A Traitor's Loyalty: A Novel (27 page)

A cheer rose from the crowd as they realized who they were about to see. As the Mercedes pulled up at the foot of the palace steps, Ellie glanced down at the two metal barriers that met in front of her. A gap of about thirty centimeters separated the two of them. Not quite large enough. She glanced from side to side: a Waffen-SS trooper stood eight meters away on one side of her, and another six meters away on the other. While everyone was concentrating on Heydrich, she surreptitiously stuck out her toe and poked at the base of one of the barricades, widening the gap another five centimeters.

It was heavier than she had expected, making her toe throb, and it let out a grating shriek that seemed hideously loud to her but that no one else seemed to notice over the roar of the crowd.

At that moment the crowd became even louder as they saw Heydrich emerge from the second Mercedes, pulled up right at the base of the steps. Ellie looked quickly about to make sure neither of the storm troopers had noticed her, then joined in with the crowd, clapping and bouncing up and down excitedly on the balls of her feet.

She did not see Heydrich clearly, but she knew it was him: a flash of black in his SS uniform before a forest of field grey surrounded him as his aides, all in Wehrmacht uniforms, closed in around him. He must have had a dozen attendants with him.

The group gathered itself for a moment, then started up the steps, Heydrich at their head. Ellie panicked. They were too far away for her to attract anyone’s attention; she had banked on somebody being closer to her so that she could catch his eye. She felt her heart pounding in her chest and wondered what she was going to do.

Then she saw her chance. One of Heydrich’s clutch of aides, a grey-haired colonel in his fifties, turned and barked something at one of the others, a younger man on the periphery of the group. The younger man saluted in response, turned and hurried to the armored car parked just a few meters from where Ellie stood. He was in his mid-twenties, with close-cropped auburn hair and an old dueling scar across his chin, and bore a captain’s epaulettes. He spoke quickly to the driver of the armored car, then turned to rejoin the officers ascending the stone steps into the palace.

While the captain had been relaying his message, Ellie had briefly patted her hair to make sure it was properly in place. Now, as he returned past her, she timed her move perfectly. Just before the captain crossed her position, she jabbed the man she had been speaking with next to her sharply in the ribs.

He grunted in surprise and instinctively shoved her back. She let out a shriek and stumbled forward, throwing her weight into the gap between the two metal railings. She slipped between them but stubbed her toe hard against one of their bases, clouding her eyes with tears. She dropped to one knee, reaching out and clutching onto the passing Wehrmacht captain’s sleeve for support.

The captain whirled angrily at the contact, then stopped and instinctively caught Ellie by the elbow with his free hand. The storm troopers to either side reacted instantly as Ellie fell through the barrier, unslinging their automatic rifles and bringing them to bear on her.

“Thank you,” Ellie panted, glancing up at the captain. “Thank you, Herr
Offizier.”
She allowed the captain to help her to her feet, then gestured to the man behind the barricade, who was staring at her with a mixture of surprise and anger. “I-I don’t know . . .”

“She struck me,” he cried accusatorily, and the tone of his voice was hurt, but he was also affronted that she should have rejected his proffered friendliness of a few moments before in so unprovoked a manner.

Ellie gestured helplessly at the crowd and smiled apologetically at the captain, her soft blue eyes wide and guileless. “I’m sorry, Herr
Offizier
. We must have been caught in a press.” Her hand still rested on his forearm.

The captain looked at the angry man behind the barricade, down at the hand on his arm and back up at the smiling, doe-eyed, golden-haired girl staring up at him, and Ellie could see in his face how instantaneously he chose sides. He smiled reassuringly at her. “It’s quite all right, mein Fraulein,” he said, patting her hand. Absently he waved away the two Waffen-SS troopers, who reluctantly reshouldered their rifles and resumed their positions at attention. “I am only glad I was here to catch you.”

Her smile widened, then she withdrew her hand as if rather embarrassed to realize she was still holding onto him. “Yes,” she said. “I’m glad too.” She glanced up the steps, to where Heydrich’s entourage was disappearing inside. “Herr
Offizier
, do you—I’m sorry,” she interrupted herself, glancing down shyly, “I don’t know how to tell an officer’s rank.”

The captain’s shoulders straightened with pride, and unconsciously he brushed the epaulette on his left shoulder with the fingers of his right hand.
“Hauptmann,”
he said. “Hauptmann Meier.”

“Hauptmann Meier,” Ellie repeated. “You are on Herr Heydrich’s staff?”

Meier’s chest puffed up even more. “As a matter of fact, mein Fraulein, I am personal aide to the Commissar-General.” He did not add that he was probably one of half a dozen such aides, and near the junior end of the line.

Ellie was suitably impressed. “Is it—I don’t suppose it would be possible to meet the Commissar-General?” she asked in a hushed, reverent tone.

Captain Meier’s smile disappeared. “I am afraid not today, mein Fraulein,” he said, reluctant to disappoint her—and possibly to seem less important in her eyes. “The Commissar-General’s schedule is simply too full with the day’s events. Another day, perhaps,” he added hurriedly, “if you’d care to leave me your name and—”

“But it would just mean so much to me to meet him this morning,” Ellie pressed, the hint of a pout playing across her lips. She laid a pleading hand on his forearm. “Please, Herr Hauptmann, is there
nothing
you can do? I would be ever so grateful.”

She felt the captain’s arm stiffen under her hand, and the scar on his chin rippled as his lips thinned. “I am afraid not, mein Fraulein,” he said, slightly frosty now. “It simply isn’t possible today. The Commissar-General is too busy.”

Ellie realized she was pressing her luck. “Of course, Herr Hauptmann,” she said placatingly. “I understand.” Her hand slipped down his forearm to clasp his gloved hand. “Thank you. You have been ever so wonderful.” She kissed the tips of her first two fingers and brushed them against Captain Meier’s cheek. The captain, mollified, nodded and offered her a warm smile as she slipped back between the gap in the barricade.

Abruptly, Meier realized he was now holding a slip of paper in the hand that Ellie had clasped. He opened his fingers and peered curiously at the note.

Gestapo to assassinate Heydrich at funeral. Art museum, central gallery, 10.45
.

Meier looked sharply back up at where the girl had been standing, just beyond the barricade, but she had disappeared into the crowd. He scanned the faces of the crowd before him, but there was no sign of her.

QUINN PACED anxiously back and forth from one side of their small side street to the other, while Barnes and Gunning sat on the curb and waited. Once every circuit or so, Quinn would check his watch, then peer anxiously out over the heads of the crowd’s rear rank into the plaza, trying to catch a glimpse of Ellie.

Barnes glanced at his own watch. “She hasn’t even been gone twenty minutes,” he observed reasonably. “There’s no way she’ll be coming back yet. You should relax.”

Quinn shot him a venomous glare, opened his mouth for an argument, then decided instead on, “Bugger off.” Barnes merely shrugged.

“I don’t like the look of that Hun,” Gunning murmured, and Barnes followed his gaze down to the deserted end of the street, where a passing Waffen-SS patrolman was doing a poor job of concealing his curious glances in their direction. “That’s the third time he’s been past in the last five minutes,” the sergeant added.

The patrolman passed round a corner out of view. “Let me know if you see him again,” Barnes said. He raised his voice slightly. “Quinn. We might need to be ready to move in a few minutes.”

Quinn paused his pacing and turned towards the two Royal Marines. “We can’t,” he said. “Not till she gets back.”

Barnes shrugged. “It looks like we’ve been noticed. We’ll be no good to her or anyone else in Gestapo custody.”

“Well you can bugger off then,” Quinn reiterated. “But
I’m
not leaving.”

“I think,” Barnes said, “that she’s more resourceful than you give her credit for being. I think you know that, too.”

Quinn glared at him but did not respond.

Suddenly Ellie emerged from the crowd, looking flushed and winded. Quinn ran to her but she waved him away. “We have to go,” she said breathlessly.

“What happened?” Quinn asked as Barnes and Gunning got to their feet behind him. “Did you get to Heydrich?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” she said. “We have to get going. To the art gallery.”

Without offering anything further she set off down the street, leaving the others no choice but to follow her. Quinn hurried forward quickly and came abreast of her. “What happened?” he insisted.

Before she could respond, the Waffen-SS trooper stepped out of a side street, barring their way. All four came up short.

