Angel from hell, p.7
Angel From Hell, page 7
part #1 of Anna Fehrbach Series Series
The brief echoes of the reports died away, and for a moment there was silence. ‘I think I need more practise,’ Karen said.
‘Do you take us for fools?’ Cleiner inquired.
‘I missed,’ Karen insisted. ‘I’ll do better next time.’
‘There is not going to be a next time,’ Cleiner said. ‘You have deliberately disobeyed my command. Well, you were warned. Take her out of here,’ he said. ‘Strip her naked, tie her to the triangle, and give her twenty lashes. Make sure they are on the buttocks. Then, while she is still hanging there, let a dozen of your men have her, one after the other. Then send her back to Berlin. They will know what to do with her there.’
All the blood had drained from Karen’s face. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No! No!’ she begged, as two of the soldiers grasped her arms. ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘You can’t! Give me another chance! One more chance. I’ll kill him. I swear I’ll kill him!’
‘You had your second chance,’ Cleiner said. ‘Get her out of here.’
‘No!’ Karen screamed, as she was half marched, half dragged to the rear entrance. ‘Please! Help me! Somebody help me! Anna!’
‘And shut her up,’ Cleiner called.
Karen gasped as one of her escorts hit her in the stomach and took away her breath.
‘Well, Anna,’ Cleiner said. ‘It is your turn, or are you going to defy me as well?’
Anna stared at him. She felt as if she were not really present, but was hovering above the camp, watching, but not understanding. Yet she understood clearly enough. She knew she would die if she were to be publicly flogged and then sent to a brothel. And if that happened, her parents and her sister would also die, perhaps more quickly, but probably even more excruciatingly. The choice was a simple one. Live, at the expense of another life, and perhaps prosper, or . . .
Cleiner had loaded the pistol, and now he held it out.
Chapter Three – The Temptress
‘My word,’ Ballantine said. ‘Have you ever seen a more gorgeous creature?’
Clive Bartley turned his head, trying to focus in the glare given off by the huge chandeliers, only slightly alleviated by the flags draped around the chamber, themselves garish in their red, white, and black, or by the splendid uniforms with which the two Englishmen were surrounded, not to mention the bare shoulders and glittering jewellery of the women. Up to this moment he had found the whole thing inexpressibly vulgar. But . . . ‘Yes, sir,’ he agreed with his superior. ‘Worth a second look.’
Or a third, or a fourth, or even a hundredth, he decided. The young woman, he didn’t think she was more than a girl, had just entered the ballroom on the arm of a man wearing the black uniform of the SS. He was a handsome enough fellow, and his uniform was immaculate, but he was utterly insignificant beside his companion. The girl was tall, matching her escort for height, and moved with an almost regal grace. Her face was utterly beautiful, at once in its look of serene confidence as in the perfectly chiselled, slightly aquiline features, the wide mouth, the firm but not obtrusive chin. At this distance he could not see her eyes, but he had no doubt they were either blue or green. She wore a pale-blue off-the-shoulder sheath evening gown, which clung to her body like a second skin, indicating her long legs, delineating her slim hips, and suggesting that the two thin straps over her shoulders were utterly unnecessary, at least for holding the dress up. A diamond-encrusted pendant was suspended on a gold chain, nestling into her décolletage, and she had a pair of matching pendant earrings. But her crowning glory was her hair, which in total contrast to the bobbed curls so prevalent in Britain, was worn long, and lay in straight golden magnificence below her shoulder blades.
‘I have got to meet her,’ Ballantine declared.
‘Ah . . . she appears to have an escort, sir.’
‘Is that important? Didn’t that fellow Hammerbach say that I could have anything I wanted while I am in Berlin? Well, I want her. I mean,’ he corrected himself, ‘I want to meet her.’
Clive sighed. Having got to know his charge during the several times he had been required to act as his escort, he suspected that the slip was nearer the truth. ‘I merely meant to point out, sir, that the gentleman with her is a member of the SS. That would seem to indicate that her political point of view may be different from yours.’
