Bear Grylls: The Hunt (Will Jaeger Book 3) Page 2

  Kammler turned back to face the mountainside that towered before him. Already the first bluish hints of dawn were streaking across the heavens, reminding him of the need to get this done. At this hour – this witching hour – few should notice the explosions, not that there were likely to be any witnesses. For days now Kammler had had his troops scouring the terrain to all sides, clearing it of hapless civilians.

  From behind he heard the crunch of tyres on the single dirt track that led into this remote region. Hooded headlamps, partially blacked out to hide them from any marauding Allied night fighters, pierced the gloom.

  Kammler smiled. Excellent: the ever-loyal Konrad at the wheel of his staff car.

  The headlamps illuminated the scene before him, casting it into dull light and shadow. Thick pine forest clung to the lower slopes, making the yawning entrance to Tunnel 88 – and the series of similar openings to either side – all but invisible. From each sprouted a tangle of wires, set all along the rock face.

  Kammler waited for his driver to park the vehicle, noting that he left the engine running just as he’d been ordered. Scharführer Weber was a good man, and he had proved an utterly loyal servant. An unspoken understanding – an instinctive empathy – had developed between them.

  A pity, in view of what was coming.

  A hand emerged from the darkness: it was Scharführer Weber’s, holding out the handset of the field telephone.

  ‘Sir.’

  Kammler took it. ‘Thank you. Wait in the vehicle. Just as soon as I have finished, we will be off – the same route as we came in.’

  ‘Yes, Herr General.’

  The car door slammed.

  Kammler spoke into the handset. ‘Herr Obersturmführer, you are ready?’

  ‘Yes, Herr General.’

  ‘Very good. Proceed when you see my staff car stop at the edge of the clearing. But give me time to dismount, so that I can personally witness this glorious spectacle.’

  ‘Yes, Herr General. Understood. Heil Hitler.’

  ‘Heil Hitler.’

  Kammler opened the passenger door of the car and slid onto the polished black leather seat, signalling for Scharführer Weber to drive. The smooth Horch V8 engine rumbled throatily as the vehicle pulled away. A minute later, where the sandy track snaked off into the thick cover of the fir trees, Kammler signalled a halt.

  ‘Just here will be fine.’

  He swung his polished leather boots out of the vehicle and stood, facing the direction of the escarpment. As the early rays of dawn peeked over the mountains to the east, they burnished the rock face before him a golden bronze.

  Kammler leant on the passenger door, bracing himself for what was coming. As he did so, his thick leather coat fell open a little, revealing the compact Walther PPK pistol he had strapped in a holster at his hip.

  He brushed his hand against it, just as he had done with his death’s-head cap, checking that it was within easy reach.

  Soon now.

  Kammler forced his mouth wide open, signalling to his driver to do likewise, and the two SS men faced the mountain, gaping like fish. Even this far away, they needed to take precautions, for a blast this powerful could blow their eardrums.

  The explosion, when it came, was all Kammler had hoped it would be.

  A series of blasts flashed outwards from the trigger point – Tunnel 88 – the detonation cords igniting with such speed that they appeared indistinguishable from each other. All along a four-hundred-yard front the rock face seemed to dissolve as one, transforming itself into a whirling mass of shattered rubble.

  The entire escarpment appeared to rise momentarily as it disintegrated into pulverised granite and boulders. The blast vomited hundreds of tonnes of shattered rock, which began to crash back down in a crushing tidal wave.

  An instant later, the shock wave hit the two watchers, rocking the car alarmingly on its springs and tearing at Kammler’s cap and his thick leather coat before hammering into the forest to their rear. It was followed almost immediately by the sound wave, an impossible roaring and snarling that broke over them and bored into their heads.

  Eventually it dissipated and Kammler straightened up. The sheer power of the explosion had sent him into a defensive crouch – not that he or Scharführer Weber had been in any great danger. He brushed down his coat, removing the thin film of white dust that had been carried with the blast.

