He was aware that he was quite subservient to Maria and had no problem with that. She served a purpose. Maria and the Thule had been immensely helpful to ex-Nazis on the run. After the war she had gone into hiding, cutting off her hair and becoming anonymous. This had allowed her to operate underground without the close scrutiny of the British and Americans, both of whom wanted to question her about her contacts and relations with the Nazis at the very highest echelon.
It was unlikely that there would be many, if indeed any, more fugitives coming down this particular escape route, so effectively, her task was complete. Maria knew a great deal about the people who had come this way, who they were and where they were going. She perhaps knew too much. It may soon be time, in the interest of future security, to retire Maria permanently.
Maria’s cottage was just on the outskirts of Bad Tölz and only two kilometres or so from Gardermann’s farm where Müller worked as a swineherd. The going was hard this morning as fresh snow had fallen during the night, but he was glad about that as the civil police would not be able to use their vehicles until the ploughs had cleared the road, and that wouldn’t be until about six. He would be at Gardermann’s before then, and in relative safety.
Müller was safe with Gardermann. He was a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi and would have given his life rather than betray his comrades. Maria had used him a number of times as a temporary base for party members on the run. Gardermann was a little older than Müller and treated him like a son. He had had two sons, both of whom had been killed on the Eastern Front, and had intimated to Müller that if he wanted to stop running, he could run the farm as a partner and take it over when he, Gardermann, retired.
Müller had been tempted. He actually liked pig farming, and sometimes felt that the intelligence and good nature of the animals were an improvement on some of the people with whom he had worked in the past. Reluctantly, he had said no. For one thing, he was the second most-wanted Nazi currently at large. Bormann was number one on the list, but Müller knew that Bormann was dead. If the Allies ever found that out, he would take his place at the top of the list. He would become their prime target. He knew that the Allies had people out looking, people who would leave no stone unturned until they found him. He thought back to his narrow escape after being apprehended by the British Colonel Kelly at Berlin Olympic Stadium. Kelly would almost certainly be looking for him, even now.
For another thing, there was his mission. That must be concluded before he could finally disappear.
With a start, he realised he was at the gate of Gardermann’s farm. His little charges were rushing out of their pens and scampering across the snow towards the fence where he stood, snorting and squealing their greetings as they came. As he opened the gate and entered the field, they swarmed around him, nuzzling him and squealing their delight. He loved these little creatures; he did not want to be around when they were loaded into a truck and driven away to the abattoir for slaughter.
Strange, he thought, he had never felt that way about people!
Skadi and the Wolf
The RAF Hillman Minx staff car, which, to avoid being conspicuous, had been repainted black and had all identifying signs and markings removed, rolled to a stop outside the presbytery of the Church of Saint Nicholas in the Rue de l’Église in Sarreguemines, a medium-sized town situated just on the French side of the border between France and the Saarland Protectorate.
A woman of about thirty years of age emerged from the car. She was tall with shoulder-length hair of a white blonde colouring rarely seen outside Scandinavia. The quick, intelligent, deep blue eyes scanned the large church approvingly, then, turning about, she walked to the presbytery across the road and banged noisily on the door.
A head, surrounded by a halo of pure white hair which the slight breeze was blowing in all directions, appeared from a window two floors up, a white collar attesting to its priestly vocation. The woman’s first thought was that it was a reincarnation of Franz Liszt, but no, it was certainly not Franz Liszt’s face. This was a craggy, hard face with a livid scar that ran the length of the left side, from temple to neck, clearly visible from where she stood. The head’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
“I take it you wish to awaken our friends in the cemetery?” The voice high pitched, soft and melodic. It spoke in French but with just a hint of a German accent.
“Sorry,” returned the woman, in excellent French, a hangover from her days as an OES agent in occupied France. “I thought there might be no one in.”
The head now blinked several times and looked decidedly puzzled. “You suppose that if the house is empty, then banging noisily on the door will summon creatures from the ether? This is the house of a priest, not a magician!”
“Sorry?” said the woman deprecatingly, shrinking into a cowed position.
The head lit up with a wide grin. “Come in,” it said, “the door’s open. Walk up two flights of stairs, I’ll meet you on the landing.”
The person she met on the landing, despite being dressed in a black suit, looked even less like
