A Pious Killing Read online

  A Pious Killing

  Mick Hare

  One

  1940

  The black Mercedes was the only vehicle in motion on the streets of Gerona at the early hour of 5:30am. The driver wore the distinctive uniform of the civil guard. The male passenger in the back listened to the zip of the tyres on the dampened streets. He was also in uniform, but it was not of the same nationality as that of the driver. He absent-mindedly stroked the Iron Cross garlanded with oak leaves that was pinned to the breast of his uniform jacket.

  As they crossed Rio Onyar and entered the old city, the passenger glanced at the leather bag beside him on the seat. He tapped it gently, reassuringly. Then he sat back and spent some moments in forethought, rehearsing the task he was being driven to perform.

  He was tall with the build of an athlete, which, in fact, he had been in his college days. But his well-toned physique owed more to his upbringing on the family farm where physical labour had been a part of daily life from an early age. His well-tanned face below his well-groomed, dark brown hair was further evidence of his preference for the outdoors, although his wire-rimmed spectacles invested the face with a scholarly look.

  Having expertly navigated the large saloon through the narrow streets, the driver gently slid the car to a halt and racked the handbrake into lock. They were positioned outside Hotel Catalanes, the Mercedes completely blocking the narrow thoroughfare.

  “Remember who you are,” the driver said in English. He turned to face his passenger. His deep Iberian tones rang a note of seriousness into the exchange. “You have a maximum time limit of fifteen minutes to complete this task. You should not be disturbed, but if you remain too long, our subsequent movements could be curtailed.

  “I will carry out the agreed plan. If I am unsuccessful after fifteen minutes I will abort, if at all possible," replied the passenger in heavily accented Castilian.

  “If I have to move the car, go directly to Plaza de la Independiencia. I will be there.”

  “Understood!”

  “Remember,” emphasised the driver, “They are expecting you. They expect you to be who you are and they expect you to do what you are going to do. As long as you maintain your identity no one will oppose you. In fact they should assist you. You are Dr Bauer of the Army Medical Corps. You are replacing your colleague, Dr Brandt and you are here to administer the General’s medicine.”

  “Understood,” repeated the passenger.

  He stepped out of the car and placed his bag beside him on the flagstones. He stood erect and straightened the sleeves of his German Army uniform. He placed his hat firmly upon his head and stooped to pick up his bag. Grasping its soft leather handle in his hand, he strode confidently into the hotel.

  His first sweep of the lobby informed him that it was full of men in SS uniforms. A rich cloud of tobacco smoke hovered below the ceiling. He strode up to the desk. He was about to strike the bell when a voice spoke from behind him in German.

  “Herr Lieutenant! What brings you here at this hour? How can I help you?”

  Although no reaction was visible from behind, Dr Bauer’s face froze in fear for an imperceptible moment. But he turned to show a smiling, blue-eyed confidence to the Wermacht officer facing him.

  “Good morning, Herr Captain. Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler!” came the automatic response.

  Dr. Bauer’s German was flawless and bore the authentic hint of a Berlin accent, “I am here to administer General Zeiger’s medicine.”

  “How so?” enquired the Captain. “I have not seen you here before.”

  “That is quite correct. My name is Dr Bauer and I am replacing my colleague Dr Brandt who has been given compassionate leave. His wife is unwell.”

  Captain Vogts was a cautious man and the General’s well-being was his prime concern in life. However, faced with the relaxed demeanour of the German doctor before him and his easy explanation for the substitution, he found himself asking for the doctor’s papers almost apologetically. Training and habit, however, made him scrutinise them carefully.

  “It says here you were born in Cologne. I thought I detected a Berlin accent.”

  “You are very astute, Herr Captain. After the last war my father moved us around Germany in search of work. He refused on principle to work for a Jew. As you know, in the Weimar Republic that was not an easy principle to hold. Eventually we settled near Berlin and then I studied medicine there for seven years.”

  The Captain smiled without comment. The lift whirred to a halt and the Captain pulled the gates open.

  “Come,” he said, “Let’s see the General. This diabetes is a damned nuisance to him. The Fuehrer values our General so highly that he permits these respite visits to Spain. General Franco is pleased to allow these unofficial rehabilitation visits. Of course, he must keep a diplomatic distance in order not to anger the Allies. Spain is full of English and American spies. But we need our General back in action for the good of the Fatherland. He is on course to completely break the French Resistance. The French call him “The Scourge”. He has broken more of their cells than anyone else and his policy of reprisals against civilians is destroying their support.”