  He kept his eyes glued to the mountainside. When the air finally began to clear, he found himself marvelling at what he saw. Just as he’d intended, it looked as if a massive rock slide had obliterated one entire side of the mountain.

  Here and there a dark slash of red indicated where a rich vein of minerals – iron, perhaps – had been torn asunder and slewed down the slope. Uprooted trees lay like heaps of scattered matchwood, crushed under the weight of the rock. But crucially, there was no sign – not the barest hint – of the tunnel complex that now lay hidden behind the wall of debris, not to mention the sixty young soldiers entombed therein.

  Kammler gave a satisfied nod. ‘Good. We go,’ he announced simply.

  Scharführer Weber slipped into the driver’s seat and blipped the throttle. Kammler clambered in beside him and, with a last look at the dust-enshrouded scene, signalled the staff sergeant to move off.

  The dark forest swallowed them. For a few minutes they drove in silence, or at least comparative silence. Even at this hour the hollow crump of artillery could be heard in the distance. The cursed Americans: how they loved to flaunt their military superiority over the Wehrmacht.

  It was Weber who broke the quiet. ‘Where to, Herr General? Once we make the metalled road?’

  ‘Where indeed, Konrad? Where indeed?’ Kammler mused. ‘With the Americans and British to one side, and the Russians to the other, where do we of the Schutzstaffel turn?’

  For a long moment Weber seemed unsure of how to answer, or even whether an answer was expected. Finally he must have presumed that it was.

  ‘To the Werewolves, Herr General? To seek out their headquarters?’

  ‘Indeed, Konrad, a good thought,’ Kammler answered, staring out of the window at the dark trees. ‘A fine suggestion. That’s if they had one. A headquarters. But I suspect that no such thing can be found.’

  Scharführer Weber looked puzzled. ‘But Herr General, a movement such as the Werewolves . . . Surely . . .’

  Kammler glanced at his driver. The younger man was doubtless fitter too, so he would need to be careful. ‘Surely what, Konrad?’

  Weber’s hands gripped the wheel more tightly. ‘Well, Herr General, how long can our Kameraden beneath the mountain hold out? They will need to be relieved. Dug out of there. As we promised they would be.’

  ‘No, Konrad. Correction. As I promised. You promised nothing.’

  Weber nodded, keeping his eyes on the route ahead. ‘Of course, Herr General.’

  The track swung down to cross a rock-strewn riverbed. Scharführer Weber would need to be extra careful not to get a puncture here, or damage an axle.

  Kammler stared ahead, eyes piercing the gloom of the dawn forest. ‘If you could pull over, Konrad.’ He feigned a smile. ‘Even an SS general has at times the need to pee.’ He gestured at the river crossing. ‘Perhaps when we make the far side.’

  ‘Of course, Herr General.’

  They crawled across the rough ground, the car groaning and bucking with every turn of the wheels. Once over, Weber pulled to a halt and Kammler climbed out of the car, taking several paces into the forest as if to relieve himself in private.

  Once he was out of sight, he eased the Walther PPK out of its holster and cocked it. He was ready.

  3

  Kammler slid back into his seat.

  ‘I continue, Herr General?’ Scharführer Weber queried.

  Kammler ignored the question. ‘Sadly, Konrad, none of tho
se young men in that tunnel are destined to survive. Like so many others, they will have given their lives for the glory of the Reich.’

  ‘But, Herr General, we told them—’

  ‘Wrong again, Konrad,’ Kammler cut in. ‘I told them. If they have been misled, it is none of your doing.’

  ‘Of course, Herr General. But . . .’

  ‘You wish to know why. Very well. I will explain.’ Kammler gestured ahead. ‘Drive if you will.’

  Weber eased the car into gear, the dappled sunlight sending beams of light lancing through the thick tree cover, throwing the interior of the Horch into sharp light and shadow.

  ‘Sadly, no one who has witnessed the hiding place of the Uranmaschine can be permitted to live,’ Kammler continued. ‘The reason is simple: the enemy will make those they capture talk, just as we would. That we cannot allow to happen.’

