foods. She married Étienne de Beauville. A fine old family. They were thought to be typical socialites flirting with their new masters. In fact her husband was working with French Resistance units in Paris. He was picked up in June last year on information received and taken to Sicherheitdienst headquarters at Avénue Foch in Paris. He was shot trying to escape.’
‘The French,’ Bormann said. ‘So romantic.’
‘The