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

and, in any event, it would take us far too long to unload the bomb bay.’

‘You’re telling me I have to wait? Kein Problem, Herr Generaloberst.’ He turned to share a smile with the other SS officer but Richthofen hadn’t finished. He checked his watch. ‘The next wave will be leaving in less than an hour. I’m happy to put one of those aircraft at your disposal.’

‘Excellent. You can take a dozen of these scum? More, perhaps?’

Richthofen shook his head. He seemed to be counting the men Kalb had brought with him.

‘There’s four of you?’ He was looking at Kalb again. ‘Would that be right?’

‘Ja.’

‘Then the answer’s eight. Eight bodies.’ He nodded at the truck. ‘You choose.’

Kalb looked briefly confused. Then he began to understand.

‘But you said twelve.’

‘I did.’

‘And the other bodies? The balance?’

‘You, Herr Standartenführer,and your Kameraden.Our bomb bays are bigger than you think. The journey will take no time at all. It needn’t be uncomfortable.’ He offered Kalb a thin smile, and then took a final drag on his cigarette before grinding it beneath his boot. ‘Your decision, Herr Standartenführer. Oberst Messnerwill be pleased to take care of the details. Auf Wiedersehen.Enjoy the flight.’

16

KYIV, UKRAINE, 23 AUGUST 1942

Werner Nehmann arrived at Kyiv in the late afternoon. He was expecting a fellow scribe from one of the Propaganda Companies to meet him at the airfield but instead, to his delight, a figure from what felt like the distant past stepped back into his life. The same scuffed leather jacket. The same hint of menace in his battered face. The same scars on the shaven baldness of his bone-white skull. Even the way he walked, loose-limbed, his whole body moving from the shoulders, seeming to carry the promise of imminent violence. Wilhelm Schultz, a still-rising star among the Abwehr spy hunters, and now – it appeared – resident in this huge city.

Schultz had always done important business in bars and this posting was no different.

‘You want to fill your belly and keep your money in your pocket?’ he growled. ‘Welcome to Kyiv.’

Schultz had a car and a driver. He took Nehmann to a bar built into a cliff behind Khreschatyk, the city’s main boulevard. Nehmann stared out at the lines of ruined buildings, gaunt in the midsummer sunshine.

‘Who did all this?’ he asked.

‘The Russians. You want to know how? I’ll tell you later. First we need a drink.’

Schultz led the way into the sudden darkness of the bar. They’d first met when Nehmann began work for the Promi. Goebbels had a hunch that, despite the ten-year age difference, the two men were probably brothers under the skin and he’d been right. Now Schultz wanted to know everything that had happened to the little Georgian. Interviewees he’d gutted with that clever smile of his. Senior chieftains he’d outraged. Stunts he’d pulled. Women he’d fucked.

‘Let’s start with the women, my friend.’ Schultz had summoned the barman. ‘Tell me about last night and then work backwards.’

Nehmann declined the invitation. In real life, as on the page, you always held something back. Except, perhaps, the tease that always carries the reader into the story.

‘I’m in love,’ he said.

‘And?’ Schultz was reaching for the first of the tall glasses of lager.

‘Terrifying. Little boy lost.’

‘You’re making it up. You make everything up.’

‘I do. I admit it. But not this. And what’s worse is I mean it.’

‘Both sides? You both mean it? Two fools on the same errand?’

‘Yes. At least I think so.’

‘Think so? What kind of language is that? Your life is a buffet. You need do nothing but help yourself, especially where the women are concerned. And now you’re telling me that’s changed?’ He shook his head. ‘Is this woman real? Has she found signs of life beyond that Schwanz of yours? Have you given her permission to have a look round, make herself at home? Bad news, my friend. And, may I say it, a disappointment.’ He passed Nehmann the other glass. ‘She has a name, this woman?’

‘Maria. I think…’

‘You think?Christ, this gets worse. She’s asking the questions? She’s doing the interview. Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yes. And you know something else? I love her for it. Why? Because she’s probably better than me, sharper than me, more ruthless than me.’

‘Ruthless? That’s fighting talk, Nehmann. This vision belongs in uniform. You should put her on a plane, send her here. What else does she do?’

‘She plays the piano. Once you’ve sat and listened, the game’s over. Always fight your battles on the territory of your choice. Me? No fucking chance. Beethoven? Schubert? Chopin? Her father taught her how to play the piano when she was still in nappies. She’s made me honest, Willi. I’m a reformed man.’

‘And she fucks good?’

‘Like an angel, Willi.’

Schultz held his glance, then extended a hand in congratulation. No one else called him Willi.

‘To your Maria…’ He reached for his drink.

‘To Maria.” Nehmann was looking wistful. ‘I’m afraid “your” indicates possession on my part. I lie for a living but not in this case. I’m afraid “your” would be hope, Willi, rather than expectation.’

They touched glasses, Schultz acknowledging the distinction with the hint of a smile.

*

From the bar, a couple of hours later, they strolled a block or two away from Khreschatyk to a backstreet restaurant where Schultz’s face was again welcome. In a city in which many of the locals were starting to eat their ration cards, Schultz was insisting on the Wiener schnitzel with dumplings and red cabbage. Unbidden, the waiter brought a bottle of champagne as an aperitif. Schultz hauled the bottle out of the ice bucket, leaving a row of drips over the pristine whiteness of the tablecloth.

‘It’s Georgian, Nehmann. You’ll love it.’

Another toast, to Stalingrad this time. Schultz wanted to know what his master thought Nehmann would bring to the feast.

‘You mean Goebbels?’ Nehmann asked.

‘Of course. Is he still your pet dwarf? Is he still halfway up your arse?’

Again, Nehmann declined to answer. Much as he liked this man, he had no intention of