Last Flight to Stalingrad by Graham Hurley (simple ebook reader .TXT) 📗

it. The queue shuffled forward, one step at a time. It was nearly six o’clock before Nehmann found himself at the kerbside.

He was about to duck his head and get into the waiting cab when he felt a pressure on his arm.

‘Do you mind sharing? It might help these good people behind.’ Excellent German. Berlin accent.

Nehmann glanced round. He hadn’t been aware of this stranger, not the last time he’d looked. He was tall. He wore a lightweight summer suit, beautifully cut, and had a raincoat folded over one arm. Mid-forties, Nehmann thought. Maybe older. No luggage.

‘How did you know I was German?’

‘The leather jacket, my friend. I have a jacket like that myself.’ He named a specialist tailor with a long list of influential clients.

The driver was getting impatient. Nehmann held the rear door open and stood back to let this stranger take a seat before getting in himself.

‘You speak Italian?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Here.’ Nehmann gave him the address Hedvika had scribbled down earlier on the envelope. ‘You mind telling the driver? Afterwards the taxi’s yours.’

The stranger bent forward and gave the driver the address. His Italian was fluent. The taxi began to move.

‘You’re here on business?’ the stranger enquired.

‘Pleasure.’

‘Excellent. Rome has turned her back on the war. You’ll find it a deeply pleasurable city, if you know where to go.’

Nehmann said nothing, staring out at the swirl of traffic. He knew when he’d fallen into a trap. He could smell danger at a thousand metres. Der Überlebende,he thought. The Survivor.

‘So who are you?’ he asked.

‘That needn’t concern us.’

‘What do you want?’

The stranger said nothing. Then he gestured down at the envelope.

‘This is Baarova’s address. It would save us both a lot of time if you told me why you’re paying her a visit.’

‘You’ve been following me?’

‘Of course.’

‘From Venice?’

‘No need.’

Nehmann nodded. Easy, he thought.

‘Someone phoned ahead,’ he suggested. ‘Someone gave you a train time and a description. That’s all it would take. Then you suddenly find yourself in a taxi queue.’ Nehmann smiled to himself. ‘You’re good. I’m flattered.’

The stranger returned the smile. The raincoat was folded in his lap. He moved it slightly, revealing the dull barrel of a Luger automatic.

‘Here?’ Nehmann was looking at the gun. ‘You want to kill me in the back of this cab?’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ The stranger nodded down at the envelope. ‘This is the letter?’

‘Yes.’

‘From the Minister?’

‘Yes.’

‘He wrote the address himself?’

‘No, I did.’ Nehmann watched him slipping the envelope into his jacket. Then the stranger leaned forward and muttered something to the driver. The cab began to slow, before drawing to a halt at the kerbside.

‘One question,’ Nehmann said. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What business is this of yours? Why go to so much trouble?’

The stranger smiled again. The gun had disappeared.

‘Sometimes we have to save Herr Goebbels from himself,’ he murmured. ‘If you’re still thinking of paying Fraulein Baarova a visit, I suggest you spare yourself the trouble.’

‘You’ve moved her out?’

‘She’s decided to live elsewhere.’ A parting smile. ‘Enjoy Rome.’

9

KALACH, 10 AUGUST 1942

Messner, to his intense irritation, was obliged to spend the night at Kalach. It was the orderly who’d met him who brought the news about the little Fieseler Storch. Messner had asked for it to be refuelled. This had been done but the engineer who’d attended to the aircraft had noticed a crack at the bottom of one of the undercarriage struts. Messner was welcome to risk a take-off but there were no guarantees that the strut would survive any more punishment from an airfield as rough as Kalach’s.

The orderly, whose name was Klaus, had contacted the mechanics who were busy repairing Panzer tanks on the battlefield. The pressure to get the tanks back in working order was intense but Klaus had secured a promise that a weld on the damaged Storch would be in place by the following morning.

By now it was late afternoon and Messner had completed the round of meetings Richthofen had ordered him to attend. All of them had taken place inside the tent and he’d been counting the hours until he could finally emerge and take a breath or two of fresh air. Beside the dirt road, the sun was still high, the sky cloudless, perfect conditions for the return flight to Mariupol.

‘There’s somewhere for me to sleep?’ Messner was eyeing the car. The back seat, he thought. With maybe a blanket or two.

‘We can do better than that, Herr Oberst. Come…’

They got back in the car. On the western edge of the town was a low timber building with a sagging roof and a line of bullet holes beside one window. The front door was missing and two horses were grazing on a patch of nearby pasture. Beside the fence was a child’s swing, the wooden seat hanging on a single length of rope.

‘This was the school, Herr Oberst,until four days ago.’

‘So where are they now? The kids?’

‘At home? In hiding? Gone? Dead?’ Klaus shrugged. ‘No one knows.’

‘And I’m to sleep here?’

‘No. You sleep next door.’

Next door was another building, smaller, neater, in a much better state of repair. This, the orderly explained, had been the schoolmaster’s house.

‘He still lives there?’

‘No. We commandeered the property as soon as we arrived. There’s space inside for eight officers. If you’re lucky, they might give you one of the armchairs. If you’re luckier still, they may spare you a little vodka. Either way, Herr Oberst,you’ll be in good company. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning as soon as your aircraft is ready. Gute Zeit, ja?’

Have a good time, eh? Messner watched the car bumping away, then turned back towards the house. Like the school, it was single-storey but a recent coat of fresh paint on the door and the window frames gave it a pertness that lifted Messner’s spirits. Kalach was a world away from the Wannsee but there was something about the house that reminded him of the lakeside property he’d shared with Beata and little Lottie after their marriage. Someone