‘Oh, really, Clive, you Secret Service wallahs are all alike, seeing sedition under every bush. My dear fellow, half the women I take out in London are dedicated Socialists, or at least determined to oppose the Government wherever possible. They grow out of it. In any event, can you really suppose that such a beautiful, and clearly innocent, young girl could be the slightest bit interested in politics? Now, this is an order. I wish to meet this young lady. Kindly arrange it. And while you are doing that, you can find out if she has any sort of permanent attachment, and if she speaks English.’
Clive could do nothing but suppress another sigh and say, ‘As you wish, sir.’
He regarded the Honourable Ballantine Bordman as a pain in the neck, and he suspected there were quite a few people who considered him a pain in other places as well. He was not even very prepossessing, physically. Forty years old, he had thinning hair and a growing paunch, between which was a rather bland face. But, Clive suspected, principally because of his family connections, he was regarded as one of the Foreign Office’s most promising diplomats, while he regarded himself as God’s gift to the female sex, both reasons why he had to be protected when travelling in an official capacity. But to have to act as his pimp as well . . .
Colonel Hammerbach was actually standing quite close, apparently in conversation with two other German officers, but as his English was excellent, Clive had no doubt that he had been listening to what they had been saying. Now he inclined his head courteously as Clive stood beside him. He made a glittering figure in his pale-blue tunic, bespangled with gold braid, over his dark-blue trousers with their yellow stripe down each leg. Beside him, Clive, if taller and with a fuller figure, looked positively dowdy in his dinner jacket and black tie.
‘Sorry to butt in,’ Clive said, ‘but my principal would like an introduction to the Fraulein who has just arrived. I assume that she is a Fraulein?’
‘You mean the Countess von Widerstand?’
‘Ah . . . did you say Widerstand?’
‘Yes. Do you know the family?’
‘No. No, I don’t think so. But . . . countess? You mean that she is married.’
‘No, no. She is the countess because she is the only child and sole heiress to Count von Widerstand. His wife is dead.’
‘I see,’ Clive said. ‘And the young gentleman with whom she is presently dancing?’
‘Her cousin. He usually escorts her to functions like this.’
‘And do you think she would care to meet Mr Bordman?’
‘I am sure of it. As soon as the music stops. Excuse me, Herr Bartley.’
Clive watched him move away and stand on the edge of the floor, alongside another uniformed officer, this one, like the countess’s partner, wearing the black of the SS. The two men greeted each other and then conversed briefly. Clive rejoined Ballantine. ‘She’s on her way.’
‘Oh, well done, Clive. Just watching her dance . . . Look at the way that lout is holding her, pressing her against him. It makes the blood boil.’
‘It doesn’t seem to be bothering her. I believe he is supposed to be her cousin. However, I think there is something you should know, Mr Bordman.’
‘Don’t tell me she’s married.’
‘No, she’s not married. She is, at least according to Hammerbach, an heiress, by name of von Widerstand.’
‘An heiress! That sounds brilliant.’
‘Yes, sir. However, the name . . .’ He checked what he was going to say as the music stopped and Hammerbach approached, leading the countess by the hand; her partner had disappeared into the throng leaving the floor.
Breathing slightly heavily from her exertions, cheeks a little pink, the girl was more beautiful than ever. ‘Countess, may I present the Honourable Ballantine Bordman.’ Hammerbach spoke English. ‘Mr Bordman is in the British Government. Mr Bordman, I would like you to meet Countess Anna von Widerstand.’
‘It’s the Foreign Office, actually,’ Ballantine said, and bent over her hand. ‘But this is a very great pleasure, Countess.’
‘And for me, Mr Bordman,’ Anna replied, also in English, actually allowing his lips to touch her white-gloved knuckles. Her voice was low and husky, and entirely in keeping with the rest of her. ‘And this gentleman?’
‘Mr Clive Bartley,’ Hammerbach said, somewhat disparagingly. ‘He is Mr Bordman’s . . . How do you say, Mr Bartley?’
‘I am Mr Bordman’s travelling private secretary,’ Clive said, staring at her. She returned his gaze without expression except for a slight flicker of her eyes, and he realized that she would have preferred him to be the principal.
‘Would you care to dance, Countess?’ Ballantine asked as the music started again.
Anna glanced at Hammerbach. Or was it Hammerbach, Clive wondered, for the colonel continued to smile benevolently, his expression never changing. And behind him, a few feet further away, there stood the SS colonel. Clive was sure that he had given a slight nod. ‘I shall be delighted, Mr Bordman,’ she said.
*
‘I should like a brandy,’ Anna said, slumping into an armchair, kicking off her shoes, and stripping off her gloves.
‘Of course,’ Elsa said, pouring. ‘Who was it tonight?’
Anna sipped, then bent over to inspect her feet. ‘I may be crippled for life. He was an overweight, pompous and lecherous Englishman. He called himself an “honourable”. What does that mean? I didn’t see anything honourable about him.’
‘It’s an English title,’ Elsa explained. ‘It means he is the son of a lord.’
‘You mean his father is a duke or something?’
‘No, no. His father is a peer. That can be hereditary or it can be a reward for services to the country. If this man is the eldest son, he will be a lord himself, when his father dies.’
‘Well,’ Anna said. ‘You’d think he’d be able to have his son taught how to dance. The only way he knew how to dance was on my toes, and his hands . . . Shit! I thought he was going to tear my dress to get at my backside. And do you know, Elsa, that swine Glauber made no attempt to rescue me. He let that bastard monopolize me for the entire evening. Last week, when that Frenchman got amorous, we were immediately separated. Tonight I was left to stew in my own juice.’
‘Well, then, he must be someone important. Did he say anything interesting?’
‘Not really. Only, over and over again, that he is somebody big in the British Foreign Office.’
‘And Prime Minister Chamberlain arrives next week for a meeting with the Fuehrer,’ Elsa said thoughtfully.
‘Oh, yes. He told me that too, over and over again. He is here to make sure everything goes smoothly.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘Now, that secretary of his . . . I thought I would be allowed one dance with him.’
‘Handsome, was he?’
‘Oh, yes, he was, in that peculiarly British fashion. But more importantly, he’s young, and he’s fit and, well . . .’ She finished her brandy and stood up. ‘I’m for bed. Oh, damn it!’ The doorbell was ringing. ‘I really don’t want to see anyone else tonight, Elsa.’
‘It may be important.’ Elsa opened the door. ‘Why, Herr Colonel! It is good to see you.’
‘Good evening, Elsa.’ Glauber looked at his watch. ‘Or I suppose I should say, good morning. Anna, you looked exceptionally beautiful tonight. And you look exceptionally beautiful now, in a ruffled sort of way. I like that better. It is more, well, intimate. Come and sit down.’ He sat himself on the settee, patted the space beside him.
Anna suppressed another sigh and joined him.
‘Brandy, Herr Colonel?’ Elsa inquired. ‘Schnapps?’
‘This is business,’ Glauber said. ‘You did very well tonight, Anna. That Englander was completely bewitched. That was obvious to everyone.’
‘Yes, sir. He wants to see me again.’
‘And so he shall. Yes, indeed.’
‘Sir?’
‘This is the most important moment of your life, Anna. This far, at any rate. All those other men were nonentities, trial runs. This is the business you were trained for, and the reason your training was rushed through in time for tonight. Bordman is a Principal Secretary at the Foreign Office, entrusted with making the final arrangements for Prime Minister Chamberlain’s visit next week.’
‘Yes, sir. He told me this.’
‘Did he also tell you why the British prime minister is coming to Germany?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It is because of this Czech business. You know of that?’
‘I know there is some trouble there.’
‘Some trouble? There is a large minority in the north of the country, the Sudetenland, which is of German descent and heritage, carelessly awarded to this manufactured state by the Allies after the war, and the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. We have watched the plight of our blood brothers ever since we came to power. Now their ill treatment by the Czechs has become intolerable. We have protested, and our protests have been ignored. It is incumbent upon a great nation to protect its people and not to submit to insults by inferior people. So we have retaliated by threatening to occupy the Sudetenland by force, and suddenly we find all Europe against us, calling us aggressors. However, these democracies, and even the Communists, find it very difficult to take such a big step as military action. They could have done so when the Fuehrer reinstated conscription, three years ago. But they rattled their sabres, and did nothing. They could have done so when the Reich reunited ourselves with Austria, this spring. But again, they rattled their sabres and did nothing.’