  Weber changed up a gear, increasing speed as the track levelled out. A deer, startled by their appearance, darted away at their passing.

  ‘There will be an ordered and quiet vanishing of the senior ranks of the Schutzstaffel,’ Kammler continued. ‘This we have been planning for some time, ever since it became clear that the enemy would win this phase of the war. We will melt away, to rebuild and fight anew. This will take time; decades even. We have been preparing for many months: the funds, the weaponry, the individuals – key scientists, top leaders – all spirited away to carefully selected safe havens. This we have dubbed Aktion Werwolf – a long-term strategy to forge the Reich anew. It is we who are the real Werewolves.’

  Kammler paused. Beneath his coat, he checked that he had a round chambered, his index finger seeking out the cold metal of the cocked breech.

  ‘As for any resistance, I am afraid it will come to nothing,’ he continued. ‘There is no one left to fight. We have thrown everything into the defence of the Fatherland: the old, the young, the war-wounded and the lame; women and girls even. But all to no avail. It is Aktion Werwolf that offers the only real chance of ultimate victory.’

  The staff sergeant glanced at him from the corner of his eye. ‘But those young men? Those to whom you promised—’

  ‘Doomed,’ Kammler cut in coldly, matter-of-factly. ‘They will neither suffocate nor starve. It will be their water supplies that will run out on them.’ He shrugged. ‘Just a few dozen lives lost, and all for the sake of the Reich. It is but a small sacrifice, wouldn’t you agree, Konrad? We all have to be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice.’

  Scharführer Weber nodded, understanding slowly dawning upon him. ‘Yes, Herr General, of course, if it is for the good of the Reich . . .’ He glanced across at his commander. ‘But tell me, how may I be a part of this Aktion Werwolf? How might I serve?’

  Kammler sighed. ‘A good question. Of course, any SS caught by the enemy are unlikely to be treated well. We have all heard the stories, especially those of the cursed Reds. We are the Führer’s chosen, so the Russians hate us. And the British and Americans hardly like us a great deal more . . . Which is why I am very likely doing you a favour, Konrad.’

  With that, the general eased his weapon out of its hiding place and shot his driver in the head. Moving quickly, he shoved the body to one side, grabbing the steering wheel, and the vehicle came to a halt, the dead driver’s foot having eased off the accelerator.

  Kammler stared at the bloodied corpse. ‘No one means no one, I’m afraid. No one who might talk . . . You, my dear Konrad, have made the ultimate sacrifice, but you still have one last duty to fulfil.’

  He slipped out of the passenger seat, opened the driver’s door and dragged the dead man’s body outside. He proceeded to remove Weber’s bloodied uniform, before changing out of his own and into that of his staff sergeant.

  That done, he dressed his erstwhile driver in his own clothes, stuffing a wallet and papers into the dead man’s pockets. The preparations made by the SS high command had been exhaustive: the papers consisted of forged documents combining Kammler’s real identity with a photo of his driver.

  When he was done, SS General Kammler was attired in the blood-spattered uniform of a man sixteen ranks lower than his own. If he were captured by the enemy – and he did not intend to be captured – he would stand a good chance of evading notice or retribution.

  He dragged the corpse around to the passenger side and bundled it inside. Then, sliding behind the wheel on a seat slick with blood, he began to drive.

  After thirty minutes, the Horch emerged from the rough track onto a minor tarred road. Kammler pushed onwards before finally spotting a bend that he thought would prove suitable. He pulled over and found a weighty rock. Dragging the corpse into the driver’s seat, he stood in front of the vehicle and emptied the Walther’s remaining rounds – eight bullets in all – through the Horch’s windscreen.

  To a casual observer – even to a half-decent military investigator – it would appear as if the staff car had been ambushed from the front, the windscreen peppered with fire, the driver caught in the onslaught.

  Next, he used the rock to jam down the throttle before slamming the car into gear and sending it juddering on its way.

  Slowly it gathered speed.

  A hundred yards down the slope, and going at quite a pace, the Horch hit the sharp right-hand turn. It veered off the road and careered downhill, bucking its way through a rough field, before crashing into an outcrop of boulders, flipping once and coming to rest on its side.