“Just a moment,
Kameraden
,” the storm trooper said. “I am afraid I must ask to see your papers before you go any further.”

For a moment they did not react. Then Barnes spoke from over Quinn’s shoulder. “Actually,” he said, “we’re in rather a hurry at the moment.”

The storm trooper smiled thinly. Quinn, his hand resting protectively on the small of Ellie’s back, felt her shiver slightly. “I am sure,
Kamerad
,” the trooper said. “But I am afraid the business of the Reich takes precedence over your petty concerns.”

“Actually,” Quinn said, “we’re
on
Reich business.” He reached into his pocket and produced his Gestapo ID, knowing full well that if the storm trooper had recognized them—which he clearly had—then he would already know the name on the ID.

Quinn held the ID out, a little too far in front of the storm trooper for him to be able to make it out easily.
The trooper leaned forward slightly, dutifully carrying on with the masquerade, but as soon as Quinn saw that he was off his balance, he reached out lightning quick with his other hand, grabbed the trooper by his helmet strap and jerked him forward.

He sidestepped neatly and sent the trooper sprawling past him, landing awkwardly, face down and unable to get to the automatic rifle slung on his shoulder. In an instant Barnes had dropped to one knee beside the trooper, pushed him onto his side, grabbed him by the collar and punched him hard in the face once—twice—three—four times. The trooper looked emptily up at them, blood streaming down his chin from his shattered nose. His arm twitched slightly as if he were trying to reach for them, and then he went limp, unconscious. Barnes let him go and stood up. He looked expectantly at Ellie.

“Lead the way, Fraulein,” he said.

“Are we just going to leave him here?” she asked, glancing up at the rear ranks of the crowd, still just in view at the other end of the street. None of them seemed to have seen anything, but it would be only a matter of a few minutes before someone surely must notice the unconscious SS storm trooper lying on the pavement a dozen meters away.

Quinn looked about. “There’s nowhere convenient for us to hide him,” he said. “Besides, it’s not like it’s going to matter terribly now.”

Ellie shrugged uncertainly. “Well . . . I suppose.” With a last glance at the storm trooper, she turned and started walking again, and the rest of them followed her.

As they made their way through the streets toward the city’s heart, Ellie explained what had happened with Captain Meier.

“It was my only way to contact the Commissar-General,” she said, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. “I couldn’t get any closer.”

“That’s fine,” Quinn said. “You did well.”

As they walked, the sound of bells drifted out over the city, playing an odd melody. “What’s that?” Gunning asked.

“The carillon of the bell tower at the mausoleum of the Führer’s parents,” Ellie said, reciting from her school days. “Bruckner’s Fourth, the
Romantic Symphony
. The Führer has it—had it play only on special occasions. It must mean his will has been removed from its vault.”

Soon they emerged onto In den Lauben, the city’s famous broad main avenue, which connected the complex of museums and cultural houses comprising the European Culture Center to the city’s monolithic, glass and steel train station on the far side of the river. Ellie led them down the last hundred meters of In den Lauben to where it opened into a broad, paved piazza.

Here was the heart of the city and the Culture Center; the city’s library flanked one side of the square and the opera house its other, but it was the art gallery rising on the far side that dominated the scene. All three buildings were draped in red, white and black swastika banners that today alternated with plain black mourning banners. Normally bustling, right now the piazza held only a few dozen scattered tourists.

Barnes called a halt at the entrance to the piazza and checked his watch. “Just short of half past ten,” he said. “Gunning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you feeling, Sergeant?”

Gunning looked a little better, but was still visibly pale and clammy. “Never better, sir.”

“Have a gander inside and check things over. If you’re not out in five minutes, we’ll know something’s wrong.”

“Aye, sir.”

Gunning headed across the piazza while the others found seats on the benches scattered around its perimeter: Quinn and Ellie on a bench next to the entrance to In den Lauben while Barnes seated himself on one of the benches running along the face of the opera house.

For several minutes neither Quinn nor Ellie said anything. Eventually, Quinn broke the silence first. “I’m
glad you’re safe,” he said. “I was worried about you.”

Ellie patted him on the knee. “It was fine. Besides, it’s not as if
any
of us are really safe right now, is it?”