Gibson.
“I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”
“How kind. When do I get to see the Baron?”
“When he wants to see you. Compose yourself, your turn will come.”
He turned away. Ferguson said, “You seem to be going to a lot of trouble. I’d have thought you’d have given me a bullet in the head by now.”
Rossi smiled. “Not for you, General, you’re much too valuable.”
“What happens to me then?”
“I’ll probably sell you to the Arabs,” Rossi said, and the door closed.
At the same moment at Arnheim, they all grouped around the table in Max Kubel’s office and examined the map.
“That’s it,” Kubel said. “Neustadt.” He turned to Dillon. “It’s an old-fashioned motorcycle, the Cossack.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage,” Dillon said. He turned to Billy. “You get the sidecar.”
Kubel said, “Thanks to these mobiles you’ve brought, we’ll be in constant touch. You should get there in an hour at the most. Once you bring him out, I can make the meadow in twenty minutes. I’ll be sitting in the cockpit, ready to go.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Dillon said. “How about you, Billy?”
“I’m always reasonable.”
“Once you leave, I’ll call Klein. He’ll be waiting. His place is the only cottage at the back of the church. You can’t miss it.” He glanced around the table. “How does it sound?”
Lacey and Parry looked dubious. It was Hannah who said, “The whole thing seems to depend on split-second timing.”
“Absolutely, but it is possible. The distances involved are not great.”
“Well, in the circumstances,” Harry Salter said, “can they get on with it? It’s not good for my nerves.”
“Exactly,” Billy said. “Personally, I can’t wait to dress as a copper. The old lags I was at Wandsworth with will never believe it.”
“Fine, this way, then,” Kubel said.
In the hangar, the Storch waited, black, like something from another time. The old Cossack motorcycle waited, too. Everyone waited, uncertainty thick in the air. Kubel stood with Lacey and Parry and looked out, as it started to rain.
“Not good,” Lacey said.
“It never is when good is needed, Squadron Leader, haven’t you noticed that?”
A door clanged, they turned, and Dillon and Billy emerged, strange and menacing figures from the past in their steel helmets, Vopo uniforms and dispatch riders’ raincoats. Each had a Schmeisser machine pistol slung across his chest. Dillon was fastening his helmet strap.
“Have you got everything?” Kubel asked.
“Absolutely. Big pockets. Extra magazines, a Walther apiece, stick grenade in the boot. Just like the old days.”
“Christ, you look like you’re going to make a D-Day movie,” Salter said.
“Who knows?” Dillon looked out. “Nice evening for it.” He turned. “You up for this, Billy?”
“Let’s get going, for God’s sake. We’re going to get bleeding soaked.”
He settled himself in the sidecar, and Dillon mounted the Cossack and kicked it into life. Hannah ran forward and put a hand on his sleeve.
“Sean?” Her face was desperate.
“We’ll bring him back.” He smiled. “You worry too much,” and he drove away into the driving rain.
The road into the Schwarze Platz was well surfaced, but quite narrow, the forest crowding in, and already the gloom of early evening was turning toward darkness. The rain was relentless, and both Dillon and Billy wore goggles. The Cossack responded well and there was little traffic. Twice, they passed farm trucks going in the other direction, and once a sedan.
Dillon turned and shouted to Billy, “We’ll be there sooner than Kubel thought,” and in spite of the weather, he pushed the Cossack up to sixty.
At the Schloss, the Baron sat by the log fire, as Rossi came in with Ferguson. Newton and Cook stood on either side of the grand stairway on the landing, holding AK47s. Derry Gibson stood to one side of the fireplace.
“Ah, there you are, General. Join me. Perhaps you’d like a drink?”
“How very kind. A large whiskey would do it.”
“Marco.”
It was an order, and Rossi went to a sideboard, poured the whiskey, and Ferguson savored it. “Your chaps look as if they’re expecting trouble.”
“No, actually we’re expecting Dillon,” Rossi said.
“How on earth would he know where I was?” Ferguson was wary. Could they know about Omega?
“Because he saw you being kidnapped and chased us all the way to Fotley airfield. Arrived just too late.”
“How unfortunate.”
“It certainly was for you.”
The Baron said, “Enough, Marco. Let’s show our guest some courtesy.” He got up and leaned on his cane. “Come with me, General, and I’ll show you some of the rarer sights of the Schloss.” He led the way to a door beside the stairway and nodded to Marco, who opened it. “A tunnel built in the fifteenth century to give access to the chapel, which, incidentally, is very fine. Let’s take a look,” and he led the way in.
At that moment, Dillon was kicking on Klein’s door. After a while, it opened and Klein stood there. He recoiled instinctively at the uniforms. They pushed him back inside.
“Don’t worry, we’re from Kubel,” Dillon said in German. “Are you ready to take us in?”
“Yes,” Klein said eagerly. He reeked of drink, but turned, took down his hunting coat and put the sawn-off shotgun in one of the pockets.
Dillon called Kubel on his Codex Four. It was answered instantly. “We’re here already and made contact with Klein, so we’re going straight in. To hell with waiting. You said it would take you twenty minutes. Leave in fifteen.”
“I’m your man,” Kubel said. “Good luck.”
Dillon said to Billy, “Right, let’s get it done.” He turned to Klein. “My friend doesn’t speak German. Just lead the way and let’s get on with it.”
The Baron leading, they went into the chapel, the candles guttering, the great bowl of the eternal flame burning. The heraldic banners hung from each side of the roof in the gloom.
“Seven hundred years of my family’s history, General.”
“Very impressive,” Ferguson said. “No hint of the Third Reich. I see no Nazi banners.”
“But I was never a member of the Nazi Party.”
“However, you did give distinguished service to the SS.”
“The Waffen SS, the greatest fighting soldiers the world has ever seen.”
“That’s one point of view. And you were Hitler’s aide.”
“True, but he had many. I was an office boy, if you like.”
“Come now, entrusted with the holiest of missions?”
“On the whim of a man who had become unbalanced at the end. Wait there.”
He walked behind the mausoleum, opened the secret cavity, took out the diary and held it up. “You think this is what it’s all about, the Fuhrer’s diary, a ‘holy book’?”
“That’s what Sara Hesser told me.”
“Wrong. My family motto is:
