Vengeance 10

Over the sights Bethwig saw one man turn towards them; his face was hidden in shadow, but Bethwig could imagine the surprise that died as he fired two short bursts. The figure pitched forward, and Prager took the other as he dropped over the wall. Then Bethwig was running, propelled by the desperate need to reach Walsch. He ripped a grenade from his coat pocket, twisted the igniter, counted to three, and tossed it into the courtyard. Prager drew up, panting, machine pistol in hand, and mouthing blasphemies as he flung his grenade over as well. They both ducked against the base of the wall, and the bombs went off one after the other.

Bethwig started up, but Prager yanked him back and threw another grenade to make certain the courtyard was clear. After it exploded, Prager swung himself to the top of the wall, inched his head up, then swarmed over. Bethwig followed, shouting uncontrollably with excitement.

A man in black uniform lay dead. That made three. Prager held up a hand and edged towards the open doorway. From the front of the building sustained gunfire shattered the night. Sussmann’s rush had not carried the building as planned. Could they obtain reinforcements? he wondered. An explosion came, sharp and crisp against the wind — but from outside, not inside the building.

‘We’ve got to move!’ Prager shouted, and Bethwig peered along the dark corridor. He could just make out a partly opened door and, with a jolt, realised it was the cell in which he had been held the previous autumn. Two bodies were huddled on the floor of the hall. Prager jerked a thumb at them.

‘We didn’t kill those two. Who did?’

Bethwig started to shake his head, then smiled in sudden understanding. ‘Inside! Is that Jan Memling?’ he shouted down the corridor. ‘This is Franz Bethwig. Do you remember me?’

‘Franz Bethwig?’ a voice called back doubtfully.

‘Yes, Wernher von Braun’s friend.’ Bethwig had switched to rusty English and was forced to search his memory for the proper words.

‘We were at Hotel…’

‘I know who you are. What do you want?’

The Englishman must have armed himself somehow. That could be the only explanation for the two dead men in the corridor. ‘How many have you…’ He could not find the English word he wanted and awkwardly substituted one in German: ‘ …. töten?’

‘The hell with you, you bloody bastards!’

‘God damn you for a fool, Memling.’ Bethwig was so angry he began to stutter. ‘We must… we need to know how many…. remain in… are left, you damned ass.’

The English swear-words must have convinced him, for Memling answered after a moment. ‘Four,’ he shouted. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘There is not time…’ Bethwig began, then switched to German. ‘There is no time to explain. Do you have a weapon?’

Memling hesitated. It made no sense… but then nothing had for as long as he could remember. ‘Yes,’ he shouted back.

‘Some of us are attacking the front. We must come in through the back. Do not shoot us.’

Bethwig did not wait for an answer but raised his machine pistol over his head and stepped into the corridor. Prager lunged for him, but Bethwig twisted away and started forward, heart in his throat, skin crawling, as he waited for the bullet’s impact. After a few steps he saw a hint of movement behind the partly opened door.

‘If you kill me,’ Bethwig blurted in sudden fright, ‘you will lose your last chance.’

He was beside the cell door now, facing a crouched figure nearly invisible in the shadows. He pushed the door wider. The fear was as evident in Memling’s eyes as he knew it was in his own, but the machine pistol the Englishman held was rock-steady and aimed at his mid-section.

‘Get some clothes and come help,’ Bethwig said quietly, and put out a hand to halt Prager as he came up behind.

‘The Englishman?’ Prager asked, and Bethwig nodded.

Prager stared at Bethwig, then went back down the corridor and removed boots, jacket, and trousers from one of the dead soldiers, tossing the clothes to Memling who began to pull them on as if in a daze. When Prager handed him two stick grenades, Memling clutched them a moment, then shook himself and braced his shoulders.

‘How many are left?’ he demanded in excellent German.

‘Possibly eight,’ Prager answered. ‘I think we should go around the side and…’

‘I hold a commission as major in the Royal Marines.’ Memling’s voice was crisp. ‘This is your show, but I advise you to go through that door and fast.’

Prager and Bethwig exchanged glances, and Prager nodded. ‘Tell us what to do.’

‘How are your men disposed in front?’ Memling demanded as he moved down the corridor towards the door, keeping well to one side.

‘Head-on attack by two men and one more on each flank. Grenades and machine pistols.’