  The doctor followed along the marble corridor and stopped alongside the Captain at the door to the General’s suite. He smiled reassuringly. “I will treat your General to the utmost of my ability.”

  As the captain studied his face in close eye-to-eye contact the doctor thought, ‘I will remember this face until my dying day. Which means, of course, you will remember mine.’

  They entered an outer reception area of the General’s suite and the Captain went on alone into the General’s private quarters.

  The doctor glanced at his watch. Six minutes had passed. There was no way he could complete now within fifteen minutes. If he was going to abort, he should do it now. However, the plan to abort depended upon his being able to do so without endangering himself. His situation now meant that there was no option but to proceed. He had no choice. He would proceed. No matter how long it took. No one would get this close again.

  The door to the bedroom opened and the Captain beckoned him in. The General sat up in bed. He was in excellent physical shape from the evidence of his muscular torso. However, he seemed drowsy and was obviously in need of his medication – and quickly.

  “Heil Hitler, Herr General,” the doctor said formally.

  “Heil Hitler, Lieutenant Doctor. I am sorry to hear of Dr. Brandt’s misfortune. Please pass him my condolences. Now, come on! Get me fit. There is a war to be won. Ordinary people all over the world are praying for us to win. They can’t wait to be liberated from international Jewry. They long to be free of their corrupt democratic governments. They crave the success of the Third Reich to free them from their oppressors. Let us get about our great crusade.”

  The General’s laugh was full of simple jollity as if he was planning victory in a football match. The doctor went to a table by the window, set his case down and snapped it open. As he did he heard the angry sound of a car horn from the street below. Glancing out of the window he saw his car reluctantly pull away to clear the street for the oncoming truck.

  “Is there a problem, Herr Lieutenant?”

  It was the captain at his elbow. The doctor turned to face him.

  “No, none at all. Perhaps you will get some water. The General will enjoy a drink after his injection.”

  The captain retired to the bathroom.

  “Now General,” the doctor said, “Please relax. You will soon feel on top form again. I will give you your medicine and then I suggest you sleep some more. One hour, maybe two.”

  “Whatever you say, Herr Doctor. This illness has taught me the importance of taking medical advice.”

&nbs
p; The captain returned.

  ’Plaza de la Independencia,’ thought the doctor. ‘That’s where I have to meet Roberto.’

  He selected a sealed packet from inside his case and tore it open. He removed the sterile syringe from inside it, then reached back into his bag and lifted out a small, round, brown bottle. He undid the black screw top. The bottle contained one lethal dose of diamorphine. It had been specially prepared for the general by British Secret Service.

  Dr Bauer felt perspiration break out on his brow and found himself wishing that the vigilant captain would move away from his side. Having unscrewed the bottle top he pierced the skin across its narrow mouth. He then lifted the bottle and needle together so that the bottle was upside down and he slowly withdrew the plunger and sucked the poison into the cylinder.

  “How long have you been practising your profession, Herr Doctor?” the captain asked.

  “I began my studies thirteen years ago. I have been practising for six,” replied the doctor.

  “And where did you practise before the war?”

  This part was easy. He had been carefully briefed on his history at his preparatory training in Wiltshire. It was also easy because much of it was based on the truth of his time in Germany.

  “I was six years in Berlin at the Friedrichshain Hospital. I studied under Maximillian Schneider and Florian Fuchs.”

  “Ah,” said the Captain, “Herr Fuchs is a true Aryan patriot. He is now crucial to the Reich’s development of eugenics. He is celebrated by the Fuhrer himself.”

  Dr Bauer stepped away from the table, removing himself from the close proximity of the captain. He tapped carefully at the syringe cylinder. He then meticulously ejected a minimal amount of serum into the air to ensure the complete absence of oxygen. Turning to face the captain he said, “Now, if you’ll pardon me Captain… I think the General is in urgent need…”

  “Forgive me Doctor. General Zeiger says I am an incorrigible gossip. But, you know, I find it a useful habit in my line of work.”

  The Captain stepped aside. As he approached the bed with the murderous serum in his grasp the Doctor again felt the perspiration break out on his brow and begin to trickle down his nose. To prevent his spectacles from slipping he removed them and placed them on the table at the General’s bedside.

  “Now General, if you will please expose your stomach, relief is a tiny pin prick away.”

  “Do your worst, Doctor. I am ready.”