  Kammler stared at it in satisfaction. To all intents and purposes, SS General Hans Kammler had just died in a bloody ambush by unknown assailants.

  He set off on foot, his story crystallising in his mind. If he ran into any Germans, he was a comparatively elderly man press-ganged into the defence of the Reich at the eleventh hour. He had fought valiantly – witness the blood – but had lost his brother soldiers in the confusion.

  If he ran into the enemy, the story was pretty much the same. A little less valour. A little more shell shock and confusion. A suggestion that the SS uniform was all the hard-pressed Wehrmacht had had to offer him. Heaven forbid he was a member of the dreaded Schutzstaffel himself.

  Yes, on balance he should do fine.

  But if his luck held, none of that would be necessary. He planned to move cross-country towards a cabin set deep in the mountains – one well stocked with supplies. From there he would make contact with those SS brethren who were likewise in the process of slipping away.

  Approaches had been made internationally. Deals had been cut. Vast amounts of Nazi wealth had been secreted in discreet foreign bank accounts to ensure that ratlines – escape routes – would open for the chosen. There was little doubt in Kammler’s mind that exotic shores and a new future beckoned.

  In time, the humiliation of Germany would be avenged.

  In time, the SS brethren would rebuild the glorious Reich.

  4

  Present day

  Picking up Erich Isselhorst had been child’s play.

  Heidelberg – his place of residence – was a quaint German city steeped in history and dominated by the hilltop fortress of Heidelberg Castle. The narrow, twisting alleyways and street cafés of the old town had provided ample scope for Irina Narov to lurk unseen, to linger and track her prey.

  She had planned this like she would any military operation. She had watched her target for days, logging his movements, his routine and his peccadilloes. She knew that she was the type of woman – blonde, blue-eyed, svelte and super-fit – who would appeal to his tastes, especially if she hinted at a certain sympathy with his neo-Nazi views.

  In his mid forties, Isselhorst was single and childless. Perhaps he had yet to find the perfect Aryan Frau to share his extreme ideology; one willing to turn a blind eye to his darker dealings. From the way he was acting right now, Narov reckoned that he figured she might be the one.

  She tried not to shudder as he pulle
d her closer in the taxi. Thankfully it was only a short ride through the thick woodland that fringed the River Neckar – Heidelberg’s main artery – to Isselhorst’s home, a modernist slab-sided construction of glass and steel that overlooked the water.

  Isselhorst lived in Heidelberg’s most exclusive district and the house must have cost a small fortune. But he could certainly afford it, and his ability to do so – the source of his funds – lay at the heart of why Narov had chosen to act the seductress tonight.

  She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he held her close. No doubt about it, he kept himself in good shape. Six foot two, with a thick head of blonde hair and a certain arrogance about his demeanour, he would be no pushover, of that she felt certain.

  She had watched him from her hide in the woods as he’d pumped iron in his home gym, putting in a good hour each morning at eleven o’clock sharp, followed by a forty-five-minute jog by the riverside. He was quick, sure-footed and powerful in his movements.

  She was ten years his junior, but he had to weigh a good third again as much as she did. She would have to keep her distance, strike hard and give him not the slightest chance to get close enough to land a blow.

  Narov was acutely aware that this time, she was acting entirely on her own, with zero chance of any backup. Yet she had one major advantage over her adversary: Isselhorst had consumed a significant quantity of alcohol, whereas she was feigning drunkenness.

  Her inebriation was all an act.

  Of course, she could have shared her suspicions with the other members of the Secret Hunters – Peter Miles, Uncle Joe, Will Jaeger – the informal band of Nazi hunters who traced their origins back to the war years. But she doubted any of them would have believed her.

  That Hank Kammler might still be alive and intent on vengeance: on the face of it, all the evidence suggested otherwise. But the son of SS General Hans Kammler – after Hitler, very possibly the most powerful figure in the Third Reich – hadn’t died so easily, of that Narov felt certain.