Weber eased the car into gear, the dappled sunlight sending beams of light lancing through the thick tree cover, throwing the interior of the Horch into sharp light and shadow.
‘Sadly, no one who has witnessed the hiding place of the Uranmaschine can be permitted to live,’ Kammler continued. ‘The reason is simple: the enemy will make those they capture talk, just as we would. That we cannot allow to happen.’
Weber changed up a gear, increasing speed as the track levelled out. A deer, startled by their appearance, darted away at their passing.
‘There will be an ordered and quiet vanishing of the senior ranks of the Schutzstaffel,’ Kammler continued. ‘This we have been planning for some time, ever since it became clear that the enemy would win this phase of the war. We will melt away, to rebuild and fight anew. This will take time; decades even. We have been preparing for many months: the funds, the weaponry, the individuals – key scientists, top leaders – all spirited away to carefully selected safe havens. This we have dubbed Aktion Werwolf – a long-term strategy to forge the Reich anew. It is we who are the real Werewolves.’
Kammler paused. Beneath his coat, he checked that he had a round chambered, his index finger seeking out the cold metal of the cocked breech.
‘As for any resistance, I am afraid it will come to nothing,’ he continued. ‘There is no one left to fight. We have thrown everything into the defence of the Fatherland: the old, the young, the war-wounded and the lame; women and girls even. But all to no avail. It is Aktion Werwolf that offers the only real chance of ultimate victory.’
The staff sergeant glanced at him from the corner of his eye. ‘But those young men? Those to whom you promised—’
‘Doomed,’ Kammler cut in coldly, matter-of-factly. ‘They will neither suffocate nor starve. It will be their water supplies that will run out on them.’ He shrugged. ‘Just a few dozen lives lost, and all for the sake of the Reich. It is but a small sacrifice, wouldn’t you agree, Konrad? We all have to be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice.’
Scharführer Weber nodded, understanding slowly dawning upon him. ‘Yes, Herr General, of course, if it is for the good of the Reich…’ He glanced across at his commander. ‘But tell me, how may I be a part of this Aktion Werwolf? How might I serve?’
Kammler sighed. ‘A good question. Of course, any SS caught by the enemy are unlikely to be treated well. We have all heard the stories, especially those of the cursed Reds. We are the Führer’s chosen, so the Russians hate us. And the British and Americans hardly like us a great deal more… Which is why I am very likely doing you a favour, Konrad.’
With that, the general eased his weapon out of its hiding place and shot his driver in the head. Moving quickly, he shoved the body to one side, grabbing the steering wheel, and the vehicle came to a halt, the dead driver’s foot having eased off the accelerator.
Kammler stared at the bloodied corpse. ‘No one means no one, I’m afraid. No one who might talk… You, my dear Konrad, have made the ultimate sacrifice, but you still have one last duty to fulfil.’
He slipped out of the passenger seat, opened the driver’s door and dragged the dead man’s body outside. He proceeded to remove Weber’s bloodied uniform, before changing out of his own and into that of his staff sergeant.
That done, he dressed his erstwhile driver in his own clothes, stuffing a wallet and papers into the dead man’s pockets. The preparations made by the SS high command had been exhaustive: the papers consisted of forged documents combining Kammler’s real identity with a photo of his driver.
When he was done, SS General Kammler was attired in the blood-spattered uniform of a man sixteen ranks lower than his own. If he were captured by the enemy – and he did not intend to be captured – he would stand a good chance of evading notice or retribution.
He dragged the corpse around to the passenger side and bundled it inside. Then, sliding behind the wheel on a seat slick with blood, he began to drive.
After thirty minutes, the Horch emerged from the rough track onto a minor tarred road. Kammler pushed onwards before finally spotting a bend that he thought would prove suitable. He pulled over and found a weighty rock. Dragging the corpse into the driver’s seat, he stood in front of the vehicle and emptied the Walther’s remaining rounds – eight bullets in all – through the Horch’s windscreen.
To a casual observer – even to a half-decent military investigator – it would appear as if the staff car had been ambushed from the front, the windscreen peppered with fire, the driver caught in the onslaught.
Next, he used the rock to jam down the throttle before slamming the car into gear and sending it juddering on its way.
Slowly it gathered speed.
A hundred yards down the slope, and going at quite a pace, the Horch hit the sharp right-hand turn. It veered off the road and careered downhill, bucking its way through a rough field, before crashing into an outcrop of boulders, flipping once and coming to rest on its side.
Kammler stared at it in satisfaction. To all intents and purposes, SS General Hans Kammler had just died in a bloody ambush by unknown assailants.
He set off on foot, his story crystallising in his mind. If he ran into any Germans, he was a comparatively elderly man press-ganged into the defence of the Reich at the eleventh hour. He had fought valiantly – witness the blood – but had lost his brother soldiers in the confusion.
If he ran into the enemy, the story was pretty much the same. A little less valour. A little more shell shock and confusion. A suggestion that the SS uniform was all the hard-pressed Wehrmacht had had to offer him. Heaven forbid he was a member of the dreaded Schutzstaffel himself.
Yes, on balance he should do fine.
But if his luck held, none of that would be necessary. He planned to move cross-country towards a cabin set deep in the mountains – one well stocked with supplies. From there he would make contact with those SS brethren who were likewise in the process of slipping away.
Approaches had been made internationally. Deals had been cut. Vast amounts of Nazi wealth had been secreted in discreet foreign bank accounts to ensure that ratlines – escape routes – would open for the chosen. There was little doubt in Kammler’s mind that exotic shores and a new future beckoned.
In time, the humiliation of Germany would be avenged.
In time, the SS brethren would rebuild the glorious Reich.
4
Present day
Picking up Erich Isselhorst had been child’s play.
Heidelberg – his place of residence – was a quaint German city steeped in history and dominated by the hilltop fortress of Heidelberg Castle. The narrow, twisting alleyways and street cafés of the old town had provided ample scope for Irina Narov to lurk unseen, to linger and track her prey.
She had planned this like she would any military operation. She had watched her target for days, logging his movements, his routine and his peccadilloes. She knew that she was the type of woman – blonde, blue-eyed, svelte and super-fit – who would appeal to his tastes, especially if she hinted at a certain sympathy with his neo-Nazi views.
In his mid forties, Isselhorst was single and childless. Perhaps he had yet to find the perfect Aryan Frau to share his extreme ideology; one willing to turn a blind eye to his darker dealings. From the way he was acting right now, Narov reckoned that he figured she might be the one.
She tried not to shudder as he pulled her closer in the taxi. Thankfully it was only a short ride through the thick woodland that fringed the River Neckar – Heidelberg’s main artery – to Isselhorst’s home, a modernist slab-sided construction of glass and steel that overlooked the water.