  Only the Doctor appreciated the intense irony of General Zeiger’s comment as he pierced the plump white skin with his needle and began to slowly press home the plunger. ’I doubt,’ he thought, ’that a vicious torturer and murderer such as yourself is ready to face whatever awaits you beyond the grave.’

  As the plunger completed its short journey he withdrew the needle and wiped the entry point with a swab. He then went quickly to his bag and began to efficiently repack it. Speaking to the Captain as he worked he said, “Please give the General his drink now and help to make him comfortable in bed. Allow him two hours of sleep.” He pulled a strip of tablets from his bag. “Sometimes these large doses can cause nausea. Permit him one of these every six hours should he complain.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “I also have two phials of the medication for the General to keep with him in case of emergencies. The war makes it difficult for supplies of medicine to be freely available. I am sure these will be sufficient until he is back under the care of his doctor in France.”

  “Thank you again, Doctor.”

  The doctor snapped his bag shut, lifted it from the table and turned to look at the man he had just assassinated. He lay there drowsily oblivious of the fate that had just befallen him. But his career of torturing and murdering French Resistance fighters and their secret agent allies was over. The doctor put his hat on.

  The Captain finished adjusting the pillows and blankets to make the General comfortable and came around the bed to the bedside table.

  “Herr Doctor,” he called. “Just a minute. You have forgotten your spectacles.”

  Damn, cursed the doctor inwardly. He froze at the door to the bedroom. He was tempted to make a run for it. But he knew he would not make it to the top of the stairs before the Captain could shoot him. He turned to see the Captain walking towards him, spectacles in hand.

  At the last moment, as he was about to hand the spectacles to the Doctor, the Captain hesitated and lifted them to his eyes. As he did so he immediately saw that they were made with clear glass. Fake spectacles! The Doctor’s mind raced as he saw realisation and then panic start to etch anxiety lines across the Captain’s visage.

  No sooner had they registered than his expression was further distorted. The Doctor, acting instinctively, slammed the heel of his hand into the Captain’s top lip and upward into his nostrils. It was a move he’d learned, not from the British Secret Service, but on the college rugby fields of his youth. With the force of the blow he heard and felt the crack and snap of gristle and bone as the Captain’s nose broke into many tiny pieces.

  Before the Captain had time to bring his hands to the pain, the Doctor drove one pointed knuckle into his throat, instantaneously dislodging his Adam’s apple. An excruciating groan escaped from the now totally overwhelmed Captain and he collapsed into unconsciousness.

  He now had to kill the Captain. No sooner had he made this decision than he was forestalled by a knock on the outer door. Had someone had heard the Captain’s groan?

  “Just a minute!” he called out.

  Putting his bag down he dragged the Captain’s heavy body into the bathroom, picked up his spectacles, his hat, which had tumbled off in the melee, and his bag. He checked his appearance in the mirror. A knock, this time at the bedroom door, startled him. Whoever it was had obviously grown impatient and had moved into the ante room.

  The Doctor opened the bedroom door and stepped out, closing it behind him. He was standing face to face with a Sergeant of the Wermacht.

  “Good morning Unterfeldwebel,” he said. “Have you been sent for?”

  “No Herr Lieutenant,” he replied. “I was passing along the corridor when I heard someone call out.”

  “Oh, good fellow. However, there is nothing to concern yourself about. I have just administered General Zeiger’s medication. It can often be uncomfortable for the patient. I suspect you heard the General cursing me.”

  The doctor smiled and the Sergeant smiled back.

  “Captain Vogts is just seeing to the General’s needs. He will be out in five minutes. Please do not disturb them. The General needs to rest.”

  “Have no fear my good Doctor. I will wait here until Captain Vogts emerges.”

  “Very good. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be getting back to my quarters. I will have a queue of patients waiting for me by the time I get back.”

  “Good day, Doctor,” smiled the Sergeant.

  “Good day to you.”

  The sergeant stood aside and the doctor stepped out of the General’s suite into the hotel corridor.

  Two

  1940

  Lilian Olivia Brett, aged twenty-eight gazed absent-mindedly out of the train window. It rumbled slowly between the backs of the north London terraces and clattered over the points on its final approach to St Pancras station.

  The backs of these houses were alien to Lily. These terraces were three, four, sometimes five storeys high. There was nothing comparable in her adopted home town of Leicester. Already the train had passed through an area of urbanisation at least three times larger than the whole of Leicester. When they finally arrived at St Pancras they would still only be entering the northern part of this metropolitan monster.