Designated Targets

The atmosphere in the command bunker was bleak, tending toward ominous. There would be many, many people to punish for this calamitous failure. Himmler’s unforgiving gaze fell upon Göring. He was drunk and blustering about the large numbers of Spitfires and Hurricanes his men had shot down. That may well be, but the RAF’s air defense net was nowhere near as badly degraded as the Luftwaffe chief had insisted. And the Trident had survived every attack thrown against it with apparent ease.

Yes, it was the führer himself who had downplayed the importance of the ship’s electronic senses. What had he said?

What did it matter if the British had a perfect view of their doom as it came rushing at them? It was still their doom.

Well, that was hardly his fault. The führer had repeatedly stated that he had no feel for naval combat. It had been Raeder’s job to advise him on those matters. The senior Kriegsmarine officer hadn’t spoken since news of the Tirpitz had come in via safe-hand courier. Preparing his excuses, thought Himmler.

Hitler alternated between screaming at his subordinates—ordering them to deploy units already confirmed as lost—and muttering to himself about the depth of betrayal he had been forced to endure.

Himmler kept to himself, wondering what could be salvaged.

All his hopes now lay with Skorzeny.

37

CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND

Stealing the truck had been remarkably simple. Tens of thousands of military vehicles were on the move, and contrary to the comic book school of war, not everything ran smoothly. Vehicles broke down. Drivers didn’t know which turn to take. Whole divisions got lost. Convoys were attacked and shot up from the air. Many trucks were abandoned, pushed off the road, simply because their drivers knew nothing about them beyond how to start the ignition.

Harold Philby wasn’t much of a mechanic himself, but two of Skorzeny’s men were. They had the broken down deuce-and-a-half running again within fifteen minutes. As a bonus, it was fitted out as a medical transport, with a red cross painted prominently on the canvas tarpaulin that covered the rear bed. After a hurried conference with the German commander, it was agreed that this would provide even better cover than a normal military truck, in which they ran the risk of being commandeered and attached to any combat unit they might run into.

Skorzeny had his men wrap themselves in the bloodied uniforms and bandages of the previous, missing occupants. Then they all piled into litters in the back. One of the most fluent English speakers was nominated as their “medic” to attend the wounded.

“Let’s go then, tovarich.” Skorzeny grinned.

He reminded Philby of a fox licking shit from a wire brush. The traitor put aside his visceral dislike of the fascist and gunned the engine. It kicked over after two attempts, and he pulled back onto the road.

They were well north of London, with at least half a day’s travel in front of them and absolutely no guarantee of surviving it. He doubted that he would survive, even if they made the objective. Number Five had been quite explicit about the steps he should take to escape when he’d delivered Skorzeny, but after six months on the run, the rogue spy knew just how hard it was going to be to avoid detection once he’d put his head up. Unlike Burgess and Maclean, he’d gone to ground immediately upon learning of the Transition, and he was still alive because of it. The others, he had no idea. They could be dead, or more likely they were being detained somewhere by the SIS, tortured with the drugs and interrogation machines that were said to have arrived with the dark woman and the Trident.

“What is this marshland, tovarich?” Skorzeny asked as they rumbled along. “I thought Cambridge was a university, not a swamp.”

“This is Cambridgeshire,” Philby explained. “Specifically we’re in the Ouse Washes, a floodplain between the Old and New Bedford rivers, drained by the Fourth Earl of Bedford in the sixteen—”

“A swamp, then, as I said.”

Philby exhaled slowly.

If he ever made it to Moscow, he was going to get a medal for this.

A flight of American planes screamed overhead, wagging their wings just for him.

Biggin Hill was unrecognizable.

Actually, that was untrue. Harry had seen damage like this on many occasions. So many over the years that he’d lost count.

“Hammerhead run,” said Sergeant St. Clair as the Eurocopter settled on its wheels.

“Looks like,” the prince agreed. “Not well directed, though.”

“Well enough, guv.”