As the visitors’ car pulled away, Maria cursed her momentary lack of control. She must be getting old. Slowly and deliberately, she picked up the phone.
Gardermann’s Farm
The car rolled to a halt in the yard behind Gardermann’s farm and Kelly and his three compatriots debussed. The choice of Gardermann’s pig farm had been an easy one. Apart from the fact that he was a known dyed-in-the-wool Nazi, his farm was less than a mile from Maria’s house, down the same lane.
Walking around the side of the old timber-framed farmhouse, they came upon the farmer hosing down one of the yards.
“Herr Gardermann!” Kelly called above the general din of the hose and the squealing and snorting of pigs.
Gardermann spun round in surprise, turning a small wheel near the end of the hose to switch off the water. “Yes, what is it?”
Manteufel approached him, while the others tried in vain not to breathe in the stench. Producing a photograph of Müller, Manteufel asked, “Have you seen this man recently?”
Gardermann took the picture and examined it closely, or at least appeared to do so, tilting his head first one way, then the other. Finally, he pulled a long face and shook his head.
“Never seen him before, who is he?
“Doesn’t matter, it’s not important,” said Manteufel, stowing the picture in his pocket, “but you have had someone working on the farm with you recently, is that not so?”
“Yes,” said Gardermann, nodding enthusiastically, “Klaus Gruber, Austrian labourer, good man, I was sorry when he left. I could use him now.”
“What did he look like?” asked Manteufel.
“Hmm, let me think … very tall, and thin like a bean pole, long blond hair and, surprisingly for a fair-haired man, very dark eyes.”
Manteufel smiled to himself. A more unlike description of Müller would have been hard to fabricate. Outwardly he grimaced. “No, doesn’t sound like the man I’m seeking, I think I must have the wrong farm.”
He glanced at the farmhouse. He needed some pretext to get inside to check to see if ‘Herr Gruber’, or whoever he was, was hiding somewhere in the house.
As if reading his mind, Gardermann said, “Why don’t you and your friends come in for a minute, I’ll make some coffee, or you can have a dunkel beer or a schnaps if you prefer.”
“We’d really appreciate that, Herr Gardermann, if it’s not too much trouble, we’ve been travelling all morning,” responded Manteufel eagerly.
“Before we go in, let me show you my pride and joy.”
Linking Manteufel’s arm, he led him to another pen in the yard and the others, curious, followed. Lying in the pen and covered in mud and other substances was one of the fattest boars Manteufel had ever seen. As Gardermann approached, the boar struggled to his feet, grunting in delight and running to Gardermann as fast as his obese body would allow. Gardermann entered the pen and, bending over, embraced the animal’s head while the boar snorted and squealed.
“This beauty is Tomas!” exclaimed Gardermann to his audience. “I have lost count of the number of offspring he has sired; he never lets me down. Tomas and I go back years—he is like a brother to me.”
Gardermann opened the gate and let the boar into the main yard. “Come on Tomas, there’s food in your trough and fresh water. Enjoy.”
Tomas gave every appearance of doing just that as he buried his snout in the trough, grunting and snorting his satisfaction.
“Come!” said Gardermann, leading the way back to the house.
Gardermann stood aside chatting to Manteufel as he ushered the other three in. Manteufel was just about to follow when a volley of shots rang out. Rounds crashed against the farmhouse, some ricocheting away, one round thudding into the door frame just above Manteufel’s head.
“Inside!” he roared, grabbing the farmer and thrusting him through the door, slamming it shut. Pushing the farmer to the floor, he called to the others. “Down and away from the windows, we’re under fire!”
It was an unnecessary command. The other three had already assessed the situation and were crouched, peering round the side of the front windows, the glass of which had been shattered by the fusillade.
“Don’t return fire until you have a good target—we only have limited ammunition,” called Manteufel.
Kelly left command to Manteufel—in a situation like this there could be no one better than the ex-Fallschirmjäger Sergeant Major. He cursed the fact that the boot of the car contained several boxes of ammunition, as well as the sniper rifle, he was carrying, ready for the time when he had to carry out his ‘special mission’. The firing from the assailants was now almost stopped, and Kelly was pondering whether he could make a dash to collect his rifle and the other ammunition, when Gardermann sprang to his feet screaming, “No! No! Tomas, no!”
Before anyone could stop him, he rushed to the door, flung it open and leapt through. Lying writhing on the other side of the yard was Tomas, blood pumping from a wound in his side. Gardermann only managed three steps before spinning round and crashing to the ground. The four agents watched in horror as the old man, sobbing hysterically, crawled painfully to his friend and lovingly encircled an arm around the old boar’s head. After a moment, all movement of man and animal ceased.
Firing from their ambushers had become light and sporadic, but Manteufel knew this was not a good sign. “They’re getting ready to rush us. Pick your target, make it count!”
A group of men sprang to their feet and started racing across the open ground towards the farmhouse. Within a heartbeat, three were down—two lying very still and one rolling and groaning in the dirt. The assault faltered immediately and the other attackers went to ground, shuffling back into cover.
“They didn’t expect us to
