The Valhalla Exchange. Jack Higgins

Canning told him.

      They crossed the smaller, upper landing and paused at an oaken, iron-bound door outside of which stood an armed sentry. Schneider produced a key about a foot long, inserted it in the massive lock and turned. He pushed open the door and stood back.

      ‘Gentlemen.’ As they moved in he added, ‘Oh, by the way, the upper section of the north tower is out of bounds and, in future, there will be two guards in the water garden at all times.’

      ‘That’s really very considerate of you,’ Birr said. ‘Don’t you agree, General?’

      ‘You can play that vaudeville act all night, but I’ve had it,’ Canning said and started up the dark stone stairway.

      Birr followed him and the door clanged shut behind them. They were now in the north tower, the central keep of the castle, that portion to which in the old days the defenders had always retreated in the last resort. It was completely isolated from the rest of Schloss Arlberg, the lowest window fifty feet from the ground and heavily barred. It made a relatively secure prisoners’ section under most circumstances and meant that Hesser was able to allow the inmates certain freedom, at least within the confines of the walls.

      Madame Chevalier was playing the piano, they could hear her clearly – a Bach prelude, crisp and ice-cold, all technique, no heart. The kind of thing she liked to play to combat the arthritis in her fingers. Canning opened the door of the dining hall.

      It was a magnificent room, a high arched ceiling festooned with battle standards from other times, a magnificent selection of fifteenth-and sixteenth-century armour on the walls. The fireplace was of baronial proportions. Gaillard and Claire de Beauville sat beside the log fire, smoking and talking quietly. Madame Chevalier was at the Bechstein.

      At the sight of Canning and Birr, she stopped playing, gave a howl of laughter and started into the ‘Dead March’ from Saul.

      ‘Very, very humorous,’ Canning told her. ‘I’m splitting my sides laughing.’

      Claire and Paul Gaillard stood up. ‘But what happened?’ Gaillard said. ‘The first I knew that there was anything amiss was when men arrived to lock the upper tower door. I’d just come down after securing the rope.’

      ‘They were waiting for us, that’s what happened,’ Birr said. ‘Dear old Schneider and Magda panting eagerly over Hamilton as usual. He’s become the great love of her life.’

      ‘But how could they have known?’ Claire demanded.

      ‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Canning said.

      ‘I should have thought it obvious.’ Birr crossed to the sideboard and helped himself to a brandy. ‘That gardener, Schmidt. The one you got the information about the drainage system from. Maybe a hundred cigarettes wasn’t enough.’

      ‘The bastard,’ Canning said. ‘I’ll kill him.’

      ‘But after you’ve had a bath, Hamilton – please.’ Claire waved a hand delicately in front of her nose. ‘You really do smell a little high.’

      ‘Camembert – out of season,’ said Gaillard.

      There was general laughter. Canning said grimly, ‘The crackling of thorns under a pot, isn’t that what the Good Book says? I hope you’re still laughing, all of you, when the Reichsführer’s thugs march you out to the nearest wall.’ He walked out angrily during the silence that followed. Birr emptied his glass. ‘Strange, but I can’t think of a single funny thing to say, so, if you’ll excuse me …’

      After he’d gone, Gaillard said, ‘He’s right, of course. It isn’t good. Now if Hamilton or Lord Dundrum had got away and reached American or British troops, they could have brought help.’

      ‘Nonsense, this whole business.’ Claire sat down again. ‘Hesser would never stand by and see us treated like that. It isn’t in his nature.’

      ‘I’m afraid Colonel Hesser would have very little to do with it,’ Gaillard said. ‘He’s a soldier and soldiers have a terrible habit of doing what they’re told, my dear.’

      There was a knock at the door, it opened and Hesser came in. He smiled, his slight half-bow extending to the three of them, then turned to Madame Chevalier.

      ‘Chess?’

      ‘Why not?’ She was playing a Schubert nocturne now, full of passion and meaning. ‘But first settle an argument for us, Max. Paul here believes that if the SS come to shoot us you’ll let them. Claire doesn’t believe you could stand by and do nothing. What do you think?’

      ‘I have the strangest of feelings that I will beat you in seven moves tonight.’

      ‘A soldier’s answer, I see. Ah, well.’

      She stood up, came round the piano and moved to the chess table. Hesser sat opposite her. She made the first move. Claire picked up a book and started to read. Gaillard sat staring into the fire, smoking his pipe. It was very quiet.

      After a while the door opened and Canning came in, wearing a brown battledress blouse and cream slacks. Claire de Beauville said, ‘That’s better, Hamilton. Actually you really look rather handsome tonight. Crawling through sewers must be good for you.’

      Hesser said, without looking up, ‘Ah, General, I was hoping you’d put in an appearance.’

      ‘I’d have thought we’d seen enough of each other for one night,’ Canning told him.

      ‘Perhaps, but the point you were making earlier. I think your argument may have some merit. Perhaps we could discuss it in the morning. Let’s say directly after breakfast?’

      ‘Now you’re damn well talking,’ Canning said.

      Hesser ignored him, leaned forward, moved a bishop. ‘Checkmate, I think.’

      Madame Chevalier examined the board and sighed. ‘Seven moves you told me. You’ve done it in five.’

      Max Hesser smiled. ‘My dear Madame, one must always try to be ahead of the game. The first rule of good soldiering.’

      And in Berlin, just after midnight, Bormann still sat in his office, for the Führer himself worked through the night these days, seldom going to bed before 7 a.m., and Bormann liked to remain close. Close enough to keep others away.

      There was a knock at the door and Rattenhuber entered, a sealed envelope in his hand. ‘For you, Reichsleiter.’

      ‘Who from, Willi?’

      ‘I don’t know, Reichsleiter. I found it on my desk marked Priority Seven.’

      Which was a code reference for communications of the most secret sort, intended for Bormann’s eyes alone.

      Bormann opened the envelope, then looked up, no expression in his eyes. ‘Willi, the Fieseler Storch in which Feldmarschall Greim and Hannah Reitsch flew in to Berlin has been destroyed. Get on to Gatow at once. Tell them they must send another plane by morning, one capable of flying directly out of the city.’

      ‘Very well, Reichsleiter.’

      Bormann held up the envelope. ‘Know what’s in here, Willi? Some very interesting news. It would appear that our beloved Reichsführer, dear Uncle Heini, has offered to surrender to the British and Americans.’