Thor Schenker. All three were perusing a manila folder stamped at the highest level of confidentiality.
Metzger’s grey-steel eyes twinkled as he completed his review. ‘If this goes wrong, Reichsführer .... ’
Himmler’s eyes narrowed behind his wire frame glasses, a faint smile danced around his lips, making his moustache twitch.
‘ This is why we selected you, General. It won’t go wrong,’
Schenker’s head snapped up. It reminded Himmler of an obedient Doberman. He found he was unable to look away from this Adonis. Hitler was right; this boy was a prime specimen.
‘ I can’t foresee any problems.’ His cultured accent and his refined sense of dress confirmed he was born to wear the uniform. Himmler felt himself dumpy in this beautiful boy’s presence. He tried to concentrate on the dossier. He tried not to blush.
Metzger lit a cigarette. Himmler tried to wave the smoke away with a tailored leather glove.
'My concern is that we get a local policeman who just happens to be thorough.'
* * *
Himmler afforded himself a small smile as the limousine turned off Prince Albrecht Strasse down into a cavernous parking lot below the SS Hauptamt building.
‘ The nature of this will be so heinous that the Gestapo, Waffen SS and Diplomatic corps will want it. It is imperative that we execute this plan efficiently to forward the Führer’s plan.’
The limousine pulled up alongside an army truck painted in a gun-metal grey, the number plates and registration erased. Metzger and Schenker alighted and, with Himmler, strode to the rear of the truck. Pulling the tarpaulin window aside, a group of soldiers acknowledged the three of them with the briefest of nods. All looked like hardened street fighters, Metzger’s personal detail.
‘ Excellent,’ said Metzger.
Himmler touched his elbow and whispered into his ear, ‘If you pull this off, General, I can promise you a most excellent theatre of operations,’
Schenker whistled slowly, and began to follow the General’s lead. His smile almost stretched his jaw.
* * *
It was the dogs barking in the yard that woke farmer Rupert Lowe. He reached for his glasses and sat upright in the bed. The vast bulk of his wife Gertrude shifted and groaned as she tried to settle into a more comfortable position. He stared into the darkness, the window shutters rattling slightly again, the barking, then a shrill cry from one of the hounds. A quick succession of whinnies, shrill barks and cries rang out, then silence.
Lowe slipped out of the bed, his feet dancing on the cold floor. His stomach churned in fear. He could hear movement outside. The farm was two miles away from the Polish border and there had been reports of strange occurrences over the past few days. In two nearby farms, machinery had been vandalised in the night, some buildings had also been subjected to arson. The tension between the two countries was beginning to spill into the countryside. At the market last weekend a row had broken out between two German and Polish families who for years had traded amicably. The Gestapo had appeared out of nowhere, broken it up, and forcibly beaten the Polish family across the border.
Lowe loaded his shotgun quietly. His daughters Lottie, Dorothy and Anna peeked out at their father from their loft bed. Lowe raised his finger to shush them and went down the staircase he had built and installed a month after his wedding, fifty years ago. He opened the front door and spread his still broad form across the threshold, gun raised. He kept all the lights off, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom quickly.
Two figures scampered across between the barn and his tool shed.
‘ Who’s there?’ he shouted out into the darkness. He was met with silence.
Then a sudden movement in his peripheral vision made him turn. He fired the shotgun’s double-barrels into the night, the report booming. His dogs should have been raising hell by now.
Then he heard automatic machine gun
Metzger’s grey-steel eyes twinkled as he completed his review. ‘If this goes wrong, Reichsführer .... ’
Himmler’s eyes narrowed behind his wire frame glasses, a faint smile danced around his lips, making his moustache twitch.
‘ This is why we selected you, General. It won’t go wrong,’
Schenker’s head snapped up. It reminded Himmler of an obedient Doberman. He found he was unable to look away from this Adonis. Hitler was right; this boy was a prime specimen.
‘ I can’t foresee any problems.’ His cultured accent and his refined sense of dress confirmed he was born to wear the uniform. Himmler felt himself dumpy in this beautiful boy’s presence. He tried to concentrate on the dossier. He tried not to blush.
Metzger lit a cigarette. Himmler tried to wave the smoke away with a tailored leather glove.
'My concern is that we get a local policeman who just happens to be thorough.'
* * *
Himmler afforded himself a small smile as the limousine turned off Prince Albrecht Strasse down into a cavernous parking lot below the SS Hauptamt building.
‘ The nature of this will be so heinous that the Gestapo, Waffen SS and Diplomatic corps will want it. It is imperative that we execute this plan efficiently to forward the Führer’s plan.’
The limousine pulled up alongside an army truck painted in a gun-metal grey, the number plates and registration erased. Metzger and Schenker alighted and, with Himmler, strode to the rear of the truck. Pulling the tarpaulin window aside, a group of soldiers acknowledged the three of them with the briefest of nods. All looked like hardened street fighters, Metzger’s personal detail.
‘ Excellent,’ said Metzger.
Himmler touched his elbow and whispered into his ear, ‘If you pull this off, General, I can promise you a most excellent theatre of operations,’
Schenker whistled slowly, and began to follow the General’s lead. His smile almost stretched his jaw.
* * *
It was the dogs barking in the yard that woke farmer Rupert Lowe. He reached for his glasses and sat upright in the bed. The vast bulk of his wife Gertrude shifted and groaned as she tried to settle into a more comfortable position. He stared into the darkness, the window shutters rattling slightly again, the barking, then a shrill cry from one of the hounds. A quick succession of whinnies, shrill barks and cries rang out, then silence.
Lowe slipped out of the bed, his feet dancing on the cold floor. His stomach churned in fear. He could hear movement outside. The farm was two miles away from the Polish border and there had been reports of strange occurrences over the past few days. In two nearby farms, machinery had been vandalised in the night, some buildings had also been subjected to arson. The tension between the two countries was beginning to spill into the countryside. At the market last weekend a row had broken out between two German and Polish families who for years had traded amicably. The Gestapo had appeared out of nowhere, broken it up, and forcibly beaten the Polish family across the border.
Lowe loaded his shotgun quietly. His daughters Lottie, Dorothy and Anna peeked out at their father from their loft bed. Lowe raised his finger to shush them and went down the staircase he had built and installed a month after his wedding, fifty years ago. He opened the front door and spread his still broad form across the threshold, gun raised. He kept all the lights off, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom quickly.
Two figures scampered across between the barn and his tool shed.
‘ Who’s there?’ he shouted out into the darkness. He was met with silence.
Then a sudden movement in his peripheral vision made him turn. He fired the shotgun’s double-barrels into the night, the report booming. His dogs should have been raising hell by now.
Then he heard automatic machine gun
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