Greg Iles - Black Cross

At the bottom of the box, he found a note from Brigadier Smith. It read: This should keep you busy while Stern capers about in the forest, Doctor. Don’t let a misplaced “du” trip you up, eh? I’ll see you soon. Duff .

McConnell spent the afternoon studying in the shadow of an old stone Episcopal church. He was grateful for the books. They allowed him to focus his mind on facts, rather than giving free rein to the guilt and grief that had troubled him for the past few days. By the time Sergeant McShane rounded him up for dinner, darkness had fallen and he was starving.

Near the center of the Nissen hut village, several long mess tables had been set up. They were long wooden affairs, scarred by years of use. He was reminded of “dinner on the ground” at some Baptist churches he’d visited as a boy, but the impression did not last long.

Sergeant McShane had made the mistake of seating him and Stern with the French commandos. Stern had not spoken more than three sentences before an ex-legionnaire noticed his German accent. McConnell tried to explain in high school French that Stern was a German Jewish refugee, but the situation deteriorated much too quickly for reason to play a part. True to form, Stern did nothing to defuse the situation. When the ex-legionnaire emptied a glass of ale in his face, Stern launched himself across the table like a man diving from a cliff.

Before the astonished Frenchman could react, Stern’s thumbs were attempting to punch a hole in his windpipe. Within seconds a half-dozen French commandos had come to their comrade’s rescue, but Stern refused to let go. McConnell saw elbows thrashing as the Frenchmen mercilessly pummeled him.

Then, almost as suddenly as it began, the brawl was over. The conclusive force was Sergeant Ian McShane. The huge Highlander waded into the mob and snatched out bodies like a man yanking roots from the earth. One well-placed blow dislodged the last of the Frenchmen, and a mighty heave brought Stern to his feet, dazed and bloody. The ex-legionnaire was lying on the floor, his face white, his neck red and swollen.

“What the bloody ’ell happened here?” roared a voice McConnell recognized as Colonel Vaughan’s. “The milling isn’t for a week yet!”

The red-faced C.O. of Achnacarry sorted out the melee in a matter of seconds, his last order banishing Stern from the mess area. Without speaking, Sergeant McShane hustled both Stern and McConnell between the trainees’ huts and across the drive, then onto a dark path behind the castle. As they approached the river, the silhouette of a small Nissen hut appeared directly in the path. McShane shoved Stern up against its steel wall.

“Listen, you,” he said in a controlled voice. “That’s never happened at our mess before, and it never will again. If it does, I’ll wring your bloody neck myself.” He poked a thick finger into Stern’s chest. “And I can do it, laddie, fancy fighting or no.”

McConnell had no doubt of it.

“You’ve got a problem, Mr. Butler,” McShane said, still holding Stern to the wall. “And like the colonel said, you’ve come to the right place if you want it cured. From now on, this is where you’ll eat and sleep. I’ll have your gear sent out tonight.”

The Scot shook his head and glared at them. “I dinna ken who decided to send you two here for training, but he must be short of a full shilling. You’re about the least likely candidates for an important mission I can possibly imagine.”

Just as Stern seemed about to reply (and McConnell was praying he wouldn’t) they heard the muted thump of feet running up the path. A uniformed orderly appeared and saluted Sergeant McShane.

“What is it, Jennings?”

“Mr. Butler’s wanted at the castle, Sergeant! At the double. Colonel Vaughan’s office.”

McShane sighed. “I tried to warn you,” he told Stern. “I’ll have your bags waitin’ by the door.”

“It’s not the colonel, sir,” the orderly said. “It’s an officer from London. A Brigadier Smith.”

“About bloody time,” Stern muttered. He shouldered past McShane and headed back toward the castle.

McConnell shrugged at the Highlander and the astonished orderly, then walked into the Nissen hut and closed the door. There were two cots inside, but no blankets. A small paraffin lamp sat in one corner, but he saw no matches. He lay down on the bare cot and tucked his face into his forearms. On balance, the day’s events had disturbed him. Brigadier Smith might believe Stern’s propensity for violence was an asset, but McConnell did not. The calculated use of force to achieve an objective was one thing, explosive reflex aggression another. For whatever reason — past trauma or simply a bellicose temperament — Jonas Stern was unstable. And an unstable man was a poor leader. Wherever they were really going, McConnell decided, he would follow no orders but his own.

18

Stern found Brigadier Smith seated behind Colonel Vaughan’s desk, wearing a tweed coat and stalker’s cap. Smith waved Stern to a chair against the opposite wall.

“You started quite a stramash out there, I’m told,” he said. “This morning, too.”

“A what?”

“ Stramash . Brawl. Fisticuffs.”

Stern shrugged.

“I told you before, lad, I’m a flexible sort of fellow. But Charlie Vaughan isn’t. In case you don’t know, former Guards RSMs get extremely annoyed by a lack of discipline. And they go absolutely purple over the flouting of authority or tradition. Do you see what I’m getting at, Stern?”

“His instructors are anti-Semitic! One of them tried to kill me. And that French bastard was begging for it.”

Smith sighed wearily. “You’re not getting my point at all. No one knows you’re up here but myself, the good doctor and these commandos. If you happened to disappear while visiting these lovely Scottish hills, well, there wouldn’t be much that I or anyone else could do about it. You see? In fact, I doubt anyone would ever find you. So let’s just concentrate on the business at hand.” The brigadier gave Stern his most engaging smile.

Stern drummed his fingers soundlessly on his knees. “So?”

Smith opened a map case and spread it across Colonel Vaughan’s desk. “Totenhausen Experimental Concentration Camp,” he said. “In Mecklenburg. Your old stamping grounds.”

Stern sat up, his anger forgotten.

“The camp is fairly isolated. The nearest large city is Rostock, twenty miles to the west. What used to be Poland is sixty miles to the east. Berlin is a hundred miles south.”

Stern nodded impatiently. He’d known all this since he was a child.

“The camp’s support village is Dornow, three miles north,” Smith went on, pointing at a spot on the map. “There are German troops in the area, but no elite formations. Except at Totenhausen, of course.”

“What’s at Totenhausen?”

“A hundred and fifty Death’s Head SS troops.”

“Totenkopfverbände,” Stern murmured.

“Right. And a particularly nasty bunch, according to the reports. The commandant is a physician named Brandt, an SS Lieutenant-General and chemical genius. You don’t find many scholars in the ranks of the SS, but Brandt is one. The senior security officer is Sturmbannführer Wolfgang Schörner. Interestingly enough, he’s not a Nazi.” Noticing Stern’s puzzled expression, Smith said, “That’s not as uncommon as you might think. At one time the SS was considered by some to be a potential enemy of the Party in internal Nazi power struggles. Schörner is what’s known as nur Soldaten among the old SS fighters. Only a soldier. It means he’s not a superloyal party fanatic. He fought in Russia under Paul Hausser, one of the few SS officers with a real military background. Lost an eye at Kursk.”