Christopher Nuttall: Chosen of the Valkyries

“My wife would have a heart attack,” Kuls said, when they’d finished the kitchen. “No tools at all.”

“Mine too,” Herman said.

He smirked at the thought as they walked into the bedroom and started dismantling the wardrobe, piece by piece. It was an older design, practically fixed to the wall. And yet, there was enough space behind the panel for something to be hidden… he grinned in sudden delight as he felt a concealed envelope. It refused to budge until he tugged the panelling back completely, then pulled. The envelope came free and fell into his hand.

“He was hiding something,” Kuls observed.

“Looks that way,” Herman agreed.

He led the way back into the living room and opened the envelope. A handful of photographs fell out and landed on the floor. He sighed, picked the first one up… and froze in horror as he saw the picture. It was… it was unthinkable.

“Shit,” he breathed. He’d seen horror, from burned homesteads and raped women in Germany East, but this… this was far worse. He had to swallow hard to keep his gorge from rising. “No wonder someone wanted him dead!”

“He must have taken the photographs himself,” Kuls observed. “Trying to buy this sort of shit… it would get him killed.”

Herman looked back at the body, fighting down the urge to kick it as hard as he could. A schoolmaster with connections to the SS… even if someone had suspected something, they would never have dared take their concerns to higher authority. The boys – his victims – would have been compromised for life. They would have known they were doomed, when he tired of them…

…Until now. Until the SS’s power had been broken. Until they’d found the nerve to brutally murder their tormentor. Until…

That could have been my son , he thought, numbly. Few would have dared to pick on a policeman’s child, but an SS officer – even a retired one – might have had other ideas. It could have been any of them .

He glanced at his partner. “You know what? I don’t want to find the killers.”

Kuls nodded. “I don’t think I want to find them either,” he agreed. He kicked the body savagely. “Looks like an ironclad case of suicide to me.”

RAF Fairford, United Kingdom

1 September 1985

“We’ve picked up a pair of escorts, sir,” the pilot said. “Air Traffic Control is redirecting us around London.”

Andrew Barton nodded as he peered out of the window. A pair of RAF Tornados were flying near the small jet, the air-to-air missiles clearly visible under their wings. There would be others too, he knew; RAF Tornados and USAF F-15 Eagles, patrolling the English Channel and the North Sea for signs of trouble from the Reich . It wasn’t likely that the Germans would cause trouble – both sides in the brewing civil war had too many other problems – but it was quite possible that a rogue officer might consider sparking a global war in hopes of using it to reunite the Reich . He would have to be out of his mind, if he thought that would actually work…

“As long as we get there,” he said, glancing at the radar screen. “Has there been any update from the Joint Command Network?”

“Nothing,” the pilot said. “Skies are clear.”

Andrew leaned back into his seat. He’d never been a comfortable flyer, even in the jet permanently assigned to the Berlin Embassy. Indeed, he would have preferred to take the train to Dunkirk and board one of the ferries to Dover, but time was pressing. He’d been summoned to Britain and knew he couldn’t disobey. Besides, the sooner he was finished in Britain, the sooner he could return to Berlin. There were too many interesting things happening in Berlin for him to want to be elsewhere.

The RAF Tornados peeled off as RAF Fairford came into view. It was a smaller airfield than the fast-jet fighter bases to the east, serving the British Government as a private airport and conference chamber – although he was fairly sure the British would have plans to turn it into a fighter base if the long-feared war between the North Atlantic Alliance and the Third Reich finally became a reality. The pilot spoke briefly to the ground, then steered the plane towards the runway. Andrew had a flash of a blue and white plane parked at the far end of the airfield before the aircraft shook, violently, as it touched the ground. He closed his eyes and kept them closed until the plane finally rumbled to a halt near a small cluster of buildings.

“I’ll be refuelling the plane while you’re gone,” the pilot said. “Do you know if we’re going to be heading straight back?”

Andrew shrugged. He’d had the impression that he wouldn’t be kept for long, but Washington – and London – operated on their own timescale. He might be expected to remain overnight, if there was a need for further debriefing, or he might just be ordered back to Berlin within the hour. But there was no way to be sure.

“Get a nap, if you can,” he advised. “I have no idea when we’ll be leaving.”

He rose to his feet and headed for the hatch. The ground crew, working with commendable speed, had already pushed a mobile staircase against the plane, allowing him to descend to the ground. He couldn’t help noticing that security had been doubled or tripled; armed soldiers patrolled the fence, backed up by armoured cars, while Rapier missile launchers had been scattered around the airfield. It had been years since Britain had faced a terrorist threat, since the last remnants of the IRA had been crushed or convinced to lay down their arms, but it was evident that no one was taking chances. A strike at RAF Fairford could decapitate two governments at once.

“This way, sir,” a young man said. He wore a black suit and tie, rather than a uniform, but he couldn’t hide his military training. “We have to get you through security.”

Andrew nodded, unsurprised, as he was led into the nearest building. The guards were polite, but firm; they searched him thoroughly, examined everything in his pocket with cynical eyes and finally waved him through. Andrew was tempted to make a crack about one of them buying him dinner afterwards, but thought better of it before he could open his mouth. The guards probably wouldn’t find it very funny.

“This is your badge,” his escort said, once Andrew was passed through the gate. “You are scheduled to enter the main room in thirty minutes. Do you want to take a shower and freshen up before then?”

“Yes, please,” Andrew said. He felt grimy, even though the flight hadn’t taken more than three hours. “And is there coffee?”

“There are gallons of coffee,” his escort assured him. “I’ll have some brought into the room for you.”

Thirty minutes later, feeling much better, Andrew was escorted into a comfortable conference room. He stiffened, automatically, as President John Anderson rose to his feet, hastily snapping out a salute. Beside the President, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher nodded politely as Andrew was shown to a chair. There was no one else in the room, but Andrew would have been surprised if the meeting wasn’t being recorded. The government – both governments – would want a solid record of just what had been said, even if the recordings never saw the light of day.

“Mr. Barton,” Anderson said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Andrew said.

He took a moment to study them both as an aide brought two cups of coffee and one of tea, placing them on the table. They made an odd pair. President Anderson looked more like a schoolteacher than a President, while Prime Minister Thatcher reminded him of one of the fearsome old biddies who’d dominated his hometown. The Reich’s propaganda machine had turned her into a monster, even to the point of insisting she was really a man in drag. They’d had some problems coming to terms with female politicians, Andrew recalled; they’d never really seen women as anything more than mothers, daughters and wives.