Oh, if only they had done something, Anna thought.
‘This time it is more serious,’ Glauber went on. ‘Because Russia is involved. They are claiming that the Slavs are their blood brothers, and they will not see them crushed. Now, Czechoslovakia is saying that if we attempt to take over the Sudetenland they will fight. They are relying on the fact that they have a mutual defence treaty with France. Russia is saying that they will fight with the Czechs, if France also does. And the French are saying that they will fight with the Czechs, and thus the Russians, if Great Britain also comes in. You’ll remember I told you at our first meeting that Britain was our ultimate enemy, simply because she is afraid of our growing strength. Now Chamberlain says he wishes to have another meeting with the Fuehrer, face to face, to resolve the crisis. It is not possible for us, at this time, to take on all those four powers together. We need a few more years to bring our armed forces up to the required strength to challenge all Europe. So, as I am sure you have already grasped, the key to the situation is Britain. The Czechs cannot fight us on their own. Russia says she will support them, if France will also. But France will only come in if with the backing of Britain. We have to know, before he arrives, if Chamberlain is coming with an ultimatum, or if he is coming to make peace. We have to know in what circumstances Britain will go to war.’
‘And you think this Bordman will know this?’
‘We think he must. Now, tomorrow evening you will have a soiree here.’
‘Me? Here? But . . .’
‘It is all arranged. The caterers will move in tomorrow morning, and the waiters and waitresses tomorrow afternoon.’
‘But the guests . . .’
‘Have all been notified. Save one. It is a small and intimate soiree, the sort of thing you are throwing all the time, eh? Now, you write to Bordman, inviting him to your party. Do it now.’
Anna went to the desk against the wall and sat down.
‘Dear Mr Bordman,’ Glauber dictated, standing above her. ‘I so enjoyed this evening. I wished it never to end. I am therefore writing to invite you to visit me tomorrow at six. I am having a small party, just close friends, and I would so like to include you. Do not bother to reply, just come yourself and make me happy, all over again. Yours always, Anna von Widerstand.’
Anna finished the letter and signed it. ‘Am I allowed to say “yuk”?’
‘You can say anything you like, as long as you do not say it to him.’
‘I mean, he may not be very bright, but this is pure treacle. Isn’t he going to be suspicious?’
‘Anna, let me tell you, a man whose greatest ambition is to get between the legs of a beautiful woman only believes what he wants to believe, principally that she feels the same way about him. This letter will convince him of that.’
I would need my head examined, Anna thought. But . . . ‘Did you say “get between my legs”, sir?’
‘I repeat, Anna, this could be a matter of life or death for the Reich. You are permitted – in fact, you are commanded – to give Bordman anything he desires, anything, to find out the intentions of the British Government. Do you understand me?’
Shit! She thought. If she had always known this moment had to come, she had always hoped, and even dreamed, that it might be someone handsome, or at least attractive . . . like the secretary. She clutched at straws. ‘Suppose he doesn’t know anything to tell me?’
‘I have already said, we believe he does. Anyway, you are required to try, to the limit of your ability. That is a direct order from Colonel Heydrich.’
‘Yes, sir. What about the secretary? We haven’t invited him.’
‘I do not think that is the least necessary. The fellow is clearly of lower class. I should think Bordman will be happy to be rid of him for one evening.’ He folded the letter into an envelope. ‘Now, write on this, “The Honourable Ballantine Bordman, by hand”. Very good. This will be delivered to his hotel first thing tomorrow morning. Now, tomorrow evening, you will be charming, but discreet, and discreetly invite Bordman to remain after the other guests have gone, to have what I think the English call a bite of supper. Then you will take it from there. You must invite him into your bedroom; our people will install a microphone and tape recorder in there. Have him spend the night, if necessary. But make him tell you what we want to know.’ He squeezed her hands. ‘I look forward to hearing of your adventure.’
